The Minkin Kitchen by Hana Minkin An Open Door By Lila Hartley AUGUST 2010 Two young parents nervously walk up the driveway to a stranger’s door, curious—or maybe unaware—their toddler following closely. The sun is setting, sky bright orange and pink, the warmth of August day holding onto dusk: iftar approaching, and the family approaching iftar. The man’s pre-glow-up hair, dark, long and curly, shifts with the soft breeze that offers no aid to cool. He wears a T-shirt and jeans. The woman’s brown hair drapes over her shoulders and touches her seven-month pregnant belly. She wears a dress that allows stretching around the abdomen. The toddler with her light brown hair, thin on top of her head, neck length, waddles like a penguin; she can’t take too far a step, or she’d stumble. Next to the driveway, there is a prayer garden, small fountain, wooden bench and a little bridge if you’d rather go through the garden instead of the concrete path, if guests would like a moment of solitude before entering the busy home of strangers and conversation. The family hopes that this is the right door, and knocks. When the door opens, they are warmly welcomed by a man who looks like how one would imagine an Ottoman warrior in ancient Turkey: built like a wall, tall and strong with short, dark hair and a mustache. They are asked to take their shoes off at the door before they enter the house. Immediately, the smell of delicious food invades their noses. They walk past the office and dining room, toward the living room. In this house, the living room is life, where friends and strangers talk alike. Yellow walls are covered in paintings and décor. Every surface has an item or three carefully and intentionally placed, including a glass vase on the back patio behind the kitchen. A semicircle forms in the sitting room, and the strangers go from nameless to acquaintances, acquaintances to friends. The hosts introduce themselves as Sel and Angie. Sel is Turkish and Muslim, and Angie is Filipina and converted to Islam. The two of them moved from the Philippines to Jacksonville in 2002 and started hosting these dinners in 2007 to share the nightly Ramadan tradition with friends and soon mutual friends. They started a charter school in 2007, Sel inspired from his brief work as a janitor when they first arrived in Jacksonville, his parents’ work as teachers back in Turkey, and his work building schools in the Philippines. They wanted to bring people together; they wanted to build bridges and introduce others into a tradition that may be outside of their own religious or traditional practices. They talk about Ramadan, introducing some of the strangers to a foreign practice they didn’t grow up knowing. Ramadan is the Islamic holy month where Muslims fast and reflect on how they live throughout the rest of the year. Sel has said that it is a time for him to recharge or reboot, and to truly appreciate the food and water he has throughout the rest of the year. The group gets into a line towards the potluck-style trays in the kitchen as the sun sets and iftar begins. As each guest gets their food, they trickle out to the screened-in back patio. The table becomes full of conversation about each other’s lives and origin stories. While the mother eats, she converses with a fellow stranger. In this moment of distraction, the toddler wanders away from her mother and father. She does what any curious child would do: inspect everything with her hands. The girl lifts a small glass vase smelling of a subtle eastern perfume oil. A crash of glass shards follows shortly. To the young mother’s horror, she quickly realizes what her daughter has done. She rushes to the scene, partly to keep her daughter from hurting herself, partly to try and clean up the mess that her child had caused in these strangers’ house. But the host couple comes to the mother’s aid and tells her that she doesn’t need to worry. “We will take care of it,” they say warmly comforting the mother. The young mother and father worry whether they will ever be invited to iftar again, whether they will ever be invited to Sel and Angie’s house again. Did their toddler just sever any possibility of friendship? * * * I am that toddler who broke the vase in 2010. I can tell you Sel and Angie did not even wait until next Ramadan to invite my family back to their home and hearts. That iftar in August 2010 is exactly what started a friendship that has lasted over a decade now. After years of attending iftars, not a common experience for white, Christian children in the south—and for a time having someone in the house who was Muslim and fasted—I started to question what the deeper meaning of Ramadan was. Ramadan is important to Muslims religiously and culturally. “Muslims observe this sacred month of Ramadan to mark when Allah sent an angel who revealed to the Prophet Muhammad the Quran, the Islamic holy book,” according to Trafalgar. Ramadan also fulfills one of the Five Pillars of Islam, called Sawm, fasting. Sel discussed one of the reasons he and Angie were called to start hosting iftars: “…it is a cultural background, because prophet Muhammad said share your breaking fast with your neighbors, but doesn’t say your Muslim or any other religion, just says your neighbor. So, we are in Jacksonville neighborhood, right? Every day we see people at different times. Sometimes we understand people more than our real neighborhoods. So, that’s why I started bringing, because sharing is good.” Opening one’s home to friends and family is not an uncommon practice among Muslims during Ramadan for this reason and others. It allows people to connect with each other and appreciate breaking fast in community together. Sel talked about what the significance of Ramadan, saying “Ramadan is like a recharging for me, recharging spiritually and mentally and also physically, and it is the opportunity for me to get better person every year.” Ramadan is a thoughtful time to recognize all the things that one takes for granted during the rest of the year. It is a way to empathize with the poor, hungry, and thirsty, and to remember to give to others when you can: helping our friends, family, communities and putting ourselves in each other’s shoes. I began to notice parallels between the beliefs that have been instilled into me throughout my childhood and those of Ramadan and that have been brought out because of those evening iftars at Sel and Angie’s house. I see how my family and friends’ actions parallel with the ideals of Ramadan. Regularly, my dad gives some of his extra cash or change to a homeless person on the sidewalk. My mom hosts dinners at her house to bring people together. At school, my classmates and I hype up each other’s writing and outfits and bring extra food for a friend who forgets to get lunch. About the Writer... Lila Hartley is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. In her freshman year, Lila fell in love with performing literary works. She participated in several open mics and in Douglas Anderson’s annual show, Extravaganza. She enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Lila is currently the Vice President of Literary Arts Honors Society at Douglas Anderson. Previously, her poem The Blue and Yellow was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s Middle School Writing Contest the 2022 Spring/Summer season and placed third in the writing category. About the Artist... Hana Minkin, 18, is an art student based in Savannah, Georgia. She plans on attending the Savannah College of Art and Design to purse Fashion Marketing and Merchandising.

Don't Let This Darkness Fool You by Jenna Williams We Desire Anything but Peace By Chao As we step up to the front porch, I look at the house. Two stories (more space than we’d ever need), a nice garage, and a sweet little chimney. As I turn to Emmett to ask him to open the door, I notice something about him; he's shaking. It's happened before when he was too nervous about getting caught. It happens to me too sometimes. It was understandable why he would be scared. We barely got out without being noticed this time. I hold his hand as I turn to him, then I squeeze it. It had always been our way of asking if we were okay. Our version of okay, at least. He turns to me and gives a small smile. “I’m fine. Really, I am.” He says it with a shaky voice, but I believe him. I nod. He just needs time. I think both of us do. He takes the keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. As he opens it, we finally get a look inside the house we’re going to be living in for the next couple of… Well, I don’t know how long we’re going to be here. Could be days, weeks, months. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll be longer. It smells like sawdust and wet wood. Almost like home. Whatever home is now, at least. *** We started to unload the boxes quickly. There wasn’t much, as we always had to be ready to leave the less important things behind. We only had a couple of boxes carrying our essentials. When we finished setting up our temporary spaces in the living room, we started exploring around the house. As a 3-bathroom, 3-bedroom house, it was incredibly spacious. Remnants of the people living here before us still existed, scattered across the house: crayon scribbles, scuff marks, dented edges. It made the house feel alive in a way. As we lie down, facing each other on the floor with our pillows and blankets, we look at each other for a while. It was nice being able to do this again without a care in the world. We close our eyes, hand in hand. This was the start of something new. It didn’t matter that we would eventually have to start all over again; we had each other, and that’s all we needed. “Goodnight, Caroline.” He says it sweetly, pulling me into his embrace. But it felt like he wanted to say something else, something that carried more weight. I wanted him to say it too, but I couldn’t allow it. I left it behind, and if I wanted to keep us safe, I had to leave it behind me. “Goodnight, Emmett.” Saying his name while wrapped in his arms feels like home. *** I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I don't know if its was from a nightmare, but it seems to be the most probable thing to assume. Normally I remember my nightmares, but I can't remember anything now. I’ve had frequent nightmares ever since I was enlisted. They lightened up after I met Emmett, but eventually but got worse after we left and met Riley. I guess that’s what happens when you’re constantly on the run. Emmett always says to wake him up when things like this happen. I almost always do. But it’s different this time; he needed sleep after driving 5 hours straight. I could handle this phantom nightmare by myself. That’s what I think, at least. I pull myself out of his grasp, grab a cup from one of the boxes of was left of our belongings and fill it with tap water. After I take a sip, I put the cup down and look around. I feel something akin to a pull. It feels like thrumming beneath my skin, almost like there was a second heartbeat whose rhythm was just a second off from mine. *** I go back to the living room and shake Emmett awake. He looks at me groggily as he wakes. I feel bad for disrupting his sleep, but it just felt like there's something wrong. “Caroline?” His throat sounds dry, as well as laced with light concern. He sits up and looks around, then looks at me. He gives me a soft kiss. “What’s wrong? Nightmare?” “No, it’s not a nightmare- At least, I don't think it is. It’s just something.” I know I sound stupid. I start to regret waking him up in the first place, but that wrong feeling is still there. It makes the hair on my arms stand up. I start to go back to my place on the floor. “Never mind-" At this, he lightly grabs my arm. “I feel it too.” It’s hard to see his face in the dark, being that the only light in this house is the half-full moon coming in through the living room windows. I can’t tell what he's feeling, or what the expression is on his face, but somehow, I know it’s something alike to mine. About the Writer... Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. They go to school at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts for Creative Writing. Their artwork has previously been featured in the Downtown Jacksonville Public Library. About the Artist... Jenna Williams is a drawing and painting major at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She loves working with acrylic paint and graphite. Now in her senior year of high school, her art work has won a collection of awards in regional and county shows.

Hilltop Timekeeper Toko Hata Trip to Nowhere Zhanna Marzan “There’s this episode where Basil and his friends see Sailor crying in his house,” she continued with a trembling voice. “They ask him what’s wrong, and he tells them ‘I don’t want to live in this wretched place anymore.’ So, Basil offers to find him a new home, but he just refuses, saying ‘I hate my situation, but I don’t want to leave.’” “…Oh?” “Back then, I hated Sailor because of this episode. Like, Basil was trying to help him, but he just pushed him away. But when I read it again yesterday, I could kind of relate to Sailor,” After saying that she plunged her face into the book once more. I didn’t know whether to be sympathetic or surprised. What was there to be sad about? The fact that she could relate to a character she hated? Wisty continued to sniffle. For a second, I thought of wrapping my arms around her but dismissed it immediately. “But people’s perspectives change when they grow, you know?” I replied, trying to make this lighter. The sun had finished its art routine; it was beginning to sink, tinting our silhouettes with a cold shade of navy. I pulled my knees close to my chest, attempting to shield myself from the remnants of a bitter winter. I couldn’t feel more awkward. “...I don’t know, I just realized, I would never be able to see the story from Basil’s eyes anymore. That part of me is gone. It makes me feel so... empty.” Wisty’s voice sounded desperate. I didn’t know what to reply. We spent so much time together, but there were hardly any times when I could relate to her. “Yeah…” was all I could say in the end. Another silence. A cold gust managed its way into my coat, and I shivered. “I’m sorry I called you here. I know you’re busy,” Wisty suddenly apologized. I flinched. Had she sensed my uncomfortableness? “No, no! It’s fine! It’s your last day, after all…” “I just… thought of a final favor to ask you,” she whispered with a cracked voice. “I want you to keep this book for me. I want to leave it in this town.” “…Why?” Wisty’s face went red. “I’m so disappointed with my change in perspective, but in a few years, that probably won’t even matter to me anymore. I would read this book and think, ‘Oh, I remember being sad about not having a child’s view anymore. How edgy!’ I don’t want that day to come. If you keep it, I wouldn’t have those thoughts. My time would stop in this town.” Everything that made Wisty unstable were things I could never understand. But at the same time, perhaps those were what made me admire her. Even though the conversations made me uncomfortable, I couldn’t imagine my life without them. Maybe this book would help me remember the times we spent together. Plus, if something as little as this could help her— I didn’t have a reason to say no. “Okay. I’ll stop the time for you,” I answered. Wisty handed me the book and I held it close, feeling my own heartbeat thump against the ripped papers. The sky was now completely still, its darkness deepening far into the ends of the galaxy. Nothing moved. Time had stopped on the hilltop. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

< 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.

6 The Bracelet by Nylah Watkins The Bracelet sits pretty, and lonely on her nightstand. Each bead is brown; a subtle combination of Mahogany and Russet. But, when the bead is turned over, the brown slides into a shade of wheat, then back to brown again. Gilded gold cylinders engraved with flowery designs rest between each of the beads, trailing down to a rusty elephant charm. The Bracelet never sees outside of the house, it barely leaves the nightstand. When the girl leaves every morning, she turns the beads over to their wheat side. When she comes home, she likes to look at the brown side of the beads, staring with a hint of jealousy, wishing she could switch sides just as easily as her beads do. When the girl wraps up her daily staring-session, she straightens herself up, and turns the beads of the bracelet to the wheat-colored side, and stares at them before bed, prepping herself before she goes to sleep. When she wakes up, she keeps the beads on their lighter side all morning, before flipping them once more. Sometimes, she thinks about leaving the beads on the brown side. She never does. She allows herself one last glance at the brown beads, then she flips them over to their wheat-colored side and leaves for the day. This girl is pretty, and she is never alone; but she is always lonely. She gets up at 4 am every morning to build herself, no matter how tired she is. Some days, she cries when her alarm rings at the early hour. She curses herself until she gets out of bed. The girl has the same routine: shower, wash face, moisturize. She combs out her hair. Concealer before foundation, then more concealer on top. Thin black eyeliner with black mascara coating each lash, until they weigh heavy on her eyes. She picks out something cute to wear, usually a mini skirt and a crop top; her boyfriend likes it when she wears these clothes, even if it’s cold outside. She arrives at school early to meet him. They kiss until the bell rings. She does not want to sometimes, even though she never says this. At lunch she sits with her large group of friends, people who she hardly knows even though she’s known them for years. They speak in tongues, that’s what it sounds like to her anyway; she could less about their meaningless words. They invite her to parties, to sleepovers, she says yes. She never says no anymore, she’s learned not to. When she would say no, they would pout or shoot her dirty looks; why not Addie? Do you think you're too good for us? She has never said no again. Her boyfriend is loud behind her, he wraps his arm around her waist and laughs with his stupid friends. When he remembers her existence, he kisses her, again, in front of everyone to show that she is his. She smiles and giggles when he does this, but she wishes he would stop. She pleads with him in her eyes every day to stop, but he never sees her. He never has. All she can do is hold tight, and wait for the day to pass, for the moment where she can return home to her Bracelet, flip the beads over to their side of Russet and Mahogany brown, and stare at them once more. About the Writer... Nylah Watkins is a writer and a student at Douglass Anderson High School. She enjoys spreading the messages, and having meaningful conversations to provoke the thoughts of others. She strives to improve herself and the livelihood of those around her.

< Table of Contents The Switchboard Operators By Allison Clausen It seemed like every time Helen returned to the telecommunications office, there were fewer women working and more calls to connect. The office was only slightly brighter than the dusk outside, illuminated by a few flickering lights that hummed above the rows of consoles. Each console had hundreds upon hundreds of jacks that made Helen’s head swim when she looked at them, and multicolored wires she tried desperately not to tangle. “The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights.” She had started developing a callus on her thumb and index finger from the strain reliefs dragging across her fingers as she connected call after call, though she told herself she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her hands. The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights. The two of them had become something close to friends over the past few months. They had always known each other—they lived in the same area, ran into each other in shops or restaurants—but had only started talking when they started working. Not during work, as Rose connected international calls, and Helen was in a different room with domestic ones, but afterwards. When Helen arrived at the office, Rose beamed at her from the position at the first console, causing their supervisor to snap, “That’s four more hours, Ms. O’Neal,” though Rose accumulated four hours each shift, so it was hardly worth saying. Helen never smiled in response, keeping her gaze steeled forward. If she offered anything in return, she was bound to receive extra hours as well, and her shift wouldn’t end at the same time as Rose’s. Rose was only doing what she could to ensure the two of them didn’t have to walk the darkened streets of Providence alone, and though she had never said so, Helen appreciated it. The supervisor’s eyes raked heavily across Helen’s face, but she refused to glorify him with so much as a glance. She moved to the next room, head raised, back straight, and set her purse down on a chair before the console, hanging her hat on the back. There was no use sitting down—there weren’t enough of them working the night shift, and Helen had to stay standing to sprint back and forth between each jack. There was only one other woman with her at the moment. But under their supervisor’s harsh glare, they weren’t allowed to speak. There was hardly time to talk, anyway, not with the constant ringing and connecting, over and over and over. As usual, Rose and Helen left the office together that morning and stepped down the sidewalk in unison. “That building gets so stuffy,” Rose complained, making a big show of taking a deep breath in through her nose. Helen took a breath too and walked lightly in her heels. “It is,” she agreed. “Especially after being on your feet all day.” “And never talking. Ugh!” Rose exclaimed. “You know, when we all started getting jobs I thought, ‘This is it. We’re finally going to be treated like men.’ But we still aren’t, are we?” “I don’t want to be treated like a man ,” Helen said with a scoff. “But I wouldn’t mind some decency.” “They could at least let us talk,” Rose said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Or smile, even. You remember Betty? “Sure.” “Word is she hasn’t been around because they fired her for laughing. Can you believe that? Laughing!” Helen shook her head in vexation. “I heard they’ll fire you if you get married.” “Mm, I heard that too,” Rose said, “and that’s a real shame because I’ve had an eye on someone for a while now.” “You have?” Helen turned her head to look at her. Rose was focused on something in the distance, something Helen couldn’t see. “Since when?” Rose didn’t look back at her, fiddling with the bag around her shoulder. “Since we started this job, that’s when. Part of me got it to impress him.” “Well, who is it? What’s his name?” Rose shook her head. “I’m not telling until I know he and I are serious.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. “There’s not a man at all, is there?” The two of them fell silent, accompanied only by the noise of their heels on the pavement. The sun was just barely making its way past the horizon, a dim green peeking in between the buildings behind them. Helen’s house was only a block or two away, and Rose’s a little farther, but there was no way they were going to walk so long without saying anything, though what to say was troubling. Helen had a hard time imagining Rose in a life outside of their job, not that she couldn’t believe Rose wasn’t out and about flirting with men. No, the thought was entirely believable. But Helen never did anything like that. She went home to her parents, ate a small meal, woke up, ate again, and went to work. She hardly talked. She hardly laughed. She had no man to impress. Only twenty dollars a week, sore feet, and calluses. After mulling it over in a few short moments, Helen broke the tension and asked, “They let that new girl wear skates.” Rose’s hand on her bag fell still, and she glanced over at Helen, eyebrows raised curiously. “Who?” Helen shrugged. “Think her name is Louise.” Rose looked a little dubious. “What, she just skates around the place taking calls?” “Mhm.” “Could be fun, I guess.” “I never learned.” “It’s not too hard,” Rose responded, a smile starting to crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “I’d teach you if we ever had a second to ourselves. Heaven knows we need some fun around here.” The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “Did you hear about the girl in Boston?” “Do you know how many girls in Boston there are?” Helen asked instead of answering. “She worked switches, too,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Killed herself last night. It was in the paper.” Helen let out a heavy exhale, murmuring, “Can’t really blame her.” Rose made a noise of agreement, then asked, “You wouldn’t though, would you?” “No,” Helen said. “I need the money. Besides, I’d miss this.” “Miss what ? Taking calls?” “No way,” Helen shook her head. “I’d miss talking to you.” She had spoken before she even realized she was thinking it, and the thought surprised her. Now that it had been said, and the words were lingering in the early morning air, Helen realized speaking with Rose may be the only thing she ever looked forward to. It was starting to stump her, but she didn’t dwell on it too long, Rose’s voice cutting through her thoughts: “I have considered leaving, but I wouldn’t go to any extremes or anything.” Rose was full of surprises tonight, sharing more than she usually did, so Helen asked another question. “Why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I left?” “Mhm.” “I told you, to impress someone.” Helen raised an eyebrow. “Well, is it working?” Rose shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet.” “I doubt anybody’s worth working this job for.” Rose met Helen’s eyes for a brief moment. “Some people are,” she said. About the Writer... Allison Clausen is a senior Creative Writing student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Even outside of school, she spends most of her time writing, and has an appreciation for all genres. Her favorite genre to write is fiction.

10 < Back Afterwards Daria Krol Elysion by Elanee Viray Afterwards by Daria Kol There is something here. My mirror melts into the bathwater. Dribbles of mercury leak over the sides. The sludge is ever-persistent. There is something here. "I knelt on the kitchen tile and// held your hems in my filthy// palms" You were good and I was green. I knelt on the kitchen tile and held your hems in my filthy palms. You turned away. There is something here. Tuesday night I go to the laundromat with Rachel. She laughs when my panties turn pink. I laugh when her quarters slip through the cracks in the sidewalk. There is something here. Poison blooms in my chest and gnaws on my collarbone. I taste it on my tongue and press it to yours anyway. My saliva burns through the paper under the stamp. There is something here. Milk soured in the fridge, I go to the market. The woman in the fish aisle has no eyes. She watches me anyhow. She buys butterfly weed and lime juice and sunglasses. There is something here. I walk home alone at night and look up at the stars, and everywhere I look, another one appears. They begin to tumble from their perches. I catch one on my tongue. There is something here. I do not know where to put my hands. I dig them into my ribs and hold the bones. I cut them free with my teeth. They are meant for bigger things than me, I’m afraid. There is something here. The knife grinds dull in the pit of the stomach, the snake slithering, the blunt nectar turning to rust, the bleeding staunched by the taste of bile. There is something here. I eat a pear over the sink. The skin is soft and sinks in my mouth. I crave another. I eat the second one, waiting for the same feeling. It’s underripe. I throw it out. There is something here. Do you still hang the lavender above the door? Do your fingertips still taste like rosemary? Do you still keep a lock of my hair in the shoebox under your mattress? There is something here. I was meant to be hungry. I was born to be rotten. I want more. I burn my tongue on chamomile tea. I stuff my jaws full of love. I find it underwhelming. There is something here. It is at the door. It is in the master bathroom. It is under the skin. It sleeps with the fishes and rises with the moon. It strangles me while I sleep and says your fault your fault your fault- There is something here. About the Writer... Daria Krol enjoys reading by the fireplace and Sour Patch Kids. Her favourite author is Eve Babitz, and she works part-time in the service industry. She hopes to pursue a career in publishing or law. 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, but she also delves into other mediums such as photography and fashion design. She especially loves creating colorful and fantasy like work, with deep meanings behind them that you grow to understand more by looking at it. 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.

Language, Summer Carrier Go, forth, prosper, as if Kansas now means any place, we're not. Here's Johnny! Knock. Knock. Babble on about the need for speed. Keep moving and calling upon precedent: deja vu, and the ever bastardized call of the moon, mourning, and marriage. If one more claims cliche, I shall throw a fit. Fit, now a wonderfully common expression. Frankly, my dear, yesterday, my friend said she couldn't remember the name of her favorite cereal. But knew to follow her nose, language our luckiest charm- that milk was got. Apples jacked. Cola Coked. Jack Crackered. A wonderful and reckless refurbishing! Return to Table of Contents

Dysmorphia by LaBrenda Bell GAIA by Lynn Kong Gaia needn’t travail, she dines, ingests fingers and whole mythologies of motherhood and torpor. We ask her, what is it, this orange thing called suffering? Why did you have to make bewilderment out of your first slumber, out of your tasseled thrashings with the sky? Why can’t we smile? You have made eternal Niobes of us all, now we’re vanities dueling with self. Tell us, what are we to do with the eyes that own our skulls? Please give birth to your own tears, tears for the tumors that rub against our lives with tulip lust for you, Gaia.

< Back Embracing Flesh by Haven Foster I know I’m supposed to treat you kindly, I can’t By Olivia Chao I. Acidosis Attempting to fix a progression that started ages ago, a body, my body, lies open on the operating table, acid burbles from inside the hemoglobin. Ever so slowly, a vector approaches, years of disuse have finally caught up to me. Erosion eats away at my skin, neurons leak through pores, spilling onto the floor. It’s too late. II. Hypothermia I can barely remember my childhood. Distant, lie vast green fields splotched in windmills, bathed in sunlight. I do my best to describe it to you, but I’m left with nothing. Static. Snow. Wound left untreated, infected. Ripped away as quickly as it came I return to the present Mutilated. III. Coagulopathy I want to bury myself in the skin of your youth, bathe in a lake filled with your blood, somehow let your memories fill the gaps in mine. Waves of nausea sweep over me nostalgia rots away at what’s left of my body I want to run. Remember. I can’t. No matter how hard I try, they slip out of my grasp. Like blood. Death. You look at my attempts, my body, horrified. Wriggling out of the snare I’ve made for myself I sink, slipping out of your gaze and onto a pile of my own organs. Stitches gelled back Scars swelling I remain Wholey incomplete About the Author... Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. They attend Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a major in creative writing. Their artwork has previously been featured in the Downtown Jacksonville Public Library, and their writing has also previously been featured in Élan. About the Artist... Haven Foster is a Junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She takes inspiration from self-identity and likes to experiment with different kinds of mixed media. Previous Next

12 < Back now, with a son Sam Kats Mother by Ronni Ochoa now, with a son by Sam Kats 1. Mama lays in a white hospital bed. A crowded room of relatives push against one another, waiting for baby girl’s head to move. Ogling at her soft skin and pink lips, caressing her feminine cheeks. Grandma turns on the DSLR and snaps a photo to remember. It sits tucked into the pocket of a pale pink baby book. The bindings are worn in and the plastic inside is covered in smudge marks. 2. She races across a narrow hallway, the blue tulle in her dress scrunched in shaking fists. Soppy tears stain her dirty cheeks and she wipes them off in between hard exhales. She doesn’t mention how the dress prickles against her legs or that long hair weighs down her head. She just cuts big chunks of it off behind the couch a few months later. It turns into jagged lines and her dresses mend into dirty jeans. 3. Mama shakes in his arms. He whispers, “Mama, it’s okay, I’m here,” as she lays on his flat chest. He knows it’s because of him, because of whom he has become, but he is not sorry. "Five years of grief looks like it could heal,// but there’s no amount of time that// will replace a daughter." Five years of grief looks like it could heal, but there’s no amount of time that will replace a daughter. Still, life must go on, now, with a son. About the Writer... Sam Kats is a 17-year-old writer from Jacksonville, Florida. He is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and enjoys realistic fiction. About the Artist... Ronni Ochoa is an art major at Savannah Arts Academy. They enjoy working with charcoal as well as digital painting.