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Astrid Henry Astrid Henry is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, where she is majoring in Creative Writing. She is the Senior Managing Editor of Élan, and Co-Chair of the Student Homecoming Committee.

Fall/Winter 2025 Cover art: I Am Going To Grow Wings by Leo Bowyer Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors Note View Jeneva Hayes, Deidra Curtis Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The ouroboros eats its tail in perpetuity, and True Colors View Anayelli Andrews-Nieves Small Title Ryleigh Marsh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Perceptions of Potential I Am Going To Grow Wings View Olivia Sheftall Small Title Leo Bowyer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Corner Cycle Memphis, Egypt View Tremaine Shears Small Title Maya Wynne Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Before the Fall Peacock & Peahen View Sofiya Sharova Small Title Chloe Mathern Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Umbilical Cradled by Beauty View Vanessa Chen Small Title Angelina Gao Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Haibun for Mom and Gramps (1945-2025) Bonded View Carter Manalla Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Believe in the unseen, have faith At once View Kiyura Davis Small Title Sol Cuneo Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Genetic Dawn Fish Out of Water View Hannes Duncan Small Title Stefani Thomas Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Cadaver Lab as a Medical Student Scarlet Waves View Elise Lewis Small Title Charleigh Herrin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I know I’m supposed to treat you kindly, I can’t Embracing Flesh View Olivia Chao Small Title Haven Foster Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Moses never swam View Marcus Holley Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Misson log 1001- POST BURIAL REPORT Curing Lights View Meheru Alaspure Small Title Sophia Waller Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I eat lemons the way I eat oranges A Warm, Fuzzy Feeling View Caitlin Spinner Small Title Leo Bowyer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Life is a Circus Life is a Circus View Small Title Yujin Jeon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button ersatz memories Foreign Accent Syndrome View Olivia Shin Small Title Colson Gomez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button North-East FL Under the rain View Brianna Clark Small Title Jason Galub Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Part Ways at the End Waiting with Bun-bun View Luigi Avila Small Title Sophia Waller Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Peony Season Human Scrapbook View Mary Bartels Small Title Alexis Swenson Small Title Small Title Connect 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92b11cd1-696d-484f-9ebc-fc5a1451ca18 Off by Jadalyn Gubat I Left my Heart in the Knot of a Weeping Willow Tree by Peyton Pitts Spanish Moss sways back and forth from the tired branches, the daffodils tickling her feet. Her white gown frolics in the hazed sunlight, a smile wetting her face. She wanders the trail near her little cabin, enjoying the air to herself. She lives alone with not much interaction; her job has her constantly exhausted. To have the weekends to herself was absolute freedom, and every Sunday she walks this hidden path. Ever since her father died of a heart attack, she’s trying to come to terms with her heartache; it didn’t know how to take its first steps again. She sits in the nook of a large weeping willow tree reading the latest of Hawthorne and a bit of Robert Frost. Her round glasses hugging the bump on her nose. She strokes the old wood, rusty valleys and canals carved by aging years of tolerance; she scans the poem, Birches . “You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground.” Placing the book in a nook of the tree, she slides to meet the grass. She enjoyed the peace, but she must be making her way back home now, she has a job to tend to the next day and isn't interested in insomnia. She always had issues with sleeping, vivid dreams stretching her rest thin. Nightmares had gotten worse since the passing of her father; she hadn’t slept in over thirty hours. After the long walk, she steps into her home to greet the ash cat Sage and begins to cook dinner. A tomato soup is brewed, which she hastily consumes, and with that retires to a waiting full and woven quilt. Eyelids pressed over those bright blue pupils, she tries to sleep, but much to her avail, she sits awake in silence. Hours passed and unfortunately the young woman received not a drop of rest, images of a darling man squeezing her concentration. He had auburn hair with olive skin, brown eyes, and a charming birthmark stretched across the nape of his neck. Not much occurred between them, he only stood in front the large weeping willow, gazing with love. There was a tear striking his face, he seemed so dreadful. He reached to her and kissed her forehead, before slowly disappearing. She had to have known him, he was already registered in her mind as someone she knew, but she had never seen him before. She sketches his picture in charcoal before leaving for work, it sitting on her nightstand. Arriving at the little bookstore, she sits and sorts some elder books with her hair in a messy bun; anxious curls pry from the hair tie, but she always slicks them back. A book had fallen off the top shelf and she reached to grab it, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost. A tear sheds from her tired eyes as she collapses to her knees, trying to be as silent as she could. Her father loved that book dearly, even read it to her when she was little, she could hear his sweet voice reading the third stanza to her one more time. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.” "There was a moment of silence between the two, a stare that was undecided in what it meant." He was everywhere she went, always reminding her he loved her. Wallowing in agony, chest compressed and the rope against her heart tightened, her lungs tense in fruitless effort. Small, shallow breaths were soon replaced with gaping exasperation, and she fought for air. The room spins, and she feels as though she is about to faint. Just as her vision fades to faint patches, the bell to the door chimes, and she is reunited with this merciless world. Collecting herself from the carpet, she steadies her legs and attempts to stand, almost forgetting how to walk. Her desk waits for her while she smoothes the stray tears from her cheek and hairs from her bun, turning to see a new yet familiar customer. The man had auburn hair with olive skin, brown eyes, and a black turtleneck sweater on. There was a moment of silence between the two, a stare that was undecided in what it meant. After somewhat of an awkward moment, he spoke. “Hello, may I please check this book out?” Startled, she began frantically snatching the book from his hands, shaking as she tried to ring him up. “Oh my, of course! I’m sorry, you seem familiar is all. Have we ever met before?” “Not from what I’m aware, I’m new here.” “Is that so? Where are you coming from? You know, not many people travel through here.” “I’m coming from outside the county, actually. Here to find something I lost.” “And what is it that you lost?” “Just a friend of mine, we always find our ways back to each other. It’s been some time since I’ve seen her, and I just know I needed to pass by here.” “Well, is there any way I can help you find her?” “No, my intuition is the only way I plan. We have a very strong connection after all. Thank you though.” His voice is raspy and deep, honey to her ears. He turns his black sweater to leave for the exit, the fading silhouette encasing her growing confidence. In a last-minute spur, she blunts, “My name’s Amber.” His neck turns as he pulls at his collar, a charming birthmark revealing itself. “Elliot.” He walks from the store and continues down the street, not looking back. She’s so flushed that she dashes home to see the charcoal picture she had drawn. After slipping on her rug and nearly tripping over Sage, she finds the sketch and assures herself it was him. Ironic, the man of her dreams came to visit her, but he only paid her no mind. After little consideration, she decides she has to go find him. After over an hour of scouring the streets of this little town, she notices him at a nearby café enjoying some tea. It’s not long before she stumbles across him, panting from the sprint. “I apologize, this is so random, but I need to speak with you.” He seems as though he was prepared for this sort of interaction, reorganizing himself and his thoughts. “Was the book not up for rent? I’m sorry, I can return it at once-” “No, nothing like that; I just wanted to get to know you. You’re horribly familiar, and to be frank, I need to know how I know you. I know this is abrupt, but please consider having tea together.” “I unfortunately have to leave in a few, but perhaps we meet for dinner later tonight? Then you may ask whatever questions you’ve been needing to ask.” “That works, perfectly! Thank you so much for considering. Where should I meet you?” “Right here; same table in just a few hours. Does seven work?” “Excellent, I will see you there Elliot.” “I look forward to seeing you again, Amber.” Surprise washes over her face; he had genuinely agreed to a random dinner with a random girl. Maybe he saw her in his dreams too? This hadn’t been the first time she had seen him in her dreams; ever since her father died, he had been appearing every now and then, greeting her as usual. This was, however, the first incident they had met in person. Either way, fact or fiction, she had to go home to get ready. After the journey to her little cabin, she applies a light blush and some rose lipstick, just to add some subtle glow. A lovely floral dress and her father’s brown jacket he wore to the library every day, she was ready to leave. Anxiety tugs at her mind a little bit, she hoped he wouldn’t notice the dark rings around her eyes. Addressing herself in the mirror, convincing herself to go, she made her way to the café. Meeting him at that exact table, he sat there patiently, white wine already ordered for the two- pure luck he ordered white, red always gave her a headache. She sits down and fumbles with her napkin; he could see her nerves slowly fraying. He made a subtle joke about the night, trying to ease the tension. “Have you always greeted strangers like this? I’m sure you make a sum of friends.” She giggles, slowly floating down to reality. “No, I actually don’t socialize very well, anxiety doesn’t deal well with friendship.” “Well, you should try greeting people more, you sure do make an impression.” “I suppose I made quite the impression; I don’t typically act that way you know.” They both chuckle a bit, relieved with the casualty of the conversation. “What about you?” “In a similar boat, I don’t necessarily socialize often, though I know I need to. Any hobbies you enjoy?” “I used to write, but ever since I had to take over my father’s library, I haven’t the time nor the motivation. It was something I loved to do, but there are so many renovations I have to make for the bookstore that I simply don’t have time.” “And what renovations have you made?” “Nothing at the moment, I know it looks bad. Dad’s gone, and I hate changing his store. I don’t have motivation or incentive, so I’m just stuck.” “Time management is a difficult thing, but I think writing some more may help you out of this loop, sometimes you have to force it.” “I’ve thought about it, it’s just taking some time. I never have enough of it anyways. Well Mr., what about you? Have any idea where your mysterious girl is?” He looks at her for a moment, a grin lingering across his face as he looks down to stare down at his food, “I believe I’m on the right path.” The two chatted for the whole night, connecting beautifully. It was an ecstasy; she couldn’t remember a thing but the joyous laughter they shared. After the meal was shared and experiences exchanged, her heart fluttered. He takes her home and saw her to the door, where he plants a soft but simple kiss on her blushing lips. Her mind races as her lips chased his, his hand tucking that stray curl behind her ear, the other holding her cheek in adoration. She stood on the tip of her toes to try and reach him, falling into his warm embrace. After a few moments, he leaves her on the brink of excitement, her heart stumbling about. The two spend nearly every day together, even Sage likes him. They take part in little dates, and he helps in the library. Renovations are done, she painted the walls, and he replaced some shelves. There are more customers than ever, and she’s genuinely laughed for the first time. The two hearts have grown as one throughout, and her heart is learning to walk again. He’s teaching her how to talk to people, she practices on him. And when she stutters and wants to abandon any hope, he holds her still and encourages her, praising her attempts. She’s making some new friends and not isolating herself; she made a new best friend named Autumn. They eat together during lunch break when Amber is pried away from Elliot. She would ramble all she could about Elliot, describing him to her; Autumn was always confused on who she was talking about. Amber started writing more and even became published. All her books detail her trials with grief, some fantasy, and she wrote a book dedicated to her father- those were a tough few months. She sleeps comfortably now; her mind lets her finally sleep. Her father’s jacket will always be fastened on her shoulders, but Elliot’s arm is draped over, holding her tall. They spent the day in the nook of the weeping willow tree, reading Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening , and it was the first read she had where she didn’t erupt into tears. “I'd like to get away from earth awhile, And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, And half grant what I wish and snatch me away, Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk, Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back.” She feels content with the book that she could appreciate it once more. Somewhere on the third stanza, her eyes doze off and she falls asleep in his arms. Elliot holds her as a tear leaps from his eye, his heart shaking with each passing moment. His arms close her even tighter as he tries to keep his crying silent so as not to disturb her. His breathing staggers, and his vision is shaking with pain as he kisses her forehead one last time refusing to let go. He is on the right path, he finally found her, and she found herself. His purpose is fulfilled, and his heart forgets how to walk. When she wakes up, Elliot is nowhere to be found. She searches the little town everywhere she could, and he was gone. All their little date spots, he was gone; his belongings that were collected on the floor of her room, gone; his love that he vowed to her she swore was gone. It’s a difficult night, lying in her bed trying to sleep with tears stinging her eyes. But when she closes her eyes, he comes back to her. They are in the nook of the weeping willow tree; he strokes her hair. He told her she needs him, and that her heart learns how to walk again; he would always catch her if she fell, but she needed to take the first few steps. She grabbed his face, looking into those brown eyes crying. He did nothing but stare at her, and all the memories came rushing to her in a blur; the awkward first stare, her bliss from their first kiss, when Sage would finally let him pet her, when he told her he loved her, all of it. Her imagination was tight again, and the vision of him became strained, just like that, he was gone again. She went to ask Autumn if she remembered her with Elliot, but her along with the rest of the town, said they had never seen Amber with a man apart from her father, that she was always alone. Town records showed no evidence of an Elliot anywhere, and no traces of his belongings, or him for that matter, could be found. When she get home that day, she takes the sketch she made and gone to the tree, tucking the sketch in the knot of the weeping willow. The breeze trying to hold her back, leaves whispering for her to turn around. Standing there, she has the rope in her hand, ready to tie it to the tired branch, trying to force herself to jump. Her foot dangles off the end, and she toys with the idea of falling, but she never could. She could feel him telling her no, the man in her dreams caressing her cheek and wiping her tears. The old canals of the wood holding her feet steady, begging her not to jump. The memories of her father rush back, he was behind her too. His brown jacket is wrapped around her, her holding it dearly. Time seems to continue for hours, her pushing herself around the branch. She finally fastens the noose around her neck and stares to the sky, hoping she’ll accidentally slip. The coursing thread of rope scratching her throat and she tries to swallow her fear. Eyes still swollen from all the tears she cried and fresh ones rolling, she rips the noose from her throat and throws it to the ground, falling back into defeat. Ontology was questionable in that moment, but Elliot said he’d always catch her if she fell. She looks around to see if he was near, but she knew he was watching. Her legs refuse to work as she collapses back into the grass, screams scrapes from the bottom of her stomach and rung into a cry. Daffodils cradling her like a lost child, and she waters them with fresh sobs. A few hours and the moon arrives, tickling her bruised skin. The grass indents with her cracking body and the flowers crane, understanding her torment. A hand begins caressing her hair, but she couldn’t bear to look. He takes her hand and tries to help her up, she refusing to move. He puts his hand on her lower back and urges her to a sitting position, leading the hair away from the tears. Just then, her legs shiver and they push her back into reality; she returns to an upright position. The sketch of him stares down from the elbow of the branch, and she fantasizes for just a moment, that maybe he’s still there. Turning back in shame, she heads for her cabin, leaving her heart in the knot of a weeping willow tree. Return to Table of Contents

784437cd-4e6f-4020-bff7-08e80d205b06 Tangled in Transformation by Camille Faustino A Tribute to Mitski’s “Class of 2013” by Hollis Ackiss my mother makes separate noodles for me in a big pot of chicken noodle soup because she’s been on a diet ever since she got out of jail, and she still loves me yet she doesn’t know my name and when i wake up at eleven pm to feel the bowl is still warm, sitting in the fridge, labeled with a name i remember she called me by, i realize why my brother and i stayed up so late that one night ambling in the kitchen to see her make spaghetti at one am in her denim and name tag when she only got home from work an hour before, and she never saw any new dishes in the sink. now i stand on my tiptoes to reach the opaque glasses on the top shelf as i pour a drink, every light off in the house except for the fridge, filled with soda again even though now it’s all diet. i know i should sleep soon when i have work tomorrow, and my back hurts but i can only let her hold me as many times as i can allow myself a moment of reprieve; the first night we moved into this house we watched a movie in silence and with my head hovering over her shoulder she says she waited for this moment. Return to Table of Contents

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents

fb5c9d25-b632-4864-9652-d26f258376fb Ave Maria by Vera Baffour Midnight Skin by Alexander Sayette I was fourteen & there was no light I had not managed to burst in the attic. So Sunday was black & silent & early in spring. & I was fourteen when I found my parent’s love story, all bundled up in boxes, tucked in 90’s sweaters. Beautiful & laced with broken glass. All flashlight & smiling eyes, I played archeologist, teased a skeleton from their folded skins. So I was fourteen & heartsick, leafing through a romance written in denim & black wool. My mother’s shorts. My father’s red windbreaker. My mother’s turtleneck. I bet he loved that turtleneck. I bet she loved him, too, felt the pavement in falling for him. All peach flushed & frightful. & so at fourteen, I took a gift from each, two bodies falling into each other. When no one is looking, I open their skins & dance. Return to Table of Contents

313346b5-cc4f-49af-90e0-66e76deecc8f Who's Point of View by Solara Cotton Return to Table of Contents

84634af5-fc84-434b-b781-7ab398ad378f Marine Karma by Grace Kim The summer you learned to bike by Eva Chen the summer you learned to bike was the same summer i learned how fragile a body can be - you, who grew mountains for shoulders, had skin bruised like mangos from wrestling with hot gritty sand & it was that same summer where i learned to spin bandages from tattered dirty wools, & you wore wet cloth hanging from the branches of your knees all throughout june. still yet you insisted to soar with your bike & i watched you - wide eyed, hands gripped to the rubber of the bars, you sprung into the midsummer air & when your body collided with the dust, you exploded with laughter so heavy, the whole forest shook & all i could do was grip my first-aid box a little tighter waiting on you to fall. by the end of july, i became a girl with hands so fast i could catch anything, and you, a boy, with the ability to fly. Return to Table of Contents

c305f168-85fc-490c-8026-c491ffe73b71 Dancer by Reagan Hoogesteger Doll by Zarria Belizaire Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My mother made me mine after I had seen a little white girl holding a beautiful doll. She wore a matching outfit with it, her smile shined, and all the other girls clamored up to her, demanding to know where she had gotten a doll like that one. It wasn’t long before everyone had one that matched them, they brought their dolls everywhere and I wanted, I wanted so badly to have one. When we went to the store for one the shelves were lined with dolls, some blond, some brunette, some with blue eyes, others with brown eyes, all of them were white. I had thrown a fit, upset that one hadn’t looked like me, that I didn’t have one to wear matching dresses with, where was my best friend? Mama had looked sad, almost haunted at the image of the white shelves. Still, she grabbed my hand and walked out of the store, reprimanding me on the tantrum I had thrown. It was a month later when mama came up to smiling, wide and bright. She held her hand behind her back and her body squirmed with untapped energy. Sensing her excitement, my attention zeroed on her, disregarding the toys I had been playing with. None of them were dolls but the bows and bracelets were fun to put on myself. "Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine." She sat me down, a giddy smile on her face. She brought her arm forward, holding a doll. It wasn’t white like the others or sewed with mechanic precision. Instead, it was a little uneven with dark skin and button eyes. It wore a purple dress as uneven as it’s body and no shoes. Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine. Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My daughter wanted one, seeing the girls at her daycare playing with the ones their mothers bought. She asked me for one when we got home, asking for a doll that looked like her, one she could dress up to be like her. I took her hand and walked into the store, hoping that there were dolls for her. There weren’t. Instead, there were shelves of pretty dolls with blonde, brunette, hair and blue, brown eyes, and white skin. I couldn’t help but feel as if everything had come crashing down, still, even now, there wasn’t a place for my daughter in perfection. There wasn’t a place for me. She had thrown a fit, upset to be leaving without a precious doll. We got stares from the families around us, some with pity, most with annoyance. At home I spent time searching for my doll, inhaling dirt and old memories. It took a month to finally pick her out of the pile of old treasures, a day to clean her. I found my daughter playing amongst her bows and fake make-up, dolling herself up in the way she couldn’t a doll. There was excitement in my chest as I presented the worn out, uneven, brown doll. She grabbed the doll with wonder swimming through her eyes. This was hers, just as it had once been mine. In the noise of my daughter playing with the doll, the lines between me and her blurred and for a moment we were one. A little girl, playing with a doll that looked just like her. Return to Table of Contents

2a2ede67-55e5-44fe-a97c-c29a61b8b011 Blackout by Micayla Latson Deep in Georgia by Autumn Hill 1. Deep in Georgia’s heart, off to the left In the season of the bare dogwood Feeble and blessed, I, aged six or seven had stood Heavy enough to hear The creaks in the floorboards That guffed their scalded scent. On Sundays the church bell rang Leaden and hefty, drawing the crowd Into the haven, across from the cotton field. My grandmother held open the books of hymns. I sat into her, underlining the thread of gospels Between the bands of the piano’s written word. Her eyes closed, voice croaky but softened--  harmony like a crowd of Alaga. They sang so deep like the musk of tobacco, its haze seizing my breath, mumbling underneath their roars. They praised till the walls peeled like a blade to bark. Stomping till they wore the bleeding carpet Open. Dancing till they weren’t here no more  2. In the cloak of night they come for the church.  The wood collapses into heaps of hot ash white capes like picket fences ignited their rugged crosses, high in the sky, a message sent  crackling and churning with sin.  The Lord’s passages roar through the fire, flames take seat in the pews, clutching hymns, melting praise into its bodies. Afar, brown eyes glow, with no tears to extinguish anything.  Again, a building rises, again, our songs sung, squalls curling against the walls, shaking the deal doors. Sun rays casting aglow the pulpit through empty windows. Sisters and brother rise, slamming calloused hands against the pew.  Shaking and convulsing, chorus of wails purer than the light cleansing like fire.  High as the days where the sun swelters our skin sweat the sweet scent of ash. 3.  The piano dwindles in its wailing lament.  The now somber steps of keys dousing these familiar folk, whose wrinkles I revere, more so, as they exhale a blackened breath. Grandma, whose arms I am tucked under once again slightly tremble with ache, creaking bones, scorched under flesh still. Like a pillow of Sunday best, my head onto rests, till the cooling moon waxes, summoning benediction. Return to Table of Contents

bdaef953-30b4-4207-acd3-a2a92ccdebf0 Pisgah by Audrey Lendvay The Willful by Nayra McMahan The garden in my backyard is dead. I planted it in a spring long past, dug my small hands into the rainy earth and poked holes small enough for my seeds— Roma tomatoes, pickling cukes, pumpkins— to find comfortable. I spent hours planting, kneeling before the boundary I’d created between grass and fresh earth until it felt something like home. Summer never brought me the growth I was seeking, though. An unforgiving sun fried the tomatoes before they were green; the pumpkins and cucumbers never even sprouted. Weeds, teeming with barbed seeds, took root in the earth that I had worked in. No gloves could keep my hands safe. I let my hands bleed, dripping life into the soil. Now, relentless yellow Florida grass clumps where the tall weeds aren’t. It settles its roots into the home I made, inserts itself where it was not welcome, and grows. Grows, despite it all. Despite the weeds above it taking the sun, even when they’re dead and dry and browning, selfish corpses. Florida grass doesn’t worry about its yellow. It doesn’t care that it’s splotchy and rough on bare feet. It fights for sunlight. I want dirt under my nails again. I want grit and bitter yellow in my blood, the strength to have roots that live through frost, through fire. Roots that find comfort in my beating, beautiful Florida sun and grow new green leaves as soon as they burst up, stubborn and singing, through the dirt. Return to Table of Contents