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< Back Foreign Accent Syndrome by Colson Gomez Hair plastered to my mouth; virid leaves drowned to cracks in the road And waxy crayon sank into cement like a sob. ersatz memories By Olivia Shin A year and ten summers passed me by I, reflected in the tall windows that surround high-rise buildings, drink The sun cracked into oxtail soup melting cloudy, wispy mornings Ladled up into my head A piping hot memory broth. In July, rains slithered down the hills– fat tears preceding wrathful downpours The mountains keeled over with a great heave Hair plastered to my mouth; virid leaves drowned to cracks in the road And waxy crayon sank into cement like a sob. There were languorous days too; warm shadows crisscrossing the room I lay on my back behind a watchful old couch, to see Fluttering telephone lines that kiss the wood floors And the air conditioner that whistles with a bright blue grin. I am American. But the sparrows in Seoul, They don’t seem to know; not by my long shorts-hands-folded-hair-crumpled shirt Not by my couldn’t-care-less-don’t-know-maybe-so attitude Or by the look I give them. A long-awaited “homecoming.” The bus driver announces the next stops From his mouth drop round honey syllables, tongue flat, teeth hidden, warm barley tea A middle-schooler behind me slips in earbuds, voice low under the rattle of the handles I try to laugh a Korean laugh, click selfies, fingers, lips Everyone stared; how unrefined! That day– every day– they sprawl across the sidewalk like cats. “They” as a collective, seeking to belong among the shiny hair wispy bangs beige academy tote Bubblegum, lip-glossed, black baseball-capped Girls in loose gray sweatpants Girls in white starched uniform tops, not quite see-through in this weeping heat But instead it’s me, so transparent That even the visor-sporting ajummas on the corner don’t see me. Between mile-high skyscrapers I used to crane up towards crumbling stars, dark and smoked with overseas pollution, shining across the Han river Now we’re miles from the coast, hills rolling to the end of the horizon Yet this atmospheric sea is beyond belief– blindingly, dazzlingly, soul-crushingly Californian. Really, though, who am I to talk? About the Author... Olivia Shin is a junior at Maria Carrillo High School. She is an editor for Polyphony Lit, and the proud owner of a second-hand typewriter that annoys her family when she writes at night. When she is not studying or going down various rabbit-holes, she also enjoys playing the violin and reading classic novels. In her opinion, the world could use a bit more whimsy at any given moment. About the Artist... Colson Gomez is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She has begun to dabble in embroidery and fiber arts, though her heart lies with drawing and painting. Previous Next

< Table of Contents Still Holding On by Andie Crawford The Myth By Hannah Rouse Mermaids, much like humans, have fingers so they can thread through seaweed. The only differences are their shimmery, scaly tails and magical lungs or gills or whatever they use to breathe underwater. Maybe their skin is seafoam green, and their fins like stained glass with the texture of damp leaves. In my head, they look just like in the stories and the movies. They’re out there somewhere, singing ships to sleep. Perfect and perched on jagged rocks. Dancing in waves that collapse into nothing. They fall in love with sailors and revel in the wreckage of storms. They’re not afraid of sharks or the vast, aqua emptiness that is their home. *** I always wanted to be a mermaid. Even when I wouldn’t swim in the pool unless my parents checked it for spiders and frogs. I wore Disney Princess floaties on my arms, a small inflatable tube on my stomach, and green and blue goggles to protect my eyes from the sting of salt water. I wouldn’t put my head underwater until I was five or six years old, when an older girl asked to play mermaids with me. After that, I finally managed to dip my skull beneath the ripples. My long, brown hair, pulled lovingly into a braid by my mother, once dry, dripped with dreams of my legs merging together and growing gold or green scales. *** I used to reenact the giant rock scene from The Little Mermaid at the mini-golf course. I sang “Part of Your World” softly to myself. The rough surfaces scratched at my skin but all I could think about was swimming with Flounder, about having a dinglehopper. At seven years old, I still wanted a Snarfblatt more than anything in the world. My new room at my grandparents' beach house was decorated entirely by myths: dolls, ornaments, signs, and miniature statues. With my toes in the sand, I observed the whitecaps breaking in the distance, wondering when I’d see her for real. *** There is a painting hanging on my wall: a mermaid sits on a rock, arm outstretched toward a white unicorn—beach waves in her hair, a pale gray seashell bra, and a glittery green tail. The sky behind them swirls, pink and purple around a flaming sun. But their reflections show them as they are. A girl and a horse under a boring blue sky, fantasizing about a life where they could be something magical. *** “I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells.” Until I was thirteen, I wore a full-length pink mermaid tail in the pool. Exhilarated by the sensations of gliding, slicing through the thick water. I took my hair down and let it float behind me in the chlorine, a cloud of thin brown strands with a mind of their own. I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells. Imagined that I was fearless enough to swim, not in the confinement of a pool, but engulfed in the ocean’s cerulean darkness. *** “I’ll give you a dollar to stand by that shark,” Mimi said, pointing to Tommy, the giant fifty-foot statue of my worst fear, whose gaping mouth was the entrance to Jaws Resortwear. I didn’t look at him, but knew all too well what the store and Tommy looked like. Beady, black eyes. His sharp teeth pointed at any poor soul who wanted to enter. All the windows next to him were covered in towels with the terrifying creatures printed on the front. Other sharks, Tommy’s friends, I presumed, were posed to look like they rose through the concrete, their faces full of hunger. I shook my head. Just the thought of standing anywhere near the store made me sick. “Five dollars,” she smiled. I did not. “Ten dollars?” I wouldn’t have stood by the door of Jaws Resortwear for anything. She upped the offer to twenty, thirty, then finally, forty. I always refused. For the rest of the week-long vacation, Mimi tried to make that same deal each time we passed Tommy, the ominous entrance to the store. Not once did I budge. Not once did I even think about actually letting her take the picture of me standing in Tommy’s mouth. On the surface, this is why I cannot live in the ocean. *** For him, my bra was not made of seashells, but rather of wires and lace and polyester. I did not have a tail. My hair draped across the armrest as if again just released from its braid, free to float. I reveled in the way he looked at me. Perhaps he was just a shark, like Tommy, and I just never noticed his bloodthirsty mouth. Or maybe he was the ocean. Seaweed limbs wrapping around me. Hands all over, the stinging tentacles of a jellyfish searching for something shiny in a shipwreck. But he found nothing worth loving in the rotting planks of wood. Drowning in the stained leather of the couch, I began to see myself as the reflection in the painting. The reality. No magical lungs or gills or whatever the mermaids would use to breathe in the chaos of the ocean if they were real. Nothing more than a girl trying to touch something that looks mythic, magic, but is just as raw, as real as she is. *** Now, I don’t dare go in the ocean. Not a single painted toenail touches the seafoam. Even pools scare me when I can’t feel the floor below me. The concrete scraped holes in the thin fabric of the pretend mermaid tail I outgrew. But I still think if I stare at the ocean for long enough, I’ll see the sparkle of a mermaid's fin somewhere in the distance. So, I watch the waves closely, waiting for my girlhood to return. About the Writer... Hannah Rouse is a junior Literary Arts major at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School. She has been published in Asgard, Fledge, Under The Madness, Appelley, Free Spirit, and You Might Need to Hear This. She won runner-up in Georgia Southern University’s High School Writing Contest, as well as fiv e G old Keys, a Silver Key, and five Honorable Mentions from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She received first prize nationally for the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest in 2023. Hannah is also a competitive dancer and enjoys spending time with her two cats. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her best mediums are drawing and painting.

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.

< Table of Contents A Mother's Love by Emilia Hickman My.BaptistChart.com By Abbey Griffin After Nicole Sealey “My / father’s mother’s more sweat than blood / half the time.” I have been anxious. I’ve created half the scars on my own skin. I can’t focus. My mother has, my mother’s mother had, high blood pressure. My father is depressed. My father’s mother’s more sweat than blood half the time. My grandfathers are dead or gone. I sleep fine. I don’t eat. Wellbutrin for a will to live. B12 for keeping my eyes open. My eyes are opposite—one near, one far: compensating. I shiver at shadows. Aunt Susan died of cancer. DeeDee, a stroke in bed. Uncle KiKi died at 34, slipped on a cliff during a night hike, no spotter. I have wasted time in weighted blankets wondering if I will die at twilight, too, under a gaping map of slasher stars. I’m anemic. My blood wells too easily, like apples, and my forehead breaks out oily, Ash Wednesday staining my crown the shape of Daddy’s fingerprint. I know from dust we were born and to ashes we will return, but there is a sunrise I haven’t seen in Boston Commons and a memoir, open on a library desk for me. About the Writer... Abbey Griffin (she/her) is a writer in Florida. "What the Living Do" by Marie Howe made her fall in love with poetry and decide to devote her life to it. She hopes that everyone can find their own inspiration throughout their lives and a unique understanding and love of the arts. About the Artist... Emilia Hickman is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. She specializes in reali sm, an d her favorite mediums are drawing and painting.

What Happened to Us by Dion Hines How to: make it to room 404 by Chloe Pancho Step #1 . Say hello to the man at the counter. He says hello back and tells you to say hello to your mother for him as well. You promise that you will. Get your temperature taken beside the front door. You didn’t know how to use the machine the first time you came in contact with it. You stood as close to it as you possibly could, thinking that was the only way for it to check your temperature properly. He was the one to correct you and say that there was no need to get so close. A full twelve inches in front was ideal. You laughed and thanked him and now you look forward to your quick greetings. “Don’t forget to say hello to any of the staff or any other breathing person that exits out of the elevators, assume they crave just as much comfort as you do.” Step #2 . Make your way towards the hallway on his right and onto your left. Walk past a water fountain and a gender-neutral bathroom until you ultimately reach the elevators. Press the button to ascend towards the higher floors and wait until one of them opens for you. Don’t forget to say hello to any of the staff or any other breathing person that exits out of the elevators, assume they crave just as much comfort as you do. Once inside the elevator, press the button etched with the number 4 and make your way towards the ER where Mama is most likely to be sleeping. Step #3 . Introduce yourself once again. (Note: The ER is separated from the rest of the hospital by two heavy-set metal doors. On the wall is a white intercom in which each individual must push to announce their presence and reason why they would like to enter the ER.) Reiterate your first and last name, as unlike the man at the front, you are never fully able to recognize the voice that is on the other side. Tell the face-less figure that you are here to visit your mother. They request for your mother’s name and ask you to wait as they confirm that the patient knows of your existence. Step #3 .5. You imagine a life in which her accident never happened. Step #4 . Listen to the unfamiliar voice as it announces that you are permitted to see your own mother. They instruct you to stand back as they open the doors, but before the sentence is finished, take three steps back as you are used to these procedures. The first sight you encounter once you enter the ER is an empty gurney stationed in front of the first room. You remember it as the room for the unconscious woman. The woman looked the same age as your mother, dark hair just like your mother as well, you don’t know how to describe her eyes as you have never actually seen them open. You expect to see her today, but yet she is not there. Her room is completely empty. The bed wiped of its sheets, the curtains drawn dark. You want to ask one of the nurses what happened to her, ifshe is okay. But you do not. Step #5 . Smile. You finally make it to your mother’s room. Your father is inside along with your mother's registered nurse. They both say hello to you as they adjust the tube that is going to be feeding your mother lunch today. Keep smiling. Your father leaves your mother in the nurses’ care as he comes over to hug you. He asks you if you are okay and how school was today. Smile at him and tell him that everything is okay. Your mother finishes her lunch a little after you and your father are done conversing. The nurse reassures the two other conscious people in the small room that your mothers vitals are finally starting to look better. She soon leaves the three of you alone. Look at your mother. There are wires and multi-colored lines wrapping around her body, all with their specific use and purpose to keep your mother here. It is then when you notice truly how much weight your mother has lost. She has always been a small woman. Standing at a mere 5’2 most of her life, she looks even smaller now, frail, fragile almost. Her eyes are sunken in, hands slender to the point of concern. She looks almost dead. “The man at the front told me to say hello to you,” you tell her. Massage her forearms as you remember Papa telling you they were bothering her during your last visit. She doesn’t respond. You didn’t expect her too. Step #6 . Close your eyes. Papa’s lap will act like a pillow for you tonight. The denim of his jeans scratch the side of your cheek, and his thighs are bony like chopsticks, but you will cling onto any form of familiarity life is willing give to you. Listen to the local news playing on the hospital TV along with the constant buzz of the heart monitor sitting beside your mother’s bed, telling you that it is okay to go to sleep, that your mother will still be right there, in her bed, when you wake up.

Poemgranate Autumn Hill Brazen Hasina Lilley From the homemade kitchen My grandma hands me A ripe and gorgeous pomegranate Held in its napkin -- It is all I need I bite into its bitter red shell directly with my teeth And my fingers pick, exposing its white flesh and juicy red, With such ease in small, calloused hands I have always been a messy eater With pieces of food finding its way down a mountain To be eaten off the pasture But amongst pigs and chickens Ripping apart a pomegranate With my teeth seems like the most civilized thing to do Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Summer Job by Lillian Cosby The Boathouse By Georgia Witt “A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue.” The air outside was typical of a Florida July. A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue. We sat wilted by the boathouse, Ms. Margaret fanning herself wildly with a paper napkin, every now and then using it to dab at the sweat that glistened on her collarbones. I thought she was disgusting. A young girl of 23 and acting like she was a 5-year-old girl raised in a barn. Her white skirt fanned out like a peacock’s tail, but underneath you could see her legs were splayed out like a man’s. Her feet, small and sweltering in tiny black boots, were propped up on the empty chair across from her. I kept my lips pursed and tried to comment on something drab. “Those cicadas are really drumming up some noise, aren’t they?” I said, feeling sweat trickle between my lips and quickly dabbing it away with my handkerchief. “Sure are,” she said lousily, I despised her country bumpkin accent, “though I kind of like the sound. Reminds me of when I used to sit on the front porch with my daddy on summer nights back in Georgia. He would drink moonshine and I would drink orange juice, and we’d listen to those things hum all night.” “What a nice memory,” I allowed myself to say, my eyes buzzing the boathouse for my husband, who had a much larger tolerance for Ms. Margaret’s lazy, wild talk. “Have you told Henry about that? I’m sure he’d love to hear a story like that.” Ms. Margaret shuffled herself upright in her chair, the wicker whining as her weight shifted. “Naw, I haven’t really told him much. John and I have been so busy with this traveling; I haven’t had much time to really get to know y’all. But I’m so glad I’m able to now!” This last phrase choked awkwardly from her throat in a half-shout. A few beats of silence pulsed between us, with only the sound of the canopy whipping tightly in the wind that came off the green water. “Well, I, for one, am delighted that we have this time together now. It’s really such a pleasure.” The heat was becoming suffocating. It thrummed about us like thick smog, damp vapors and mosquitoes. Now, I was getting truly uncomfortable, my dress sticking to me like a second skin. I kept my back straight against the wicker lounge and watched as Ms. Margaret pressed her glass of ice water to her cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, and by her tone I could tell she actually hoped she hadn’t offended me. For a moment, I was almost touched. And then I watched as dribbles of water and sweat ran down her red cheeks, and my stomach twinged back to its usual distaste. “It’s just so hot ,” Margaret sighed. “God, it was so nice when John and I were up in Virginia. The air was cool as a spring breeze. You wouldn’t have believed it was June.” With these words my husband appeared, dressed smartly in a cream suit and boat hat. I felt all the tightness in my chest loosen a bit at the sight of Henry, like a stubborn knot of string being pulled at to unravel. His face melted into an easy smile, and he reached for Ms. Margaret’s damp hand. Ever since we had returned to Florida, I had noticed hints of the South trickling back into Henry’s voice and talk. Up North, you could have mistaken him for a proper gentleman born and raised. He had shocked me in his courting when he revealed that he was a self-made man from humble beginnings: a ma and pa down in Florida who ran a modest citrus farm flat in the middle of nowhere. Now, I saw his roots in nearly every move he made. The easy curve of his smile and how he took to every chair like he was sitting on his own front porch. Now, I was the odd duck. “Margaret May! How is it that you look daisy fresh in this July heat?” Henry said, beaming like a schoolboy at the sight of Ms. Margaret. The sight of her! To me, she looked like a pig in lady’s clothing, pink-faced and watery blue eyes gleaming eagerly up at my husband. If Margaret was daisy fresh, then I was Greta Garbo. “Aw, you’re too kind to me, Mr. Malloy. Really, I’m sweating like an animal in these clothes.” Every time Ms. Margaret revealed another personal flaw, I felt the gravity of my world being rocked. Despite the difference in climate, both down South and up North, proper ladies refused to reveal such afflictions. Even now, in this boathouse, you could spy several of us pinned up like colorful dolls, smiling through the strain and sweat. Ladies fanning themselves, poised like gentle, perspiring feathers. But here was Margaret, letting all of her discomfort roll off her chest like it was nothing. Not a worry in the world that it might offend me or my husband. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, of this so-called “liberated woman” that flaunted her sexuality and danced with her skin showing, but Ms. Margaret hardly seemed the flapper-type. I was beginning to think she was just unfortunately honest. “How many times do I have to tell you, Margaret?” my husband said, that familiar reassurance on his face that I loved so well. “Please, call me Henry. You’re married to my boy after all. We’re family.” At this, Margaret just smiled. A real smile, not the thin and aching one you put on to end a conversation. It was the kind of smile that broke into an almost downturn at the ends of her lips, where she had to bashfully avert her eyes from my husband down to her boots. Henry took his seat next to me and leaned into the wicker with ease. “Speaking of my boy, where is he? He’s holding off lunch and I’m ready to eat !” “I haven’t seen him since he went to speak with his cousins,” I said, scanning the boathouse for a sign of John. “Would you like me to go get him?” “No, don’t bother darling. We should be catching up with you anyway, Margaret. Tell us about the trip, how did you like it up North?” Margaret grew bashful again with the attention back on her. My son had taken her on a tour around the Northeast, starting at the top in Maine and going through New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, and ending the trip in my home state of Pennsylvania. My heart sang for Pennsylvania. Every day spent in Florida, I ached for it more. Henry had consoled me about the move, told me there were beautiful places down South that I would love. I remember watching the country sink flatter on the train ride down, the green hills and purple mountains deflating into long stretches of nothing. I had closed my eyes and tried to focus on the scent of Henry’s pipe. Normally, I hated it when he smoked, but in the train car, it was a reminder of the ashen cold up North. When great swaths of trees burned in the distance and the entire winter was coated in the smell of hemlock and birch, smoldering. About the Writer... Georgia Witt is a seventeen-year-old writer based in Jacksonville, Florida. She enjoys writing poetry, southern gothic fiction, and creative nonfiction. She hopes to work for a literary or fashion magazine after college. About the Artist... Lillian Cosby is currently a senior attending NOCCA and Hammond high part time. She has come from a long line of artists ranging from writers and musicians to painters.

Élan presents the winners of its annual Middle School Writing Contest. Winners archived up to 2019. Middle School Writing Contest Élan celebrates the work of students between 6th and 8th grades in our annual Middle School Writing Contest. Learn how to compete We Still Have a Heart in Ourselves Indie Pascal 1st Place View More Our Cafeteria Dimitria Banov Russo Honorable Mention View More Oblivion Greta Reis 2nd Place View More No Fresh Air Ana Rosenthal Honorable Mention View More The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley 3rd Place View More 2023 We Still Have a Heart in Ourselves Indie Pascal 1st Place View More Our Cafeteria Dimitria Banov Russo Honorable Mention View More Oblivion Greta Reis 2nd Place View More No Fresh Air Ana Rosenthal Honorable Mention View More The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley 3rd Place View More 2022 on your name Cloris Shi 1st Place View More We Just Want to be Loved Riayn Smith Honorable Mention View More Dear Linh Kate Kim 2nd Place View More Blank Page Cecelia Richardson Honorable Mention View More How Lucky we Are Meredith Anglin 3rd Place View More 2021 Grief Janna Tannous 1st Place View More Untitled John Walker 3rd Place Tie View More Questions of Youth Erion P. Sanders 2nd Place View More The Roaring Himalayas Rehan Sheikh 3rd Place Tie View More 2020 Fading Marlo Herndon 1st Place Read Toby Georgia Witt Honorable Mention Read The Curious Murder of Lilliane Baldwin Hannah G. Klenck 2nd Place Read Becoming One Amelia Elder Honorable Mention Read The Castle Isabella Bolger 3rd Place Read 2019

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All Posts Craft Announcements On Élan Profiles Community Featured Blog Reflections Reviews Search Log in / Sign up Staff Aug 26, 2020 Élan Middle School Writing Contest – 2020 Winners! Élan celebrates the work of students between 6th and 8th grades in our annual Middle School Writing Contest. The winner of the contest is... Reece Braswell May 15, 2020 Tiger Games Noland Blain May 13, 2020 Stories Without Words: Samuel Pabon’s Pressure Cooker Evette Davis May 11, 2020 A Needed Intimacy: Élan, Spring 2020 Catriona Keel May 8, 2020 Vulnerability and Truth in the Spring Online Edition Jasper Darnell May 6, 2020 On “Becoming a Wishbone” by Riley Bridenback Luz Mañunga May 4, 2020 The Changing Élan Staff May 1, 2020 National Poetry Month Prompts Pamphlet – Download and Enjoy! La'Mirakle Price Apr 29, 2020 The Black Girl Duet Noland Blain Apr 27, 2020 “Mixed Emotion Elegy” Demands Understanding, Engagement Reece Braswell Apr 24, 2020 No Single Life to Live, or Way to Feel Blake Molenaar Apr 22, 2020 Morning Chat, Élan, and Life in Isolation Anna Howse Apr 20, 2020 Another Powerful Edition Sheldon White Apr 17, 2020 On “The Challenger Shuttle Disaster, 1986” by Sara Carmichael Conor Naccarato Apr 15, 2020 How to Remember–An Exercise in Eulogy Olivia Meiller Apr 13, 2020 Spring: Breathing New Life into Élan Blake Molenaar Mar 19, 2020 Writers’ Fest Through New Eyes Sheldon White Mar 17, 2020 On Writers’ Fest Ashley Chatmon Mar 11, 2020 The Importance of Writers’ Festival Reece Braswell Mar 4, 2020 Personal Truth Tags On Élan Reflections On Poetry On Writing Community growth happy trails Writers' Fest On Art Douglas Anderson Florida Jacksonville On Fiction reviews 30th Anniversary Prompts nature Yellow House On CNF Coffee House college culture friendship family Interviews Color Me Kona history National Poetry Month Nikki Giovanni Patricia Smith

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