7 Reclaiming my roots by Julie Hathaway Prenatal Exposure by Maeve Coughlin Each night I sing you a lullaby For seventeen years I have been kneeling by your bedside and whispering to the back of your scalp as if my voice will bandage your insomnia. You tell me it does because even in suffering from my selfishness, you are selfless. Tonight, I’m singing you “Little Lion Man” by Mumford & Sons. I’m mumbling the lyrics so maybe you won’t hear them. I’m not ready to tell you that it’s my fault, since I’m a coward and a liar who’s been lied to. It’s a safe pain reliever in pregnancy Your daughter will not suffer and no one will ever know you’re an addict. But I’m ready to apologize for it: for the anxiety attacks and the nail biting and the feeling lesser than your classmates. “It was not your fault but mine.” When you were little, I searched for answers. I scoured for someone to blame. I found my answer in an old blunt, poorly rolled, fallen behind my vanity. Seventeen years ago, I quit. didn’t want you to remember I was too high for your delicate little hands to reach. I stopped too late. “And it was your heart on the line.” You tremble in your skin while you pick it off your fingers. You make yourself small so maybe your brain will remember to make your body breathe. After years of being told it was some higher power, some twist of luck, some brutal misstep in your DNA. “I really messed it up this time, didn’t I, my dear?” About the Writer... Maeve Coughlin is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her work has previously been published in Elan's volume 36, issue 3. She is a writer of both poetry and prose and intends to work in the editing as an adult. About the Artist... Julie Hathaway is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At Douglas Anderson, Julie creates paintings representing queer joy and the healing of generational religious trauma. She creates art, generally with acrylic paint, because she likes how expressive paint strokes can clearly represent these unspoken feelings.

4d9a123b-addc-496a-ae0b-29a71dbfac14 As we approach the upcoming warmer months of spring and summer, we bear witness to life emerging and evolving—to new and old, to reckoning and revelation. To our readers, we bring this life to you in language and art. As Élan emerges into its 36th year, we enter with fresh eyes but with the same purpose: to highlight, uplift, and empower emerging young writers and artists in conversation with the world around them. We invite you, our readers, to explore your own individual and diverging paths in this issue, to find single solace; to take a step back, to reminisce, to laugh, to feel, and to be affirmed in this anthology of personal exploration and self-evident truth. We bring you the Spring/Summer 2022 Issue: a labor of passion. A love letter to the capabilities of young voices and the possibilities of the future. -Editors-in-Chief Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk Return to Table of Contents

< Back Moses never swam By Marcus Holley yet you know the ocean better than yourself. You predict the tides, instinctually knowing how to swim against rip currents, never straying too far from your precious post of a bathroom towel & flip-flops. Absorbing the shock of choppy waves when a thunderstorm is impending— that’s when you stay. Going against better judgement of the rain, for the possibility of being washed away like the breadcrumbs of your sins, already overflowing at nine years old— that you would throw into a body bigger than your own on the day of atonement. Yom Kippur— praying for cleanliness in complete consumption. Do you still feel bad for the fish who have unknowingly choked on carbohydrates soaked with your internal carnage? A piece of you dissolving in the salty stomach acid of a guppy— too small to digest the suffering that it’s been fed. Gills restricted with the expansion of leavened bread that your ancestors walked forty years to make rise with scorching desert sand-embedded soles- only for you to return, falling into the soft grain of the beach. You can’t part the sea with the cloud’s tearful torment & generationally blistering, God-willing pain… so you hope he & the fish alike can forgive your attempt at swimming towards your soul’s salvation— drowning in redemption you failed to find. About the Author... M arcus Holley is a senior poet in Douglas Anderson School of the Arts’ creative writing department. He is the Senior Art Director for Élan Literary Magazine with a goal of expanding the combination of visual art and literature into the community. His adoration for writing and spoken word has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage. Previous Next

< Back Unzipped by Yujin Jeon 火花 Fire Flower By Joycelyn Zhang I am Asian, born with sparks in my belly, the same fire stoked by my ancestors lighting the first firecrackers. Back then, firecrackers were lit in celebration; they scared away evil. They were long, crackling snakes with tongues of wick, and they protected the Chinese spirit. I used to think I was a firecracker as well, so I could protect my own Chinese spirit. I am American, English a familiar weight on my tongue, ABCs engraved in my head, in my sentences pledging allegiance like clockwork every morning. Firecrackers aren’t allowed in school—they sound too similar to something else. I burned out and buried mine deep inside long ago. My home is clogged with soot and spicy fresh meat, Nai-nai , her nostalgia apron stained with yesterday’s dumpling flour, native language flowing and curling from my relatives’ native lips, like warm water. In China, gray is in the soot that powders the ground, in the layers of smog in the sky, in the air that coats your lungs if you breathe it in for too long. But beneath that gray is the bubble of hot cooking on the old iron stove and the Chinese language that bubbles around you, like a hot sauna. My home is cool and clear and thin like the air, mirroring each other in winter and summer dresses; the paved roads and streets hold their breath when the night comes out to play. A sun that glows persimmon over the ocean is the only ornament in the clear, clear sky. In California, the sky swallows everything up. The ocean rolls and spits white foam onto the sand. The air is clear at night, sharp like broken glass. I wonder if I can cut myself just breathing. It’s hard to breathe freely in America, the land of the free. I am Asian, and so people at school perceive me as such. I am almond-eyed, just like my ancestors. I have golden-brown, glossy skin and a face that betrays no hint of color when I’m embarrassed. But above all, I’m smart, I’m good at math; I ace every test because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because I’m Asian. I struggle with all my might to rise to the top, struggling to keep my Chinese spirit alive. And this time, it’s not the firecrackers protecting me—it’s the grades. And they never burn for half as long. In China, everyone looked like me—same shiny dark hair and warm Chinese voice. But my grandparents look at me and shake their heads. Her skin is too dark , they agree with each other. She is full of bones. Why don’t you eat enough? How is my golden skin perfect for an Asian girl but not perfect enough for a Chinese girl? Plumpness is beautiful in China—it shows you have enough to eat. Thinness is beautiful in America—it means you have the luxury of choosing not to eat. But my stomach sits in rolls like the mantou that my nai-nai makes, far from the accentuated, glossy LuLuLemon models. My shoulders are too broad and my arms too skinny to make up for it. I’m too plump in America and too thin in China. I will never be beautiful. I’m a foreigner in a country I thought I’d feel welcome in. My scrappy Chinese tumbles and trips over itself as it leaves my mouth. 姑姑 (gū gu): father’s younger female cousin What do you do when she approaches you with her sons in tow, excitement so palpable you can taste it through your nose, and then she says, “Your little brother wanted to hear authentic English from an authentic source!” If I could say anything to myself from back then, I would ask: do you remember how gray that place was? How you compared the underground to the sky above, how it was as if the smog outside had plastered itself onto the damp walls? Can you picture how the faded murals were the only warmth in the otherwise cold tunnels? How the poems and proverbs consisted of hanzi you’d never once encountered in your pathetic American-curated Chinese textbooks? Do you remember how colorless you felt? 爸爸妈妈 (Dad and Mom) point in a dirty subway station: Can you read this? At school, I’m smart because I have to be, answering question after question like they are tokens of my identity I must earn, so how can four little words leave me unable to speak? My cheeks flame like firecrackers, and not in the way I want them to. I thought that flying to China in a Chinese plane, breathing Chinese air and speaking only Chinese and eating Chinese food would make me as Chinese on the inside as I was on the outside. When you were little, you’d perk up like Pavlov’s dog every time the word “Chinese” was mentioned. You’d clutch your fists into spark-breathing firecrackers and shout, “That’s me!” But was it really you? Was it not the eyes and skin but the heart that made you Chinese? What do you do then? What if all your life, “authentic” meant being Chinese, knowing the streets with those old stone courtyards? I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yah s they hiss in their authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the sounds I’ll never be able to replicate. I’m too American. "I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yah s they hiss in their / authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the / sounds I’ll never be able to replicate. / I’m too American." But am I? If even the people in China, which America sees as nothing but a communist dystopia, can see me and say, nope, not white enough, while at the same time tell me I’m exotic…which is it? Mandarin or English? Asian or American? Is there a line in the sand I must find so I can be equally both? Why do I even care what they label me as? 飞机 (fēi jī): airplane, flying machine The only place I felt free. Because up in the sky, the clouds blurred everything. Even the invisible borders and the sea between the two worlds. About the Author... Joycelyn Zhang is a freshman at Canyon Crest Academy, San Diego. Despite the workload at the school, she finds time to enjoy writing and playing the piano. When she is not busy with dance class, she is thinking about how and what she should write. While Joycelyn prefers to write poetry and short stories, she is open to trying other styles. She is always looking to expand her understanding of the literary world, and is honored to have her work featured in Élan. About the Artist... Yujin Jeon is a 17-year-old junior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint layered with colored pencils. By utilizing acrylic paint she can capture a wide color range and through colored pencils, she can accentuate small layered details. Her motivation as an artist is to create art depicting one’s “flaws or “imperfections” through a confident persona. She feels that it is important to appreciate one’s “flaws” through the idea of body neutrality. This challenges the traditional beauty standards as it shifts the focus from appearance to functionality. Moreover, centering vulnerability in this journey can help individuals be in tune with themselves regardless of physical appearance. She translates her art into a magazine-inspired format depicting the “imperfections” of inanimate objects and people to make it truly unique and give it a sense of individuality.

1 The Photographer V2 by Mary Lefluer Before I was Mint by Abigail Griffin Persephone enters my world the way Lightning strikes dry Earth: Discordant, Unwelcoming, Jarring. Her eyes, honey poured over Daisy petals, find his Beneath dewdrop lashes in a Mimicry of coyness. She grew up in meadows Nurtured by flower nymphs and He is infatuated with the way she views the world As something beautiful, Still. We are not like that. We are not like her. He must understand this, because it is My bed he falls into when her Sloping edges prove too slippery for his Serrated fingertips, and he slips right off the side. I never turn My King away. He has a way of painting everything golden, if Only for an hour, and it is not my Right, regardless. I, a nymph born in River Cocytus . I, a nymph born in the River of Wailing. My silhouette is rough and staccato, so that I might fit all his saw-toothed pieces like A jigsaw made of flesh and bone. The closest I will ever get to springtime is His hands on my hips, and the way he Talks to me when the lights are off. It is warm. Persephone does not need his warmth, but She is a greedy creature and I am not a god. O how much easier Life would be if I was. Her honey-daisy eyes sparkle as she Swallows those six seeds down without chewing. I know without asking He will not be returning to my bed. It is a cold day in Hades when she Twists my bones into sinewy vines, my Lungs into pleated leaves, and my Heart into a cluster of dirty roots. I exit their world the way Souls exit fleshly bodies: Voiceless, Discarnate, Forlorn. Persephone plants my husk in her herb garden, beside berries. I never thought my burial would Smell of mint and lemon poppy seed. About the Writer... Abbey Griffin likes reading during thunderstorms and iced chai lattes. She prefers fantasy to realistic fiction. Her favorite author is Terry Pratchett, and when she isn't writing she can be found binging fashion reality shows. About the Artist... Mary Lefleur is a student at Savannah Arts Academy. She was self taught until freshman year, and has always enjoyed doing art. She hopes to one day combine her artistic talents with her passion for STEM.

9c381bf7-b3d4-41b8-892c-5c1b521c65f3 A Mother's Love by Chloe Robertson Oliver by Esmé DeVries At the first house I lived in, the backyard expanded into a lush forest. We had a freezing, trapezoidal pool and often found critters from the woods swimming or, more often, drowning in the icy blue. Because of this, my father taught my brother, Oliver, how to decapitate a rattlesnake far too young in his life, sparking our eagerness to explore the great outdoors. Oliver and I quickly got into the thrilling habit of exploring the woods behind our house, feeling that our youthfulness protected us from harm. During summer and on weekends, the two of us, intrepid explorers, would hike into the trees, following the thin, winding creek down the hill, where it fed into a lake. He would walk in front of me, being older and braver, leading the way into the dangerous unknown, past brambles and hedges that threatened to bar our path. Sometimes, we would bring fishing poles down, though it was more common for us to be found frolicking in the black ooze produced by the lake. We used to run across the banks when the water level was low, sinking deep into the sludge and quickly fighting to unstick ourselves. He ran first and he ran faster, but his feet got stuck in the mud more often than mine. Once, abandoning our rods and reels, we took to the mud again. Oliver, of course, tested the waters. About halfway across, his toes caught, and he fell face first into the soggy bed. I was too young to find this properly funny, especially when he stood up, coughing and sputtering, sporting only one shoe. He blew dirt out of his mouth and fell back to his hands and knees, digging for his other shoe, a pair of Reeboks he had had forever. I rushed to his aid and we both dug holes that refilled every other second, plunging our arms into the closing cavities, coating our skin up to our shoulders in mahogany slop. When the sky darkened and we waved the white flag, Oliver and I walked back to the bank, squelching and sticking, so that he could ceremoniously throw his remaining shoe into the lake. I remember taking off my own shoes as we headed back up to the house, whether out of solidarity or just so that I could run my dirt-caked socks through the cool creek water, it didn’t matter. It was all the same to us. Back at the house, Mom let us hear it. She wasn’t mad about the shoes, just about our late arrival home. Oliver didn’t speak to me much for the rest of the evening, though I couldn’t work out why. I reasoned that he was upset about the shoes or getting chewed out by Mom. Still, I wasn’t quite ready to forget our day. "I would burrow under my blankets and read princess books under the dim light of a flashlight. In that regard, not much has changed." Not long after this experience, Oliver began private school and by the time I had gained acceptance to the same institution, he had gathered a collection of like-minded friends. I had never had as many friends as him growing up. I still don’t, but back then it was more difficult for me to grasp that my older brother, who I looked up to, was able to branch out to people other than me. Once upon a time, I could slip into his room late at night to play with our stuffed animals. Then, he started having people spend the night or he himself would leave. I would burrow under my blankets and read princess books under the dim light of a flashlight. In that regard, not much has changed. He even got so bold as to bring his friends down to the lake, into our watery sanctuary. I, thinking they had just forgotten to invite me, would follow him down. We would circle the lake, clinging tight to trees and slipping on loose dirt, not daring to run through the mud as Oliver and I once had. These friends stuck with Oliver all throughout his formative years and as a result, he and I spent less and less time together. When he entered sixth grade and I entered third, we were blocked to share a recess period at school. It was the first time this had happened, and my friends and I were eager to play with the big kids and share a space with people we looked up to. But even then, we avoided each other. Perhaps it was a mutual effort. Over the years I had fallen in with a good crowd of girls and we spent the days playing a rather inventive version of manhunt, darting through the trees and under the slides. Oliver played as many contact sports as he could come up with. Most often he was found playing basketball, but once, the two of us had taken to hovering around the chalky red four-square courts. I was perched on the adjacent hill, giggling foolish. Presumably to get rid of me, Oliver called to get my attention and as I turned, he catapulted a maroon football into my eye. I thought for sure he had blacked my eye, and fled the scene in a hurry, rushing back into the school and to the bathroom that was farthest from the playground. This was back when school bathrooms had doors, so I was able to hide my shame in a secluded environment. I don’t remember returning to recess, though I must’ve at some point. I imagine that I spitefully concluded that my eye was fine, maybe a little bloodshot, and gathered my courage to return to my anxiously awaiting friends. It was likely that by the time Oliver and I shared a car ride home, we had both completely forgotten the incident. But I still wonder if he meant to do it. At the end of my third-grade year, my father announced that we would be moving to Florida. Oliver, from what I could tell, was very understanding about the whole thing. Our parents probably explained more of their reasoning to him than they did to me, providing him an opportunity to roll with the punches. I, however, had reached peak stubbornness in my ninth year of life and dug my heels in as much as was possible. Fortunately, I had no control over my own life and therefore could not do any lasting damage. We moved in June of that year and because of our different viewpoints, the stake that had been poking its way between Oliver and I plunged much further. My negative attitude coupled with his unfortunate seventh grade desire to fit in bore no healthy fruits. He made fun of me and I, deeply immersed in my sensitive stage of life, couldn’t brush it off until I too realized that bickering was the teenage trend. In our new house, Oliver’s room was upstairs and mine down, in complete opposite corners of the house. We had only ever been separated by a few feet of hallway, but now, there seemed to be a million miles between us. Half the time, I don’t even know when he’s home. Even such a small change forced us further apart. There’s never been a need for me to go to Oliver’s room and I haven’t exactly wanted to. The only time he ever comes to mine is to borrow my stapler or tell me dinner’s ready. We just don’t see each other much anymore. He’ll be going off to college soon and is making the most of his senior year with his buddies and his girlfriend. I hardly ever leave my room. To me, we’re on opposite sides of the hedge of protection that childhood offered. Oliver had already crossed it and stood proudly on the other side, waving at me mockingly through the leaves. I wondered if I would ever cross. When we had once been so close, so similar, now he stood acres away. Since moving to Florida and since Oliver began high school, the two of us have taken a pair of safety scissors to the hedge, clipping away at its leaves and branches slowly but surely. Occasionally, one of us will start watering the hedge, erasing our progress. It’s slow work and we may never get back to what we once were. It’s okay. I don’t expect us to. Return to Table of Contents

6f178f10-c39c-4e20-af87-b3599b872ff0 Blooming Petals by Bria Mcclary Rose-Colored Glasses by Mackenzie Rud A single chain-link fence snaked along the property line of San Pablo Elementary. I hardly even noticed it until I had to pass by it every day of 5th grade on my bike ride to school. For some reason, it has always captured my attention. I was so used to seeing fences rusted to hell and back, as if they were mere days from falling apart, but this fence looked so pristine. The clean metal glinted so nicely where the sun kissed it. The gleam was always reminiscent of my mom’s reflective hair clips (silver woven between strands of dark brown until it looped into a half-bun). Thick sheets of laminated poster-board were scattered along the surface, tied in between the chains with thick rope and flimsy zip ties. Each poster was its own planet and had been spaced accordingly to mirror a shrunken down version of the planets’ true distance from one another. All were emblazoned with pictures and facts, but I was always drawn back to the distance. It really forced my kid-brain to consider how vast the universe was. The fence is still standing but it has been deteriorating for a while. It had welcomed every threat imaginable, like moths drawn to a flame. Looking back, the signs were always there. There had always been hints of rust lurking around the chains, waiting for the moment to strike with a parasitic, vice-like grip. The signs were always sun-bleached, any remaining color ready to fade at a moment’s notice. The flowers were always riddled with persistent, invasive weeds. With perspective, your understanding shifts. Facades can crack and crumble, revealing the undesirable underneath; a lesson I hadn’t learned until recently when things fell apart with my mom. It is a tradition, a constant when nothing else is, to pass the fence. Despite not going to the schools in the surrounding area anymore, I still see the resilient chain-link every day, as my bus stop is just beyond the elementary school’s borders. The fence is so familiar, nostalgic, even. I can’t help but draw comparisons between it and my personal relationships. There was never a middle ground when I rode my bike past the fence. I felt obligated to either speed past it as fast as I could or go at a snail’s pace. Going fast caused everything to blur together wonderfully. The fence would look all silver, loops of metal indistinguishable from the rest. The flowers planted alongside the bottom would become one big patch of color that followed me as I sped towards the crosswalk. It always felt like something straight out of a cartoon, bright and animated, but going slow allowed me to appreciate the signs. I could take the time to absorb it all. Those were the two polar opposites I faced, either a pause or a rush. To keep the promise of the comparison, this was always how it was with my mom, yet not nearly as positive as the bike rides. Most times, she would unashamedly ignore both me and the tension looming over us. Days and nights would go by with few words passing between us. It was the suffocating type of silence, as if one wrong word would end it all. Occasionally, she would pretend to listen, but it was always clear she wasn’t invested. Her eyes would glaze over, and she would mumble unrelated comments. The latter half, the adrenaline rush, was always a whirlwind of emotions. Her erratic behavior, ever unpredictable, was paired with screaming matches and pointless arguments centered around myself or her ex-husband (my dad, who had escaped her ensnarement years ago). Her deep-seated indignation gave way to a passionate fury as the hours dragged on. She would scream her throat raw until her motive was lost, and everything felt blurred and muddled, until she would inevitably fall back on her constant: Heineken. "Oddly enough, the moment I can pinpoint as the beginning of the end of our relationship involves that dilapidated school fence." Just as it took a while for me to pick up on the fence’s declining state, it would take years for me to realize the ongoing situation with my mom. I was unable to recognize the abnormality of a house being somewhere to tread lightly upon, rather than a home. It became something I was subconsciously aware of yet chose to ignore in favor of avoiding the fallout. I did so until everything was too much to handle. I couldn’t shove my feelings or anxieties down and pretend they didn’t exist. San Pablo didn’t bite the bullet and start repairs until last year either. They waited until the fence had unapologetically gaping holes. Oddly enough, the moment I can pinpoint as the beginning of the end of our relationship involves that dilapidated school fence. It was the summer between middle school and high school, and I was hesitantly awaiting my acceptance letter to a high school I had auditioned for. As soon as I got it, things exploded between my parents. My dad wanted my mom to sign a notarized agreement saying that she would not move away from my bus stop. He wanted me to be able to ride my bike to the pick-up spot. My mom was always late for everything, and seeing how the school was an hour away, missing the bus would be a problem. I have always been under the impression that she believes time waits for her. She received an emailed draft of the papers and had a meltdown. She was convinced there was some secret trick, or something hidden within the subtext. I had read them myself and knew that to be untrue, and I told her such. It was an off-handed remark, really; I had not thought before I said it, but it became the catalyst. She yelled until her voice was hoarse, only to start right back up again. With wild gestures, she told me it was all a big conspiracy. My dad was supposedly creating a masterful ploy to steal custody from her. I couldn't even begin to explain how wrong that was. The papers were so simply written. They stated the only way my dad would get full custody was if she moved me to Orange Park. That request was understandable, as she had moved me there the previous year even though I went to school at the beaches. My mind was reeling at this point. Everything was dull and distant. It felt like I was submerged under water. I told her I was done, that I was leaving, and stumbled towards the shoe rack. She yelled after me with a favorite phrase of hers. I was “misremembering it all”. I don’t know what there was to “misremember” about it as the terms were written down. I had my hand clenched around the doorknob when she made one final attempt to keep me trapped. It was a sob story I had heard endlessly before: my dad was brainwashing me. Every inconvenience, every time she lost her temper, every perceived slight against her was my dad’s fault. In her mind, her shortcomings as a parent were because he divorced her. The speeches were always filled with half-baked lies, but it still stung to hear her talk so poorly of my dad after all he had done to shield me from her mess. He had spent years cleaning up her mistakes so I could cling to that belief of a loving, picture-perfect family. The impact of the door slamming behind me made the window tremble. I felt numb as I mindlessly walked. I hadn’t noticed it before, but tears had been steadily falling down my cheeks. I wound up at San Pablo with my nostalgic memories of elementary school dragged to the forefront of my mind. Not my best years, but hey, I was begging for any distractions. My hands shook as I called my dad. I have no memory of what I told him—repression is a hell of a thing—but the little comfort our talk offered was nice. I wanted nothing more than for him to pick me up and take me home, but I knew that would only lead to a kidnapping claim, courtesy of my mom, whose house had never been my home. After ending the call, I didn’t turn back. I put my hand up on the fence as I walked and let my fingers dip in and out of the gaps. The metal wavered in such a satisfying way. I returned to the house after an hour to my mom with a glass of wine shaking in her twitching hands. She apologized with a sickly, honey-laced tone, but as soon as the bottle was drained, she pounded on my bedroom door and returned to the verbal barrage. Weeks later I returned to San Pablo, aching for the familiarity of the fence, but my heart dropped. That was when I finally realized the poor state it was in. My naïve perspective, my rose-colored glasses, shattered. My favorite planet poster, Venus, swung in the wind and made an awful raucous as it hit the metal links. The onslaught of disappointment was crushing. It felt as if the decay had happened overnight. My mom’s steady decline had spiraled as well. She always had a balancing act between her narcissism and her addictions, but it began to teeter. It would take getting Baker-Acted for meth usage and suicidal tendencies, being held in a facility for weeks, a second eviction looming over her head (without anywhere to go), and me outright saying I did not feel safe for her to sign away her custody. She still claims she did nothing wrong and expects me to come running back. She claims my dad is ruining our relationship, but she has texted me three times in the three months following her giving up custody. It has been very weird living at my dad’s house permanently. It’s liberating and wonderful, but it’s hard to believe I’m free from the suffocating tension I lived with for so long. I feel like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for some unforeseen consequence to rear its head, but I am slowly getting back into the swing of things. With the opportunity to step back, reflect, and to fully take off those warped rose-colored glasses, my perspective has been broadened, and both her and the fence’s facades have cracked. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents To Breathe Underwater By Joyce Ma A small, rectangular, pink highlight on my calendar, unremarkable at first glance, marked with the initials ‘HI’; not for hello, but for Hawaii. From explorers charting unknown waters to the mythical sirens whose songs beckoned the brave to venture beyond the familiar, I, too, was ready to embrace the call of the deep: I would finally master the ability to snorkel. 8 years ago, amidst a summer ablaze with China’s relentless heat, I found myself at a summer camp, ready for the day's activity: snorkeling. We snorkeled in a pool shaped with gentle curves, a slice of the ocean itself, oddly placed among laughter and sun-kissed faces. Children, unified in a sea of matching swimsuits, gathered to learn the art of breathing underwater. Snorkeling, they said, was simple: through your mouth, not your nose. A task so mundane on land, transformed underwater into a challenge that I simply could not master. We have all heard of the cliché of fish out of water. I was whatever the equivalent to that is in water. Each attempt was a gasp and a sputter, desperately returning to the surface where the air was too abundant to cherish. My memory of camp is one of lungs heaving, drowning in the very element I sought to explore. 3 years ago, during a family vacation to the enchanting Xel-Há Park in Cancun, I faced the azure skies and crystalline light blue waters that met the lush tropical jungle, armed with a sense of adventure and a checklist of essentials. Xel-Há mandatory life jacket? Check. Diving mask settled snugly over my eyes? Check. The one-time use snorkel tube, alongside fins that promised agility in the water, were all accounted for. With natural beauty unfolding before me, this second snorkeling attempt was less about exploring underwater marvels than it was a battle with the equipment itself. The mouthpiece, rather than being an extension of my breath, hung awkwardly in my mouth. It proved as effective as trying to sip the ocean through a paper straw: soon turning soggy and useless. With nothing to do but chew on the tube, I defeatedly swam above the surface, convincing myself there wasn’t much to see at the bottom anyway. Watching the stunning videos of Hanauma Bay in Hawaii, I was determined to snorkel once and for all. Plunging to the depths allowed by the reef's boundary, I encountered coral formations tinged dark brown, their somber color possibly a testament to the impacts of human intrusion over the years. The neon-highlighter fish—unfazed—became our guide through this foreboding world. Each section of coral was uniquely sculpted: statues within an underwater museum, every piece telling ancient stories, silent testaments to the ocean's vast, untold history. Yet, the ocean’s boundless depths and seeming emptiness serve as its greatest masquerade, a realm not bound by the sediment layers of time as the mountains and volcanoes are, but a fluid historian, endlessly swallowing secrets, erasing and reshaping its narrative with each wave. It leaves no trace. My sister and I swam as waves passed over us. Beneath the surface, we moved as shadows, our forms cutting through the clear, sunlit water. Just two specks amidst the eternity, our bodies buoyed and swayed with the ocean’s waves. Our snorkels, thin lifelines to the world above, bobbed in the ebb and flow. We were cradled by the current. “It was a dance of give and take, breathing in unison with the sea.” My focus tightened as I followed the fish, which felt like a mesmerizing guide from a fairy tale leading me on a path. The rubber mouthpiece, initially foreign, gradually became an extension of myself, like gills. It was a dance of give and take, breathing in unison with the sea. To breathe in this underwater realm was to walk a fine line between exploration and surrender, where every breath was a delicate balance—a reminder that to breathe underwater was the essence of drowning. This act of breathing, so effortless on land, becomes a conscious part of your existence, connecting you to life underwater. Now, reflecting, I realize that this act of breathing, so deliberate and mindful underwater, mirrored the ebb and flow of life itself. When I didn’t think about how I couldn’t breathe, or didn’t know how to breathe through my mouth, I unnoticeably could do it. The ocean taught me that to breathe beneath its surface was to engage in a delicate dance with nature, to find my rhythm in the vastness, and to understand that I was a part of something far greater than myself. Yet, it also meant standing at the mercy of forces far beyond my control, where the only thing I have control over is the very act I often overlook: breathing. Those final moments of snorkeling were when I went with the flow of water and discovered fish with their kaleidoscope scales, shifting and flickering with each movement. In the dense silence, punctuated only by the sound of my breathing, I discovered a profound sense of unity with all that surrounded me. The fish, the coral, and my sister beside me—breathing together in a shared rhythm. Suspended in the sea’s weightless calm, we were reminded that we were guests in the presence of a world far older and different than ours. Alan Watts argues we are not just a part of the cosmos but also its substance, rising out of it like waves from the ocean. Snorkeling doesn’t just embrace this idea, it embodies it, one breath at a time. About the Writer... Joyce Ma is a current senior at Collingwood School in Vancouver, Canada. When she isn’t writing, she can be found readin g thrillers or baking cookies.

Untitled John Walker Red sunset. Blue waves. Beautiful life. Two people. Two colors. One race. Eight dogs, Chose none, through windows. One assignment, Thirty-one words, 100 percent. Return to Piece Selection

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

Questions of Youth Erion P. Sanders Why do I have to remain silent Yet, I am the one who suffers Why do I have to continue to struggle Yet, it’s okay for you to strive Why do I have to endure the unrealistic Eurocentric beauty standards That degrade my every feature Yet, I can’t say or do things to uplift my brothers and my sisters Why am I often ostracized Yet, treated as if I’m the problem The real problem here Is that I still haven’t received my reparations “dear”. Every day I’m targeted Yet, when I use my voice, I’m ignored or beaten down Why do you love my culture Yet, you love nothing about me Why do I have to teach my child to be careful with where they go and how they speak I will teach them to fear this world, even as a baby I may be young I may not understand some things But I do know that people don’t care They don’t care about things that don’t affect them Even if means the suffering of others that they talk to and interact with everyday I am this nation’s youth, and this is what I had to say. Return to Piece Selection

< Back Heart of Sand by Eva O'Donnell Refraction By Esmé DeVries Our mothers watch us from up the beach, sunscreen-slicked faces, ghastly white, ghoulish behind cat eye sunglasses. We hunch beneath a rainbow umbrella and squeeze lemon juice into our brown hair, massage tanning oil into our pink arms, and crack cold Diet Cokes affirming to each other that our hair would get lighter, our skin would get darker our waists slimmer. Our mothers bought the lemons, iced the Cokes. We watch our mothers from up the beach. They’re slumped low in beach chairs with their thighs splayed against Tommy Bahama towels, spilling over the metal frames of backpack chairs, blue and white and stained with rust. We perch, knees digging into wet sand, and practice the valued art of photo editing, learn how to sit on our heels so our quads flex against developing fat. Our legs burn from the grainy sand, small shells burrowing into our skin, but we stay for hours, letting the sun beat down upon us, blaze against our bony backs, skeletal. Our mothers watch us from up the beach. Water from their White Claws pools in their stomach rolls and navels. We wade into the ocean so that it rises above our guts collects above our developing breasts. We stay neck-deep in the water, heads tipped back, mouths open when waves swell up to our ears. Water gnaws at our fat, swallowing our round parts in its heavy flow. Thick whitecaps lurch high over our heads and the sun makes them gleam in our retinas and we are kept just above the water. For a moment, we are weightless, floating a foot above the sands below. Our bodies are empty, our arms bolstered, like we are swept up in the talons of eagles. Then we are dunked beneath the surface again, dumbbells, rocks, dropping down again. "For a moment, / we are weightless, floating a foot above / the sands below. Our bodies are empty, / our arms bolstered, like we are swept up / in the talons of eagles." We watch our brothers surfing, blond boys, tanned from their sport, with long, awkward arms, flat pecs, narrow necks and we marvel at their perfect forms. On the beach, our mothers offer them full sugar Cokes, stick sunscreen, and prepacked sandwiches. We continue to tread water against a gathering current. About the Author... Esmé DeVries is a young Florida writer. She is in her senior year in the Douglas Anderson Creative Writing program where she serves as the Senior Managing Editor for Élan Literary Magazine. Esmé enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. About the Artist... Eva O'Donnell is a 11 th grade visual arts major at Savannah Arts Academy for Visual and Performing Arts. They are currently interested in all types of printmaking and portraiture.