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What Happened to Us by Dion Hines How to: make it to room 404 by Chloe Pancho Step #1 . Say hello to the man at the counter. He says hello back and tells you to say hello to your mother for him as well. You promise that you will. Get your temperature taken beside the front door. You didn’t know how to use the machine the first time you came in contact with it. You stood as close to it as you possibly could, thinking that was the only way for it to check your temperature properly. He was the one to correct you and say that there was no need to get so close. A full twelve inches in front was ideal. You laughed and thanked him and now you look forward to your quick greetings. “Don’t forget to say hello to any of the staff or any other breathing person that exits out of the elevators, assume they crave just as much comfort as you do.” Step #2 . Make your way towards the hallway on his right and onto your left. Walk past a water fountain and a gender-neutral bathroom until you ultimately reach the elevators. Press the button to ascend towards the higher floors and wait until one of them opens for you. Don’t forget to say hello to any of the staff or any other breathing person that exits out of the elevators, assume they crave just as much comfort as you do. Once inside the elevator, press the button etched with the number 4 and make your way towards the ER where Mama is most likely to be sleeping. Step #3 . Introduce yourself once again. (Note: The ER is separated from the rest of the hospital by two heavy-set metal doors. On the wall is a white intercom in which each individual must push to announce their presence and reason why they would like to enter the ER.) Reiterate your first and last name, as unlike the man at the front, you are never fully able to recognize the voice that is on the other side. Tell the face-less figure that you are here to visit your mother. They request for your mother’s name and ask you to wait as they confirm that the patient knows of your existence. Step #3 .5. You imagine a life in which her accident never happened. Step #4 . Listen to the unfamiliar voice as it announces that you are permitted to see your own mother. They instruct you to stand back as they open the doors, but before the sentence is finished, take three steps back as you are used to these procedures. The first sight you encounter once you enter the ER is an empty gurney stationed in front of the first room. You remember it as the room for the unconscious woman. The woman looked the same age as your mother, dark hair just like your mother as well, you don’t know how to describe her eyes as you have never actually seen them open. You expect to see her today, but yet she is not there. Her room is completely empty. The bed wiped of its sheets, the curtains drawn dark. You want to ask one of the nurses what happened to her, ifshe is okay. But you do not. Step #5 . Smile. You finally make it to your mother’s room. Your father is inside along with your mother's registered nurse. They both say hello to you as they adjust the tube that is going to be feeding your mother lunch today. Keep smiling. Your father leaves your mother in the nurses’ care as he comes over to hug you. He asks you if you are okay and how school was today. Smile at him and tell him that everything is okay. Your mother finishes her lunch a little after you and your father are done conversing. The nurse reassures the two other conscious people in the small room that your mothers vitals are finally starting to look better. She soon leaves the three of you alone. Look at your mother. There are wires and multi-colored lines wrapping around her body, all with their specific use and purpose to keep your mother here. It is then when you notice truly how much weight your mother has lost. She has always been a small woman. Standing at a mere 5’2 most of her life, she looks even smaller now, frail, fragile almost. Her eyes are sunken in, hands slender to the point of concern. She looks almost dead. “The man at the front told me to say hello to you,” you tell her. Massage her forearms as you remember Papa telling you they were bothering her during your last visit. She doesn’t respond. You didn’t expect her too. Step #6 . Close your eyes. Papa’s lap will act like a pillow for you tonight. The denim of his jeans scratch the side of your cheek, and his thighs are bony like chopsticks, but you will cling onto any form of familiarity life is willing give to you. Listen to the local news playing on the hospital TV along with the constant buzz of the heart monitor sitting beside your mother’s bed, telling you that it is okay to go to sleep, that your mother will still be right there, in her bed, when you wake up.

< Back Popop and Me by Isabella A. Buckhannon Word Origins: Stetorous By Lila Hartley 9 W Union St, Jacksonville, FL 32202 7 of July 2024 Word-decider people Oxford University Address of wherever the dictionary is created (Oxford?) Dear Oxford Dictionary word-decider people, I hope this letter finds you well. When I was younger, I would send you letters to submit words I thought should be added to the dictionary. While it has been at least a decade since I sent my last submission, I came up with a new word, and I figured I should send it. Before I tell you what it is, I must tell you the story of Stet Smith. Stet visited the gas station every day. He lived about thirty minutes away, but he swore that this one was the best. He stopped here once two and a half years ago and never stopped coming. He said we had the best cashiers and taste in music. I started working here a couple of months after that, at which point the manager, Dennis, had an entire section of training about Stet for new workers. “This is Stet.” He pulled up a photo of a smiley old man, clearly in the middle of telling one of his many stories to the man organizing the shelves. Y’know how places will have photos and protocols for thieves or people who’ve given the business trouble? It almost felt like that, except we were trying to keep him here—like we were trying to coax an outdoor cat—but Stet didn’t need coaxing, or maybe we were so good at it that he began to believe the decision was of his own free will. ……………………………………………………………………………………………… Of the Union St. Gas Station Employees’ Guidebook, Section V – Customers – Subsection III – Stet Smith Stet Smith Overview: 73 years old (Circa 2023) 5’9” Vietnam veteran Widower of his beloved wife, Darlene. One son, John (42); three grandchildren, Alexas (13), Beckham (9), and Mabel (7); John’s wife is Abby (40). Family lives in Houston, TX. Comes in every day. Weekdays and Saturday, comes in between 9 and 10 AM. Sunday, comes around 2 PM. Birthday September 13th Diabetic, that will not stop him from getting his usual. Stet usual: Diet Coke on Sundays, coffee Monday–Saturday, pretzels. Every once in a while, a glazed donut. When Stet is here… Treat him like a friend. Greet him as soon as he enters the store. Let him talk to you. Listen. Ask questions. Nod. Smile. Respond. If he holds up the line, kindly invite him behind the counter to continue his story. We have a seat there just for him. You must say something along these lines, with a smile, otherwise he’ll get worried he’s bothering you: “I want to hear more! I have this extra seat back here. Why don’t you join me? You can help me stay organized.” If he pushes back about not wanting to bother you or slow you down, say, “You are not bothering me at all! Please, it is lonely back here. It’s nice to have some company.” He would never say it, but he knows that feeling. ……………………………………………………………………………………………… He wasn’t a particularly small man; he had the large belly that all old men seem to develop at some point or another. We often talked about our families together. I talked about my son, Jake, who Stet always insisted on calling his full name, Jacob. For the past two and a half years, he loved seeing pictures and videos and hearing stories. Jake had been ten months old when I first met Stet. Now, he is three years old, and Stet felt a special kinship to Jacob. They had the same birthday. Stet said he reminded him of when his son was a baby, despite that having been forty years ago. In exchange, he told me about his wife, how she would jokingly ask if he was the next Sarah, carrying their child in old age. He said he would respond with, “I think we might be a little old for that, but we could do it again. You are already an amazing mother.” He spoke of her like a giddy child having seen his playground crush, except he had gotten to marry her. He talked about how they were from the same small town, how they met in eighth grade, and how—from the start—he’d had a huge crush on her. He saw her on the third day of school during gym. Her golden-brown hair was cut into a bob, curled perfectly. She was playing volleyball in the gym romper all the girls had to dress in. Stet said he wanted to be a gentleman even as a fourteen-year-old, and so he waited until ninth grade to ask her out. He spent the whole summer in between as a paperboy so that, on the first day of ninth grade, he could bring her flowers wrapped in that day’s paper and chocolates to ask her out. He did just that and she said yes. Doesn’t that just make your heart warm? They went on their first date at the diner down the street from the school. He said he doesn’t remember anything other than laughing and watching her laugh. “I knew that I wanted to hear that laugh for the rest of my life.” He always got the same thing: a diet coke or black coffee, and a bag of pretzels, and every once in a while, he’d get himself a day-old glazed donut from the pastry case. “Shhh.” He raised his pointer finger up to his lips. “Don’t tell my doctor!” he’d chuckle. “Look, I’ve lived this long. If a donut is what kills me, I’ll count myself lucky that was it!” I always chuckled with him. Sometimes, I’d say, “I’d happily die with a donut in hand, or maybe a bowl of mac n’ cheese.” “Mhm! You get it!” Sometimes, I teased him. “Oh, Stet! If you die, I’ll get real mad!” or, “I imagine your doctor would be more concerned about the decibel levels your stetorous emits!” “Yeah, yeah.” He’d sarcastically roll his eyes. He could be sassy if he wanted to—a shocking revelation when we found out. Every year, his capacity for sass seemed to elevate until it was no longer a surprise when he let out a witty remark, until it became as common and loud as his stetorous. About the Author... Lila Hartley is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. In her freshman year, Lila fell in love with performing literary works. She participated in several open mics and in Douglas Anderson’s annual show, Extravaganza. She enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Lila is currently the Vice President of Literary Arts Honors Society at Douglas Anderson. Previously, her poem The Blue and Yellow was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s Middle School Writing Contest the 2022 Spring/Summer season and placed third in the writing category. Her creative nonfiction essay titled “An Open Door” was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s 2024 Fall/Winter edition. About the Artist... Isabella Buckhannon is currently a senior at Hamilton High School. Through her artwork, she enjoys embracing the art of reminiscence, reliving the magic that surrounds childhood innocence, and fond memories that can feel difficult to remember. Her favorite medium to use is Tempera paint, as she enjoys the bright, solid color it creates, helping her establish a nostalgic feeling in her pieces. Though Isabella enjoys painting and art, she also spends her time nannying and enjoys watching and playing with the children at her work. She has been holding the paint brush since she could stand to face an easel and finds comfort in illustrating her memories on the canvas. Previous Next

Granny Girl by Ji'niyah Alexander November's Cardinal by Emerson Flanagan My grandmother holds my hand, gaunt fingers laced between my own sticky, curious fingers. The smell of her skin clings to me, powdery roses and oversweetened strawberry perfume that sticks to the back of my throat. She chirps over family, sipping on unsweet tea with lemon, perched on whining leather in her faded pink nightgown. My grandmother listens to my stories for oily action figures and crayon smeared Barbie dolls when a stuffed animal audience can’t laugh or applaud. She’ll stay on the porch, lounging beneath wind chimes while I chase butterflies and beetles through her planter. My grandmother holds my hand, cold fingers laced between my own bony, soft fingers. I’ll drive down the bumpy street of Fisherman’s Cove, the color black hanging heavier than usual. The house is quiet. Weekly pill organizers lay on the dining table, my grandmother’s nearly full. Her chair sinks with her imprint, leather peeling and quiet. I’ll sit on the porch and hum along to the quieting wind chimes only to stop as a red cardinal lands beyond the screen door. I smell the sickly sweetness of my grandmother’s perfume in the wind as the cardinal takes off only to be replaced with the thick odor of diesel exhaust and the neighbor's cigarette smoke. About the Writer... Emerson Flanagan is a senior in the Creative Writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and is the current Senior Art Director of Élan. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, often pulling inspiration from herself and the arts. About the Artist... Ji'Niyah is a senior at Douglas Anderson, as well as a drawing and painting major. Her works are all influenced by her life experiences as a black girl. She specializes in painting but loves to try all forms of art. Ji'Niyah was the youngest to win third place in the Jacksonville fair mural contest and the youngest to live paint at a Winedownfest event.

< Table of Contents Summer Job by Lillian Cosby The Boathouse By Georgia Witt “A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue.” The air outside was typical of a Florida July. A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue. We sat wilted by the boathouse, Ms. Margaret fanning herself wildly with a paper napkin, every now and then using it to dab at the sweat that glistened on her collarbones. I thought she was disgusting. A young girl of 23 and acting like she was a 5-year-old girl raised in a barn. Her white skirt fanned out like a peacock’s tail, but underneath you could see her legs were splayed out like a man’s. Her feet, small and sweltering in tiny black boots, were propped up on the empty chair across from her. I kept my lips pursed and tried to comment on something drab. “Those cicadas are really drumming up some noise, aren’t they?” I said, feeling sweat trickle between my lips and quickly dabbing it away with my handkerchief. “Sure are,” she said lousily, I despised her country bumpkin accent, “though I kind of like the sound. Reminds me of when I used to sit on the front porch with my daddy on summer nights back in Georgia. He would drink moonshine and I would drink orange juice, and we’d listen to those things hum all night.” “What a nice memory,” I allowed myself to say, my eyes buzzing the boathouse for my husband, who had a much larger tolerance for Ms. Margaret’s lazy, wild talk. “Have you told Henry about that? I’m sure he’d love to hear a story like that.” Ms. Margaret shuffled herself upright in her chair, the wicker whining as her weight shifted. “Naw, I haven’t really told him much. John and I have been so busy with this traveling; I haven’t had much time to really get to know y’all. But I’m so glad I’m able to now!” This last phrase choked awkwardly from her throat in a half-shout. A few beats of silence pulsed between us, with only the sound of the canopy whipping tightly in the wind that came off the green water. “Well, I, for one, am delighted that we have this time together now. It’s really such a pleasure.” The heat was becoming suffocating. It thrummed about us like thick smog, damp vapors and mosquitoes. Now, I was getting truly uncomfortable, my dress sticking to me like a second skin. I kept my back straight against the wicker lounge and watched as Ms. Margaret pressed her glass of ice water to her cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, and by her tone I could tell she actually hoped she hadn’t offended me. For a moment, I was almost touched. And then I watched as dribbles of water and sweat ran down her red cheeks, and my stomach twinged back to its usual distaste. “It’s just so hot ,” Margaret sighed. “God, it was so nice when John and I were up in Virginia. The air was cool as a spring breeze. You wouldn’t have believed it was June.” With these words my husband appeared, dressed smartly in a cream suit and boat hat. I felt all the tightness in my chest loosen a bit at the sight of Henry, like a stubborn knot of string being pulled at to unravel. His face melted into an easy smile, and he reached for Ms. Margaret’s damp hand. Ever since we had returned to Florida, I had noticed hints of the South trickling back into Henry’s voice and talk. Up North, you could have mistaken him for a proper gentleman born and raised. He had shocked me in his courting when he revealed that he was a self-made man from humble beginnings: a ma and pa down in Florida who ran a modest citrus farm flat in the middle of nowhere. Now, I saw his roots in nearly every move he made. The easy curve of his smile and how he took to every chair like he was sitting on his own front porch. Now, I was the odd duck. “Margaret May! How is it that you look daisy fresh in this July heat?” Henry said, beaming like a schoolboy at the sight of Ms. Margaret. The sight of her! To me, she looked like a pig in lady’s clothing, pink-faced and watery blue eyes gleaming eagerly up at my husband. If Margaret was daisy fresh, then I was Greta Garbo. “Aw, you’re too kind to me, Mr. Malloy. Really, I’m sweating like an animal in these clothes.” Every time Ms. Margaret revealed another personal flaw, I felt the gravity of my world being rocked. Despite the difference in climate, both down South and up North, proper ladies refused to reveal such afflictions. Even now, in this boathouse, you could spy several of us pinned up like colorful dolls, smiling through the strain and sweat. Ladies fanning themselves, poised like gentle, perspiring feathers. But here was Margaret, letting all of her discomfort roll off her chest like it was nothing. Not a worry in the world that it might offend me or my husband. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, of this so-called “liberated woman” that flaunted her sexuality and danced with her skin showing, but Ms. Margaret hardly seemed the flapper-type. I was beginning to think she was just unfortunately honest. “How many times do I have to tell you, Margaret?” my husband said, that familiar reassurance on his face that I loved so well. “Please, call me Henry. You’re married to my boy after all. We’re family.” At this, Margaret just smiled. A real smile, not the thin and aching one you put on to end a conversation. It was the kind of smile that broke into an almost downturn at the ends of her lips, where she had to bashfully avert her eyes from my husband down to her boots. Henry took his seat next to me and leaned into the wicker with ease. “Speaking of my boy, where is he? He’s holding off lunch and I’m ready to eat !” “I haven’t seen him since he went to speak with his cousins,” I said, scanning the boathouse for a sign of John. “Would you like me to go get him?” “No, don’t bother darling. We should be catching up with you anyway, Margaret. Tell us about the trip, how did you like it up North?” Margaret grew bashful again with the attention back on her. My son had taken her on a tour around the Northeast, starting at the top in Maine and going through New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, and ending the trip in my home state of Pennsylvania. My heart sang for Pennsylvania. Every day spent in Florida, I ached for it more. Henry had consoled me about the move, told me there were beautiful places down South that I would love. I remember watching the country sink flatter on the train ride down, the green hills and purple mountains deflating into long stretches of nothing. I had closed my eyes and tried to focus on the scent of Henry’s pipe. Normally, I hated it when he smoked, but in the train car, it was a reminder of the ashen cold up North. When great swaths of trees burned in the distance and the entire winter was coated in the smell of hemlock and birch, smoldering. About the Writer... Georgia Witt is a seventeen-year-old writer based in Jacksonville, Florida. She enjoys writing poetry, southern gothic fiction, and creative nonfiction. She hopes to work for a literary or fashion magazine after college. About the Artist... Lillian Cosby is currently a senior attending NOCCA and Hammond high part time. She has come from a long line of artists ranging from writers and musicians to painters.

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Hannes Duncan Hannes Duncan is a senior studying creative writing at DA. He is an avid sci-fi writer and enjoys poetry of all kinds. He also has an affinity for photography.

Kamayan by Camille Faustino

< Table of Contents Editors' Note As Élan has continued to sail into its 38th year of publication we have explored the fluidity of authentic art, and the variety of ways it can appear. In these pieces, artists from around the world grapple with the hard realities of what makes them belong and stand out as they perch on the precipice between childhood and adulthood. Journey with us as we dive deep into the true meaning of these human desires. As Editors-in-Chief, we are beyond proud of the work the staff and artists have put into this issue. We hope that you will allow this collection of work to sit with you. Let the tides of emotion within these pages take you out to sea and lead you somewhere different from where you began. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Avery Grossman, & Jaslyn Dickerson

< Table of Contents Second Place Team by Stella McCoy Texas Children By Isobel Stevenson We are eight and nine and ten, sitting in the back of a truck, moving up and down, down and up with the rhythm of the rocks. The stars are out, so many they almost block the moon. We are lunar creatures, free as a breath of air, souls full of summer and sunburn. We are Texas children who bore heat rash before scars, who caught snakes and watched scorpions fight in lights. We are tough kids: Lord of the Flies unbound, barreling towards a farm to blister and pick grass. “I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class, and he nods. I feel infinite.” Sonny takes my hand in the bed of the truck when I almost fall out. He’s one of the tough boys I want to be. He’s rogue and brave and I’m almost as tall as him. “You gotta hold on,” he says, always watching out for me. I nod, keep his hand close, and look up at the sky. I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class and he nods. I feel infinite. In the back of the truck, we are infinite: Texas children turned lunar creatures, barreling through our memory. About the Writer... Isobel Stevenson is a high school student in Houston, Texas. She loves the summer more than the winter , and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. About the Artist... Stella McCoy is a current junior at Headwaters School in Austin, Texas. She particularly enjoys using 2D media within her work, such as oil and acrylic paint. Within her subject matter, she’s often inspired by other artistic disciplines beyond the visual arts, including ballet and classical guitar.

6 < Table of Contents Vibrant Death by Andie Crawford Who Were You, and Who May I Become? by Alyse Gammons " Will I someday leave behind / a fossil of fondness that is so enchantingly echoed / across the offerings to my resting soul?" Like a ghost, lurks the day that I may finally think of you fondly. Standing comfortably side by side to your ofrenda, I think to myself how, besides these reasons why, do I begin to comprehend someone who I have never met? Aimlessly I listen to ancestors alliterate the altruism you so graciously left behind… and yet what is this to me? Will I someday leave behind a fossil of fondness that is so enchantingly echoed across the offerings to my resting soul? Spilling whispers of contentment and memories of life and legacy to the garden of marigolds that have but a chokehold on the square as they bloom around the tombs. Diligently dancing to the sound of celebration, their petals lifting up and down to the beat of the death they represent. A resting, yet radiating, heartbeat. Although I do not know you, I bake this bread to give you pieces of the earth you left behind. Although I do not know you, I burn this incense to represent your passing. Although I do not know you, I stare attentively at this framed photo: eyes that offer a gentleness, hands that once cared tenderly for the familia I gather with today. And although, I did not get as lucky as my cousins to truly know you, I will light this candle to guide you back towards us in hopes that someday you will take my hand as tenderly as you took my mama’s and her mama’s before that, and guide me to the place you now rest. Maybe then, year after year of celebration in your life’s honor, may I one day know you as well as I know your face in this one still framed picture resting against your ofrenda. About the Writer... Alyse Gammons is a student at Lehigh Valley Charter High School for the Arts in their junior year who enjoys writing poetry, drawing in their free time, and learning about the sciences. They plan to pursue a career in the sciences and/or in English. Once they can find a steady job in their field, they plan to continue writing in hopes of being a self-published author in poetry and someday fiction. In school, they are a part of the National Honor Society, are awaiting their acceptance letter from the Spanish National Honors Society, and represent at Literary Arts Cafe the Lodge Events as 2025’s co-chair. When not writing or in school, they participate in the Kutztown Area High School’s Marching Band as a majorette, and during the fall are a member of the Kutztown Area Indoor Associations Twirling Team. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting.

Crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis By Ariel Wu grandmother, who is from the north & has scoliosis, totters from the car like a bad tooth, the black, acidic sugar of dusk eating into her spine. in the bone-damp lampshade, her body swells like the skeleton of chinese lanterns in spring, bulging with pus-colored light. mama helps her out of the car, her hand on the crutch reverent like an empty ambulance. against the sunset, i strive & fail at tracing the straight lines in her shadows, a well-weeded garden. couldn’t you be more enthusiastic? father asks. grandmother says she feels neglected. in the crescent of our chinese bones, sympathy melts into bullets, dripping from our surfaces in heartfuls of ash. at night i dream of her figurine tucked into an embroidered shoe box, the stream of her flesh out flapped and brimming like butter. the chinese daughter i am, obsessed with steam irons & corks & labyrinths: how comely & beautiful it would be to straighten & disentangle a time-arched body. for dinner, grandmother nai makes pork dumplings with chinese chives, her hands snow-choked & soil-veined like grandfather’s tombstone in her birthplace, dough rising from the crevices of her hand like hemlock. the cuffs of the dumplings like rags. at dinnertime i hide in my room and tell mama the chives smell like dead rabbits and mama says she agrees. grandmother calls her a shen jing bing. good & chinese, grandmother lets poison flow in ivory rivulets in her body but sees everything as omens: my refusal to eat chives, shrapnel of the broken plate mama scraped her palms on, mama’s confessions to her faceless, bloodless heathen god. the day she and father fought mama for the fish bones mama forgot to dump in the trash, i stand behind my door, hearing grandmother’s wails billowing through her enclosed, sea-sealed body like a window, the glass unraveling her curvature like the gliding doors at the hilton. on the way to the airport, the car lights of father’s benz, deer-eyed and bloodshot under a fracturing sun, nai nai tells me to hold home on the tip of my tongue & that gratitude is a prayer to our ancestors. in our household, scoliosis is matrilineal, a legacy of arrow-backed heathens, the summer moon clipped between our knees. father’s benz ebbs into the distance like a hearse, the bony sky weighing on it’s back. About the Writer... Ariel Wu (she/her) is a high school senior from Shanghai, China. Her poems have been recognized by Chinchilla Lit, Nowhere Girl Collective, and PVLSE. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and Juniper Young Writers. When she is not writing about the quandaries of girlhood and over-analyzing literature, she can be found at various K-pop concerts. Check out her published work on Instagram at @ariel_by_sylvia_plath.

Rebirth by Elanee Viray The Laws of Melittology by Kaydence Rice Listening to the whistle of the wind I whispered to you every single piece of honey I had left on my tongue. I think I saw it, still in your ear. Can you still feel it stick to drums and drip down your neck like sweat? The drone you named died last night. You don’t seem to know if what I said was true, if what I said was true then why are you still here? I watched a drone dance for the queen this morning. She ate him. It’s only a matter of time until the honeycomb rots. I’ll wait here until it reaches the bottom. I’ll never understand how you could forget how to dance. Is it because you didn’t want to learn in the first place? Honey drips down the trees and onto the dying grass. Why haven’t you left yet? What happened to thinking I wanted you gone? Bees buzz too loudly to deserve to be called flies. Bees buzz too loudly to deserve to be anything at all. The only good quality of a bee is the fact that their sting is gentler than a wasp’s. And the only good quality of a wasp is that it doesn’t buzz as loudly as bees and perhaps that means that wasps are flies. And perhaps that means that you didn’t hear me the first time.