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1841830b-e835-4756-b712-b37651d49a80 I Sea Trash by Christian Silva the girl in the pool has all her clothes on by Ali Ximines I often think of the summers I spent with the lavender-haired girl by the side of the community pool - too afraid of what the town would think of me if I jumped in, but too mesmerized by her blue-green eyes to go home. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, really, for an innocent swim was hardly cause for a scandal. But the truth of the matter was, the lavender-haired girl in the pool…well, she had all her clothes on. "It was invigorating, she declared - and because of my cowardice, I had to take her word for it." You see, she always jumped in that way…fully dressed, sneakers and all. Said it felt better when the water made your clothes cling, air-tight, to your skin. It was invigorating, she declared - and because of my cowardice, I had to take her word for it. Because while the experience was ever-so-tempting, it just wasn’t done. And so I returned, day after sweltering summer day, denying myself the luxury of a sunlight swim with her, all in the name of maintaining appearances. I could have slapped myself. As a result, the only opportunity I had to let go of the boundaries that persistently reared in my head every day was during the cover of night. We’d sneak into the pool almost every evening and swim together: two trespassing fish with cotton scales. And when her hands traced a path down to my waist on one particularly humid evening, I could pretend that the shiver traveling down my spine was caused by my damp clothing - not the sight of the moonlight reflecting in her blue-green eyes. It’s quite funny, really, the way I couldn’t remember what I ate for dinner last night if you pressed a pistol to my temple, but I can recall every second I spent with her in vivid detail, simply by closing my eyes. There will always be the ghost of her lips on mine, a tentative exploration that we could only undergo in the dark, echoes of her whispers in my ears, full of words that made me shiver even when we were dry. Those very words filled my ears every afternoon, when a subtle shake of my head was all I could answer to the unspoken but persistent invitation those eyes offered me from the pool - never demanding for me to join her, but making it clear that the choice was mine. This afternoon, hands that don’t feel like my own tug at the hem of my shirt, begging me to tear my gaze away from her, to stop admiring how perfectly that lavender hair compliments the bright blue of the pool, to escape to the locker room and change into a swimsuit, to remain ordinary for one more day. She’s floating on her back now, an otter in denim overalls and a Hayley Kiyoko t-shirt. I stand up from the pool chair, forcing myself to finally leave, but aquamarine eyes meet mine, and my legs betray me, refusing to take another step away from her. We stare at each other for a moment, her steady gaze never wavering, asking a question that I’m afraid to answer…it’s much too long, really, considering the vantage point the pastor’s daughter has from the top of the diving board - but that one look is enough to crumble my defenses. I don’t want to say no to myself anymore. And I know what the pastor himself thinks about the shade of her hair, the clothes she wears, the opinions she freely shares, the way her parents are prone to leaving her by herself for days at a time, the unconventionality that makes her so magnetic. But the pastor doesn’t know the girl in the pool. I do. The pastor hasn’t spent any time with the girl in the pool. I have. The pastor hasn’t heard the gentle tingle of her laugh, hasn’t seen the tender way she feeds the birds in the park, hasn’t spent hours watching her sing while braiding that hair. I know the girl in the pool has all her clothes on. And I love her all the same. I don’t go to the locker room. I don’t change into my pale-peach swimsuit. I stand, walk a few paces back, and do a running jump into the water. There’s a colossal splash before I sink to the bottom of the pool, knowing very well that the whole town saw me, and hoping that they did. There I sit, one leg over the other, picture-perfect blonde hair hovering above my head. My heart pounds twice before I open my eyes, and…there she is. She giggles, and although I can’t hear her under the water, the sight of it puts a warm glow in my chest. We lean forward until our foreheads touch, and my eyelids flutter closed in contentment. The summer is almost over, but we’ve only just begun. Return to Table of Contents

< Back Meshes by Sofia Lataczewski You Told Me Not To Watch By Conlan Heiser-Cerrato For Grandma "I am the grandson / of brightened forests, / newly grown after / fires." I am the grandson of flooded moon—of still frames holding last Christmas’ flowers. Their reds, yellows, and the out-of-focus brunette that drips to the floor. You, tucked between glass panes, reaching within yourself to let go. Pressed against the barbershop window, one eye closed, and my vision clears. Deep she cuts, she shaves letting edges fall away into things I cannot see. The pink-crystalled rosary held tightly within your peeling hands. Watching as you lose your Irish curls. But I was always peeking around the corner, looking upon you picking clumps out of the shower— their ends tinged with graying blooms. You did not want me to see such weakness as you gave up part of yourself to an unwanted settler. The barber cuts deeper; your hair spins towards the ground. I am small, crammed against the barbershop window. The fluorescent lights illuminate your rosy cheeks, turned upward in defiance, in strength. I am the grandson of brightened forests, newly grown after fires. I am the grandson of lingering goodbyes. I am the grandson of the fight—the wars we wage for family. About the Author... Conlan Heiser-Cerrato is a junior at Loyola Blakefield in Towson, Maryland. He loves to write poetry and listen to music. He has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, National Council of Teachers of English, and JustPoetry. He attended the Kenyon Young Writers Summer Residential Workshop. About the Artist... Sofia Lataczewski is a Venezuelan immigrant currently studying at New World School of the Arts in Miami, Florida. Since a very young age, she’s been involved in art, believing that it’s a better way to express the hidden meanings of her words. Previous Next

The Curious Murder of Lilliane Baldwin Hannah G. Klenck Scene One Narrator: October 18th. The investigation begins. October 23rd. The autopsy is complete. October 29th. The investigation begins. The case of Lilliane Baldwin is an odd one, to say the least. In the beginning of the investigation, there were over 53 suspects, and after almost 5 months, the police, along with several private detectives, narrowed it down to three very much valid, and very much possible, murderers. (As the narrator says their names, the characters walk on stage.) Jason King, Madelyne King, and Eloise Morton. The lover, the lover’s wife, and the ex-friend with debt. (The narrator sighs.) And then, of course, there was Emilia Wells. Emilia wasn’t a suspect, no, just the opposite. She was the main investigator on her half-sister's case. She was out for vengeance, and perhaps that’s why she did what she did. She hosted... (Long dramatic pause) A dinner party. Set up for the sole purpose of solving the murder, Ms. Wells’ dinner had been planned since the police department narrowed it down to 12 defendants. It was a long time coming, to say the absolute least. So, on March 3rd , she invited Madelyne, Jason, and Eloise to her ginormous mansion left to her by Lilliane, and she solved her sister’s case. This is an exact recount of that night. (End Scene.) Scene 2 Narrator: No one knew about March 3rd prior to the party except for, of course, Emilia and those she was investigating that night. The suspects for the Lilliane Baldwin case were kept mostly in the dark about the case. Most didn’t even know the full scope of the case, or the total amount of people accused. So, on that faithful night, Eloise Morton didn’t know she was the first to arrive. (Eloise timidly enters from stage left, slightly hunched over. Emilia enters from stage right) Eloise: Hullo, Emilia. I-I came early as to not cause a bad impression, but now I see that I am the only one here. (This line is said choppily and awkwardly.) Emilia: Oh, Eloise, how silly. (Emilia smiles tightly. Eloise’s face lifts briefly.) Emilia: Nothing you can do can erase the permanent mark you’ve left on me. (Emilia stops smiling. Eloise’s face falls suddenly. She slowly slinks past Emilia and sits. Emilia is watching like a hawk the entire time. We miss a beat.) Narrator: Perhaps if Eloise was fully informed, she wouldn’t have been such a social disaster. Then again, being a suspect for your best friend’s death is stressful. (Jason King enters stage left. Jason walks loosely, smoking a cigar, acting very carefree.) Although, there is no explanation for Mr. King’s behavior. (Some say he was just rude, others blame it on the positively monstrous amounts of cocaine he did. It was a different time.) Though it isn’t very easily understood why he didn’t even cry when he heard Lilliane was dead. (Madelyne enters from stage left, head high, lips pursed, heels clicking.) Then there was his wife, Madelyne King, the movie star. In her prime, she was the picture of elegance and beauty. Such a shame that Jason couldn’t see what the rest of the world saw. We’ll never truly know how much his ignorance hurt her. And we don’t have time to figure it out. Emilia has a murder to solve. (Jason and Madelyne sit. Emilia smiles forcibly.) Emilia: Now that we are all present, we can finally begin. Sit. (This line starts out very sweet and calm, but becomes firm by the end. All sit except Emilia and Narrator.) All of you know why you are here, I trust no one needs this to be explained to them. (Emilia glares at Jason.) One of you is going to jail tonight. You know who you are, and you will be caught. (Madelyne glances around the room. Jason scoffs. Eloise looks down at her feet.) Dinner will be served in approximately thirty minutes. Feel free to chat among yourselves. (This is said sharply.) Narrator: Maybe Emilia hosted dinner instead of having individual investigation because she figured that with four conflicting personalities, someone was bound to confess something. If that was her intention, then she succeeded. (Jason, Eloise, and Madelyne murmur among themselves until Jason leans back to make sure Emilia’s out of earshot.) Jason: Thank god. Dragon Lady’s finally gone back to her lair. She’s so emotional. Wah, wah, wah. She needs to loosen up. (Eloise lifts her head. She’s clearly angry and a bit confused with Jason’s words.) Eloise: You do know her sister just died, right? (Jason scoffs then smirks.) Jason: That was over a month ago. She needs to chill out. Eloise: She’s solving her sister’s murder. Jason: Half-Sister. But still, women are just so melodramatic. (Eloise’s hands are in fists. She stares at her feet. She is clearly fuming with fury. Madelyne laughs nervously. Madelyne wraps a lock of her hair around her finger and plays with it. Eloise looks up.) Eloise: Jason, may I just say that you are the most- (This line is said increasingly angrier until Eloise is cut off by Emilia’s entrance from stage right. She’s holding a folder filled with paper and photographs. As she says the name of the item, she throws a picture of it onto the table.) Emilia: A bloody hammer, bootprints in the mud, a pearl necklace, and a threatening letter. All of these have one crucial thing in common. (Long dramatic pause.) These are all evidence to solve my sister’s murder. (Jason rolls his eyes once more.) One of you did it. And by the end of the night, I will figure out which one. And I will do whatever it takes to avenge her. (End Scene.) Return to Piece Selection

Unprepared by Shanwill Wang About the Artist... Born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, Shanwill has developed a love for arts and design. Attending Douglas Anderson has allowed him to explore his identity, the arts, and grow a skill base in multiple art forms and mediums. Along with this development, Shanwill’s art delves into his identity and his experiences as a queer person.

Oblivion Greta Reis The fear Athazagoraphobia: The fear of the presence of nothing The fear of the absence of everything The fear of what between something and nothing The fear that someday no one will remember anyone or anything; because someday there won’t be a someday The fear of the presence of nothing: Being scared that no one will ever exist Knowing that there isn’t anything to replace the presence of nothing Seeing that there isn’t anyone that ever existed Existing without a reason to exist The fear of the absence of anything: Being scared that everything and everyone is missing Knowing that everything is gone and you can’t replace it Seeing that only you exist Existing without a reason to exist Can’t it be both? The fear of Oblivion Return to Piece Selection

The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley We wait for the day that peace comes, hope lingers in the hearts of many. We wait for everyone to have homes, and for the rights of the zany. While bombs destroy homes and lives, We watch from afar. The wives, Mothers, Children, Fathers, Friends, And people Killed and hurt, We read in our car. The memories of our friends Come flooding back. Hearts broken, lives broken, They can never mend But against all the odds Hope remains, Freedom and bravery nods. We get out from behind the windowpane, To preserve the blue and yellow. We help our fellows on this day, Something we could have done for more. So we keep the hope, That one day the children may play, That one day peace will come. In the blue and yellow, Everywhere. Return to Piece Selection

25 Davis's Voice by Esmé DeVries “I’m waiting for Davis.” He says this, in his quiet, perceptive voice, so slowly and with such deliberation. Davis told me it’s because he’s from up north, where they have all the good colleges. “Why?” I ask irritably, studying the cracks in the railing and picking at the flaking paint. The sun burns the back of my neck. “He’s my friend.” On these words, Danny’s voice tilts up a little bit, almost like a question or an uneasy defense. “He’s mean,” I grumble, still poking at the wood. Davis always made me feel worthless, the way his eyes always glanced over me like I wasn’t there, leaving a cold trace of not belonging behind. “He’s your brother,” Danny points out. He waits a moment before saying quietly, “He loves you.” The words float from his lips, not accusatory in the way they could be, but still poking at a flaw, a chink in my armor. They try to tell me I don’t know what I’m saying. “No, he doesn’t.” “Yes, he does. Ask him yourself.” I look back out over the marsh. The tide is very nearly at its highest. I can’t see the oyster beds freckling the bottom of the mushy sand through the murky water. The water looks cool, better than having the hot sun pounding down on my neck. I look over at Danny, who is still looking up at the morbid little house, his brow furrowed against the sun. "Let’s go swimming,” I declare decisively, successfully dragging his attention away from Davis. “What?” He turns to look at me quickly, suddenly seeming very alarmed. “Sure.” I shimmy a little bit off the railing, preparing to lunge into the water. “We can’t go swimming,” Danny protests, as if I’m the ridiculous one here. “Why not?” “You’re in your clothes and I’m waiting for Davis! Get back over here!” Danny grabs the back of my shirt like he’s worried I’m gonna shoot off into space. “Do you even know how to swim?” His low, soft voice has become higher and more afraid, though I don’t know why. “Yes!” I insist, irritated that he’s being so unreasonable. I thrash in his grip, trying to shake free of his grasp. Wriggling violently, I let go of the railing and plunge unexpectedly into the marsh. The water is as nice as I thought it would be: refreshing, cool, and welcoming. I can taste the salt as I sink deeper and deeper. I kick at the water, pushing for the surface. But I can’t find it. The water, once seeming so gentle and encouraging, is taking me hostage. I stay still, feeling the suddenly aggressive tide pull me farther out into open waters, then push me back under the dock. And a quiet little voice in my mind, a whisper, a peaceful murmur, not unlike the soft rushing of Danny’s voice, informs me that I may die. I’ve seen Davis swim plenty of times. I’ve watched the Summer Olympics. I didn’t expect swimming to be this hard. I can’t see and I don’t know which way is up, but I feel oddly at peace. Danny is on shore. He’ll save me. My feet brush the oyster bed. I hear a disturbance in the water, a muffled splash, then something grabs hold of my shirt, not unlike Danny did back on the dock. I’m being pulled, slowly, through the water. Surely, this is where it ends. Something, some monstrous fish of some sort has grabbed me and is dragging me to a watery grave. I go limp and let it happen, not having the skills to fight and not knowing which way to run. And then the sun is on my face again. My eyes are squeezed tight, but I can feel I’m in the air. Weird. A bird must’ve taken me. But then I feel the heat of the dark wood of the dock and open my eyes. I’m laying down, gazing into the clear blue sky. Danny is standing over me, looking down with a strange look in his eyes. Part of it concern, the other part something I can’t quite identify. Fear or nausea maybe, though that doesn’t make sense. Then there’s a sloshing sound and a grunting noise and for some reason I can’t be bothered to turn my head and find the source of these noises. The cause is soon revealed however when Danny’s face is obscured by Davis’s. His hair hangs wet over his eyes, which are wild. “Ross, what were you thinking?” Davis asks immediately, panting as though he’s just had a long run. “What?” I say, baffled. The sun and the swim have both made me very tired, so following Davis’s logic is very difficult. “Swimming! You can’t swim!” “Everybody can swim!” I counter. “Why are you so wet?” Davis sighs and sits back on his heels. He runs a hand through his soaked hair, then starts laughing. It’s an evil laugh, the one you hear in cartoons. I look to Danny, who has reappeared behind Davis. Danny looks about as frightened as I feel. “I had to jump in to save you!” Davis yells at last. I don’t understand. I thought Danny would save me at the very least. Never Davis. I sit up and curl my arms around my knees. Suddenly, even with the sun shining and drying me off, I feel very cold. Something from the deadness of the water has soaked my bones and is sticking in there. One look at Danny tells me he feels the same way. But Davis has a warm light in his eyes and is gazing at me intentionally, really seeing me. His stare thaws my chill and I feel an unexpected fondness. Davis stands up with a grunt worthy of an old man. “Alright, c’mon kid.” He lifts me up like I’m nothing and I fit snuggly into his chest. He smells like salt and sulfur, proof of his rescue mission. I shut my eyes, happy to sleep. “I’ll have to see you tomorrow, Danny,” Davis calls over his shoulder. “Sure,” Danny says from the dock as Davis and I approach the house. Danny’s voice doesn’t sound to me like it did before. It sounds younger, a little more like mine, not as wise as I once thought it to be. Davis, when we enter the house, says, “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.” These words ride on his voice like a cowboy rides a horse, wild and free, yet loving and deliberate. It occurs to me to ask Davis if he loves me like Danny said he did. I don’t ask. I don’t need to. About the Writer... Esmé DeVries is a sophomore in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She has been previously published in Élan.

9 Happy Birthday by Daysha Perez Prom King by Isabelle Kim-Sherman INT. RORY’S BEDROOM - AFTERNOON Rory hits his head on his bookshelf. INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Rory’s MOM, a weary middle-aged woman, sits across the coffee table from OLIVIA, in a nice prom dress. Muffled crashing and banging can be heard coming from upstairs. OLIVIA Is…everything okay up there? MOM I’m sure he’ll just be a moment. Would you like some juice? INT. LIMINAL SPACE - DARKNESS SATAN You cannot run from your destiny, my boy. RORY Shut up! Just shut up! He claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. SATAN It is your duty to join me. A pause. RORY (infuriated) Well, what about your duty? SATAN What? RORY You never showed up! You were never around! It’s just been me and mom my whole life! You never even visit except to come and bother me about going to Hell with you. Why should I do anything for you when you haven’t even let me see you? SATAN Don’t speak to me that way, young man! Silence. Satan sighs. SATAN (cont’d., gentler) I know that I have failed you as a father, Rory. My duties in Hell have kept me from visiting your world, and you have suffered as a result. For that, I am sincerely sorry. RORY Yeah, whatever. SATAN You are getting older, and your responsibilities and your relationships will keep you tethered to your mortal life. It will become more difficult for you to join me. Another pause. Rory still looks skeptical. RORY What about Mom? What about my friends? What about Ollie? I can’t just leave them so soon. Satan sighs. SATAN I was just like you once, my boy. I loved my life on earth, and I wanted to put off my destiny for as long as I could. And when I met your mother, I fell in love with her. I knew I had to leave, but it always felt like the wrong moment. Then she had you. I stayed as long as I could, but I couldn’t escape my destiny. Nobody can. Your mother has raised you alone not because I left so soon, but because I left too late. INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Olivia and Rory’s mom are seated at the coffee table in silence. Olivia holds a glass of juice. Rory’s mom hesitates before speaking. MOM You know, Rory might be moving away soon. OLIVIA Moving where? MOM To live with his dad. OLIVIA Doesn’t his dad work in England or somewhere? MOM Something like that. OLIVIA Oh. He didn’t tell me about that. INT. LIMINAL SPACE - DARKNESS Rory nods, deep in thought. RORY Ollie and I have been talking about living together next year. We’re going to the same school. I figured I’d go and join you after we graduated college. But I don’t…know if I’d be able to do that to her. He sighs. RORY Yeah. I’ll join you now. At the last moment, he hesitates. RORY (cont’d.) Just…could you let me have this one evening first? INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Rory comes downstairs, fully dressed. RORY Sorry about that. It was hell getting this tie on. Olivia stands up. OLIVIA Hi, Rory. RORY Hi. You look nice. His mom stands, wielding a camera. Rory goes to his mom, gives her a tight hug. RORY’S MOM Oh! Thank you, sweetie. He lets go of her awkwardly and goes to Olivia. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a rumpled corsage. OLIVIA Thanks. It’s really pretty. RORY Thanks. RORY’S MOM Let’s get some pictures. Rory groans, but acquiesces. He and Olivia stand by the stairs. He puts his hands around her waist and they pose stiffly. RORY’S MOM Smile! They smile. Rory’s mom takes a picture. In the flash of the camera Rory’s eyes glow red. About the Writer... Isabelle Kim-Sherman is a writer from Santa Barbara, California. Her work has been published in Tablet Magazine, by the Jane Austen Society of North America, as well as in two California Poets in the Schools Statewide Anthologies. She has attended the California State Summer School for the Arts with a focus on creative writing and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio with a focus on TV writing. She enjoys filmmaking as well as playing the violin and the piano. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is a 9th grader at Douglas Anderson school of the arts. She is a visual arts major who has always had a passion for creative artistry, particularly painting. Most of the art she creates is acrylic paint on canvas considering she has been painting with acrylic since elementary school. She fell in love with the medium ever since and works with it frequently.

Blank Page Cecelia Richardson I want to think, I want to rhyme, I want to get it in on time, But I can’t. Today I want to write the best words They have ever seen. I want them to look at my work And do nothing but beam. I want to prove I can be one of the greats. Be one of the absolute best Among Plath, Poe, and Yeats. I want to soar with my words Like the birds outside my window That I get inspiration from every day. I want to piece phrases, metaphors, and idioms together Like a big poetic puzzle You can quote and add to your wall. I want to prove that I have the gall To be better than them all. But I’m stuck And don’t know where to go. My puzzle pieces don’t fit And my words don’t flow. How can I soar with the birds high up in the sky When I’m a worm just trying to get by? How can I be among the poetic giants With Wilde, Dunbar, and Frost When left alone with my words, I’m lost. How can I create a picture puzzle When my pieces don’t fit? How can I have the gall To be better than them all While stuck in this pit? I guess I can try tomorrow With a fresh blank slate. Tomorrow I can prove that I’m good enough To be great. I can look at new birds flying by And get a new puzzle to try. I can try again tomorrow And let my pen soar. Return to Piece Selection

< 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.

19 Bridge by CamilleFaustino Red Packet by Xin (Cindy) Nie Blue Moon (Lunar New Year’s Eve) The pendulum swings one way and then another as her eyes follow the rhythmic pattern. Each swing is closer to twelve. Until, at precisely the hour, her phone screen flashes. Staring for a moment, she realized who it was from and let out a sigh. As her phone screen faded, the gleaming red reflected into her pupils. On New Year’s Day, it was customary for adults to prepare red packets, a sum of money folded in tiny red pockets, for the junior members of the family. This one was a digital transaction from Mr. Lee, the title which she addressed her dad. Moments later, her family rose from their resting position in the living room and let out a thunderous “Gong Hei Fat Choy.” In the background, the sound of crackling fireworks shooting up into the sky before fragmenting into colored sparks. And then, “ Click ,” a New Year’s memory that would be framed on the living room wall. Mr. Lee was not in the frame. He had withered from this frame since she was a child. As a plant withers day by day, the leaves lose their luster, the stems begin to droop, and eventually the feeble remains vanish into the dirt. His approach to compensating for his disappearance was the customary parental gesture. In his eyes, it paid for lost time and neglected fatherhood obligations. To her, it was an act of fraud that fueled her resentment. Was she a charity project? Was she so unremarkable that this was the only day she was worth acknowledging? She bit her lip and scratched the sides of her fingers; perhaps she was too harsh. Mr. Lee remembered his daughter, so is that not enough? Be grateful. That’s what a good daughter does. She kept all her thoughts buried and managed to type, “Thanks.” The chat would be vacant for the rest of the year, and this brief exchange would repeat the next New Year’s Day. The vacancy was filled with ignorance and hurt. A decade had passed since she lived with Mr. Lee. Waiting for a conversation to strike up between two strangers was like forcing a spark between two burnt-out tips of wood. They shared nothing more than the last name Lee, the cold truth to her. Furthermore, she didn’t want to engage in knowing him again. She rehearsed this scenario in her head a million times. What if he came back and apologized? She would stare into his eyes with her fists clenched tightly and tell him it was too late. Then, she would slam the door shut. This time she would turn her back on him before he could. However, the scenario was like an infestation intruding deeper inside her mind because he never returned. She was eighteen in a few months. Then, this new year’s transaction would end. To her, it was a relief to cut ties, the long-awaited closing chapter. — New Moon (The Following Morning) The piercing buzzing sound of the front doorbell woke her. Rubbing her eyes, she stepped into her slippers and walked to the front door. She gripped the doorknob and twisted it to the left. An empty silence and no delivery at the door. She scoffed and pushed the door shut before a hand slammed against it and a voice uttered, “Wait.” Opening her eyes, she stared at a man with wisps of grey in his hair but a pair of glasses she would never forget. The frames of her eyes became heavy, and she blinked, trying to hold back the flood of tears. All the rehearsals inside her head did not prepare her for this moment. She knew what she wanted to do but she couldn’t bear to stare him in the eye and slam the door. She opened her mouth slightly, only making out the words, “Mr...” About the Writer... Cindy Nie is a 17-year-old aspiring student writer. She writes fiction which is inspired by her cultural background and she hopes to share her stories with a broader audience. She is currently published in Teen Ink and Ice Lolly Review. She is attending Shanghai American School in Shanghai, China. About the Artist... Camille Faustino is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Camille is a visual arts major.

11 < Table of Contents Bare Bones by Yiming Low Men's Jeans by Yeshaya Rawat Engineer I walk through fluorescent strobing lights to the “Men’s” section And bravely pull off the rack, jeans. Jeans, blue. Jeans, ripped to be cool — distressed, they call it. Jeans, classic. Jeans, new. Men’s Jeans . New clothes must be saved for a special occasion. I will wear this out when I have something important to do; Something worthy, worthy of my new men’s jeans. Bowling, perhaps; Or the movies with a girl. A girl with soft hands, so unlike mine. A girl with a kinder voice, but sharper words than mine. A girl who would never wear Men’s Jeans . " I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so / desperately wanted to; / I will be a man." We will split a single tub of styrofoamy corn; over priced but I’ll offer to pay. Hands will delve into pockets so deep they may drown; a leather square, the catch of the day. Grab a drink or two. And just like I’ve learned; Studied, for years. I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so desperately wanted to; I will be a man. In Men’s Jeans And when I breathe air scented by her perfume, and popcorn, and Pepsi, and perfectly picked out seats; It will burrow in my bloodstream and flow down to my thighs. My thighs wrapped in jeans. Men’s Jeans . But as new dishes in the Mikveh Or a child in holy water, The new must be cleansed to come home. To be a part of the tribe; Of the group And such is also true of my clothes. Of my Men’s Jeans . My thighs wrapped in my men’s jeans wage silent warnings of the imminent. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man . I ignore them, the credits roll, I throw my jacket over her shoulders, I walk her home, I walk alone, I am a man. I unlock my door, I am a man. I walk to my room, I am a man. I go to pull down my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, new, Men's Jeans . They are part of the tribe, Of the group. Baptised by blood, By fire. Christened red, my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, once new, men’s jeans remind me, I bleed, am I a man? About the Writer... Yeshaya Rawat Engineer is a young trans man from Pune, India; currently studying at UWC Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He has called Frankfurt, Germany home since 2019. His interests include playing music, learning random new things, and writing poetry. He studies Visual Arts, Global Politics, and Environmental Science and is extremely passionate about climate studies and ecology. About the Artist... Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.