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We Stopped for Daily's Blair Bowers Mirage and Menagerie Rowan Blankemeyer We stopped for snacks at the Daily’s on the way back The lucid, translucent orange and blues hit the windshield So perfectly. Not bound by brick and mortar Untaxed by the worries Of becoming a starving artist. We listen to Sublime on the way home (Just like we do every Friday) Your brother turns up the volume so loud I can’t hear my own voice. I drown in the music The bass hitting with each heart beat Still, I listen closely. I drink pineapple soda and sit in the backseat I think to myself; I want friends like you Have. The kind that stops for snacks and firewood at Daily’s The ones that know what the other is saying without Saying a word. We’ve known each other for seven months, But when you invite me to the conversation I still look at you with golden eyes. Before you I spent so long feeling the heaviness Of a burden too large to bury. I look out these windows and see into my past, Graveyards of past best friends Abandoned And in mourning. When we pull into the driveway, Opaque stars have awakened, their light Travels across our eyes Your brother takes a swig of pineapple soda. My pineapple soda. I don’t take this as an insult, but rather a compliment He knew he could take mine And suddenly I feel as if I, too am a brother. Return to Table of Contents

3 Narcissism by Elanee Viray Prom Dress by Mackenzie Shaner Charlotte stands in the center of her mother’s room, cramming the soft meat of her thighs into a dress a couple of decades too far gone. She’s crying. Mrs. White is cursing, holding a bobby pin in her teeth as she tries to work the fabric over her daughter’s hips. “I wore this dress for my prom, as did your grandmother, and yet somehow you are such a glutton that you cannot? You’re going on a diet; this is such a disgrace! Think of how this reflects on me!” “I know ma’am, I’m sorry.” Lacing the pin in the eye of the zipper, Mrs. White tries to get the leverage to close it, to no avail. Charlotte sucks in. Her ribs expand. The zipper pops clean off. The metal clang on the floor sets the frequency her mother’s voice reaches. Without much thought, the woman nodded, pointing the two ladies to the dim-lit corner of the store that held the plus-sized section. There, the dresses had obviously been tailored with modesty in mind; all long, billowy sleeves that hid the shape of your arms and collars that looked suffocating in nature, anything to cover the curve of the bust or the lack of a defined decolletage. Charlotte tilted her head at the dresses, looking down at herself and then back at them. “Ma’am, those aren’t my size. I’m a medium.” She reminded her mother, feeling her gut start to turn. “We’re the same size.” It all felt so wrong, every single minute detail, until she herself felt odd. For a single beat, she wondered if someone had made a mistake, whether that was her, or her mother. “Oh, Lottie honey, how about you finish this? I’ve eaten my fill. You’re probably still hungry, right?” Mrs. White motions to the TV dinner she made herself, dedicating today a “lazy day” where she could treat herself to not cooking dinner. Staring at the plate, Charlotte can’t decipher how much her mom had. She knows there is a right answer to this question, no matter how much her stomach screams. The inevitable look she’d receive if she were to admit defeat was not worth the temporary discomfort. “No ma’am, I already ate earlier, I’m okay.” “Really?" Charolette felt her mother scrutinized her, pulling at every detail and line of her body that was shown from under her clothes. Mrs. White frowned deeply, though quickly collected herself. “Oh- I was just joking. You didn’t think I meant that, did you? Come now.” She turned to the woman. “Where’s the mediums?” Then, the seamstress pointed the two in the right direction, and they went to browsing the store silently. Lottie, looking over her shoulder to see what her mother gravitated towards, tried to pick dresses based on that. She knew Mrs. White would never waste her money on something she did not approve of, so it didn’t make sense to look at the big yellow dresses if all her mother wanted was sleek purple. Just like she wouldn’t put her hair in French braids when her mom was looking for buns. Or wear pink lipstick if her mother wore beige. Mrs. White is just a girl now, looking through her mother's closet of nylons and perfectly tailored dresses that fit her body like a glove. One such dress looks like one right out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the threads nearly humming in her hands. She wants to wear it. The more she stands there the more she is convinced that the dress wants to be worn, too, and with a start, she pulls it over her head. “Did you ask if you could wear that?” Her mom’s voice is a butcher’s knife, and her eyes are sharper. Hawk like. Like instead of looking at her daughter, she was staring at a field mouse. “Margarite Anne, if you would have asked, I would have let you. Though looking now, I’m not sure if you can fit it.” “I can, mama. I can!” Margarite chimes in, looking at herself in the mirror with a sun-bright smile on her face. “How many times must I tell you? Address me as ma’am. And for Christ's sake, your stomach, Margarite. Don’t be silly. I just don’t want you to make a fool of yourself. Or me.” “Try these on Lottie dear, they’d be rather slimming on you, I think.” Mrs. White said, thrusting dresses into her daughter’s arms and promptly going to sit on a bench in front of the changing rooms. A silent gesture that their search was finished, whether Charlotte was done or not. As if she were a marionette, Lottie stepped into a changing room and locked the door. She worked her way out of her form-fitting jeans, wiggling her hips to pull them fully off and let them pool at the floor. The dresses hung in the background, and for a moment too long she stared there as well, pondering whether there was any dress to help her hide her fat and stow it away. Not these. Maybe that was the point. They were made for someone who didn’t look like her, and that became increasingly clear as she fixated on every small aspect of her imperfections. “I’m not being mean Lottie honey; I’m trying to help you. You won’t get anywhere when you let yourself go like that.” Her eyebrows were in dire need of a plucking- how had her mother not commented on such a thing already? Her lips were awfully chapped too. Her skin was so blotchy. She needed to take care of herself better, how did she leave the house like that? When she got home, she’d go to take care of such glaring issues. She tried on each dress in rapid succession, walking outside and giving her mother a twirl to show her what she already knew. Each time, she was sent back with a “Let me see the next one now.” No matter how much she liked the dresses before, until she no longer cared. She just wanted the search to be over. Finally, there was one dress left. It was the color of raven feathers, with no major detailing to attract eyes to unsightly spots on her body- and as far as Lottie and Mrs. White were concerned, that was everywhere. That’s why her mother loved it. The dress slimmed her down some, and she couldn’t help but feel a little bitterness at the fact that she only looked nice as an optical illusion. Once she’d taken a deep breath and sucked in, she walked out. “Oh honey, that’s perfect! Don’t you think so?” And her mother’s tone to an untrained ear may have been supportive, but to Charlotte, it was a challenge. A test. “I love it, ma’am.” “I’m happy to hear that, Lottie.” About the Writer... Mackenzie Shaner is a junior creative writer at DA who has been writing and creating narratives since she could use a pencil. About the Artist... Elanee Kristen Viray is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Elanee is a visual arts major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally Mixed Media art because of her vast love for experimentation. She has a preference for acrylic paint because it is very easy to work with on multiple mediums and allows her to get work done quickly. Elanee’s work has won multiple awards, from gold and silver keys at the Northeast Florida Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, to Awards of Excellence and Merit in the Duval County Art Show. Her work has also been featured in various exhibitions such as Extravaganza, Douglas Anderson’s personal exhibitions, and more.

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night A Girl's Universe James Helmick Small Title Autumn King Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

< Back zlatá hvězda by Sabrina Inga The World is Burning. Look Back. By Chloe Backes “But Lot’s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.” Genesis 19:26 I have seen what those men do to the angels. How they surround like vultures, look down at us as we search for the stars— block out with big black wings spread like fingers, outstretched, reaching hungrily for life. We live like paranoid animals. Rabbits that run through day and dark, we tend to see nothing but fear as the bird swoops down, we bow cheeks on chilled sand, our palms young and raw, sticky with the salt of purity. Angel, you must look back at the world—the life within it: isopods hidden in the damp crunched pockets of dirt slopped and sun-worn plastic bags. The autumn air brushing past it all, into the trees as leaves scatter in our sun, it is a daytime disco as confetti from the crape myrtle tree, pink and plentiful, land on what is now rose-petaled sidewalks littered with crunches of bright orange, splashed acorns from the water oak trees that the squirrels run through, careless of the abundance they drop. An acorn lands on a pedestrian's head as they look up simply to giggle to themselves, and later to their friends, about the funny thing that happened to them at the park today. My God, I know more than what you and your servicemen assume. You said this city was below salvation, but did you even look for its humanity? Beautiful people, full of flaw and unorganized color, canvases who could have been more but were burnt, unable to see anything except for sin—they were more to this world than sin: "You said this city was below salvation, but / did you even look for its humanity?" They were young ladies with their tongues stuck out, windows down, they scream knowledge in the form of hip-hop music. Their skin tastes like salt, fresh from the sea. They live unafraid of the sun. Old men in worn, nearly antique flannel shirts, take one determined step forward and one hopeful step back in the kitchen they’ve had since they were the naive age of nineteen. Still naive, I see them silently look down to cry as they hold onto their partner in the butterscotch candlelight, praying to at least save their love. Little children, voices so light, they know not to lower their strength as the world says goodnight. Fighting the tide their yawns are wide as they measure their height, I wished for them a longer life. My God, our God, your angels looked at us and said: We are going to destroy this place. The park I used to dance at, where the disco would sparkle as I spun, and the lizards would bathe in the sun. They told us they would kill this land, set the fire and leave us as roadkill. They said: The outcry to the LORD against its people is too great that he has sent us to destroy it. And as my husband cried, all I could do was question you. You, who floods and sets aflame all the world with your handgun named judgement. I looked back at my home. We were worth fighting for. About the Author... Chloe Backes is the Marketing Liaison of the Elan literary magazine staff. A visual artist and creative writer, she often speaks on the beauty of life, the complexities of relationships, and the cyclical nature of it all. About the Artist... Sabrina Inga is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia, where she majors in visual arts. Her favorite mediums to use are acrylic paint and graphite, however, she likes to experiment with different techniques. She is currently taking an AP 2D art class, where her main focus is exploring fairy tales and myths from different cultures. Previous Next

782edfde-bc01-404c-ae29-eb641aece495 An Evening to Remember by Audrey Lendvay Return to Table of Contents

Spring/Summer 2023 Cover Art: Elysion by Elanee Viray Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Editor's Note Button Editor's Note 0 Brendan Nurczyk, Emma Klopfer, Niveah Glover Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Mango Heart Button Mango Heart 1 Small Title Camille Faustino Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Elegy for Big Talbot State Park Captured Memory Button Elegy for Big Talbot State Park Captured Memory 2 Brendan Nurczyk Small Title Kaleigh Simmons Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Her name A Past Memory Button Her name A Past Memory 3 Chloe Park Small Title Maria Bezverkh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" My HAIRitage Button My HAIRitage 4 Small Title Nyriel Sarures Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" to you, the sea Il fiore Button to you, the sea Il fiore 5 Mia Yen Small Title Samantha Criscuolo Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" A Night Swimmer Depleting Vehemence Button A Night Swimmer Depleting Vehemence 6 Esme DeVries Small Title McClain Allen Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Last Call at the Yellow Bird Man With the Hat Button Last Call at the Yellow Bird Man With the Hat 7 Lauren Underberg Small Title Bria McClary Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" thoughts at longhorn Sins of the mother Button thoughts at longhorn Sins of the mother 8 Nico Johnson Small Title Marshall Shane Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Ars Artis Lover of Chess Button Ars Artis Lover of Chess 9 Emma Klopfer Small Title Liza Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Afterwards Elysion Button Afterwards Elysion 10 Daria Krol Small Title Elanee Viray Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Where I'm From Bantu Button Where I'm From Bantu 11 Giovanni Jacques Small Title Nyriel Saures Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" now, with a son Mother Button now, with a son Mother 12 Sam Kats Small Title Ronni Ochoa Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil Tighten Up Button To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil Tighten Up 13 Sarah Gozar Small Title Micayla Latson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Sunday Button Sunday 14 Small Title Faith Spicer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Temporal Displacement Puzzle Man Button Temporal Displacement Puzzle Man 15 Liang Jingyi Small Title Nishchay Jain Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Night Painting Journey Towards Self-Discovery Button Night Painting Journey Towards Self-Discovery 16 William Du Small Title Kenzie Kurdys Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Lucky Money Button Lucky Money 17 Lauren Underberg Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Beloved Omen Narcissus Button Beloved Omen Narcissus 18 Emerson Flanagan Small Title Liza Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

< Back That Time of Day by Valentina Zapata Rotting Roots By Alethea/Jamie Lohse The very air in the South pants, muggy and oppressive, down her neck, like a monster’s breath. As she steps out of the car, Elaine can tell she’s home just by the taste of a humid breeze and the sting of mosquito bites on her arms. The Oakley family’s home is dingy, deserted, and small — not traditional. The paint outside is weathered and stained, a makeshift flowerbed has been overgrown by weeds. The double-wide trailer is hardly a home at all, but it's the closest thing to it that the Oakley family has ever had. Elaine hauls her only suitcase out from the trunk and slams the lid. It isn't as if there are any neighbors around to disturb. Her grandpa bought this land for cheap, way back when there was even less around than the godforsaken nothing here now. He plopped the trailer down, propped it up with some cinderblocks, and there it stayed. Out here, everything stays. This North Florida mud — stickier than honey but not half as sweet — clings to anything, if it’s unlucky enough. Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her. She knows Pa left the trailer to her because he had nothing better to do with it. The old man could never sell this wretched thing. Still, Elaine feels that he liked the idea of her having it. That always was Pa’s special, sick form of pride. His children were extensions of himself, and maybe this was his final selfish act: a subtle way of keeping the little he owned, even in death. It wasn’t a charitable way of thinking. In Elaine’s experience, that meant it was the truth. "Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her." The sun starts to set over the trees, casting golden light behind their towering silhouettes. Elaine picks up her pace, as if she can outrun the rising sound of crickets. She’s always hated being out here at night. It started a few weeks after Elaine had turned seven. On a random Saturday, Pa woke her and Camden up by kicking them out of the house with a simple, cruel: “because I said so!” Elaine started crying, but Camden, eleven at the time, knew better. Only Pa was allowed to throw tantrums in this house. Her big brother gave her a piggyback ride the mile-walk to their neighbor’s house, just to calm her down. The Carsons were kind folks, with some kids around their age. They always let her and Camden stay for dinner without asking any questions. Elaine couldn’t count how many meals she must owe them over the years. The day was alright, but the path home was different in the dark. In Elaine’s young mind, she swore the trees had changed shape, that the wind was whispering something ancient and terrifying through their branches. The crunching of leaves and strange sounds from the forest weren’t any regular critters, but a great beast stalking them through the night, something big and mean, with pitch black eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Elaine remembers telling Camden, "These woods turn hungry when the sun goes down.” Usually, her brother would just laugh at her for saying something so stupid. That night, he’d stared at the star-filled sky for a moment with an expression like piano music in an empty chapel. Elaine finds herself thinking about that look on her brother’s face a lot more than she probably should. She hadn’t seen it again till Camden's fifteenth birthday, when Pa first goaded him into trying a drink. “Just a sip, son. C’mon, you’re a man now, aren’t ya?” If she had said something back then, maybe it would have made a difference. But she didn’t, and thinking about it would do nothing but kill her. That night, Elaine was small and afraid. She didn’t question it when Camden wordlessly grabbed her hand and pulled them into a run for the rest of the way home. Pa was passed out drunk on the couch when they came in. Elaine knows this place is empty now, but she still finds herself bracing for the smell of booze. After years of disuse, the trailer doorknob is a little rusty. Still, when she fishes a key out from under the ancient welcome mat, it opens just fine. As Elaine steps inside, the first thing she notices is that there’s far less mess than she was expecting. The place looks cleaner than she’s ever seen it. Pa ’s church had handled the funeral, so they probably cleaned up too, as a good deed. Elaine faintly remembers them calling her, offering condolences, and inviting her to speak at the memorial service. The woman on the phone didn’t bother hiding her shock when Elaine politely declined to attend at all. The quiet gasp from the other end of the line still lingers in Elaine’s ears, like an itch she can’t scratch. She knows they spent the reception wondering what “Poor Ol’ Tommy” did to deserve such a rotten daughter. Everyone said he found God, towards the end there. By Elaine’s count, that would have been the fifth time Pa had “found God” over the years. This time though, he never got the chance to relapse. Pa had died a good man. The trailer door shuts softly, leaving Elaine alone in the dark. She freezes, a sudden and irrational unease washes over her. She slowly turns, cautiously staring into the black void. She reaches for the light switch, but no illumination follows the click. The darkness seems to press heavier, and in the deafening silence, Elaine can only hear the faint sound of her own shallow breaths. Her chest tightens with a senseless panic, and the image of unseen hands reaching for her flashes behind her eyes. She stumbles, trying to run to the windows, and tripping over her suitcase in the process. When her hands finally find the blinds, she rips them open with a resounding ‘clack’ in the silence. Fading sunlight spills in, revealing nothing but her own shadow. As a girl, she’d been terrified of the dark. Never once before college did she sleep without a nightlight, despite Camden’s teasing. When she was in middle school, Elaine had been so determined to quit that she threw her nightlight into the retention pond. She wound up not sleeping for three days straight before she finally broke and begged Pa to buy her a new one. After that, she’d been resigned to the fact that it was impossible for her to rest in the dark. Every time Elaine closed her eyes, she swore she could feel something watching her. Creeping closer. Just waiting for the chance to strike. Eventually, the nagging dread always twisted into a gripping terror. She’d snap her eyes open, shaking and desperate, only to find an empty room. It was stupid. Elaine knew that, even as a kid. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of, girl. You keep on crying like that, and I’ll give you something to cry about!” About the Author... Alethea/Jamie Lohse is a young queer writer from Orange Park, Florida. They are currently a Junior in Douglas Anderson School of Art’s creative writing program. They love to draw outside of school, and hope to one day pursue the medium of sequential art. They've previously been published as a print exclusive in the Élan 2023 issue with their non-fiction work titled “Sparks in Rainstorms”, a personal essay on life and its end. In future endeavors, they're working on a multi-media urban fantasy horror story called “The Chaska Investigations”. About the Artist... Valentina Zapata is a sophomore at New World School of the Arts. She explores multiple mediums across different art forms, from ceramics to animation. The majority of her works are acrylic paintings. Zapata takes an interest in themes of identity, childhood, and family. Previous Next

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

13 < Table of Contents Lament by Kierra Reese About the Artist... Kierra Reese is a junior at Douglas Anderson .At the school, Kierra is a draw/paint major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally in acrylic, because of the beautiful colors and contrast acrylic's make.

9 < Table of Contents Metallic Amalgamation by Conner Pendry Midnight Oil by Teigan Edwards The lights cutting streaks into the pavement, the car humming when I pause at the start of the track, the gray bleachers the only thing protruding from the otherwise dismissive darkness. They ground me when my head aches under the oppressive weight of his voice in my ear. They center me when my eyes grasp for every detail of the track even days before race day. I feel like I can think. Like I can breathe here. " An hour on the track becomes a night, becomes a century." An hour on the track becomes a night, becomes a century. Time slows and jumps and fluctuates between sleeping and hyperventilating. Two minutes fill the space of a second, a decade. I lose myself and the voices and the burning, bleeding need to move in the hum of the engine, the lure of the void. And when it all settles down, when the car finally stops and my brain finds itself again, the slate is washed clean. A part of me wants to drive, to see if I could do it despite my fear. But Jessie is in the trunk, and I don’t want to be the karma that finally gets him killed. And, more selfishly, my head is too alive. To drive I need quiet, and right now I’m all noise – change the oil before the race on Sunday, go faster, faster, keep the first turn in mind but not so much that you’re in your head on the second . I want – need – to go so fast my world stands still, and Jessie is the only one who’ll drive like that on a whim in the middle of the night. Just so long as it’s on a nice, safe race track. I step out, not bothering to shut the door behind me, and pop the trunk. Jessie grins up at me in the bright light, arms up as if I’ll punch him. I might. Not because I’m impatient – though I am impatient, thrumming with the kind of dopamine only the sleepless ingest – but because he’s my brother, and he’d let me. His round glasses glint from their unstable perch too far down his nose. “Game time.” “Heck, yeah.” He rolls out and starts for the driver’s side, smirking back at me. I roll my eyes to make a point. But he just smiles wider. He has this way about him. The kind that says he does his math homework before he goes out street racing and brings the groceries in with one hand, his phone open in the other. The kind that gets into fights with everyone. Fights that everyone, himself included, knows he can’t win. But he squares up anyway, a smile on his face. I slide into the passenger’s seat. The leather isn’t worn the same way as in the driver’s. The smell is too much like my race engineer – hot coffee and motor oil – from when I gave him a ride home on the way to pick up Jessie. One of his hands is already molded onto the steering wheel. The other adjusts the phone connector and volume knobs. He whoops when his favorite techno track blares through the speakers. The car pulses with it. He switches to drive and floors the gas without a second in between for me to snatch at a breath. I make an involuntary, shapeless noise. The track runs under us, from us. Gray and black and blinding white. The speed is lovely, violent, seething. Outside the windows, a river of strobe lights rushes by. Clubs can’t compete. Dreams of it can’t live up to the real thing. It’s like being drugged and drunk and only half-disillusioned of a lucid dream. I can move, but moving feels wrong. Like shifting positions on one of those centripetal force rides at the fair. We’re spinning. We’re flying. We’re going as fast as I ever dare to go in broad daylight surrounded by my team. My gut burns but finally not in the way it does when I have to run the same turn a dozen times in one afternoon. I grab the armrest when I’m pressed further back into my seat. I’d close my eyes, but it’d be like closing them to monsters in the dark. I’m so still that I can feel my heart quaking in my chest, the only muscle that’s anything but taut. I’m a passenger on a reanimated train I can’t jump out of. I want to grab the parking brake, but I couldn’t hurt Jessie like that, and I can’t trust the car to stop just because it’s told. We need to slow down or we’ll miss a turn and spin out through the chain link fence and into the unseen woods. Every second is the last and yet every next second comes. My fingers twitch against my restraint. I clench my stomach to hold onto the way it churns, to push through it to the other, blissful side and keep gripping the door of this metal animal, its brain at my side, shouting over the music. He’ll stop if I ask him. The knowledge of my choice in it all is comforting. And I would ask. I would. If I didn’t have a race this week. If the rush, like a cold shower only without the sting, didn’t feel quite so good. If he didn’t have that look in his eyes – glued to his seat but smiling through the pain, smiling like he does in photos of us from high school. Like he does by the finish line when he wins a late-night race. Like he used to in the car on school nights. I almost died for that look, once. But I haven’t. Not yet. In high school, just before Jessie went off to state college, we’d take Cooper Highway north. It was dead except for us. Pine trees are stacked atop one another by the shoulders. No one used it late at night after the bigger interstate was built a few miles over. Beyond the windows, the world was leached of color, but we were brighter than we’d ever been. Jessie’s music and the headlights ate away at my brain’s insufferable conviction to stay awake. It wasn’t races that kept me up then. It was college and an early morning job and Friday afternoons helping the pit crew set up for race day. My budding fear of driving in the dark was fed by race track horror stories and hours of analyzing crash videos. But I needed to be awake, and to be awake I needed to sleep, and to sleep I needed to drown. About the Writer... Teigan Edwards is a senior creative writer at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. She has been enthralled by stories since she was a young girl and her mother sat her down every night to read. About the Artist... Conner Pendry is a sculpture major at Douglas Anderson with a focus in metalwork through processes such as welding, grinding and soldering. He is completing his sustained investigation for AP 3-D Art & Design based around exploring how metal can be unified into interesting compositions through a variety of techniques.

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Papa On The Way Home Olivia Sheftall Small Title Zoë Wagner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

< Table of Contents Lurking by Sophia Gapuz the disease called home. By Anayelli Andrews-Nieves The machinery hums its familiar tones. Lyrical stories and medicinal lies Course through my veins, And yet, even with that saccharine anesthetic, I can’t get it out of my sight— the way everything in the house seemed to live , how each system pulsed and breathed, and my survival hinged on all of it. “Bougainvillea petals are floating in my IV.” Bougainvillea petals are floating in my IV. i can see the tree from that hospital bed’s window. i picked the petals from the concrete and mixed them in myself. Their memories leak out and The color seeps in. My skin is colored a shade that looks so wrong, Blooming from blemished skin. it’s a shade that once meant i was home. I’m dyed down to my bones In the colors of a dead man. they were supposed to save me. the systems have already stopped sending signals. the house became pallor and cold a long time ago, and yet the curtain hasn’t been pulled over it. “allow me,” and “i wouldn’t dare,” the heart monitor screams as my fingers run along white fabric. sometimes i think i must be a corpse still attached to life support, endless wires connected jaggedly to my veins. they stretch and tear and dig into my rotting, festering flesh. when (if) it ends, will these marks be burned away? there is no remedy for what isn’t a disease, and a decayed heart cannot beat again, so what am i to do? sweetening my senses until there’s nothing left, swallowing down falsities, i’ve changed nothing. that place is still so very far, so far that i shouldn’t be able to say “i still, i still, i still,” but the words form the sound of my pulse, and the words stab into my heart. i still hear birds chirping in a cage on the front porch, i still find myself in sync with the whirring of an oxygen machine, and i have such a weak heart that it will beat in a different rhythm if it believes its going at the wrong pace. But for my own sake Even with my weakened body, I can stand At the gravestone of a memory. About the Writer... Anayelli Andrews-Nieves is a student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department and a member of the Black Arts club. She is a biracial, queer writer and was born and raised in Florida. She enjoys writing and reading fantasy stories that have a balance of character and plot focus. A side from fiction, she also has an interest in free verse poetry that uses visceral descriptions to get across intense emotional ideas. About the Artist... Sophia Gapuz is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She majors in drawing and painting, and explores the world in an emotionally abstract lens, continually searching to create something new.