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< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

< Table of Contents Avarice Grin by Max Watt About the Artist... Max is a high school senior at Savannah Arts Academy planning on attending Georgia Southern University. He enjoys working with a variety of mediums but specializes in acrylic paint and chalk pastels.

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I'm Refolding Foreboding Gustave Rish Small Title Kierra Reese Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

18 Hexagonal Miracle by Moheb Asimi Archaeology by Annika Gangopadhyay Cracks in the plaster bloom like folds on the dress my grandmother last touched. The satin sags in the closet– books and clothes embrace dust in burial as the room sighs, you have forgotten . Here is the irony of a breathing tomb: I shrug dead twigs off my shoulders and watch morning hang magnolias on the window pane as forbidden fruit. To pry open a life I cannot love for a pastime long euthanized is imbibing twigs in a bathtub, as if a grandmother’s laugh could flare into pleats and turn plaster to gold. The closet wilts come sunset and in reassurance, I nod, it looks better this way. Let the softness rest on elbows in the dark–close the guilt, leave the souvenirs with satisfaction. The dusk looks better as a painting etched in plaster, and I frame it with the sagging dress. We laugh this way; the black petals and I compressed into four corners; let the morning excavate us again as a snapdragon without fangs, so pink that you could touch it. My grandmother and I pruned on the hardwood, we sag below the closet, forgotten in blooming. About the Writer... Annika is a young writer from the Bay Area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIGEIA, The Incandescent Review, Blue Marble Review, and the borderline. She enjoys performing music in her spare time. About the Artist... Moheb Asimi is a Junior attending the Savannah Arts Academy High School. He's been drawing and expanding his skillset with different materials for about 2-3 years -- a few months before he entered the school for his freshman year.

7 < Table of Contents Light of my Life by Olivia Henry At the Foot of My Grandmother's Bed by Hadley Volner At the foot of my grandmother’s bed A silk bench stood alone Its legs nearly crumbled Under the weight of death’s exhale Propped on its silk pillow A large, pristine, gloss-glassed picture faced the dresser The golden frame traced with a fresh wreath of carnations The outline of her husband smiled through the glass I used to curl up at the foot of my grandmother’s bed But the cushion was crammed with his frame He remained out of sight, a wishful footnote She could not bear his glazed features next to hers Though she spoke as if he were lying next to her " His deserted pillow gathered dust / Only blown away by her yearning sighs / As his frame now occupied my pillow / I took my place at his" His deserted pillow gathered dust Only blown away by her yearning sighs As his frame now occupied my pillow I took my place at his As she whispered her weekly troubles The window’s glint illuminated my nods But though I slept beside her Only her words filled the sheets My ears caved Heavy with stories of distant friends and a distant God She felt each second of silence bring down a crashing pressure For a moment her words brought back his presence I don’t sleep at the foot of my grandmother’s bed I lie next to her as she contorts my features I have a white comb-over and milky cataracts And when she holds me I’m him About the Writer... Hadley Kasia Volner is a freshman at The Willow School in New Orleans, LA, enrolled in the Certificate of Artistry Program. A multi-sport athlete, Hadley ranked in state for the one-mile run in spring 2023, and has been involved in the competitive soccer club, The New Orleans Jesters, for seven years. About the Artist... Olivia Henry is a Visual Artist in 11th grade majoring in Photography. While she does like painting as well, photography peaked her interest as she likes to experiment with new mediums. She tends to make pieces involving everyday life, trying to create a sense of living in the moment.

0a880051-0ae5-4eca-b9ff-ef300525459f The Gain and Loss in Transformation by Alyssa Giraud My Body, the Sea/ Mi Cuerpo, el Mar by Raquel Silberman me echan del mar they exile me from the sea manos echados con agua hands full of water soy hecha de sal I am made of salt Return to Table of Contents

Dysmorphia by LaBrenda Bell GAIA by Lynn Kong Gaia needn’t travail, she dines, ingests fingers and whole mythologies of motherhood and torpor. We ask her, what is it, this orange thing called suffering? Why did you have to make bewilderment out of your first slumber, out of your tasseled thrashings with the sky? Why can’t we smile? You have made eternal Niobes of us all, now we’re vanities dueling with self. Tell us, what are we to do with the eyes that own our skulls? Please give birth to your own tears, tears for the tumors that rub against our lives with tulip lust for you, Gaia.

24 Color blind by Tatyana Hardnett Haitian Mangoes by Giovani Jacques Grey skies tower over dirt roads riddled with aloe and palmis kokoye missing the fruits that made it one. Into the crevices of the ear sneaks in the sounds of the village, chickens caw-cawing, and cows a desperate mooing, as they’re ushered towards city-limits. Through multi-colored walls and un-closable kitchen windows the sizzle of meat enters the ears and then the nose, and it’s then that it isn’t hard to imagine where the cow is going. And her pleas mean she knows too. In the island air, a scent of mangoes glides from nose to nose, a smell that coerces the subject to endlessly search for an origin, but as life, the smell is one of things too good to be true, and the location of the mangoes evades yet again. Instead, it’s what barrels down the street, kicking up dirt and gravel from poor roadways who makes his source known. The putrid smell of gazoline hits us before we see what it fuels: Run down Toyotas, and old militant jeeps, cursed with leaks and an exhaust pipe that let all know something's coming. The scent of mangoes Is pushed up into the nostrils, and into the crevices of the frontal lobe to make it none but a memory. Arabian gas and burnt American tires all that registers. The unpaved streets succumb to weary tires, steered by men, whose faces stand drenched in a glee and joy, though not at the beauty of life, but at the intoxication of power. Drunkenly they drive, jeep doors removed, so, the passersby can see the ammo resting on malnourished laps, so, the passersby can see who’s in charge. And we know. Life didn’t make an effort to hand us her bottle of pouvwa , And so, we wait for the vakobon to trek through the town, hoping that the smell of mangoes will come again and intoxicate us enough in the meantime. Notes: 1: Palmis Kokoye – Cocunut Tree 2: Gazolin – Gasoline 3: Pouvwa - Power 4: Vakobon - Fool About the Writer... Giovani Jacques is a Haitian-American writer from Florida. Much of his works seeks to answer questions concerning identity, morality, and nature. About the Artist... Tatyana Hardnett is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Tatyana is a visual arts major. The medium of their piece is paint.

bd76dd65-71d8-4916-95a6-50504787bd1b Aschnakä by Niveah Glover If you ever wanted to paint something a deep black, you had to start with black lilies, roses, and charcoal. That’s how Anne was taught. One cup of water, a black lily, a rose, and two pieces of coal. Anne watched intently as her mother, Rosalee, grinded all the ingredients together in a worn mortar and pestle. She added a touch of red liquid—it was thick enough that when it was softly shaken it slushed like a mud puddle. “A touch of lamb’s blood is what you need for this recipe.” Rosalee held a large smile as she mixed the abundance of materials; they mended together to create the thick black paint that would soon cover large papier mache rectangles. These rectangles will transform themselves into a singular card—fifty-two to be exact. “Mama? Why do we have to make only black paint? Why can’t our project have pretty colors?” There was silence, then a long laugh. Rosalee shook her head and went to an old junk drawer in their kitchen. “The color black—issa’ a symbol—it represents spiritual energy and ritual. And baby, this isn’t no project. We makin’ something special.” Her long deep brown arm reached far into the back and pulled out a pitch-black box: no letters, symbols, or carvings, just a smooth black wooden box. “You remember what I told you about Mama Sofia?” Rosalee sat next to her daughter on a small stool and handed her the box. There was weight on it, but a different kind. It wasn’t heavy, but it did feel important. “Yes Mama. You said Mama Sofia liked to help people. So sometimes she made things for them to get better.” “Well Anne, this is it—this is what I was going on about. Open it.” Slowly, seven-year-old Anne put her right hand on top of the box, placing her thumb right at the center of the opening. With a small subtle tug, she lifted its top and was blinded by gold. The shining color seeped deep into the large cards, creating the perfect background for the black figures, lettering, and small symbols marking them. “Now you listen to me Anne. This is your grandmother’s life work. So, we gonna’ honor her by recreating her cards. We was put on this earth by Oshun to guide the people who may be astray. So this what we gonna’ do. Hear me now. These cards are special and they ain’t nobody’s toy. Ya’ hear me?” Rosalee grabbed Anne’s attention and watched as she nodded her head to her mother’s words. Her mother’s long hair was wrapped in a white scarf, the simple color brought shine to her dramatic features like her big doll like eyes. “I understand Mama.” “Good.” Rosalee began, “All that you learn today can never be shared under no circumstances you understand?” “Yes Mama.” “Alright. First, Imma’ teach you how to make the cards and then Imma’ going to teach you how to play.” “How to play what?” Anne inquired as she closed the box and began to pick up a paintbrush. “Aschnakä, the game of lineage, purpose and faith. Oshun always guides those who know how to guide themselves.” Surrounded by the blossoming spring color of soft-shell pink, Anne looked up to her bedroom ceiling. Her record player was playing some new Otis Redding single her mother just bought, but her mind couldn’t stay in the song. One ear was listening, but the other was being tortured with her cousin Mae’s constant nagging. “How will I ever find me a beau Anne? This Mississippi wardrobe I trotted with is so last summa’. And look at you wallow. Just because Frankie is leaving for Fisk Institute doesn’t mean the world is coming to an end. Ya’ hear me? Sugar ya’ making yourself look desperate.” Mae laughed, her thick honey-like voice held strong to her southern accent. Anne rolled her eyes, “I am not, Mae. I’m just a little sad is all. What if I never see him again or he forgets about me?” “Well, that would take lots of forgetting.” Mae exclaimed as she started to rummage through Anne’s closet, “If I was you, I would get up and fix myself, so the last meeting is the most memorable. Go make ya’ self some type of presentable. You look like you been tackling racoons all night.” Anne just turned her head to the side in laughter, before slugging herself off the bed to go get ready for Frankie’s going away party. Mae continued to dig deeper into the closet until she found a wooden box and held it up. “Hey, how come you been holdin’ out on me? You have a jewelry box, and yours truly didn’t even know about it.” She sneakered, shaking the box. “Jewelry box? I don’t have a—No Mae, don’t open that!” “Oh, you really don’t want me in here. What is it then? Love letters from Frankie!? Ooh you little devil, you have another fella’ on the side.” Mae kept shaking the box until Anne came back into the room with a queasy expression, almost afraid. Mae opened the box and looked completely stunned. “You made them?” She screamed. Anne couldn’t tell whether the expression was a good thing or not. “Just let me explain, Mae.” Anne started, “The last set hasn’t been made for almost ten years. I thought it was time we had some more. I wasn’t going to use them, I just wanted to have my own set. I made them just like I was taught, I even said the incantation in an enclosed space. No one has to know there is another set. Mae—say something.” Mae looked up at her cousin before showing the biggest smile she could. “Are ya’ kidding? We have to bring these to the party. You’ll be the talk of school for the rest of ya’ natural life. What if someone wins a million dollars or something? It will be because of you.” “Mae, no! You know the cards don’t work like that. And what if someone doesn’t follow the rules? I’ll be the crazy girl who created a natural disaster with her cards. Mama doesn’t even know I made them. She’ll be upset with me.” Anne looked at the ground. “Anne, it doesn’t even matter—just bring them. What’s the harm in it?” “Oshun is the harm in it. I don’t feel good about it.” Mae took the box and tucked it in her bag. She pulled Anne by the hand and out of the door. Two blocks away, the grey house on the right was Frankie’s. Cars littered the sidewalk, glowing under the streetlights. Side by side, Anne and Mae walked next to each other up to his front door. They knocked, once, twice, right before the third knock, the door opened wide. Frankie’s face lit up at the sight of Anne. “I’ve been waiting for you, Anne.” Anne grabbed his hand as they made their way into his home. It was jammed with kids she knew from everywhere. Some from class, the neighborhood, and others that just hung around. Even with all the teens packed together, it didn’t feel like quite a party until Mae and Anne entered. The energy shifted quickly, almost in a daunting way. "Just when everyone was dancing and talking amongst themselves the music stopped." Falling into the arms of Frankie, Anne sat on the couch and enjoyed his laughter and company. All while Mae was becoming the center of attention, she always liked to keep it that way. Just when everyone was dancing and talking amongst themselves the music stopped. The record was scratching, all the teenagers erupted into groans until Mae stood on top of the coffee table. “Hey y’all the party ain’t over. Me and Anne got a game we can play. Anne is the best teacher, come over here Anne.” Mae smiled brightly, waving Anne to the middle of the room in all her embarrassment and dread. Standing up she pulled Mae close to her. “Why would you do that? I told you that I couldn’t share it.” Mae smiled. “Y’all ready to play? Teach us how Anne.” The group erupted into chants to have Anne teach them the game and against her better judgement, she caved. Anne set the game up. Only four people could play, Mae, Frankie, her, and Frankie’s best friend James. At a small rectangular table, they sat facing each other. “We are given gifts by the deities of our people in the form of divine destiny. These cards and this game will allow one of us to receive one of the many blessings in store for us right now. Because we respect the deities, we honor them by giving our full devotion to the game and leaving out our greediness. No one can cheat—ever. I ordain this round with the power of Oshun. Aschnakä.” The four of them played and played, until the game was almost over. The first person to have no cards was Mae. “Aschnakä!” She screamed with a smile, causing everyone to cheer. Mae grabbed Anne’s arm, whispering, “I slipped a card under the seat. I didn’t know that would work.” Anne’s eyes widened. “Mae! How could you? You know what mama said.” “I’ll be fine. You worry too much!” Mae swayed away from Anne and back into the group, leaving her stunned and heartbroken. In the kitchen Anne chopped vegetables at the speed of her irritation. Her mother was picking another fight about the game, after countless discussions and many agree to disagree moments. “You have ta’ teach her Anne. Teach her to be better than you were. This is our family lineage. What did I tell you when I first taught you?” “We do to it to remember Mama Sofia. I know, I know. But Oya doesn’t need that weight on her Mama. It’s a responsibility she don’t need added to her plate.” Anne washed more vegetables and continued to cut. Putting on a pot of rice, she tried to ignore the silence forming in the kitchen. “And don’t try to make me feel worse for not teaching her. Of course, I want her to learn. But do you remember what happened to Mae? I do.” Looking across the room, out the living room window she examined the big palm tree by the front steps of their home. The biggest and oldest tree in their yard. Twenty-seven years old. “What happened to Mae was not your fault Anne. She shouldn’t have cheated. She knew the rules.” “That doesn't make it hurt any less Mama.” Anne shuffled in the kitchen, searching for the piece of roast she sat aside for tonight’s dinner. “Well--you made up your mind.” Her mother said solemnly. Amid a cloud of silence that was starting to take over the air, small footsteps broke through. “Mommy!” Oya, the three-year-old product of Anne and Frank’s marriage of five years. “My baby, my baby. Go sit on the couch, while I finish dinner. Daddy will be home soon.” Anne smiled largely, but flakily. “This gonna’ be a secret you can’t keep forever.” Anne’s mother whispered. “As long as I’m alive, she will never have to see the pain those cards bring.” The door locked behind Oya with a slight click. With one book bag strap over her shoulder, she happily carried her math textbook in the crook of her right arm and a notebook in her left. The house was settled into a solemn quiet atmosphere. The most Oya could hear was faint whispers from her mother and father. “They cut her.” Her mother said in distress. “I told them not to, I did, I promise. They said they wouldn’t.” Her father answered. Oya put her right ear to the center of their door. She listened intently to the strained silence, until the door opened. She was caught in the headlights of her parents' stare. “Follow me, Oya.” Anne looked her in the eye, tear streaks dried down her cheek. One step after the other, thirteen-year-old Oya followed her mother outside of the house to the front yard and kneeled in front of a stump that used to be a full-grown tree. Human blood was slowly and steadily coming from the stumps many rings. It was pulsing and bleeding. “Mama, w-what's wrong with the tree?” Anne closed her eyes and mumbled, “Oshun, we thank you for the blessings and the curses. Asumanala.” Oya watched her mother as she put her right hand on the stomp’s center. Her hand covered in red. “It’s time I taught you Oya.” Anne started, “We were put on this earth by Oshun to guide the people who may be astray. Your great grandma created a game—.” “What game Mama?” “Aschnakä. The game of faith.” Return to Table of Contents

Barbarous Verdure Kalliope Gonos The stars look so gorgeous from the moon, each one shining millions of miles away, bright and pure. After an exhausting journey here, the beauty is most definitely appreciated. Though, this break while we run maintenance checks on the ship gives me time to think, and I realize just how scared I am for the next part of our ambitious journey. I have only an hour before I surrender myself to the will of technology and enter my cryogenic chamber. At least it's better than being stuck on the ship for a year. Mars is so far away, but this venture will be worth it. It has to be. Considering the state that earth is in, the fate of humanity depends on it. I return to the ship and head towards the control panel to check for any final messages before our long-awaited departure for Mars. When I open the message port I see only one unread message, it's a call request from Director Ellroy Hall. I quickly accept the request and step backwards as the director's face appears on screen. “Hello, Dr. Martin.” says Ellroy “Hello, Director,” I reply. “I trust that everything is in order for your departure?” she asks. “It all looks to be Director, we are awaiting the results of our temperature check in the chambers. We are expected to depart in twenty minutes.” “Good,” she replies steadily. “I wish you, and your fellow pioneers good luck on this endeavor, see you in a year.” She then ends the call. The results of the tests on the ship are all ideal. I take a moment to calm myself before climbing inside. “This could be the day that I die,” I think to myself, before entering my pod to sleep for 8760 hours. I jolt awake, startled by the sudden warmth. My cryopod has opened. I rush to the window of the ship, shivering as I walk. When I look outside of the porthole window, I see something that no one has ever seen before: Mars, up close. It seems like I can see every crater, every canyon and mountain and fissure. I feel like I'm on top of the world. We made it. After eating a large meal to regain my strength and sending in a message with word of our arrival to Mars, I meet with the others in my crew. We put on our suits and cautiously step into the pressurization chamber. I am the first to ever set foot on Mars. We start to take tests and samples of everything before loading them back into a separate pod to send back to earth when we stumble upon a large opening in the ground that seems to be some sort of cave. I volunteer to check it out while the others continue to collect samples. As I descend into the cave paying close attention to my surroundings. I begin to see maroon vines growing on the walls and clinging to the ceiling. We have no prior knowledge of any life on Mars so I grab a sample quickly, as if I'm scared that the vines will disappear. Exhilarated and high off the adrenaline, I continue down the tunnel with a skip in my step. The once narrow shaft opens up into a wide cavern filled with blossoming undergrowth. Shades of purple, green, and pink fill the open space. I’m stunned as I try to take it all in. It's truly a miracle. The reason we had no idea that Mars contained life is because it was all under the surface! These plants grow using the light from phosphorus algae, as opposed to the sun. This is a scientific breakthrough that I am thrilled to share with the rest of my team, and eventually, the world. As I try to leave the cave, samples in hand, I hear a low, rumbling sound. I look around in a flurry of panic, not knowing what the sound could be. Then I feel something snake around my ankle before pulling me backwards, hard. Gasping in shock, I claw at the appendage in vain. As I am dragged along the ground, I can feel the shards of glass from sample tubes digging into my back, drawing long lines of crimson down my body. Another limb juts out at me from the dark, grabbing my waist and pulling me into an upright position. It hurts, the limbs feel like they are constricting around me, my vision goes spotted around the edges. I can't breathe. I hear a deep, almost otherworldly voice echoing throughout the chamber. The sound is so rough it hurts to listen to. The voice utters just a few sentences— simple yet menacing. “You have destroyed the Earth. We have observed you, and your crimes. We will not let you do the same to us as you did to our counterpart,” it says this before the appendages begin to tighten. The one formerly around my ankle snakes up to wrap around my throat. I feel myself coughing wet, loud coughs. Blood leaks from my mouth, then dribbles down my chin. All I can feel is blistering pain. It's too late to be saved by the time my last breath rattles in my chest. I savor my last moment, before my eyes gently close. Return to Piece Selection

I'm Not Alone by Micayla Latson I am listening to my parents arguing downstairs by Alisa Chamberlain Cooking oil laces the stove, something disrupting The homely kitchen below the ground I rely on for safety. A desperate scream let out by the most gruesome Banshee graces my ears in a way that causes me to jump. I shiver, as loud cries drift up from the kitchen below, Beasts awakening every time I ask any question. The unstoppable force and immovable object meet, Once again, chipping paint off the walls with their bare voices. Unable to sit still, I pace the dusty floors of my chamber, Which was once a room, at a time I can remember only faintly. As the wailing grows and fades, and grows again, Accompanied by the deepest harmony, trading places every couple of minutes. The two creatures cannot seem to find solace within themselves. I continue pacing as I stare out at the murky duskiness developing Over the surface of my neighbor’s artificial pond. I can feel my lungs rise and fall at the growing pace Of a racehorse anxiously pawing the ground, waiting to exit its crate Just as the plastic ones which once brought me solace Now rattle on my bedroom’s nightstand Ready to implode with the energy held inside, Ready to ride out into the night, The darkness and hungry monsters less terrifying Than the ones butting horns in the kitchen of disarray but the hooves are trapped on a worn nightstand, directly above As the two creatures fighting bar any innocent from passing. Hooves quake as the rift at the heart of my home expands, Thunder overpowering the bitter darkness outside, Lightning frying the trees outside, Breaking the glass from the inside of my once-living room, Bright lights and clashing sounds roaring against each-other, Creating whirlwinds that turn what was once a home Into an empty house, animals hiding in dusty, ransacked crannies As the two banshees in the kitchen wave wildly. For all I know, they could’ve been practicing a funeral song, A dirge only meant to be heard by fellow omnipresent ghosts Something I intrude on without knowing. I hear a blunt thok as something metal graces the kitchen tiles. The wailing intensifies as if a bomb dropped, a shard of metal Twisting and scraping the insides of the banshee’s rotting hearts Cutting through their jagged white flesh as if they still lived. My pacing ends as I hear one of them lose their war, Flying away amidst the destruction of the kitchen below me, Evading the shrapnel behind the front door. Slam. One last shriek, and utter silence devours me and my moonlit study.

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