Can I Keep Them? by Moriah Roland The Ocean Voyager Exhibit by Whenever my eyes close I see it: The whale sharks drone above me Beside me Around me A pocket of air escapes my lungs and floats to the surface A sea turtle nips at the ball and chain Tied to my sore ankles I didn't mind the water all too much If only it didn’t feel as if my lungs were being crushed I can see the two walls beside me, painted to resemble A free and expansive ocean Above, the harsh white ceiling lamps shine into our tank I look at the viewing window, and all I see is a reflection Of my water-logged skin And empty reddened eyes Hair being tussled by a manta ray, With a gray nub replacing his stinger The glass holds a lie: I know I have an audience The glass holds a truth: It shows me who’s at fault Exiled to the depths of my mind, I wait in place for the water to flood my small lungs And for the salt to make me anew The whale sharks are beautiful Oh giant floating mass of wisdom I wish I was just like you Gigantic, mindless, idolized Pacing your football-field sized cage When all of this is said and done, Will they find my rotting corpse in your carnivorous maw? The ball stays cemented in the sand The chain floats freely between us A gasp is all it takes. The inky water sucks the air out of my lungs And the audience of past mistakes (Would-be’s, talk-to-you-later’s, and i-love-you’s) Watch the person I used to be Drown in that most gorgeous place

Excerpted from The Silencing Properties of Snow by Georgia Witt Marge sighed. It was a sigh that she always released after baking cookies. An exhale that yes, was from the labor of baking, but also held something melancholy to it. Something she never could place but always felt. It reminded her of the sighs she always had on Sundays, back when she attended school. Those Sunday night sighs that she let out while her father snored in front of a ball game, while her mother nagged her little brother about finishing his homework. The drone of the sport’s commentators narrating the ball game, her backpack stuffed with books in preparation for the next morning, the laundry folded neat on the couch, the dinner leftovers packed in Tupperware, stored in the refrigerator, the hazy sun melting away like a creamsicle pop, all the light gone now, just black, quiet night that would soon break into morning. A new Monday. A new week. A week uncannily similar to the last. All of it such a rat race, a maze. Dreary and monotonous, leading to what exactly? Her books in her backpack, her studies, all leading to college. College to a career? A career to make money. Money to make her happy. They had money. And they weren’t happy. “It was like a guitar string inside her, some invisible finger strumming against it continuously until it just snapped.” Marge pinched her nose to break the spiral of thoughts. She patted her apron, washed her hands, entered the living room to join her husband. “Cookies are in the oven,” she said, dropping to the couch. The beaten leather coughed under her weight, and she coughed into a fist. “Mmm…,” said Seamus. He was halfway through the paper now. Finger shaped streaks of sweat were visible on parts of the flimsy pages he had previously gripped. Marge stared. She watched Seamus’ mouth, slightly agape, and his tongue flit around lazily inside. She watched his finger dig in his ear. She lasered in on his tee shirt, the end of it pulled up a bit to reveal his pot belly. She felt disgust twinge in her stomach. It was like a guitar string inside her, some invisible finger strumming against it continuously until it just snapped. “I’ve got to use the toilet.” Marge said suddenly. Seamus didn’t seem to notice her abrupt manner. She sat up from her spot in the couch with much effort and walked away. “Okay.” Seamus murmured. Marge walked to the bathroom, feeling the broken string writhing into rage inside of her. She tried to quiet it. She dragged down her slacks, placed herself on the toilet. As she peed, she rubbed the skin of her forehead, trying to stop whatever feeling was inside her at the moment. But it continued to heat up, just like her oven in preparation for the cookies. She had felt that red hot temperature rise slowly all afternoon, and now it was at the checkpoint, ready to rumble. She wiped herself dry, stood up and flushed the toilet. In that moment many things came together at once, and Marge had to lean her forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom window to prevent her head from swimming. It was the sound of the toilet water flushing. The smell of their bathroom, the same smell as her husband and his wretched soap. The smell she woke up to each morning and went to sleep with each night. Her sweating feet and the icy tile meeting. The sickly yellow lighting weak as broth. The image of Seamus back in the living room, cocooned in his greasy armchair, his hands probably rifling in a bag of cheesy potato chips. It felt good. Her eyes closed. The perfect silence of the home. Save for the distant whistling of falling snow outside. She felt she was in a liminal space. Some blinding, dangling dream-like spider sack bouncing silently in space and time. The plate of cookies untouched on the kitchen counter. Seamus burning through his paper. Snow falling through pitch black forest outside. No people for miles. Just the two of them.

Tatyana Jones Tatyana Jones is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of The Arts. She is a Scholastics gold key winner she enjoys making content videos and showing how fun she can be.

11 Effete by Kylie Tanner For Naomi by Jessica Bakar The first time I lied about my writing, the line between truth and lie was a two-letter word. In a tense conversation with a friend, I found the fracture between my comfort and her curiosity irreconcilable. This essay she’d found had been recently republished in a regional magazine— a publication that, despite being known in my community, I assumed was rarely read. She dropped the bomb in a text. “Did you write ‘Legacy Ends Here’?” A text bubble accusation—a violation. My hands shook as I stared down at the screen in disbelief. She’d found, read, chewed, swallowed, and regurgitated something unintended for her eyes. Stunned by this impossibility, I barely found the strength to turn off my phone—to deny her question for another moment. My writing itself is denial. It’s pen names and anonymity in emails to editors, it’s changing my hometown in author bios. It’s staying in the closet. It’s telling nobody but my notebook about an eating disorder, the page watching me recover. It’s witnessing my life exposed on the computer screen, reserved for anonymous eyes throughout America. It’s assuming nobody in my personal life would ever read my work. ⁕ When my friend asked if I wrote that essay, I lied. “No.” I replied, then powered off my phone. ⁕ My writing isn’t Jessica Bakar. My writing is Naomi Carr. It’s 33+ Linkedin profiles, none of which are my Naomi. It’s the safety in knowing myriad Naomis exist, none of which are my Naomi. It’s the secure seat behind a pen name, the thought that my pen name can hide behind a number of real people who exist. It’s the sound assumption that nobody would ever draw a line connecting Naomi back to me. ⁕ I met Naomi the first time I was published. Molly Hill, Blue Marble ’s EIC, strongly suggested I employ a pen name for security. Even with her advice, the decision was unbearable--- hypocritical, even. I couldn’t separate myself from my work, from the experiences and pain that stained the page. That piece, like the rest of my writing, was a morsel of my life. It was me. To change the name attached to it, to would distance myself from my work, my writing, my life. I couldn’t reconcile how truth could become so untrue. It tasted like a lie, betrayal, sick denial. Amid my indecision, I texted my that friend— the one who would find this piece months later in another publication. I told her nothing. She did not know the name of my piece, the genre, the content, the publication— nothing. I simply told her my work was accepted, and that I didn’t know if I should publish under a pen name. I told her the thought of a pen name felt superficial, but I considered Hill’s advice heavily. I told her I couldn’t relinquish comfort, when really I meant safety. She told me to be authentic. She told me to own my real name. I didn’t tell her daring to write that piece was owning my real name. I didn’t tell her that attaching my “real” name to that piece would put a target on my back, would make me prey to four different people I call predators. She told me to be authentic, but I didn’t tell her that piece— each word handpicked at an ungodly hour— was the most authentic act I’ve ever committed. I didn’t tell her that maybe my essay didn’t need my real name in order to be authentic, that the absence of my real name made it any less true. Hours of internal turmoil ended in a reply to Hill, thanking her, and ultimately taking her advice. Naomi Carr was born. ⁕ My writing is creative nonfiction. CNF is the highest commitment to the truth. It’s bleeding my life onto the screen, ripping my heart out, stripping naked before a blank page, dismembering my body with my own hands. CNF writers are not always authors, but we are always entirely human. We are explorers of the self, reverse engineers of emotion. We understand how moths know of loneliness, how masochism and homesickness are the same. We know ourselves through the quiet contemplation of clattering keyboards. We know others through transposing the real world onto the page. We know that, sometimes, the most vulnerable moments are not with others but with pen and paper. We know that success is embracing vulnerability, reality, discomfort, pain. CNF is a commitment to myself. My writing is entirely me. ⁕ Naomi is my mother’s middle name. Stowed away between her first and last, the beauty of its Japanese origin always fascinated me. Carr is extracted from the second syllable of my last name—a familial sound carried across bloodlines from India to Trinidad to Canada before landing in California. Naomi separates Jessica from my work, but Naomi is still part of me. She’s my creation. She’s my own. She’s more experimental than any lyric essay or prose poetry or trilingual abecedarian. She lives with my essays and memoirs—in me, between my memory and unwritten words. Naomi’s name is a patchwork appreciation of those I love. Perhaps she’s an act of self-love—the acknowledgment that my work’s vulnerability, and my humanity, deserve protection. She’s a prayer that one day, those closest to me may linger over my words— that one day, the distance between Naomi and me will be nonexistent. ⁕ A week ago, I told my friend the truth. On an overcrowded bus ride home from school, she posed her question again, after months of living with my lie. It was abrupt but nonchalant, as if a conversation about college apps easily lent itself to inquiries about my personal writing. “So, did you? Did you write that piece in the lit mag?” She hesitated in a hushed voice, seeming to feel the gravity of her question this time. I hesitated. She did not have to specify which piece or which lit mag, but I knew. Smiling in discomfort, I made a futile attempt to evade her question with broken eye contact. “You don’t have to say, if you don’t want,” she reassured, staring straight at the side of my head while I looked for the answer outside the window. I took a breathe, stared back at her, and found the words to connect my writing back to me. “No, I did. I did write it.” The truth was just simpler than a lie. About the Writer... Naomi Carr is a young writer from San Francisco, California. She is an alumna of the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop and has found a home in creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Marble Review, Apprentice Writer, Aster Lit, Ice Lolly Review, and Pile Press, among others. When she isn’t writing, Naomi enjoys practicing photography and studying art. About the Artist... Kylie Tanner is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy, Kylie is an arts major who uses photography to capture unique moments and tell unique stories.

15 < Back Temporal Displacement Liang Jingyi Puzzle Man by Nishchay Jain Temporal Dispalcement by Liang Jingyi Prologue With the tip of my pen poised a few millimeters above a dog-eared notebook page and my room drenched in the distilled sound of gaudy reality shows from the cramped living room of my Spanish neighbor, I listen as the cacophonous summer night outside returns to a semblance of quiet. A stream of thoughts slowly washes away the restlessness of my heart. Holding onto each abstract thought, I begin to fathom the elusive shape of a repressed desire. A desire to write about our experience of time. Not in the sense of the ticking clock behind me, but the perceived temporal existence, the work of our minds, which, unlike our bodies, are not confined to the present. Every morning, I wake up to two realities – the physical, immediate reality teeming with sights and smells, and the parallel, imagined reality unfolding in my consciousness. In this constructed reality, the mind’s unique mechanism of memory and imagination transcends all artificial boundaries of seconds, hours, and years. Our minds roam despite our rooted bodies. On the drift of remembrance The crowd has a queer, submerging charm not unlike that of the ocean. Dodging one umbrella after another upheld newspaper while the enveloping street scenes reinvent themselves, I feel like a swimmer in the sea. I’ve always loved a light drizzle like this, invigorating especially in the somnolent afternoon hours. Taking a turn into the children’s park down a forest path, I am immediately enfolded in a rain-washed earthiness, which I inhale with an almost unquenchable thirst. I relish in a few moments of rare solitude until a woman appears at the end of the trail, hurrying as if late for an important appointment. As she passes, the lingering traces of her floral perfume cast a spell over me. A subtle blend of woodiness, sakura, and morning dew. I can’t quite discern what my consciousness is trying to salvage from the dormant sea of memory, but I remain in a motionless trance, afraid to disturb this incomprehensible process. A few seconds later, the frail partitions of my mind finally give way, and the tides of vivid remembrance come rushing into my consciousness. My last morning walk in Tokyo 3 years ago. A slight drizzle. Spring blossoms. Metropolitan speed. I now inhabit my past self who tirelessly fixed her gaze on every house she passed. The glimpse into the privacy of the Other offered tremendous solace, as if HER Tokyo resided in the domesticity of empty living rooms. She saw chairs left askew on the balcony where plants were starting to wither. She caught a glimpse of the Impressionist art on the wall, clashing somewhat with the inviting wooden dining table. She saw five Christmas nutcrackers arranged horizontally on a windowsill. She then conjured up a life – relatable in its humanity, rejuvenating for its exotic charm. 9am breakfasts with freshly brewed coffee, private conversations on the dinner table, living room drenched in a serene, diaphanous light on Saturday afternoons… She relished the feeling, much like when an author delves into the conflicted thoughts of the character and you, in the space of a few pages, become their immediate confidante. Wading along the forest path through the waters of remembrance, I relive vignettes of the past, as fresh and palpable as the canopy above me. On togetherness and solitude "I often think about the way we connect with one another – how the duet of language builds towards a cathartic crescendo where we both know, almost telepathically, that a connection is forged." I often think about the way we connect with one another – how the duet of language builds towards a cathartic crescendo where we both know, almost telepathically, that a connection is forged. I yearn to be seen, to feel the gaze of affection caressing my sensitive skin. But my body sighs, betraying my unbounded comfort in the shades, the corners, and the tunnels where my selfhood, liberated now from the grasp of public scrutiny, stretches into expansive shapes. I still remember that night with George and Anna many years ago. We were an inseparable trio in college. George and I were still together then. With them, I can be whoever I am at the moment. I stay afloat in the fluidity of my emotions. No politeness. No expectations. No pressing social obligations. In a small, tenebrous Turkish diner, we talked while sipping hot Apple tea from ornamental cups. Anna, who is a Buddhist, was talking about how the next generation of Dalai Lama is chosen in Tibet. As our conversation progressed from the innate call to awakening to karmic affinities, I felt entranced in a mythic atmosphere much like my first impression of Lhasa several years ago. Unmooring my mind from the dock of the present, I sailed to the Potala Palace, where the tangy incense-laden air permeated the sunset hour. I lingered there for a while, in my renewed memory of Tibet, while in the present Anna and George busied themselves with their perennial debate over the historicization of science. Later on, we went to a dessert bar where pop songs from recent years were blasting over the speakers. An attractive bohemian man in his twenties kept singing to his girlfriend whenever one of his favorite hits came up. We watched in amusement. I thought of how I might have enjoyed the company of someone like him – energetic, wild, unorthodox. George is the opposite – rational, gentle, thoughtful. Watching him search for the etymological origin of the word ‘sugar,’ which we brought up a while ago, I felt an ephemeral instant of suffocation. George would never take me on his motorbike for a midnight ride, wake me up at 3am to go dancing on the street, or hitchhike across the country without a thorough plan. I was suddenly reminded of an image in a novel I read a long time ago, where lovers are depicted as trees growing in the shade of each other. I thought of how the sanctuary of intimacy, nurturing as it is, may also prevent us from growing in other directions where we might flourish in a different way. Perhaps part of me still longed for the smothering heat of zest, the magnetic pull of a reckless soul. I carefully shelved this thought, closed the drawer in my mind, and asked George whether the word first came from Latin or Persian with full, genuine interest. Somewhere along my journey of absorbed recollection, my neighbor turned off the monotonous documentary. This sudden descent into quiet inundates my heart with a wistful longing for those convivial moments with George and Anna, now painted over by the brushstrokes of memory. On the temporal ambiguity of daydreaming On most days, I dream. It’s like being in a self-directed theater where past memories and imagined future happenings are enacted as if they were the pulsing heartbeat of the present. In the realm of daydreams, all artificial temporal boundaries are lifted. Time becomes fluid, liberating the self that has been gasping for air. In this temporal ambiguity, I feel a state of lightness, where all existential weights are lifted, where I am engrossed in the imagined Now. Ultimately, we invent time to impose order upon chaos, to salvage an illusion of stability from what is otherwise a cavernous hole where all that ever happens to us is an eternal fall. So, what if we fall? About the Writer... Jingyi is a lover of stream-of-consciousness narratives. She can often be found dreaming of a parallel reality, caught in minor existential crises, or wondering what movie to watch on Friday night. She currently studies at St. Joseph’s Institution. About the Artist... I am Nishchay Jain on ASD and I generally use Acrylic medium for my art work. Initially I started with watercolors but gradually I shifted to acrylic. I love painting my own imagination artwork Art makes me calm and it’s therapeutic for me. I was born in India and started making drawing at the age of 10. My art teacher taught me different skills and taught me to visualize the light and distance.

Hannes Duncan Hannes Duncan is a senior studying creative writing at DA. He is an avid sci-fi writer and enjoys poetry of all kinds. He also has an affinity for photography.

< Back At Once by Sol Cuneo Believe in the unseen, have faith By Kiyura Davis “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our daily bread...” We prayed in silence, Letting our lips hold in lies. We forced our tongues to push them back and felt our throats swallow them whole. We sang hymns and spirituals and believed in something: someone “real.” How can you abandon the faith of your father? Lie and scold the beliefs of your mother? Go ahead and believe in the unknown- Walk off the roof and trust that the angels will let you down softly. I sat in a chair For a 3-hour sermon; the cushion soaked with sweat as I tried to fold myself in. A preacher shouted in tongues while a member caught the Holy Ghost, Her eyes completely white, Her knees buckled and she collapsed, shouting, “Lord, hallelujah!” How do I tell my mother that I don’t believe in God, but believe we were created? That somehow, we were formed and enclosed in a casket--my ancestors return to dust. My bones churn upon each other until they are worn down to nothing. My rib was once his rib, but now it is my own. My limbs are now my own. My faith is now my own. If God is proud of his creation, why won’t he show his face? At church, I get homesick I watch the clock tick while the fabric of my dress weighs me down. When it strikes nine, I run from the ball. I leave a glass slipper, Promising my return. I am teaching myself trust--but my trust in you still falters. Religion doesn’t come easy to me. It’s rough and gritty, burning against my tongue. At nighttime, my mother waits until I bow my head. She bows her own and gives her glory to God. I sit there wondering if he shows pity for single parents Because her prayers are never answered; They never get close enough to Heaven’s ears. Sometimes I fear dying, because if God is real, will I be forgiven? “...forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. Amen.” About the Author... Kiyura is a 10th grade Creative Writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in poetry but also enjoys writing personal essays. She was a spoken-word performer featured in Coffee House 2024 and Extravaganza 2025. About the Artist... Sol is a Junior at New World School of the Arts where they play violin. They have a passion for oil-based painting and writing, and they want to go to art school to major in Painting in the future. Previous Next

5 The scars from my armor by Shanwill Wang Dry by Tejal Doshi They lay stillborn, devoid of heat and heart. She pressed her ear, shuddering, to their chests. Buried her babies herself tugging weeds, swaying beneath the sky’s dead heath. Blinked. Begged charred clouds to tear apart into shards of water. She tasted the earth, lay curled with her girls. Hands tightened into fists, like a baby clinging to its home body. Girls , he’d growled, girls burden . She’d whispered: Why? What sin did my babies commit to earn a death sentence? She thrust her fingers into her mouth, yanked the words snagging her teeth, choked on her cries, flung them to the grave. They lay stillborn, devoid of heat and heart. About the Writer... Tejal Doshi is a high school student of Lotus Valley International School from India whose work appears in Blue Marble Review, Sandpiper Magazine, The WEIGHT Journal, The Start Literary Magazine, Cathartic Youth Lit, and elsewhere. Find out more about her at https://tejaldoshi.carrd.co/ About the Artist... Shanwill Wang is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Shanwill is a visual arts major. The medium of their piece is paint.

0a880051-0ae5-4eca-b9ff-ef300525459f The Gain and Loss in Transformation by Alyssa Giraud My Body, the Sea/ Mi Cuerpo, el Mar by Raquel Silberman me echan del mar they exile me from the sea manos echados con agua hands full of water soy hecha de sal I am made of salt Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Editors' Note É lan has begun to stride into the new as we enter our 38th year. New thoughts on our legacy, new perspectives on our future, new voices and artists to elevate, and new promises to you—our readers who have been willing to go on the road of self-discovery with us. We remain committed to our purpose, yet we are excited to continue towards the next stages of our growth. As the year draws to a conclusion, we stride to strike a balance between the familiar and everything we are on the precipice of. É lan's Fall/Winter 2023 nestles itself comfortably between sentiment for the past and longing for the future. This issue's work reflects this, encouraging readers to establish their own balance by focusing on self-evolution, relationships, and the parts of ourselves that want to bend and expand. We ask that you be open to the new and explore the realm of words and art these artists have created. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Jaslyn Dickerson & Avery Grossman

< Back Overlooked Beauty by Audrey Adams When Fireflies Die Out By James Helmick The deep red sky, by Mary's guess, might just be poor air quality. On a typical afternoon she watches through the blinds, laptop blaring brightly on the dining room table. Yesterday, the mouth of Hell opened in Clearwater, Florida, just off the coast of the Gulf. The first to deny involvement were the Scientologists. Next were the venture capitalists. Really, the way things were going, this was no surprise. It is the evening of the day after the beginning of the end of the world. Sean stands in the wide dining room entranceway, flimsy yellow light from the living room casting a grey shadow across his mother’s table. “I saw it on all the socials,” he says. “It’s global news.” Mary stirs her tea, subsuming streaks of milk in the black mire. The spoon catches and clinks on the inside of the mug. “I can’t hear this, Sean.” Sean takes his smartphone out of his pocket, switches it on, then switches it off. “You’re going to be a teenager soon,” Mary mumbles. The tea mixes into a brown elixir. “You should be happy. I was.” “You should be watching the news,” Sean says. He turns and strides down the hall. Tonight, Mary stares at the black ceiling for an hour before sleep strangles her softly. In the emptiness after her eyes close, soothing lights flutter. She remembers seeing fireflies. A teen girl, a cool night, a cabin in the Appalachians, a world that was green and blue and smelled like cedar and cinnamon. This is the usual evening routine these days. Sean doesn’t sit down for dinner. Come evening, he stands in that dining room entranceway, says his piece, then disappears until the next evening. It’s four days now since the opening of the mouth of Hell. Mary sifts through job opportunities, reflected white burning on the lenses of her reading glasses, curly hair scrunching in her skittish hand. The light overhead slurries everything greyish blue. “The Amazon River—” Sean begins. “You know, that one, it’s just streaks of dirt now. Full of dead fish.” Mary glares up from her shining screen to make eye contact. “The sea’s brown, too. Casey from Algebra posted a picture. His family’s taking a long vacation, since the world’s ending.” Sean scrapes the bottom of his sneaker against the tile floor. “Why can’t we go on vacation?” “I’m between jobs, Sean,” Mary attends to the glowing laptop. Sean lingers in the entranceway, the ceiling light stretching his shadow away from his mother, melding to the hardwood of the night-dark living room. He runs a hand through his silky hair, only once. “How can you focus on such small things?” Sean asks. Mary scrolls on the trackpad and sighs, “Why are you worrying about such big things, Sean?” “The least we can do is be informed,” Sean says. “It doesn’t matter whether you worry me with every horrible detail. If I can land a good job to support us, we’ll be alright.” “That kind of thing isn’t reassuring anymore.” In truth, Mary had felt similar, the day after she learned of the beginning of the end of the world. She climbed up from her laptop’s gleam, glanced in the fridge, and sighed tiredly. As she gathered bags, she eyed the car keys on the counter but didn’t reach. It had been a while since she went to the store. When she was outside, lightheaded, her legs continued forward. The concrete sidewalk crunching underneath, she tilted her head back and breathed the deep crimson. A little walking never hurt anyone. Then, a single slimy stream of blood trickled from the sky, dripping onto her left eyebrow and stopping underneath her ear. It stank of tin. Cars packed like sardines down the road, honking like furious geese. They scraped forward, an inch each, the gaps between tightening but cars never advancing. At the end of Mary’s leisurely stroll, it turned out the store had shut down. Supply shortage. It’s fine, she thought. It’s all fine. “Hell didn’t rise up to reach us,” Sean says. Mary blinks and the memory dispels. “What?” Mary looks up again, her forehead scrunched. “You’re still here? You have another calamitous news story from your phone?” “This was on some forums, actually,” Sean says. “On my computer. Not phone.” Sean coughs into his fist. “They figured it out,” he continues. “The President went to talk with the Devil at the mouth of Hell, and it turns out everyone was right. Heaven is somewhere far away in the sky and Hell is deep below, close, like home.” Mary scoffs and turns to look at all four walls of the room, “What?” “Hell didn’t rise up to reach us. We lowered ourselves. Succumbed to it,” Sean sniffs. “What?” Mary buries her face in her hands. “What do I do with this? The whole world is crumbling, and my son doesn’t eat, and I can’t get a job?” “Well, the entrance to Hell is literally seven miles away,” Sean says. Mary groans. Sean stomps. “What am I supposed to do? I’m only twelve.” Mary tugs her head from her palms and refocuses on her laptop screen, glowing like spraying sparks. “I don’t know what else to talk about. I hate the end of the world. It should’ve been a big meteor instead.” Sean turns. Sean leaves. Sleep comes easy tonight, Mary’s shoulders bunched up under her sheets. Every day there’s the feeling of being crushed on both sides. Assaulted by blinding light or miserable darkness. She clutches her gently glowing memories like relics from a kinder world, or at least a time when Hell wasn’t on her doorstep. Mary slumps between sips of black coffee. The laptop sits closed off to her left side, charging. Pink sunlight gleams through the window sashes. Then, Sean enters. He sits across from his mother and pours small glass of pulpy orange juice. They glance at one another a few times. “Fireflies,” he says. “They’ve gone extinct.” About the Author... James Helmick is a writer based in Jacksonville, Florida. A junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts’ Creative Writing Department and Vice President of the Spoken Word Club, she specializes in surreal and magical realist elements to explore the nooks and crannies of being human and evoke curiosity in both her poetry and prose. In addition to having been previously published in Élan, her environmentalist short fiction won a regional Scholastic Gold Key in the sci-fi category. About the Artist... Audrey Adams is an 11th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She focuses on sculpture—but also has works in photography and painting. Previous Next

< Back The Paths of Life by Audrey Adams Spes Phthisica By Cameron Pickering I lie down in my artistry with a rabid lust for lines; when I prostrate myself to my own phthisis, when I squirm as my lungs turn to drops of black bile, I am writing poetry. It will find the page soon enough, at least during the next time I can make it from the bed to the desk. I am wasting away into the sunlight that blooms the flowers, then wilts them. The sunlight that opens the eyes, then enucleates them. Elizabeth clicks her tongue at me when she barges in, condensation now racing faster down the cabin windows as she sets our tray on my table and hands me a cup of tea. I ask where the crackers are. She tells me we’re out of crackers. We cannot be out of crackers, but she insists, so I send her into town with a hoarse whisper and a bloody cough. She says the phthisis has taken me over. She says I will die. I tell her that all of this is worth it, that one cannot write without inspiration. Tuberculosis may take my body, but it will only fortify my words, I say. She grimaces at me when she leaves the room. The vines of consumption are tightening around my chest once again, and I writhe and suck on my teeth and spill my lukewarm tea all over the myself and the bed. It curdles itself into my open wounds, the sores on my neck flinching as the ochre liquid penetrates them. There is nothing I can do now. The sunlight is blaring through the windows, and I shiver while my bed-ulcers burn. I tell myself that this is true meaning of art, of life. That even though my body may not persist, that everyone shall see that this affliction was the point of it all. I hear footsteps. Elizabeth has not left, I guess. She comes back into the room with no crackers and the sledgehammer. I close my eyes. I hear a retch, a cough, and open my eyes enough to see on my shirt, bloody sputum, and in her eyes, an unquenched thirst. About the Author... Cameron Pickering is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, and the Junior Genre Editor of Poetry for Élan Literary Magazine. Last year, he was published in a Jacksonville literary zine, Alternate Routes. In 2023 and 2025, he won a Regional Gold Key for poetry and an Honorable Mention in flash fiction in the Scholastic Art and Writing Contest, respectively. His favorite genres to write are creative nonfiction and poetry, but fiction was his first love. About the Artist... Audrey Adams is an 11th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She focuses on sculpture—but also has works in photography and painting. Previous Next