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< 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

e7b13376-eb7e-40c0-acc7-16b17b18b548 Afternoon Painting by Zoe Turner to she who fights the snow by Sarah Sun it is winter, and i watch you leave each night from my vantage in the attic, furtive fear in the pinch of your mouth, my candles doused and your gait of footsteps burned into tenebrous eyelids; stark against moonlit snow. yet i do not care where you go because when you come back through these timber-framed hatches silhouetted against a watermelon sunrise whispering by this honeycomb, i can hear the soft exhale of your breath, velvet smile of lips murmuring liquid words of stories that still my quivering shoulders. i can smell mellow winters and brimming pantries, meadows of pruned petals; faith-welded nirvana. and when i see the twinkle in your motherly gaze, your placid fingers reaching out to rasp against my fists— tomorrow will be better than this chasm that was today— i imagine you leaving each night with bitter resolve, shaking your fiery fist when the frost bites, and stealing stars from merciless skies to braid through my hair and string across this rotten wood-beamed ceiling. i can almost ignore your scarred palms, plastered tattoos of war, battle etched into your veins, the evening crescents beneath baggy, vermilion windows. i can almost ignore the desperate holes dug among forests of rime, quavering refrains of clattering snow-soaked branches that wreath our paltry bale of firewood. it recoils further each time a tear lands intangible; blue lips and scraps of cloth. still i look and think, strong , like the evergreens. still i listen and think, dulcet , like the daylight. still i do not turn away when you reach with chapped hands and fraught breath to struggle and coax and beg a candlelight of comfort from this cold hearth, these fruitless trees. still i hope and i love and i wait. Return to Table of Contents

< 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.

Braids Mackenzie Shaner Abyss of Gold Joshua Hein I write this poem for my Grammy. The only woman who did my hair since it was long enough to work with. She’s the only person I know who could twist it in beautiful braids. I’d sit on my knees, hands clasped in front of me, Staring at the cartoons on her TV. Her coarse hairbrush- With bare bristles from their plastic bulbs being long forgotten- Combing through the thick strands. Nimble fingers parting each side expertly Like pieces of thread she used to suture old teddy bears. I’ve always been aware of my indigenous heritage, Though even more aware that I don’t look like it. It’s far more apparent in my Grammy. Her skin is tanned indefinitely, With long black hair resembling that of an elegant horse's tail, Swaying in air as it prances with such confidence, You’d wonder if it had been taught, or simply born that way. I’m white as snow, With the type of skin that peels in the sun, And instead of gold underneath, All I see is red- But I’m told you still see it in my hair. Besides vague ideas and a name, I didn’t know about my heritage, Only recently I learned that hair has meaning, Some teachings say that your hair holds your life story So, it’s put in braids- for protection To keep it safe so the story may grow with you. Part of me was always bitter that I didn’t know much about myself But that wasn’t completely true In every day she did my hair, she was protecting me. Return to Table of Contents

Microaggressions Trinity Jones Inner Truth Trinity Cohen He approached me in the middle of the courtyard – an ocean of fair skin and straight hair – in shorts red as his arms, legs and neck, with the focal point a blue ‘X’ with evenly placed white stars and said you’re pretty for a black girl. I imagine he meant my lips weren’t nearly as “baboon-like” and my hair more kempt than the other monkeys he’s seen. Or perhaps my skin is light enough less “tar-like” to satisfy his Aryan standards. Ignoring the unnerved pang of my subconscious and the unraveling of my esteem, I gave a quick flash of my jigaboo smile paired with a simple thank you , hoping false gratitude was enough to satisfy, wincing as my thanks sang the revised tune of Ol’ Zip Coon (O zip a duden duden duden zip a duden day). He walked away proud of his charity, and I remained charcoal impersonating clean chalk, my hand trying desperately to tear the pigment off itself. Return to Table of Contents

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 Editor's Note Brendan Nurczyk, Emma Klopfer, Niveah Glover Spring heralds renewal. As what remains of winter melts, we find ourselves scampering to be ready for the new life warmer months promise. While our lives speed forward it's easy to forget to carve out moments of standing still. Our lives and bodies ever-changing, aging, moving, we are constantly taking on new challenges and opening new chapters. In our first issue of our 37th year we offer this art and language as a moment of slowing down to reflect. A kind of refuge from the cacophony of the daily . In this issue you will find work that wrestles with moments of uncertainty, transition, and what it means to belong to a place, even if it's just for a moment. We present to you Elan's Spring/Summer 2023 issue, an issue that asks us to reflect on not just where we're from, but also where we're heading.

< Table of Contents Daffodils by Dare Macchione Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult By Astrid Henry In January, I made a trip out to Long Island to visit his mom, my “paternal grandmother." I wanted to tell her about my plans to sell the house. My father grew up in a poor, small boating town where the rain never stops. I stayed in his childhood bedroom, in the upstairs of his parents’ old house. His dad died while he was still in high school. He had to drop out to support his family. He always told me how important it was that I stayed in school so I could turn out smart and get a real job, one that pays nice and keeps the lights bright. His room is painted navy blue and baseball memorabilia lines the walls like a museum. It feels like I’m in a shrine to his young mind, all the things my father held dear as a child. Old comic books are hidden in the closet, where his brothers couldn’t steal them. I come down for dinner and his mom. Again, my grandmother has cooked what looks like a full 7-course meal. I’m not hungry. I try to shove down as much as I can, but the meat is tough, and the potatoes look like melting snow—the kind that’s been pissed on. It’s way too much food for just the two of us, but I’m not going to say that to her. I only stay for a week, the entirety of which I’m stuffed full of her cooking. She sends me home with enough leftovers to last me until spring. I never ended up telling her about the house. “Someone told me dust is made up of skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned.” I’m back in the city. Back in the tiny, emptying house I was raised in. I’m back to cleaning and now all I can notice every time I try to take something down or clean an area out is how my father is all around me, from the pictures in frames to the dust on the fan. Someone told me dust is made up of dead skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned. If I ran DNA tests on the dust up there, they’d probably find Mom’s skin cells too, not just his. She walked out when I was only five to be with another man. Things didn’t work out between the two of them, but still, she didn’t come back. My father was heartbroken, he really had believed it was him and her forever. I think that might have been the start of his death, when he started to put his faith in the bottle. I could never understand why he did that sort of thing—why he poisoned himself with cigarettes plastered in warnings and spent his evenings swimming in the bottle. The top of our kitchen cabinets were—and still are—covered in bottles, empty and full. That really confused me. It was like he kept it there, in plain sight, to shame himself. Because, really, when you stand in the middle of the kitchen, it feels like one of those church paintings where the angels are looking down on some poor, sacrificial lamb. I think a part of him did it to remind himself of his mistakes, and to remind himself of the easy way out every night. I haven’t taken them down yet. They’ve always been there—it just feels wrong. Taking them down would feel like I’m kicking a part of my father out of his own home. I feel guilty, like if maybe I had gotten him to quit smoking, this wouldn’t have happened. But I know that kind of feat would be impossible, inconceivable, really. Life was a lot different after he got sick, but his vices were the one thing that never changed—not without an act of God. I remember how they couldn’t stop him smoking until two days before he died, and that was only because he had gone into a coma. I try to keep the nicest pieces I can find of him to maintain the best image I can in my mind—the best version of my father. In the hallway bookshelf, there’s only about three books that were his. The King James Bible, a copy of Slaughterhouse Five he could never finish, and a book so old the covers have been torn off and it’s just yellow stained pages glued together. He must’ve really liked that one. I wish he had more possessions left, more things I could collect, more things I could use to get inside his mind. But here I am, left with only a few crummy books and a gaping reminder of all his worst habits. All his other belongings were really just Mom’s stuff, a few pieces of jewelry and a yellowed, dried-up perfume she left behind. It smells like kitty litter. Cleaning out the house is making me decently miserable. I’ve made arrangements to move once it’s off my hands, probably out to somewhere with a bit more sun. The house is, apparently, a prime piece of real estate, something I really couldn’t imagine affording on my salary. The listing description is pretty crap. It reads, “Nestled in the heart of Queens, this cozy, two-story abode, built in 1928, features three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an unforgettable charm.” I finally finished cleaning the house, just in time for the photos. I even took down the shrine of liquor bottles in the kitchen. There were some hidden water stains that had to be repaired, which cost me a lot more than I would like to admit. I feel really empty walking out of the house for the last time, leaving it all clean and empty. The bedroom I’ve slept in my entire life staged as a guest room, my father’s room suddenly bright and well decorated. To my surprise, the house is sold within two days of the listing being posted. The realtor tells me that’s not uncommon, som e crap about desirable real estate. She keeps trying to make me look at the other houses she’s listing. She obviously wants me to buy another place, but I just feel sick. I’m staying with one of my old friends from college until I can secure a place worth moving to. I left most of the stuff I kept from the house in a little storage unit. All the things I don’t have a use for but still want to hold onto. My suitcase is stuffed full, but it’s more convenient than carrying two. I have nothing truly tying me down anymore, and it makes me feel strange. I was told that feeling would be freedom, but it’s something else entirely. I got half a million dollars to never step foot in my home again—the home where I learned to walk and first experienced the offers of life. I am forever rid of the home where my father's spirit breathes in the walls and his presence slips around the corners as you try and catch it. Never again will mold fill my lungs as I try to remember the smell of his cologne. About the Writer... Astrid Henry is a young writer from Florida. Currently, she is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. About the Artist... Dare Macchione is a freshman at New Orleans Conservatory for Creative Arts (NOCCA) a nd dual enrolls at Delgado Community College (DCC). Previously she spent summers attending The Art Academy (St Paul, MN). Her medium of choice is acrylic paint. She also has created art in watercolor, graphite and ceramic.

< 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.

No Fresh Air Ana Rosenthal Choppy brown hair falls over his eyes, Like a curtain blocking out the world, Like he likes it. Hand-me-down clothes, muted colors, Like he likes it. He attracts no attention, Just the way he likes it. He forces his thin, shaky legs To feel like boulders As he takes a step forward And breathes in the fresh air. The air of his new life. Return to Piece Selection

< Back Fish Out of Water by Stefani Thomas I’d never seen anything like it—her before. And I didn’t want to see anything like her again. The Genetic Dawn By Hannes Duncan The glass doors slid open as we approached. I followed Doctor Raj through the laboratory, passing by meticulously spotless workstations and occupied containment centers. We walked too fast for me to get a glimpse of their inhabitants. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw vivid flashes of color from each of them —blue, purple, red. Interesting , I thought. When I visited the lab just last week, they were empty. Nonetheless, these flashes were almost relieving to see, as the lab walls were painted a dreary shade of hospital white. Similarly to a hospital, the atmosphere smelled strongly of anti-bacterial wipes and other chemicals that stung my nostrils. My shoes squeaked against the tile as I trailed behind the doctor, clipboard in hand, as usual. Suddenly, we came to a stop in front of one of the containment centers. The doctor, and olive-skinned man with thinning silver hair and insidious eyes, motioned toward the glass, signaling for me to take a look. Avidly, I glanced inside, but my stomach immediately dropped when I laid my eyes on the containment's inhabitant. “Doctor, what the hell is that?” The words came out without me thinking— they almost sounded like a cry for help. The doctor let out something close to a laugh while my jaw hung loose. “Her name is Charlotte. And she is our very first successful mutant,” he exclaimed, his voice drowning in pride. I stared at it—her—in a belligerent awe. "Jesus," was the only word that managed to escape my mouth amongst my wonderstruck state. Peering at me on the other side of the bulletproof glass was a creature with the body of a young human girl, maybe eight years old, but just about everything else about her was dreadfully wrong. Her skin, which was no skin at all but rather scales, shone blue and yellow under the lights within her containment center. Her eyes shared the same circumference as a soda can; her pupils filled three-fourths of her watery, dull gray irises. The eyes themselves were completely miserable and lifeless. Her lips were thin, almost paper-like, with their sharp-as-a-blade edges. The hair atop her head was a straggly, dark shade of umber pulled into two pigtails tied together with white ribbons. Dr. Raj's assistants had also dressed her in a flowy skirt and white tank top, but I didn't think any amount of clothes could cover the sheer alienness of her being or humanize her in any way. I’d never seen anything like it—her before. And I didn’t want to see anything like her again. Coming to terms with the fact—that this was real—was the hardest part of my entire visit to Dr. Raj's laboratory. He'd called me in to oversee his cross-species genetics research and report back to my superiors, but I was too overwhelmed to write notes or take any photographs. My clipboard hung in my stunned grip, nervous sweat soaking into the paper clipped on it. I was no stranger to this line of work, as I conducted the same trials that Dr. Raj had years ago, but where Dr. Raj was successful, I was not. I had tried to cure my daughter, Mona, of the cancer that had lodged itself in her lungs using sloth DNA. In her transformation, she never reached the point where she looked like a mutant, like Charlotte. In all honesty, her hair color changed slightly, and she developed a slight amount of thin, light facial hair. But, in the end, she was never cured. I made her worse. Her life was lost, and my desire to continue any other cross-species genetics experiments perished with her. “What does she share her DNA with?” I finally managed to ask, peeling my dumbstruck gaze away from the mutant and finally facing the doctor. “Her DNA has been paired with that of a zebrafish.” Dr. Raj replied, pompously. He folded his hands across his hands across his chest slowly. His hooded eyes were impossible to read, though the indented wrinkles in his brow told me all I needed to know about his work; it drained the life out of him. I almost laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why, of all things, a zebrafish?” In the doctor’s hesitation, a light bulb went off in my head; I knew why. Of course I knew why. Dr. Raj stiffened and slid his hands into his lab coat pockets. “A zebrafish has the ability to regenerate cells and tissue at will, Mr. Holland. I couldn't think of anyone who would need this gift more than a Parkinson's patient, as their dopamine-producing brain cells re deteriorating with every passing moment. You understand how Parkinson's affects the brain, correct?" I nodded, slightly irritated with his patronizing demeanor. “So, are you saying that Charlotte has Parkinson’s?” I pressed, turning away from the doctor and looking back at the girl. She sat in the middle of the containment center with her legs to her chest and her chin pressed atop her knees. Her mouth was curled downwards. She looked pitifully miserable, nearing cowardly. I began to wonder if she had any idea that she'd come out of Dr. Raj's trials looking like that. I almost felt sorry for the thing. “No, sir. She doesn’t. Not anymore.” About the Author... Hannes Duncan is a senior studying creative writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the Senior Genre Editor of Élan Literary Magazine and a co-director of the writing department’s annual collaborative showcase, Coffee House. He is an avid sci-fi writer and enjoys poetry of all kinds. Besides writing, he also has affinities for music and photography. About the Artist... Stefani Thomas is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She primarily works in the mediums of drawing and painting, where she expresses herself through bright colors and flowing patterns. Previous Next

Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant You Used to Know How to Dance (Really Well) Somewhere, outside of my conscious memory, I am two years old and I am helping make peppermint chocolate frogs. Before my mom moves across the country away from my dad, they have a small chocolate business. We have a house in Sedona, Arizona, and steps away from the door is the Chocolate Kitchen. From borrowed memories, the kitchen is silver and grey and light blue. There are the countertops of stainless steel and cold marble, to assist in tempering and various other chocolate pursuits. Here, a large melting pot. Here, the fridge. A smart-looking freezer stands next to the fridge, and the floor is cold to the touch, even in the heat of an Arizona summer. The walls are lined with giant racks of cacao powder, cacao butter, and Belgian truffle moulds. “and I will finally hold on to memories of my own, of two different flavors: Arizona as cinnamon, Florida as saltwater taffy.” In these borrowed memories, I am very small with whisps of light blonde hair and bright blue eyes. My dad is tall, lanky, and bald, with a loud laugh and clever fingers, and my mom is the same, but with some of the blonde hair I inherited. She wears summer dresses and platform flipflops, and my dad wears loud colorful shirts. I wear soft dresses and whatever I want, a Cinderella dress on an August afternoon, because I am too young still to be judged for those things. Here, in memories I will never have, we are happy. The frogs are happy too, I think, because they have little speckles of white chocolate on their backs, because I am the one who picked peppermint, and because I think that everything must be happy when I am. My mom returned us to Jacksonville, Florida some months later. It is not the first time we have come, and it will not be the last time we will leave here together, but this time our center of gravity is a small pink beach house with a tire swing on the big magnolia in the back. I will grow up here, and in other small houses, and I will only cry at night for my dad for a year. I will be another year and another year and another year older, and I will finally hold on to memories of my own, of two different flavors: Arizona as cinnamon, Florida as saltwater taffy. There are only a few good cinnamon memories, but in this one I am still blonde and still missing my dad when I am not with him. We are on my grandmother’s yellow corduroy couch, he and I, and he is reading Roald Dahl’s “Fantastic Mr. Fox” aloud. His voice drops dramatically, and I know before he says the name that Badger has something to say. “’Foxy!’ cried Badger. ‘My goodness me, I’m glad I’ve found someone at last!’” My dad’s voice gravels and rises and I gravel and rise with it, so eager to laugh with him. Soon he’s falling asleep and I’m poking his cheek, scratchy from having shaved the day before, but I give up in favor of falling asleep too, curled up in his lap like a creature full of trust. Time passes, and my hair turns darker even as I spend more and more time in my saltwater taffy home. Cinnamon memories are soon displaced in favor of Michigan ones, tasting like licorice and something just a little wrong. Soon, my father will take me to a Coney Island (where I will order one of only a few vegetarian items—he seems to have forgotten this life-long trait of mine) and he will tell me in so many words that he wishes I had not been born. When I get home to saltwater taffy and my mom and our house with a red door and the pecan tree out front, I will cry in her arms until I fall asleep. The next day, or perhaps the days following, my mom will start telling me stories about a light blue kitchen and peppermint chocolate frogs and a dad who loved me so much he broke down in tears when I was born. She will tell me that he promised to be the world’s best father, and perhaps her voice will tighten here, but neither of us will talk about it. She does not need to tell me about the bad parts. Instead, she will tell me that when she met him, they danced really well together. She tells me about the ferocity of his joy, and the quick passion of his interests. I will listen, even though I know nothing about the man she describes. The man she met, who wrote her poems and studied art in Italy for months, is not my father. We will both pretend he is. Often, my father will tell me he is going to change. In one licorice memory he will take me to a small diner in downtown Lapeer, order me a hot chocolate and a blondie, and apologize, telling me he has realized the error of his ways. He will reach for my hand with fingers that are no longer clever, but I will clutch my mug like it could take me away from this moment. Still, though, I am young, here, and I will want so dearly to believe him, a creature of hopeless hope. I have so little proof of my own that he can be good. 15 years after my mom and I moved away, when I am less than a month from 18 and I am finally learning that none of this was my fault, my father will call me. I will ignore it, but his voicemail will apologize for neglecting to love me as he should. His voice is flat, and his pauses are long enough that it feels like he didn’t plan this at all. He promises to seek out more ways to show his love to me, says he’s proud of me, and that he thinks I have a lot to offer to the world. Seven, five, even three years ago, I would have called him right back and heard him out, crying as he finally said what I had always needed to hear. But this is not then, and I know that I am worthy of praise, that I am talented and brave and strong. I have proved these things to myself, and that’s all I need. So when my father leaves me this two and a half minute voicemail of hollow praise, a last-ditch effort at fatherhood, I will laugh. There is nothing else to do.