19 Bridge by CamilleFaustino Red Packet by Xin (Cindy) Nie Blue Moon (Lunar New Year’s Eve) The pendulum swings one way and then another as her eyes follow the rhythmic pattern. Each swing is closer to twelve. Until, at precisely the hour, her phone screen flashes. Staring for a moment, she realized who it was from and let out a sigh. As her phone screen faded, the gleaming red reflected into her pupils. On New Year’s Day, it was customary for adults to prepare red packets, a sum of money folded in tiny red pockets, for the junior members of the family. This one was a digital transaction from Mr. Lee, the title which she addressed her dad. Moments later, her family rose from their resting position in the living room and let out a thunderous “Gong Hei Fat Choy.” In the background, the sound of crackling fireworks shooting up into the sky before fragmenting into colored sparks. And then, “ Click ,” a New Year’s memory that would be framed on the living room wall. Mr. Lee was not in the frame. He had withered from this frame since she was a child. As a plant withers day by day, the leaves lose their luster, the stems begin to droop, and eventually the feeble remains vanish into the dirt. His approach to compensating for his disappearance was the customary parental gesture. In his eyes, it paid for lost time and neglected fatherhood obligations. To her, it was an act of fraud that fueled her resentment. Was she a charity project? Was she so unremarkable that this was the only day she was worth acknowledging? She bit her lip and scratched the sides of her fingers; perhaps she was too harsh. Mr. Lee remembered his daughter, so is that not enough? Be grateful. That’s what a good daughter does. She kept all her thoughts buried and managed to type, “Thanks.” The chat would be vacant for the rest of the year, and this brief exchange would repeat the next New Year’s Day. The vacancy was filled with ignorance and hurt. A decade had passed since she lived with Mr. Lee. Waiting for a conversation to strike up between two strangers was like forcing a spark between two burnt-out tips of wood. They shared nothing more than the last name Lee, the cold truth to her. Furthermore, she didn’t want to engage in knowing him again. She rehearsed this scenario in her head a million times. What if he came back and apologized? She would stare into his eyes with her fists clenched tightly and tell him it was too late. Then, she would slam the door shut. This time she would turn her back on him before he could. However, the scenario was like an infestation intruding deeper inside her mind because he never returned. She was eighteen in a few months. Then, this new year’s transaction would end. To her, it was a relief to cut ties, the long-awaited closing chapter. — New Moon (The Following Morning) The piercing buzzing sound of the front doorbell woke her. Rubbing her eyes, she stepped into her slippers and walked to the front door. She gripped the doorknob and twisted it to the left. An empty silence and no delivery at the door. She scoffed and pushed the door shut before a hand slammed against it and a voice uttered, “Wait.” Opening her eyes, she stared at a man with wisps of grey in his hair but a pair of glasses she would never forget. The frames of her eyes became heavy, and she blinked, trying to hold back the flood of tears. All the rehearsals inside her head did not prepare her for this moment. She knew what she wanted to do but she couldn’t bear to stare him in the eye and slam the door. She opened her mouth slightly, only making out the words, “Mr...” About the Writer... Cindy Nie is a 17-year-old aspiring student writer. She writes fiction which is inspired by her cultural background and she hopes to share her stories with a broader audience. She is currently published in Teen Ink and Ice Lolly Review. She is attending Shanghai American School in Shanghai, China. About the Artist... Camille Faustino is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Camille is a visual arts major.

< Back I Am Going To Grow Wings by Leo Bowyer My father is old, and life is a cowardly lover. I am what remains of him. I have his eyes and his nose, and he wants to give me his mind. Perceptions of Potential By Olivia Sheftall Potential is a point on a graph, placed at ( ∞ , ∞ )—a plane shooting up, determinedly straight, to reach infinite. We craft machines with grand wings because that’s the closest we’ll ever get to flight. My father is old, and life is a cowardly lover. I am what remains of him. I have his eyes and his nose, and he wants to give me his mind. I itch for wisdom. He is the only one I trust to annotate my brain. To take pen to cerebrum and underline profound neurons, cross out what I should purge. With a sun-dried finger, he conducts his great symphony titled “What is Happiness?” It is his life’s work. The rise is where our nature brings us joy, or so I’m told. If I keep reaching for that point, I will experience consistent happiness. In short, I am in total control, and that is both a relief and a burden. (A little girl waddles along the pool deck, pale skin and baby fat wrapped in a towel. I never noticed how beautiful a toddler’s walk is. So unrehearsed, so immediate, so different from my own. With each step, they are an exponential function spearing through the graph paper like Icarus into the Sun. Happiness comes so easy to them.) I am inspired by what could be. My father is at a point in his life where there is very little mystery in the future. I wonder if he's happy, if he feels he's reaching his potential. I can't tell if he's filled with a dissatisfaction with the world or with himself. Perhaps, because he's been told from his birth that he is made for excellence, he sees the world as chains clasped around his wrists. His choices, that have led him to a life he wouldn't choose, reflect exterior fault—they should never be traced back to his own hands, even when they are stained red. He wants to save me, and in doing so, save himself. What is wisdom but a constant beating from experience? Suffering takes you by the hair and teaches you a lesson, shoves the cold hard truth down your throat. This is to say, happiness does not mean leading a life with no slings and throws. Quite the opposite. He warns me that staying in the humid atmosphere of ignorance will keep me soft and unscathed, but trap me in a suffocating dissatisfaction which trumps any battle scar. I have a deep faith in his word, but that does not mean I will take his advice. As a human being, when I am given the answer, it is my responsibility to ignore it. My father has spent 73 years ignoring his, indulging himself at every corner, and in turn, denying his soul. Like every naïve child, I am determined to be the exception. I crawl out of my skin, using my ribs as a ladder, and I escape through my words. I am bound by nothing but my potential. About the Author... Olivia Sheftall is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She’s a passionate writer of all genres but takes a special interest in personal essays and screenplays. Sheftall has been in numerous spoken word performances, including Coffee House 2023, and is very involved within her community in Jacksonville, Florida. Her work has been published in Élan twice, as well as in Poetry Out Loud Gets Original. About the Artist... Leo Bowyer is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. His favorite medium to work with is acrylic paint. Previous Next

21 Life in a Shadow by Isabelle Woods We Call it Our Mother Tongue by Saria Abedin We Call it Our Mother Tongue because it is the melody that our mothers sang to us in lullabies. Because they were the first ever words to birth the voices of our young minds. Yet ever so often, when I find myself afraid That someday it would become foreign to my ears. I remember the sounds that flow through the blood in my veins have carried this language for years. I carry with me the only language for which the Earth was stained in red, The only language for which martyrs stood unwavering to the gunshots that silenced them in my stead. For a generation of voices had echoed battles cries As they fought for every last word, So that one day when it would reach me, My voice could be heard About the Writer... Saria Abedin is a senior at Perry High School, Gilbert Arizona. She writes about memories and moments in her life that define her and inspire the creativity for her interest in writing. Besides enjoying typing away at her laptop or scribbling thoughts in a journal, she loves reading all sorts of literature and poetry, and cannot live without listening to her favorite music. About the Artist... Isabelle Woods was born in Savannah Georgia and has lived their whole life. She knew at a young age that she was interested in doing art. Some of her influences of doing art have come from her grandmother and mom, who both inspired her with their own art. More people that have influenced her are her teachers. Now, attending Savannah Arts Academy, she is able to be creative every day with multiple different kinds of art.

Fall/Winter 2022 Cover Art: The Photographer V2 by Mary Lefleur Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

< Back Peacock and Peahen by Chloe Mathern The lines of your body blurred with the gentle swirls of the greenery around you, until you were simply an extension of the flowing trees around us. Before the Fall By Sofiya Sharova Sometimes, I still remember the way you disappeared. An abrupt farewell, like the sudden onset of frost. You showed up that day, at six on a Sunday morning, your gasping car idling in my driveway as you knocked on my door—a quiet, waltzing rhythm. I was barely awake when you arrived—barely able to drag myself out of bed, even. It was the first time I had seen you in a month. You said nothing when I opened the door to meet you and said nothing when my eyes widened in shock. You just walked into the cavernous recesses of my house—plucking a backpack from the hook behind the door and striding to the kitchen as if you owned the place—not a single misstep in your footing. Gracefully, you stepped over the piles of laundry, avoiding the overflowing trash can, only to stop in front of my fridge with a pensive look on your face. I winced as you pulled the doors open, expecting you to recoil at the stained emptiness inside... Expecting you to walk away from this mess you walked into. You didn’t click your tongue. You didn't sigh. You took a single, still-golden apple that rattled lonesome in its drawer and slipped it into the bag. “Get dressed,” you told me. I nodded and slipped away to my room. When I came back, pulling the last few knots out of my hair with my fingers, I saw that you were washing the dishes, already cleaned plates carefully stacked in the cabinet, their dull porcelain gleaming in the light of the window you opened. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “It felt right.” We got in your car without much ceremony. I was wearing one of your old flannels, the cloth of it think between my fingers. The passenger seat of your csr was reclined to a comfortable angle, and I was willing to ignore the cold of it's threadbare cotton. The doors clicked shut. You put the key into the ignition as if preparing to wake some ancient beast. Slowly, the engine sputtered to life; its fires having long ago lost their youthful vigor. “Do you trust this thing to get us anywhere?” I asked. You shrugged. “Where are we going, anyway?” You shrugged again. “Anywhere but here.” The highway stretched before us, a last stroke of evening leading into mountains blossoming with the rose-colored light of dawn. I will never forget that moment; the way your eyes seemed so inexplicably drawn to the weavings of snow on those eternal peaks, those faceless giants. Looking back, I wonder if something in your gaze could have foretold your farewell, some crucial detail I missed. But I will never know, and forever I will stare at the mountains, asking them for an answer. “Are you hungry?” You asked. “I have an apple in my bag.” “I’m fine.” “Are you sure? I can’t remember the last time I saw you eat.” “You haven’t been around in a month. A lot can happen in a month,” I scoffed. The wind of the highway rushed outside your stained windows, whirling and twisting like the crashing of far-off tides. Had you ever seen the sea? Will you ever see it now? Or are you bound endlessly to alpine valleys and peaks, an impersonal beauty that eventually called you home? I plucked the apple from your bag, digging my nails into its wrinkled yellow skin. Its smell stained my palms, sweet and fresh. The road slowly slinked into the deep curves of the mountains, losing us in the evergreen vales that swallow the roaring of the car tires in their embrace. You seemed calm, as if the mountain air and morning light helped bring you into focus, your hands steady on the steering wheel as you guided us on ever sharper turns. Your fingers were covered in tiny scars, almost like you had spent ages scraping them against stone, wearing the nails to nothing. I never asked you about them, and now I never will. It’s odd, the way everyday tragedy highlights the small details. Sometimes, I imagine you got those scars from digging grooves in marble, giving cold rock new life, water running over old earth over and over. We pulled into the dusty trailhead lot. We were alone; the tire marks of past cars half-faded. “Where are we?” I asked. “Somewhere. Don’t be worried,” you said. “You drive us to some random stop on the side of a mountain road and expect me not to be worried?" I sputtered. “I would never steer you wrong.” You grabbed our backpacks out of the car, slinging one over your shoulder and proffering the other to me. Your gaze fell on the map alongside the trail's beginning. I took the backpack, grumbling. You headed into the woods without a second glance. I’ll always associate your smiles with the sound of birdsong, and the way light filters through the glittering aspens as if it was smiling along with you. You could've almost been dancing along the trail, leaping and bounding in-between old roots, happy as a child. The lines of your body blurred with the gentle swirls of the greenery around you, until you were simply an extension of the flowing trees around us. In spite of myself, I grinned. “I do believe you’ve forgotten how alluring your smile is,” you joked. “It’s a trick of the light,” I replied. “Some tricks can be nice.” We continued forward; I trusted you to guide us as the trail twisted deeper into the silence of the forest, its greens and blues the color of your inscrutable eyes. We descended into a stand of birches, folded wings of angels enveloping us in a montane elegance. It was like that one childhood story, where the characters are darting back and forth between the skinny trees, human faces disappearing, reappearing on a field of living snow, as distance and shape blurs and there is left only the sounds of laughing voices echoing eternally in pearly cathedrals of branches. And what if all of those angels suddenly took flight? Would the beauty be lessened if it was only bare earth and the homely green of the mountains? “Are we almost there?” “Maybe,” you called back. I smiled. I’ll never hear that singsong cadence of your voice again, nor the way it echoes in cathedrals built by murmuring birch branches. And I can live with that, I promise you. But why did you have to leave? I looked behind me for a second. A single second, you understand? One second, and suddenly, the bright hue of your backpack is lost amid the snow-white trees, its hopeful blue faded completely into the sylvan tapestry surrounding us. I was completely alone. I quickened my pace and listened to the answering reassurance of your footsteps. The trail we followed came to the crest of a hill, overlooking a gently curving meadow. A single, narrow path led from the top of the hill to a concrete platform, cracked by the leisurely dance of tracing roots—the single sapling growing on it waves its fragile yellow leaves in a slight breeze. The platform overlooked the green sea below it; the last remnant of some forgotten civilization that had since been conquered by the grass and aspen. And I ran to that platform, calling your name— —As the wind picks up, and all around I heard the sound of that far-away tide, the ocean which neither of us will ever see— —Crashing over me in invisible waves as my voice is lost amid its voiceless melody, s the sound of your name is thrown to the glimmering crowd of the aspens below me— But still I am left alone. I looked far off, into the distance, where the eternal peaks stood wreathed in otherworldly clouds, their contant snow gleaming like the promises of youth– and there you were! I saw the hopeful blue of your backpack there, in the unspoiled meadow, almost calling me forward. I leapt off the platform. For a second, it felt as if I knew how to fly; great wings would sprout from my back, and I would soar into the sky above with everyday angels made from birches. And then you were gone again. Like a light going out, you disappeared. Why couldn’t you have looked back? Just once? I fell to the ground and my chest slammed into the dirt. My lungs collapsed and I forgot how to breath. My tears were swallowed in the grooves dug by my fingers, exposing waiting roots. They were thirsty. They drank deep. When I awoke with the smell of the flowers’ mortality in my nose, I realized that your car keys were clenched in my hand, digging into its soft flesh. I knew the way back. Rather, my feet did, but they could not follow your dancing rhythm. They stuttered and stumbled over the stone and overgrown roots of the path, but eventually the woods spit me out into the dust of the parking lot. The sun was setting, dying the sky shades of crimson and lavender, bleeding and sighing all at once. I hated driving in the mountains at night. I still do. Part of me wanted to run back in after you and get lost searching for you in the endless alpine peaks and valleys. I almost did. But what point would there be in that? I washed the dishes this morning. I opened the window over the kitchen sink to let in the song of the birds. Watched as the light, glimmering off the fallowing aspen trees, spilled gold over my dusty countertop. About the Author... Sofiya Sharova is a junior at Denver School of the Arts. She enjoys using visual art and writing to explore the relationship between humanity and nature, on top of being a circus acrobat in her free time. About the Artist... Chloe Mathern is a Senior Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her ideal mediums are painting and drawing. Previous Next

4 Back to Nature by Sachiko Rivamonte в машине (in the car) by Alisa Chamberlin the seven-hour trip begins. a man we paid to take us (мама, бабушка, и я) [Mama, grandma and I] through the пустырь [emptiness, plains] that is russia. my mom says something about camels, or лошади (horses) living here. all i see is dirt, abandoned здание, [buildings] грязный ад [dirty/filthy hell]. clear blue skies do nothing to hide the пустой [empty]world. a gas station: then open road, stretching длиннее [longer] than my eyes can see. sitting atop a throne of багаж,[baggage] i reign king of the leather чемодан [suitcase/briefcase] empire. us against the desert: yellow травинки [strands of grass] and tumbleweeds tell us we are not alone. the earth is тихий [quiet] here: никого нет. [nobody here/around] concrete structures like boils plague the land. no windows, no doors. the apocalypse держит своё. [holds its own] пять часов. [five oclock] i eat black bread for dinner. the only animals i’ve seen are the ones внутри моей головы. [inside my head] a fire truck screams by, entering a concrete hell. астрахань [Astrakhan—city] waves in the heat, over the horizon. городской горизонт [city horizon] welcomes me back: добро пожаловать домой. [welcome home] About the Writer... Alisa Chamberlain is a bilingual Russian-American who enjoys writing poetry about culture, self-identity and mental health. She loves animals and rock & roll music. About the Artist... Sachiko Rivamonte is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Sachiko is a visual arts major. The medium of their piece is pencil.

5 < Back to you, the sea Mia Yen Il fiore by Samantha Criscuolo to you, the sea. by Mia Yen You are the assemblage of a ship, a thunderstorm, and a scream. You are burnt orange tempura— an amalgamation of colors that just happened to turn out a shade clear enough to pass as the color between red and yellow. You are frantic and wavered strokes, peeling from the cardboard— the colors screaming with you. You are the blood sky in Turner’s Slave Ship and you are the storm in Cole’s The Oxbow . The sea is painted with impasto— pastel and baby blues and whites. The sea is wrapped in layers upon layers of oil paint— and underneath is even more paint, like soak-stain, like Frankenthaler’s The Bay . It’s only the blue and the blue and the blue. The sea is cold the same way Braque’s The Portuguese is, disjointed, like it shouldn’t be whole but it is. It feels like too many faces, too abstract to be placed in something as simple as a box. If Oppenheim’s Object had a face, this would be it. It watches you, watches over you— like the “You” in Bruegel the Elder’s Hunters in the Snow . You look at this world of blue— the weight of the colors is crushing. They strangely belong, unlike you— the bright yellow skin of Kirchner’s Self Portrait of a Soldier . A severed hand. You think it’s sickly. You don’t want to be Schwabe’s The Death of the Gravedigger. You think it’s unusual. You don’t want to be Redon’s The Crying Spider But although you are not the dream in Monet’s The Saint-Lazare Station, Although you are not the cold in Mondrian’s Gray Tree, You are the red that burns and burns until it is completely burnt— You are not red just for the sake of it. You are the upper half of Munch’s Anxiety . You are the yellow of overwhelming love in Klimt’s The Kiss , You are the golden fruits in Ruysch’s Fruits and Insects . You are heart and you are gold and you are the reminder of vanitas. "You are the scream and the call of a human. // You are the purposeful combination of colors" You are the purposeful combination of colors You are the assemblage of a ship and the thunderstorm that weathers it. You are the scream and the call of a human. You are the purposeful combination of colors that became this shade of burnt orange tempura. You are the amalgamation of life. About the Writer... Mia Yen, from California, is a junior at Orange County School of the Arts in the Creative Writing conservatory. She has a love-hate relationship with writing dialogue and enjoys writing flash fiction and short stories. She is currently interested in scriptwriting, as well. About the Artist... Sam Criscuolo is a student at Douglas Anderson. The medium of their piece is photography.

Spring/Summer 2026 Cover Art: Inner Child Manifesto Table of Contents Cover art: Inner Child Manifesto Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors Note View Jeneva Hayes, Deidra Curtis Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button My Praise, My Father's My grandparents are a shining light View Sophi Killeen Small Title Charleigh Herrin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Teach me to sail Reflections of Water View Lila Hartley Small Title Elio Faucher Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button elegy to Isaac who was spared by the hands that bond him Harvest baby View Peyton Hart Small Title Shiyaneey Lakshmi Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I used to Pray Walking on the temple stones View Essia Mahmoudi Small Title Nakshatra Kallepalli Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Beached Inner Child Manifesto View Olivia Chao Small Title Brooke Coulter Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button When Fireflies Die Out Overlooked beauty View James Helmick Small Title Audrey Adams Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button somewhere in an autumn field Edith's Gloves View Sofiya Sharova Small Title Zoë Wagner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button even bison chase heaven Lure View Amy Wu Small Title Rowan Michels Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Pirouette on the Fault Line Torque of Life View Caitlin Spinner Small Title Alvin Jiang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Vietnam jungle fatigues in a Salvation Army Red Eyes View Hannes Duncan Small Title Jasmine Walker Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Spes Phthisica The Paths of Life View Cameron Pickering Small Title Audrey Adams Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button summer contemplations The night at yiayia’s house View Annie Yang Small Title Jason Galub Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Fly By the Western Coast Returning to the Nest View Nichole Perez Small Title Marin Shultz Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Rotten mangoes Daily Errands View Simmi Sirohi Small Title Lucy Hwang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button With Love, From Home / Mexico Si Perdona Compare & Contrast View Meztli Hipolito Small Title Jandellyn Silvers-Lozano Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

22 Branching Out by Micayla Latson It is Life by Ava Devenitch You like to visit the art museum downtown, the plaster gallery in particular, the molds from the 1800s of statues made when Latin was beginning to tumble its way off into its death just to be revived by those obsessed Renaissance men. You think of your sister then, who says you taking Latin class instead of Spanish for your required foreign language is useless ( People actually speak Spanish, but you’ll have to go to Ancient Rome to have a conversation in Latin. Do you know how little rights they gave women there?) . Maybe she’s right, because this is your third year of it and as you look at the inscription on the plaster mold statue, you can only translate two words: vīta (life) and est (is). It is life. The whiteness of the plaster is so stark it’s disturbing, utterly blinding. Drift around the room then stop at the cast of Michelangelo’s Moses . Will he not reach those unsettlingly strong hands out and strangle you if you get too close? Will the Madonna a few feet over looking with strange worry down at the Jesus in her arms not release herself from that unstirring state to cry to you and get on her knees to save her child if you look with too much sympathy? Are these not corpses that are waiting to come alive if you’d only unblind yourself and give them the permission to? Your grandmother, then, five years later, your grandfather. The only funerals you’ve been to. They surely weren’t real in their open caskets. Moses is much more real than they were. The second time you were almost worried you wouldn’t cry and would appear heartless. You had already done this once, at the same funeral home, with the same people. Maybe you only cried the first time out of shock. No - death never seems to lose its novelty, its true value, the way it veils itself as an emotionless apparition, but as you move closer, it blackens its body, grows gnashing teeth; a monster that lurked in childhood but never bit coming out to play, lurking after the first night it entered into your consciousness, lurking in illnesses matched with the belief you conjured that they could only have one end. The end was always too close. The end was the atmosphere atop the mountain, where there seems the slightest separation between your fingertips and the air like a quiet entrapment of skin, so close to enveloping everything. Does it make the living worse? The fear in it is constant, and therefore often disguised, but not gone. You stared ahead at the funeral, eyeing the casket instead of the body, sitting next to your pregnant sister and trying not to look at her bulging belly in the black cloth of her dress and pretending not to be aware that her sobs had the same carefully aggressive quality as yours despite the 15 year age gap between the two of you. Your shared harsh emotions are one of the few things you share. You’ve never been close, and how much of that is your fault? As your winter coats rustled against one another, heading in a weeping formation outside, in the mid month midday of March in upstate New York, you could feel the snot in your nose freezing over, and you looked at your sister’s hand that had quietly been placed on your back when both of your sobs had built to their highest point during the ceremony, so that they almost echoed off the burgundy carpet that smelled of cheap flowery perfume and mold, and wondered if she had now become alive to you. You were pulled away from this thought, interrupted by your uncle handing you one of the blank bullet cartridges that had been fired in the gun salute honoring your grandfather. “For keepsake”. It sat in your coat pocket the rest of the day, you occasionally fidgeting with it, pressing into the metal that pressed back too hard. About the Writer... Ava Devenitch is a student at East Longmeadow High School in Massachusetts. Her writing focuses on short fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction pieces that explore issues such as mental health and adolescence. About the Artist... Micayla Latson is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. At the Arts Academy Micayla is a Visual Arts major, who has been dedicated to art her entire life. Currently during her time at Savannah Arts she has produced many pieces, some helping to spread awareness to various issues in society. Although not pursuing art in college she still hopes to be making art in the future and wishes to spread impactful and powerful messages within her community using her artwork.

< Back True Colors by Ryleigh Marsh The ouroboros eats its tail in perpetuity, and By Anayelli Andrews-Nieves there’s a snake sliding through the grass, coal-black and glistening. I draw away from its closed mouth, its venomless fangs, even though there are more obvious threats anywhere I look. There are men, guns and debt’s iron grip—and yet my throat will still squeeze if I’m asked to speak to a stranger. If I lay eyes on a spider or a snake. I’m growing up, and I want to be good in the same way those strange girls did, twelve, nine, sixteen, eight, fifteen— my years shed like layers of skin, outgrown and then sloughed off, swallowed whole. Their confusion is mine while we learn to breathe, to speak, to drive, although I’m doing that two years late because mama and I were both afraid. I’m growing up, and I’ve always wanted a grown-up to kill the spider on the ceiling and protect me from the snake in the yard. To take me inside and play make-believe with me. Look at these four walls—inside, we’re safe. Claiming that as truth makes me a child, and pointing out the lie makes me cruel. Nothing will make me a grown-up, and nothing will make me good. The spider weaves, and the snake hisses. I’m growing up. Recognizing the strangers curled up in strangers, the pieces of skin peeling from them. Vestiges of children hidden, in me and them. I’ve learned that there are no grown-ups to find us, that scared children are everywhere, that creatures live in all backyards, and that to someone, I am a snake. To someone, I am less. More. I’m learning that growing up is the same as something rough-scaled and writhing coming to understand its own changing shape one bite at a time, forever. About the Author... Anayelli Andrews-Nieves is a young writer from Florida. She primarily writes poetry and fiction. She believes that performing her writing is important as an artist. Outside of writing, she likes looking for the nuances of stories in any medium. About the Artist... Ryleigh Marsh is a Visual Arts/Photography major in 11th grade at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They enjoy doing portrait photography. Previous Next

Dear Linh Kate Kim My grandma’s backyard still looks the same. The potted little yellow flowers on the veranda. The shady arbor wrapped in twisting branches and climbing vines. The wooden bench, splintery and peeling, yet sturdier than any store bought seat. The rows and rows of strange and exotic fruits and vegetables, all in various stages of growth. The large oak tree, with its leaves healthy and lush, its branches stronger than ever. I like to think that everything is the same. But it isn’t, and that is everywhere. Images of my grandpa repairing the brown picket fence, humming nonsensical tunes to his own whimsy, flash by like mirages. Pictures of him on his knees, working alongside my grandma in the garden, and with his deep, throaty laughter as he spun small children around with his arms. He seems to have taken Bà’s soft smile, her airy laugh, and sparkling eyes along with him. The fried scent of bánh tai heo , “pig ear” cookies wafts into my nose as I look around, temporarily wiping any melancholy thoughts away. I trace the scent to the backyard door, where Bà is carefully walking towards me, holding a bright red porcelain plate stacked with her signature treat. She sets them down on the table, the plate thudding dully on contact. “How are you, dear Linh?” she asks, her words slightly stilted from her accent. She slides into the chair and folds her hands together. Her thinning white hair is pinned up, although wispy frontal strands drift astray of the ponytail, brushing against her tanned, wrinkled skin. “I’m good,” I mumble through a mouthful of crisp, sweet cookie. “Oh, lovely,” she says softly. She strokes the kitty, Maggie, absentmindedly and her gaze clouds over as she stares off into the distance, as if covered by an invisible film of sadness. “Ngoại ?” I say tentatively. “Unh?” She shifts in the chair to smile at me. The corners of her eyes crinkle into their well-worn lines. “Are you all right?” “Oh, yes.” She bobs her head in a nod. Under my doubtful stare, she pauses, as she seems to play with the right words, and simply adds, “I . . . miss him.” There is a palpable weight on my stomach when I say, “I’m sorry.” My grandmother, my bà ngoại, so strong, who has gone through so much, looks so fragile. So sad. I don’t know what to say to help ease her pain. “I miss him too,” I bumble. She smiles sadly, then pats my hand. “Cám ơn con ,” she says. Thank you . The effort in her voice to lighten the conversation is apparent. She takes a deep breath and resettles her shoulders, a reset, if in posture only. “You see that tree?” she asks, looking over at me to make sure I am understanding. “Chú Quang and I are going to cut. We build a greenhouse. Much better for plants.” Her stilted words and long pauses leave broken holes in the sentence. It takes me a second, then the crushing meaning of the words falls down on me. "Oh,” I say. My cookie tastes like cardboard now. “When?” She reaches for a cookie of her own. “Quang is coming by next week,” she tells me, seemingly oblivious to my thundering heart. “We try to finish by end of January.” She bites into the cookie, then makes a face. “This is not good,” she spits. “Bá ngoại did a bad job.” She pushes the plate away. “It is too cold out here,” she says. “Inside?” “. . . Yes, of course,” I say, after some hesitation, and push my chair back to stand up. She gets up from her own chair, much more slowly than I. She strains to get up; her hands tremble as they press against the armrests and a strenuous pink blossoms across her cheeks. Somewhere in the back of my head I know that something’s not right, but I bury it deep, deep down. Bà is okay; she is healthy and strong . I convince myself that saying this makes it true. But fear lingers in the back of my head, sticky and creeping and sending chills down my spine. She has to be okay. “You… you did it,” I whisper, my mouth falling open. “You cut it down.” It’s April, and the sun is finally overcoming the crisp chilly air. It’s been three months since Bà’s fall—right after Tết, the Lunar New Year, and almost two months since her return from the hospital. We’re standing in her backyard, staring at the stump of a tree that, not even a week ago, proudly stretched high in the sky. “I did,” she says simply. “Now there is room for the greenhouse!” My eyes feel like they are bubbling, and my face feels hot. Grandpa planted that tree thirty years ago. Gone. Gone, gone, gone. “Linh,” she says gently as hot tears spill down my cheeks. “Oh, dear Linh.” Her comforting words don’t help me; her wrinkled, tanned hands, capable of soothing any injury, heal nothing. The change in the air is unbearable. The tree is gone, and she’s so fragile , and I don’t know what to do. I can’t control anything right now. I need things to be the same. “Bà —” “Oh, good, dear Linh.” My grandma’s frail, wrinkled hand reached up and pats my hand cheerfully, like she isn’t lying in a hospital bed surrounded by chirping, humming machines whose purpose I can’t even begin to fathom. “How are you feeling?” I ask, settling into one of the plastic armchairs that sit by her bed. My uncle is in the other, his eyes closed. I’m not sure if he’s sleeping. He’s been fussing over my grandma all day. “Okay,” Bá hem-haws. “I have many people taking care of me. How about you? You are good?” “I’m good,” I say hesitantly. “Good?” She inspects me closely, scanning my face. “No, I do not think so.” Her warm fingers brush against my forehead. “I am,” I say, but it’s hard to swallow. She touches my cheek. “Linh,” she says calmly. “Look at me. Tôi đang lành lại —I am getting better every day. You can’t do any -thing.” This last part is said rather bluntly as she leans back on her bed. “I fell. We cut the tree. It happened. All done. Now we just focus on how to fix.” She pauses, thinking. “Or how to grow.” Her words are clipped, blurred, mixed up in the space between her native tongue and English, but I know what she’s trying to get across. I marvel at how my small little grandma can use the few words in her limited English inventory to land such a hard punch. Beside me, Uncle Quang lets out a loud snore. “Is there anything I can do?” I blurt after an extended period of silence, surprised that coherent words are able to tumble past the rock in my throat. “Oh, yes,” she says, looking pleased. She draws herself up and starts rambling off a list of things in Vietnamese. “I need my sewing basket, my cup—” “Hang on—” I scramble for my phone and jot down all her wish list items. She continues. “—book on my bed table—ahhmm—pillow? Mmm . . . kem đánh răng —how do you say?”—she jabs Uncle Quang awake and asks him something in rapid-fire Vietnamese, who replies groggily, “Toothpaste?” (“Ah! Yes!”), then continues, “Picture of Ông Ngoại …and pretzels.” The corners of her lips curve into a smile. I don’t know why she loves Snyder's pretzel rods. She always keeps a stockpile of at least three king-size bags in her pantry. I read the list back to her to double-check. She nods, pleased, once I’ve finished reciting it. I kiss her on the cheek, then get into the car and drive to her house. Maggie is right at the door when I unlock it, mewing at me angrily. “Hello, Maggie,” I giggle, slipping my sneakers off. “I know. I’m sorry. Bà being sick is tough on you too, isn’t it?” Maggie stalks across the floor. “But she’s shown us she can fight.” I pause, thinking about her struggle these past few months. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned about her, it’s that she’s one tough cookie. . .She’ll get better soon.” I continue my monologue as I pour some cat food for Maggie. First on Bà’s list is her mug. I’m already digging through the cupboard for her floral peony mug when the window catches my eye. I walk outside, Maggie at my heels, and sit on the bench, facing the stump with a clear view of the expansive backyard. I lean back and take a look at the potted little yellow flowers on the veranda. The shady arbor wrapped in twisting branches and climbing vines. The handcrafted wooden bench, splintery and peeling but sturdier than any store-bought seat. The rows and rows of strange and exotic fruits and vegetables—longan, grapefruit, guava, all carefully selected by Bà—all in various stages of growth. . .and the oak stump. I take one long look at it, in all its glory, and walk towards it, inspecting it closely. Yes, things aren’t the same. But that’s okay. I think it is. There’s nothing more to do—nothing I can do. My gaze falls on a few forgotten planks of wood by the stump, and I think of the abandoned efforts to build a greenhouse. Bà’s words in the hospital come drifting back to me. Now we just focus on how to fix. I slide my fingers along the smooth bark, wondering. Or how to grow. With an effort that’s almost painful, I wrench away and walk back to the house. Bà is still waiting. Return to Piece Selection

Sleepy in the Shade by Eleanor Goodwin Ripe by Bella Hart - For Abigail When we were young dad's backyard was a world of sweetly smooth grass and strong glowing trees. Bubbly sour oranges on our orange tree became baseballs, weapons, and orange juice. The shaggy shed was our playhouse, where we’d swing on the frame until our fingertips turned white. You climbed the zig-zagged branches of the tree further then you had ever gone, once. I watched as you gazed into the oil-painted sky floating above tacky leather pieces of our neighbors' roofs. When we woke to the whirling sound of metal grinding against metal, we ran through the back door. Dad stood in his clattering flip flops sawing down our tree from the base. Your eyes simmered in tears, dripping down my pajama shirt. In choked desolation I watched as a dozen ripe oranges fell from our heaven, splattering into the ground. We still graze past the stump of once was and climb onto the weary roof of the shed looking over the world we built. We pick at the earthy rough tiles mounted onto the rusty roof until there are bare spots across the top. The shed has begun to rot too. And our world, collapsing under our feet.