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Syrup Ty'ana Pope I could have killed him, that night in the woods. We were alone, no one around for miles, the silence between us filled with the crackling of the bonfire we had spent a near hour trying to figure out how to light safely. No one would have known what I did in those nights. I could have thrown him in the blazing fire, I could have impaled him like a finger brushing against old wood, I could have tied him up and left him under the dock at the lake for the leeches to feed on for all anyone would care. But I could not. I had done it so many times; I had chased people down for blocks on end, I had gutted people alive, and that is not even all of it, cause I had done so much more, and even better I had played my part to get away with it. I had been everyone’s worst nightmare. This should have been no issue for someone like me. But I just could not kill him, no matter how hard I tried, I could not. He was just too… something ? I do not think there is even a word to describe him. His voice played so soft and sweet, almost in a way that sticks with you like sap no matter how much you try to wash it off. His eyes never glowed, only empty, only ever filled with light hope and deep sorrow. His hair always seemed so unkept, but not in a bad way, but in a way that felt like he did not have it in him to maintain his daily appearance. He carried a familiar scent to him, almost like home, not the building, but the feeling of a long-distance family that have not been brought together for years, but are finally coming back with one another, at a funeral, not exchanging a word, the despair in the room saying enough and more than they ever could. Stupidly, I let the night play on, to give him a chance, to let his actions, thoughts, and words give an explanation to his demeanor, and with that the fire no longer popper over us, instead our voices echoed over and throughout our campsite. But soon the fire did not pop at all, and unexpected rain poured from the sky flooding the ground around, just missing us with the incline of where we rested our site. We spoke for hours in the tent, waiting for the rain to stop. Though rather uncomfortable, he made sure there was no space left for an awkward silence to refill the air, and instead he told me stories; ones from his past, ones he had never told another, ones that told me that he trusted me, ones that made me want to sob into the sky until the angels heard my cries to spare him. And I nearly did cry at one point, but he noticed me, stopped, and grabbed my hand; they were rough, yet soft. Nothing about him matched, I was sure of it then. Even his hands contrasted every other thing about him. He began to apologize profusely for saying too much and asked if I had anything to say, anything to change the direction of the conversation. I did not. So, the rain having stopped by then, we moved on. He brought me outside, the smell of petrichor filling the air, easing the atmosphere. And deciding to take advantage of the now clear weather, he started to teach me. He taught me how to fish, how to find poisonous plants and berries, how to avoid them, how to cure any illness with them, how to turn them into a bittersweet honey like syrup. That was my favorite part; mushing the berries and watching their rich nectar ooze out into the little bowls until it was nothing but, the skins of them being taken out to dry out by the fire for a snack later into the night. The syrup we made was put in these almost childlike cups, sippy cups maybe. It tasted like what I imagine Ambrosia from those Greek stories tasting like. By the third sip I felt my body glow down to its core; my veins felt electric, my eyes felt like they had opened a new color spectrum, my muscles could climb my way up to the top Olympus from the underworld with no assistance. But if this were a Greek story, I would be Paris; falling for a forbidden beauty unknown without thinking about the consequences, because syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup, and it is an even deeper cut when it is poisonous. I should have seen it; building trust with a sob story, it was such a typical move, one I had used many times myself, my own game used against me. I should have taken it as my chance to strike, I was stupid not to. But I just had to let the night happen, just I let him play his game. I should have gotten him first, remove this first story and I would still hold my title. I would not be dead right now. Return to Piece Selection

16 Torn by Micayla Latson About the Artist... Micayla Latson is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. At the Arts Academy Micayla is a Visual Arts major, who has been dedicated to art her entire life. Currently during her time at Savannah Arts she has produced many pieces, some helping to spread awareness to various issues in society. Although not pursuing art in college she still hopes to be making art in the future and wishes to spread impactful and powerful messages within her community using her artwork.

Synesthesia Anoushka Dugar The little girl couldn’t see. The Sun had shut her eyelids, So she couldn’t look at the stars The Sun was a vain creature. The little girl wanted to see color So she walked across the cobblestone streets Hissed at the fiery star in the sky As breaths dribbled out of her mouth trickling down her chin Why have you closed my eyes? (The Sun was too busy talking to the Moon.) She waited, to silence. The little girl glided across shattered glass of lost voices Paused to look into a small pond There was a fish with one eye who smiled You want to see color I heard, The little girl nodded Orange, hold orange in your hand And let its warmth travel into your veins Until your whole body is filled with this light Hear it. Strum like a guitar Slicing through your breath. The little girl ran across a grassy knoll. Return to Piece Selection

6b5b6bc7-3542-4110-9115-40f80c1497a1 Groceries by Camille Faustino The Orange Tree Across the Street by Sarah Ermold It wasn’t trespassing, Because the house was for sale And the orange tree in the back yard was public property. Grandma promised it was safe and held my hand when we crossed the street, Because I was still in elementary school and didn’t know better. I gripped a Longaberger basket soaked in stress and Florida humidity, And picked the rotting fruit hanging from the shortest branches. Watched the fruit flies at my feet scream in excitement, As they invade the soft veil of the peel encrusted in a silky brown slime. Their weak bodies drowning in the bitterness Of the perished organs decomposing in ant piles and feral grass. I reached to pick it up, and Grandma slapped my hand. She wiped my hands on my shorts and told me The best oranges hang from the tree. Grandma squeezed my hand before we stepped onto the pavement, And walked the thirty feet back to the house. I sat in the chairs that lined Grandma’s kitchen table, As she lathered the forbidden fruit in the water that leaked from her faucet. She sat a napkin in front of me, heavy with the slobber of a freshly polished orange. I held the meat of the orange like rotting flesh on my tongue. She watched me as we ate the oranges together, With each bite, the pith slide between my front teeth like dental floss And the pulp bled from the corners of her mouth, I used the lung shape of the orange’s body to put on a smile. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, because they were the best oranges she ever had. When she offered me another, I told her I was full. And when we were finished, I told her they were the best oranges I ever had. When my mom came to get me, Grandma begged me to take them home. Shoved them in the used Publix bags from under the sink. Her hands coated in orange saliva and my bitter lie, She made sure to put them in the car so I wouldn’t forget them. Grandma buckled me and the oranges into the car seat, As she told mom of our day, elbowing me to tell mom, These were the best oranges I ever had. Return to Table of Contents

c00fc103-7cf4-419e-8b66-9e7f87a040e6 A Challenge Approaches by Alyssa Giraud icarus & her lover by Eva Chen we collected quarters in our inner pockets, the silver staining our jeans. it is mid-summer & we are still young, blood sweet as nectarines & skin-tanned from sleeping in the sun. you place a feather into the folds of my palms and smile, your face rising with the wind. you tell me about the story of icarus and the sun, about how something too small flew too close to something too bright, only to end up shriveled & dead, bones melted into rust. for now, your breathing and the cicadas become the only thing i hear. for now, you become a memory tarnished in the backrooms of my mind. for now, i do not know how to escape you with only these wax feathered wings & my gold-painted body. the indigo night sky, the humming of the birds, and the stroke of your smile are all things that haunt me in my sleep. next to you, i wonder when it’ll be before you scorch the pages of my poetry and i feel hot wax dribble down my skin. turning over, you hand me the most gentle laugh, and your voice floats like a prayer in the air. i feel the harness giving up on me now, the weight of my wings disintegrating into ash as i watch myself fall, becoming mortal again. i am only so small when compared to the overwhelmingness of you. Return to Table of Contents

The Castle Isabella Bolger A long ride to a distant place A castle on a small hill all crumbled and worn history the castle has gone through many things war sadness isolation I think of this castle all its been through and how it still stands and maybe war after war sorrow after sorrow isolated again and again in the end can I stay standing like the castle on a small hill Return to Piece Selection

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.

Coming Apart at the Seams by Audrey Lendvay The Weight Is Worth It a response to The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien The question of “what do you carry?” leads me to the very simple answer of “too much.” If you were to ask me why do I carry, or how do I carry, or who do I carry, I could give you a much clearer and concise essay. But since that is not the case, this will have to do. Let’s see. On a daily basis, I carry numerous things. I carry my phone, earphones, a charger, band-aids, cans, and cans of Arizona, the necessities. Sometimes I carry a journal and almost always forget the pen. Other times I carry nothing and regret it. As I roam around carrying nothing, I feel exposed and naked, a deer caught in headlights but the headlights are spotlights and the road is the stage. I wonder if this is a universal experience. That every human feels the need to be prepared for everything, that the change in your pocket, the things you carry but then scatter throughout the day, mean more to you the more you live. “I think about how that person got dressed that morning not knowing they’re wearing their dead man clothes.” I carry impatience and not being able to sit through end credits. The end credits feel like the ghost of the movie, trying to hold onto life so badly that it will haunt the living to do so. The end credits are too greedy to be the end. Seeing those names without faces makes me anxious, and it’s always too cold in the movie theater. Why are ghosts always described as chilly? Why can’t they be hot, walking, dead steam? I think people would be a lot more wary of them if they burnt your insides when they pass by instead of leaving you with a raise of the hair. When I watch something made for a single sitting, I can’t focus. Everything but the movie suddenly becomes so much more interesting. Was that light always there? Why? It’s so hideous! Oh, that spot on my wall looks like a camel with Jesus on his back. Jesus is the only dead person allowed to haunt the living. I carry my skin and everything in between: my lungs, bones, muscles, heart. I constantly feel like I’m in a swimming pool fully clothed with my bag full of junk I can’t part with. I carry it with confidence, too much confidence that it breaks and all spills out. I’m watching the materialistic things sink to the bottom and I can’t go further than the surface of the water but I can see them going further away from my fingertips. The things I begged for are being soaked and submerged forever. My organs are swimming around in their own filthy pool. Sometimes I think too much about breathing and the pumps of blood in my heart, how it chokes and sputters inside me. My heart was never taught how to calm down. When that happens I have to check the pulse on my neck to remind myself that I’m still alive. And until I can feel those bu-dump, bu-dump, bu-dumps slow-down, I am being tossed around in a stranger’s palm, and my fate is up for grabs. I carry the weight of being human: stomach aches, headaches, my lost baby teeth in my mother’s underwear drawers. When you are taught about mortality, no one prepares you enough. You can not pack a bag for the talks about death. When I first learned the word death, I treated it like any human would, with curiosity and fear. As I continued to learn about my inevitable end, the fear turned into sadness. I discovered that sadness is the only emotion I can feel in my stomach like it’s something I’ve swallowed and went through the process of digestion. S came first, then a d n e s s followed and played scrabble in my stomach. It sat by itself, warding off last night’s dinner. No one told me how heavy an internal organ could be. I carry not being able to spell sincerely right without autocorrect. Or saying, “I am a strong, independent woman,” but will do a, “but I’m oh so fragile” when it comes to girl push-ups and bugs in the house. I need to be taught that seeking help doesn’t make me weak, that I will never know how to solve world peace. I need to be humbled, to have someone shove their finger in front of my mouth and tell me to shut up. I need to be grateful that I’ve never witnessed the death of another, that whenever I see a death splattered on the news, it only affects me for a couple of minutes. I need to remember that the world stops only for those minutes and not the rest of my life. I think about how that person got dressed that morning not knowing they’re wearing their dead man clothes. What they carried that morning wasn’t enough. So I will carry their things for them, fistfuls of gratitude, and socks full of hope that I can see the sunrise the next morning. Over time I will lose as many things as I will carry and then have my inevitable death with my bags full of junk. And everyone will know that I died because they will hear the sounds of empty Arizona cans clatter to the floor. The world will weep.

15 < Table of Contents Border Town by Ricard Siyi HE Farewells by Rowan Paton Ludovica had not seen Mother Freya since the day before. She had searched the estate from grounds to roof, excluding all the places young girls were not supposed to linger. Perhaps her caretaker had fallen ill? The thought brought fear rippling into her feeble stomach. The winter was harsh that year, even for the normally pleasant Caer. It was the first year in her life she had seen snow fall over her local shores. " Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves." A few days prior, Mother Freya had taken her down to the oceanside. Bundled in thick layers of lavender wools, they had wandered along the beach together. Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves. She had sat down by Mother Freya’s side for hours, leaning against the woman’s shoulder as she wrote of the snow’s elegance. Mother Freya sat and drew with blue-toned ink. She drew Ludovica sitting on the beach, and she drew images of shells rising beneath the waves. Accompanied by the humming of the stinging winter winds, they created together. The woman had helped the girl dress the previous evening. She had brought Ludovica a supper of warm broth with roasted meat and rose tea. After, she had tucked Ludovica into bed, singing her a lullaby. But she had not even stayed to wait for the girl to sleep. The next morning, she did not return. Ludovica refused to ask her mother or Maurine about Mother Freya. The girl did not want her to get in trouble for her absence. She was intelligent for a twelve-year-old girl, and she noticed the gashes and black eyes hidden on the necks of the servants who slipped up. She had not even dared ask her father. Instinct told the girl to hold her tongue no matter how her anxiety festered. Mother Freya was never late. Mother Freya was never ill. Mother Freya would never desert her without bidding goodbye. In a final moment of desperation, Ludovica found herself wandering about the veins of the estate. This was the name bestowed upon the servants’ passageways, the tunnels connecting secret doors dispersed throughout the building. She heard Mother Freya mention the veins on a few speckled occasions, yet Ludovica had never dared venture within them. She knew the layout of her home well enough to understand the flow of the passageways. Many times, she had studied the sketches of the estate’s composition, in which the veins were clearly detailed. She hoped to be able to find the servants’ quarters, even though she knew Mother Freya never slept in them. She could only hope the other servants could provide some assistance. Mother Freya was well-liked among them, and she hoped her reputation was enough to spare her from loose tongues. She wandered for more than three candlemarks, stranded in the veins. She never lost hope, silently sticking her head into each room she passed in hope of finding the woman. Every room she found was empty, housing only silence. Though she tried not to panic, she felt herself beginning to lose hope. Her mind flickered to Hekate. No, she thought. Hekate would be in school. Just as the girl began to lose hope, she tripped over a loose brick protruding from the floor. She shrieked as she fell, skidding roughly to a halt. She begun to shake. Her hands were bleeding raw, and she held them awkwardly in front of her. Maurine would have her head if she got blood on her dress. Using her elbows and the support of the wall, she took a trembling stand, fighting back tears. She gave into the pain, sinking until she sat on her knees, leaning against the wall. She scarcely noticed the light footsteps approaching her, lithe as those of a cat. She lifted her gaze, squinting through the dim to behold the figure before her. “Oh, Dov, my sweet child,” a melodic voice uttered, welling with sadness. “What are you doing in here?” Ludovica wiped her tears away, unaware that she had smeared blood over her cheeks. She squinted up at the figure, now leaning down beside her. She grinned at the voice of Mother Freya. “I was looking for you,” she stuttered, still shaking from the sting of aching flesh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I know I’m not supposed to…” Mother Freya pulled her into a tender embrace, holding the girl against her chest. Her long, elegant lock of braided hair fell over Ludovica’s shoulder, smelling faintly of ash and soot. “Quiet, my child,” the woman whispered, her gaze planted firmly ahead. “I don’t have much time.” “What?” Ludovica mumbled, her heart skipping a beat. She clung to the woman’s clothes, yearning to never let go. “How do you mean?” The woman did not respond. She gently freed herself from the child’s grasp, tenderly holding Ludovica’s hands before her. “Ludovica,” she whispered. “What have you done to yourself?” She smoothly lifted the small hands to her lips, placing a soft kiss on each of Ludovica’s bleeding palms. “All better,” she hummed, still holding them. Ludovica gasped in wonder as the pain melted away, leaving her fingers blessed with a warm prickle across her skin. “Where are you going?” she questioned, closing her eyes as Mother Freya gently rubbed her hands. The woman did not respond, but as they stood there, Ludovica felt even her fear begin to dissolve as if by magic. She was left only with the warmth and the serenity of that moment, the serenity of Mother Freya’s spirit. “Don’t worry, Dov,” the woman told her, her voice as placid as a lullaby. She raised Ludovica’s hands and placed them on her face, allowing the child to see without light. Ludovica closed her eyes and felt Mother Freya’s face, feeling from her jaw and her lips to her nose and her prominent cheeks. As her fingers rose, she found a feature which was foreign to her, and she felt Mother Freya exhale. Ludovica felt a bandage across the woman’s eyes, dampened and chillingly warm. She wrenched her hands away in horror, sinking to her knees once again. She gazed up at the woman who had raised her to that moment, only able to see an outline of the woman she was. Mother Freya sighed, verbalizing the weight of her heavy heart. “Goodbye, Ludovica,” she whispered, backing away from the child. In a flash of a moment, she was gone, engulphed by the shadows from which she had wandered. And Ludovica was left, her healed hands resting in her lap and bearing the burden of Mother Freya’s blood. About the Writer... Rowan Paton (they/them) is a young, queer writer from Florida. Currently, they are working for Élan Literary Magazine as their Junior Fiction Editor. Outside of Élan, they are in the process of compiling a collection of gothic short stories, tentatively titled "Angel Anatomy." About the Artist... Richard Siyi HE is currently a junior at Beijing No. 4 High School. His passion lies in biology, and he have a particular fondness for painting and writing about nature.

945dccfc-1beb-4e0f-9b71-bb84e3582363 LORD BABA (GOLDEN PRIDE) by Taylor Ekern The Last Rite by Giovani Jacques “The sinner will always plead in time of strife.” It was a saying that he was anything but unfamiliar with; his mother making no failure to let it flow from the tips of her lips in any situation she deemed fit. She was an Italian woman that possessed a quite remarkable short, pudgy stature, though her qualities of remarkability, at least to the people that surrounded her, stopped there. That latter portion of her life was spent as a widow, becoming a God-fearing recluse, devoting any time previously invested into her husband and her son, Paul, in the church. The saying was one that Paul hadn’t heard as of late, as communication between the two dwindled as the years went by. The estranged relationship was much to Paul’s own doing, but whenever she did find the chance to, (as scarcely as those chances came,) he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at it, believing he would never alter his beliefs, not even on his death bed. “You’re just like your father, Paul.” His mother would scoff, “When the time comes, my last prayer will be in celebratory nature, not a pleading one. God willing it will be the same for you.” As her days waned, and it was clear that her time had in fact came, her last prayer was exactly that. The day of the last rite failed to see many tears shed. At least not by Paul, nor his mother. For her, there wasn’t too much to be in a grievance over: as death was more of a release to the pains and aches that life was guaranteed to distribute. Besides, it seemed as if she knew where she was headed. Her designated nurse, Alaila, Paul only remembering her name because he recognized it as the Basque word for joy, spoke of the fabulous dreams her patient recounted to her. Dreams of triumphant Angels watching in glee as she gracefully walked upon Heavens steps. Dreams of her husband patiently awaiting at the top of those steps. During Paul’s minimal visits to her bleak, dimly lit hospice room, he was hard pressed to avoid the lady, instead opting to give her a smile and slight words of encouragement to his ailing mother. “She has a wonderful spirit. You should come by more often; it’d give her more comfort.” When he did come by and conversation became scarce, he remembered Alaila’s recounting of her dreams, and wondered aloud about them. “It was God speaking to me Paul,” she’d say in a state of wonder, “and your father was right beside him. God willing, it was your father beside him.” Paul never asked for her to expand on what she meant by God-willing in this instance, deciding that it was for the best to let her dreams run unobstructed in her last days. For Paul, the lack of tears stemmed from the endless booze that dripped through his pores: A rundown liquor store placed conveniently near the hospice building allowed for him to not have to face the reality of his perishing mother, at least not while sober. He’d walk in as he usually did, eyes focused on dirty tiles, avoiding the gaze of the young store attendant who never failed to offer his smile and a polite “Welcome” to the mellow man who made him himself a usual at the establishment. At times he thought about responding: “Today, I’ll say hello. Maybe even ask about her day,” he’d think to himself, attempting to give some form of an unconvincing pep talk. He’d never go through with the plans though, in the end realizing that he saw him as nothing but another drunk: one that rushed to the same gas station cooler every time he entered and evacuated without a word as he began to guzzle them as soon as he exited. Realizing that he was just one of the many. "He didn’t know how he’d be able to make it home that night, but he also didn’t know if he planned to." For a drunk, he had a quite impressive inability to hold his liquor, not that he wanted to anyway, and the effects of corrupted vision and drowsiness, as usual, began its quick onset. He didn’t know how he’d be able to make it home that night, but he also didn’t know if he planned to. It was all worth it for him though, reasoning to himself that he’d do, “anything to avoid the tears.” ] However, the tears that were shed, and the main source of sorrow, ironically came by way of the nurse tasked with easing the pain death would bring. On the day in which death knocked its scythe on the grey hospice door, it was the nurse, her tag reading Alaila (A name that Paul recognized as the Basque word for Joy), who appeared to be the most distraught by the situation. Distraught to the point that Paul found that he had to be the one to comfort the young woman. Paul’s whispering pleads to quiet it down complemented by the pungent alcohol smell his breath carried, was to no avail. “Aren’t you sad too?” she whimpered, confused at the lack of emotion that came from the drunk son. The sound of snot being siphoned up the tunnels of Alaila’s nostrils made the sentence inaudible enough for him to ignore it, perhaps because he realized that the true answer to that question, would be unsatisfactory. The sniffles and yelps became too much for the old woman who lay on her death bed, accompanied by the hospitals catholic chaplain prepared to oversee her death, eventually motioning for the young woman to depart from the room, and to not renter until she was “gone at last.” With that, Alaila shuffled her feet past Paul, giving him a slight rub on her way out. The clergy member began to commence the last rite, a series of prayer and rituals done on catholic practitioners near death. Paul’s now mute mother began to motion for his exit as well, seeking for peace and quiet in her last moments. He drunkenly made way for the exit without a word opening the door to join Alaila in the depressing Hospice hallways. Taking a last look around at the room, the lack of people increasingly became of note; The only people finding themselves present in her last moments being Paul, a now absent nurse, and a chaplain who knew nothing about her thirty minutes ago. It was only in the time of death that Paul truly learned of his mother’s excessive reluctivity: never did he get a call from a loved one inquiring on her health, nor did he hear of anyone coming to check on her in person. It became apparent that, especially after his father’s death, all she had was Paul. It was revelation that plagued his mind in the weeks leading up to the moment. As an adult, he seldomly made any attempts to maintain a relationship with his mother, instead choosing a life of overindulgence in whatever vice he chose. Whenever the going got tough though, he’d never fail to make a phone call asking for money, a request in which she always obliged. However, the time in which they had a real conversation? One in which wasn’t congested with awkward-over-the-phone small talk; couldn’t have been any less than two decades from their last. By now, a couple of new nurses awaited by Alaila’s side, listening in on their queue to enter the room for the inevitable last breaths. The commotion generated by the two nurses attempting to calm the now hyperventilating Alaila down was just enough for Paul to slip away without notice. But truthfully, Paul only desired to avoid the stares loaded with accusation that would arrive when leaving at time like this, Paul knew that they’d notice eventually, regardless of the secrecy in which he had done so, but this way he wouldn’t be here to see it. He made the trek back to the conveniently placed corner store, seemingly tracing his exact steps back to the gas station’s cooler, purchasing the same three cans of beer he purchased just hours before. In a drunken state, Paul was able to gurgle a babylike, “Hello” to the usual cashier that was on shift. This time the store attendant didn’t bother saying hello though, nor did he bother providing a smile. Paul was too intoxicated to notice. But as usual, on Paul’s way out, he stared. Watching the man as he began to drink the case of beer as soon as he stepped off the premise and hop back behind the wheel. He didn’t know how the strange drunk would be able to make it home that night, but it also seemed as if the drunk didn’t plan to. He diverted his attention away from the man, smiling and offering a “Welcome” at the next customer who walked through the sliding doors. Return to Table of Contents

My Mother's Spirits Tuesday Locklear Mother and Child Emily Nguyen At that moment in time, everything was warm. The image of his father and his sisters faded away. All that he saw was his mother pouring syrup. He traced his fingers along the mildly singed counters, collecting ash on his fingertips. He wiped the ash onto his trousers and kept going. The dining room held the worst memories. Every night, the family would sit together. Nicholas, his Mother, his Father, Becky, Rose. Eventually, Nicholas’ mother held both of them back, leaving his father and sisters to talk. Sometimes, Nicholas would sit in the living room, just out of sight, and listen. He never heard anything pleasant. “I don’t feel safe with her.” “She’s crazy—she says there’s ghosts in the home. Old beings.” “I caught her opening all the cabinets and closing them again, to scare the spirits away. Breaking grandma’s plates.” Nicholas did not understand what was wrong with his mother. He still doesn’t understand how those things could be bad. His bedroom was right at the end of the hallway. He remembered his melted mirror, his burnt blue blankets. When he was twelve, he came down with a nasty cold. His mother rocked him in her arms. Nicholas had nearly nodded off to bed, when he saw a white flash, and an ethereal booming clap echoed throughout the room. Nicholas’ mother bound up and slammed the window shut. Nicholas began crying. He hated lightning. His mother sat down at the end of his bed, and hushed him. “That wasn’t lightning, love. Those were spirits.” Nicholas sobbed harder. She crawled next to him. “No, no, no. Don’t be afraid of them. They’re kind, they just spook you sometimes.” She smiled. “I hear them talk to me.” Nicholas spent most of his hours with his mother, listening intently to her. She told him all kinds of stories and taught him about the world. She told him about the spirits. She loved those spirits. — “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” — “The outside is too dangerous, Nicholas.” she said to him, “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” And when he asked, “What about when I grow up?” She hushed him and told him he would never have to leave. He never wanted to leave. He loved this house; he loved his mother. His soul belonged here, with his soulmate. In his home he was free. His mother’s bedroom took most of the damage. The room was destroyed. Nothing was recognizable. Windows were shattered, wood was burnt beyond repair. He reached out to touch a beam of wood and heard the structure of the room shiver under his gentle touch. He had so many great memories with his mother. She taught him so much. She taught him about how awful his father and sisters are. How Becky loved three men. How Rose vowed to never love anyone, or have any children, dishonoring the entire family. How his father (may he rot in hell,) thought his mother was crazy. He remembered how, on his last day of school (around his 6th year?), she had walked to the school. She looked exhausted from the walk, but when she picked up Nicholas, she was smiling. She told him that he’d never have to go to school again. She pulled him out, so he could stay with her. She took his hand and walked him the 10 miles home. They arrived home around nightfall. His mother almost fainted at the door, and he had to carry her to her bed. She did that often. She would walk for hours with Nicholas, and return home late, forcing him to care for her. She would stay up for days, and pass out in the bathtub. Nicholas was always there to put her to bed. He looked around the room. His last memory of her was her holding him to her chest. He was seventeen. She hugged Nicholas, and said, “You’re old enough, now. You don’t need me.” Nicholas said, “I’ll always need you, mom.” “My job was to raise you, love,” she whispered, “Now, my job is done. You are raised. Your job was to grow up, and my job was to watch. Now we are both done. At first, I thought I could delay the inevitable, I could hold onto our relationship until we both die of age, but now that I think about it, that isn’t possible.” “But I can still stay here with you?” Nicholas asked. “As long as we’re together, we’ll live in this house.” She picked up a candlestick, which was illuminating the dark room. The light was flickering out. She held it up to her face. Nicholas remembered how his heart pounded out of his chest when she did this. The light illuminated her face in just the right way, making her serene expression look dastardly. His heart is pounding now, reliving the scene. For a second, young Nicholas thought she would drop the candle. But she didn’t. The candle almost slipped out of her hands, but she caught it. Nicholas could see the flames spreading down the blanket, up the curtains. He could almost see his mother’s face engulfed in them. But that did not happen. She caught the candle. It didn’t happen that way. Nicholas sat down in the ashy room. A cloud of dust flew up into the air, surrounding him. He pulled a matchbook out from his jacket pocket. He lit a match. He watched as the fire slowly crept its way down the matchstick. After that talk with his mother, Nicholas was worried for her—she told him to leave the room. He went to his room, and the fire started to engulf the home. The spirits knocked over the candlestick. It was the spirits. Return to Table of Contents

Editor’s Note As our 36th year comes to an end, Elan is starting to unearth a new environment and quality of work in all aspects of our publication. We near our 37th year of publishing with our eyes and spirit wide open to new promises and challenges. In this issue you will encounter work that speaks to both the beauty and anguish of change. In lieu of breaking new ground and treading unchartered waters, Elan’s Fall/Winter 2022 embraces self-discovery through writing, art, and the voyage of expansion. We want you to see this issue as a passage, a mirror requiring both examination of the self and the world around us. We ask that you traverse this new landscape of words and art with us and come out on the other side with new perspectives. Editors-in-chief Brendan Nurczyk, Niveah Glover, and Emma Klopfer