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6 < Back A Night Swimmer Esme DeVries Depleting Vehemence by McClain Allen A Night Swimmer by Esmé DeVries My father is a creature of habit. I understand I’ve inherited this from him. He wants the best for us, his family, and he strives for it in everything. This I wish I had inherited. Where my dad is habitual, my brother, Oliver, is spontaneous. I see this difference as the reason they bonded so easily. I, in my similarities, wasn’t as lucky as to have the close-knit, macho connection. This combination of my father and brother’s two personalities made for interesting family vacations in the Floridia Keys nearly three times a year for most of my young life. It was on this triannual pilgrimage that I came to closer know my father and brother in a way that, at the time, was beyond my comprehension. It was some spring break, many years ago. In those years, back before my brother and I became our own people, grew flaws, and went our separate ways, vacations ran together. We always stayed at the same hotel: the Chesapeake. It had a certain charm that comes with a low budget. Stray cats roamed the property and my brother and I took to naming them after Harry Potter characters, though perhaps most memorably, there was a little pool out behind the place. It was a perfect rectangle and, if memory serves, lacked anything that could be distinguished as a “deep end” or a “shallow end”, yet much of who I am is dedicated to it. Memories of my brother roughhousing with me and the pair of us trying to coax our mother to swim with us span my recollection. In every way, it was a majestic expanse of sea. "It wasn’t often I got to stay up long enough to see the sun disappear into the Atlantic." One night, after my mother had gone up to bed, my brother, dad and I stayed in the pool. The darkness was thrilling, terrifying, and intoxicating. It wasn’t often I got to stay up long enough to see the sun disappear into the Atlantic. Oliver and I drifted eagerly throughout the pool, keeping our heads just above the surface of the water. Something about the cool saltiness of the pool was safer than the eerie blackness hanging heavy over the ocean. We were in our own little world, blanketed and isolated together. Dad, under the chillingly adult cover of night, was teaching us to swim the length of the pool in one breath. He could do it easily. Several quick breaths and he dipped gracefully under the water. Even in this, he was habitual, masterful. Oliver and I watched him push through the pool. Time went slowly. With Dad underwater, the two of us were silent, watching and learning. Our breaths mingled with the spring air, our heartbeats in time with Dad’s swim strokes. He made it to one side, then the other, and halfway back in one breath. Oliver was next. He mimicked Dad’s movements perfectly, naturally. Thin as a beanpole and quick as a bullet, he darted through the water like a pale silver minnow. Even in this recreation, I saw our differences. Where I was clumsy, he was tactful. When I was quiet, he was noisy. He swam to the other side and halfway back before resurfacing. Finally, it was my turn. I did just as I had been shown. Short breaths, then the plunge. Underwater was another world. I strained my eyes to see through the chlorine. The light embedded in the side of the pool gave the water an eerie green glow. I swam without grace, the only thing driving me my burning intention. My lungs, limbs, and eyes seared. Above me, I could hear my father and brother yelling. Perhaps encouragement. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t make it to the other side. I resurfaced, completely exhausted and utterly devastated. It hadn’t occurred to me that this was something Oliver and Dad could do that I could not. I had watched them execute the task so flawlessly and had, foolishly, thought I could achieve the same. I turned to face them, pushing my hair from my eyes as the graceless child does, and waited for their disappointment. But Dad and Oliver, simultaneously reliable and shocking, merely beckoned me back to the other side and told me to try again. This I did, to no avail. Yet my family pushed me to try again. I got no closer. I can’t remember if I ever wanted to give up. If the inclination was there, it was chased away the second I broke the surface of the water and let Dad and Oliver shower me with teachings and encouragements. Countless efforts pushed the hours later, to the point where I don’t know if I was driven by the need to reach the end and know success or my family never letting me give up. If they never gave up on me, who was I to give up on myself? I felt, as I swam, that I was becoming something new. As I acquainted myself with the water, I became amphibian and as I acquainted myself with the night, I became more adult. That night is my earliest memory of being with my dad and brother alone, in pursuit of a common goal. This would soon grow into a strange, inconsistent relationship. There was always something for the three of us to team up on, yet our collective dynamic was an uneasy thing. To look back on it is to watch myself wobble on a tightrope in a swaying trio. We could not all be balanced at the same time. Such it was with swimming. Dad and Oliver did it with gentlemanly grace, while I dogpaddled through a thick sludge at a snail’s pace. Though what I lacked in power, I made up for in passion and at some point, late in the night, I decided I was swimming my last night. Hearing their voices break through the water, I swam on, though the end seemed to grow no closer. I knew if only I reached it, I could seal my fate as a night swimmer with my father and brother for the rest of my life. I felt the dry crumbliness of the wall beneath my wrinkled, outstretched fingers. I broke the surface of the water, exhausted, yet triumphant. The water that drained off my face was a burden set down. Oliver and Dad were yelling unintelligible things, waving their arms in the air and high fiving one another. Together, we celebrated my victory, though it was a small one, practically meaningless, with no one there to see it. Tired and giddy, we went up to bed, climbing the stairs in the mysterious florescence of the hotel hallway lights. Towels hung limply on our bodies, wrapped across my bony shoulders and my brother’s narrow hips. My body ached, but it was an ache of accomplishment. I had earned the right to my weariness. Inside, Mom said she could hear Oliver and Dad screaming through the walls. I know now that she knew, as mothers often do, that that night marked the beginning of our schemes in a group of three, though I was unaware. About the Writer... Esmé is a sophomore creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts who has been recognized previously in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. About the Artist... McClain Allen put, I've been inspired by art my entire life and precisely the way it encompasses our world and everyone in it. Art can completely change the way someone thinks as it pushes the boundaries we establish within ourselves, to see beyond the picture and find its hidden meaning. My art expresses my reality of the world in a creative light through its composition and use of colors to emulate realism and depth. It displays my individuality by bringing life into my work that feels real to everyone.

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

< Back Bloom by Hannah Botella Liquidation is the Prerequisite for Transformation By Olivia Chao When I fall asleep at night, I assume the fetal position, I wrap my arms around myself tight in hopes of becoming a chrysalis. When I awake, butterflies will burst from the seams of my clothes. Inside my abdomen, my rib cage and organs will be replaced with a conservatory. Thousands of wings will crowd my middle. Milkweed replaced with muscle and tissue. Caterpillars will gnaw at me in order to transform into something I was never capable of turning into. Sludged up chrysalises splatter open on the marble. Maggots fester at the bottom of the drain, eating away at the corpses of the ones that couldn’t fly away in time. My body, chest to stomach, has burst open. Flaps of skin hang loosely at the sides of my empty vessel. Looking up at the shower head, I hold each flap and let the water flow in let it wash away all the milkweed and gore. Clear liquid fills the space where my organs used to be. Clear liquid comes out. It spills onto the porcelain. Stepping out of the shower. Dew covers my skin. Standing in front of the mirror, I gaze into the shell of my anatomy. Acid crawls up my throat, threatening to spill. I turn around to walk away. I am stopped by the hands that come from the mirror they grab onto my spinal cord and beg. They beg me to look a little longer at myself— to see what can be gained from looking a little longer. "I turn around to walk away. / I am stopped by the hands / that come from the mirror / they grab onto my spinal cord / and beg." I pry each finger away from my bone. And I leave. I let the waves carry me away from the bathroom I am reminded of the hallway. It beckons me closer. The front door glows. I do not turn around. Instead, I fall back into bed. I hold myself tight, letting the tears soak my pillowcase. I wait for the new caterpillars. In hopes of finally becoming a chrysalis. About the Author... Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. They go to school at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts for Creative Writing. Their artwork has previously been featured in the Downtown Jacksonville Public Library and their writing has been published previously in the Fall/Winter 2024 Edition of Élan. About the Artist... Hannah Botella is a junior at New World School of the Arts High School. She is from Cuba and currently resides in Miami. Her relationships with her family influence her art greatly. Through using fabric and techniqures like embroidery passed down by tradition, her goal is to honor the bonds in her life in a means of coming to terms with being the first to leave Miami for college. She enjoys working figurativeley and incorporating fine lines, sewing, and fabrics within her pieces. Previous Next

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

Toby Georgia Witt Tiffany grasped the wheel and sat up straight and stiff. Her gaze bounced about the playground quickly. She looked at a group of little kids zooming around a plastic playset, zipping down slides and swinging on monkey bars. She looked at a group of older boys chasing each other in the dirt, shouting and grinning, and she looked at kids on the swings pushing each other and pumping their scuffed-up legs. Tiffany wondered if Toby ever hung out with any of these kids, she wondered whether he liked the swings, the monkey bars or the slide, she wondered all these things and so much more, but her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, tap tap tapping, on the windshield. “Ma’am,” a women's voice hollered. Tiffany’s head snapped away from the playground and into the eyes of the tired old woman before her. Her skin was tan with a reddish tint, matching her greasy hair thrown into a messy bun. She looked like she had been mushed up like playdoh with all her wrinkles. She tapped her finger nails on the windshield again, she had cheetah print acrylics. “Ma’am your son is here,” a little boy clutching the arms of his racecar backpack was standing outside of the car with a blank face. “Oh!” Tiffany said loudly, her face burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said to the wrinkled woman. “That’s all right ma’am,” the woman said with a sigh. “Toby come in the car,” Tiffany said, grabbing the wheel again. Toby swung open the car door, still wearing a blank expression, and hopped his little pale body inside. “How was your day at school honey?” Tiffany asked, focusing on the road and pulling out of the school parking lot. Toby crossed his arms and scrunched up his face. “Mmmph!” He grunted, blowing his bangs out of his face. Tiffany furrowed her thick brows, concerned. “Well what is that supposed to mean honey?” She asked. “I don’t want to tell you!” Toby screeched unraveling his arms and balling his hands into fists, “Because you’re not my Mom!” Toby wailed. Tiffany closed her eyes and sighed, “You know I don’t like it when you say those things Tobes,” she said looking at Toby’s tear streaked face in the rearview mirror. He sniffed and wiped away his tears, preparing to let out another scream, “I DON’T CARE!” Toby shouted at the top of his lungs, and then he burst into a miniscule ball of rage, kicking and punching everything in sight. Tiffany sighed and let him have a temper tantrum, he just got like that sometimes. Toby had calmed down by the time Tiffany was pulling her beat up van into the driveway, his face was still puffy and red. “Yay!” Toby shouted throwing the car door open and running to the front door, his little blue backpack thump, thump thumping against his back. Tiffany smiled and got out of the car, right behind him. The scratched front door opened revealing a grinning face, tattooed arms reaching out. “Toby!” Miranda said, “Miranda!” Toby yelled, jumping into her arms. Miranda grinned and looked up at Tiffany. She stood up, Toby still in her arms and pulled Tiffany closer to her and gave her a kiss on the lips. Tiffany smirked, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Miranda gave Tiffany that charming grin and said, “I guess I can’t,” and she set Toby down on the floor. The rest of the afternoon was peaceful. Miranda whipped up chicken and cheese quesadillas while Tiffany helped Toby do his homework at the dining table. Toby talked for the entirety of dinner, jamming quesadillas into his mouth and going on and on about his new 1st grade teacher Ms. Crabtree and how he played kickball with the second graders at recess. Eventually he winded down after desert, (hot fudge sundaes,) and Tiffany and Miranda tucked him into his flowery quilts. “Can I get a racecar bed?” He asked eyes closed, “Like the one I used to have, like the one you saw...” Tiffany and Miranda exchanged glances not knowing what to say, eventually Miranda spoke, “We’ll think about it Tobes,” she said and then Tiffany pecked him on the cheek. After that Tiffany and Miranda went to their bedroom, Miranda slipping into the sheets and cracking open a dusty book that she had been reading. Tiffany sat next to her. “Miranda,” Tiffany said glancing in her direction, “Toby had another tantrum today. Miranda set down her book, “Oh no Tiff, I’m sorry, when was it?” “As soon as he got in the car,” Tiffany said. “Did he say you weren’t his Mom?” Miranda asked. “Yes.” Miranda ran her warm, callused hand over Tiffany’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” Tiffany smiled, “It’s ok. Do you ever think...” she started, contemplating if she should say this or not, “do you ever think about giving him back to his parents?” Miranda shot up angrily, “Tiffany!” She hissed, “we made a promise when we took Toby and we are going to keep that promise no matter what!” Tiffany sighed, she hated it when Miranda got upset. “I know I know it’s just I feel like he has the right to be with them...” Miranda shook her head, “You can’t get soft about that kind of thing Tiff,” she said laying back down, her back facing Tiffany. Miranda, click, turned off the lamp and pulled the covers closer. “Good night.” Tiffany said. “Good night.” Miranda said stiffly. The next morning Miranda woke up first, she hastily took a shower and then threw her ratty pink bathrobe on and ran outside to check the mail. She shivered in the cold as she pulled out stacks of bills and then: a letter. As quickly as she could she tore it open and snatched out the loose-leaf piece of paper inside. It read: Tiffany and Miranda, we have agreed to pay the ransom for our son Toby. Please have him back to our house by 6. Return to Piece Selection

Blank Page Cecelia Richardson I want to think, I want to rhyme, I want to get it in on time, But I can’t. Today I want to write the best words They have ever seen. I want them to look at my work And do nothing but beam. I want to prove I can be one of the greats. Be one of the absolute best Among Plath, Poe, and Yeats. I want to soar with my words Like the birds outside my window That I get inspiration from every day. I want to piece phrases, metaphors, and idioms together Like a big poetic puzzle You can quote and add to your wall. I want to prove that I have the gall To be better than them all. But I’m stuck And don’t know where to go. My puzzle pieces don’t fit And my words don’t flow. How can I soar with the birds high up in the sky When I’m a worm just trying to get by? How can I be among the poetic giants With Wilde, Dunbar, and Frost When left alone with my words, I’m lost. How can I create a picture puzzle When my pieces don’t fit? How can I have the gall To be better than them all While stuck in this pit? I guess I can try tomorrow With a fresh blank slate. Tomorrow I can prove that I’m good enough To be great. I can look at new birds flying by And get a new puzzle to try. I can try again tomorrow And let my pen soar. Return to Piece Selection

< Table of Contents Sa Aking Mga Kamay by Sophia Gapuz Son, Your Mother is Praying for You. By Amaya Thoene 22. And I pray for her too, in the lone hours of Monday mornings. I pour myself mugs of Brazilian coffee and toast brown bread, hoping to draw her spirit from the memories under my floorboards. I light incense as Damini, the girl I hope to marry, wakes. Elizeth Cardoso sounds through my bedroom wall, connected to hers, from a record player we found at the Saturday flea market. Two minutes later, she is knocking on my door, grabbing my hand in hers. This is the first contact we’ve had in four days. Time melts around us, slipping from my aching hands, so I restrict our proximity as best I can. Her smile tempts me to allow myself the pleasure of her company, but this morning is dedicated to my mother, so I settle for smiling back. Conversation is not one of my gifts, but I’m the kind of person one can be around without speaking. Damini has never told me this much, but she is not one who can conceal her thoughts. I pull her into my living room, placing her cup of Peruvian tea on the stained coffee table. Rain whispers for her from the window, charmed by her in the way everyone is. She is sought after by everything beautiful in this world, but nothing quite so much as rain. It succumbs to her every touch, jealousy ever-present in its loyal following. I kneel on the rug next to her, our elbows pressed together. Here, my prayer begins. I am pressed into the pages of distant memory. *** 9. I lie on the porch of my brother's house in Caetés, Pernambuco, sweat crowding like my grandmother’s teeth. My mother died the Monday before, bestowing this house upon my brother. He is nineteen and married to a quiet girl from Rio de Janeiro. Their daughter is silent as the dead, which she will soon be. Sickness has stolen the words from her throat. My sister-in-law begged me to sleep in the house, to take the bed by the window, but I refused the offer. I told her I would not watch another girl in my family die, and besides, that bed was my mother’s. She nodded solemnly at this and kissed my head, whispering a prayer against my matted hair. “I have begun to fear the sight of her: all her baby fat gone, replaced by shadows and the outline of delicate bones.” The porch is rotting, giving way to the poverty in the air, the humidity. I press a finger against the softened railing. Quiet footsteps sound behind me and I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid my niece will try to wake me. I have begun to fear the sight of her: all her baby fat gone, replaced by shadows and the outline of delicate bones. A foot nudges my shoulder, compelling me to open my eyes. If it is my niece, so be it. I will lead her back to bed and place a cool, wet cloth on her head, as she is always warmer than the temperature permits. My niece is not the girl I see. Instead, this girl is the age of my sister-in-law, but the two share no other similarities. She sings Elizeth Cardoso from her throat, strong arms carrying wet laundry from the house to the clothesline. She is barefoot and tall enough that she must stoop to avoid the doorframe. Her foot nudges my arm again and I groan, catching her attention. This girl is my mother, years ago, youth present in her features. She smiles at me, a braid tucked behind each shoulder. “Benício, what are you doing on the porch? It’s hot out today.” She speaks softly, her lilted Portuguese bringing tears to my eyes. Portuguese has sounded wrong since her death—felt different between my teeth—but it is so natural coming from her, even with her thick Peruvian accent and hints of Spanish, her first language. She leans down beside me, worry creasing her forehead at the sight of my tears. Warm knuckles wipe them from my face and she presses a kiss to my cheek. “ Mijo , there is no need for tears. Al mal tiempo, una buena cara. *” Conversation does not find us, but I relish in her company. I fall steadfast into sleep, calmer than I’ve known in weeks, and when I wake, hours have passed with rain falling on my foot. My sock is soaked through, as are the clothes hanging above my head. I look for my mother, hoping for assistance in wringing out the water from my brother’s work shirts, but she is gone, having departed into the early hours of Monday morning. In her place is my niece, feet dangling over the porch, rain cupping softly in her extended hand. Grief is heavy on her features, an emotion I’ve never seen on a child so young. I turn towards the house, unable to bear the sight, and beckon her in after me. She follows willingly. The only sound is her hollow breathing. Inside, I make us toast and pour her a glass of milk, almost doing the same for myself but stopping, instead stealing cold coffee, leftover from my brother. It is bitter, which is surprising, considering his affinity for sugar. I prefer it this way. Final words are not attempted by my niece, who will die in two days, her lungs giving out in the heat of the summer night. Instead, she leaves her toast untouched, coming to join me as I sit in the doorframe. She holds my hand in her small fist, sticky from the milk she spilled on herself. Here, we begin to pray. It is silent and she is shaking with sobs when I reopen my eyes. I find that I, too, am falling apart. This will be our final moment together, the two of us as selfish as children among the dead can be. I wrap the memory in newspaper and bury it beneath my bed. *** 22. Mondays draw dust into the air as I am returned to my prayer. My mother’s name, the same as my niece’s, repeats painfully in my mind. Rain greets me, harmonizing with the music in Damini’s bedroom, caught in the middle of “Luciana”. She turns to face me, resting her forehead on mine. My mother’s voice finds me again, folded between raindrops, drowning under Cardoso’s heavy words. “Death is imminent, Benício. It will not steady if you resist happiness; it will always persist.” In times like these, I remember my mother in such a raw form. She is young, before children, whispering to me with the knowledge of her older self, slipping between Portuguese and Spanish, attempting comfort with words of both our country and our ancestors. These moments are the most painful, because they are everything I have never been. But in this instant, I accept her advice and compress every thought I bear into Damini’s lips. *** 25. And when Sunday evenings call out, Son, your mother is praying for you, I respond. We are praying for you, too, in this American apartment, where we toast brown bread and drink overpriced coffee, our daughter giggling at the rain outside her bedroom window. She carries with her two things tainted by fortune: a Monday morning prayer and your name, carved into her tongue. *In bad weather, a good face. About the Writer... Amaya Thoene is a junior in the Creative Writing department at Harrison School for the Arts. She has been involved in eight public readings since her freshman year and has been published in the Polk County Poetry Anthology. She is a varsity cheerleader and spends most of her free time sleeping out by her pool. About the Artist... Sophia Gapuz is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She majors in drawing and painting, and explores the world in an emotionally abstract lens, continually searching to create something new.

5 < Table of Contents Dandelions by Julia Dinzelbacher Hungry Throes by Ronen Manselle It is the year 1942. The soldier lifts his weapon. He does not look into the man’s eyes – though, should the man not have chosen to flee the battlefield, then the soldier might have been a good friend of his. Not a step back . And the man took a step back. It is that simple. Russians do not flee on the Eastern Front. They die. The soldier fiddles his trigger, and loosely, like pulling off a fingernail, it releases; the tug is so natural – The fleeing man in question was a certain Sergeant Fydor. He has never loved his life more than he does now. Which is ironic, considering he will not have it much longer. Something had awoken in him when he decided to run. Perhaps others would call it ignorance, or cowardice – Fydor certainly did not feel that way. It would be easier to describe if Fydor had any potent memories to latch on to, ones that could explain the awakened meaning in him. But all he had was dirt poor. Dirt poor, like his mother, whose skin was made of ash and rice. Or the girl he used to know, Nina, who for whatever reason would call him “Feo”, as if his name was made of air – which it most certainly was not. " There is a question, buried deep in Fydor, somewhere beneath his army vest and loose whiskers." There is a question, buried deep in Fydor, somewhere beneath his army vest and loose whiskers, somewhere in his red beating heart, his bruise-knuckle fists leaning against his father’s heavy chest as they both hold back their tears. But this is not how he likes to think of things. He prefers to say that he loved his childhood. Especially the sweet candies, which he could never get enough of, often spending nights drooling on his mattress, dreaming sweet Soviet boy dreams. He loved sweet things. Which is why he spent so much time around Nina, who called him “Feo” like he was made of air, who gave him two kisses and three days to decide the future of her little life. She had fallen into his life like an acorn from the sky, filling his existence with luxuries like yellow eggs and full moon skies. But that was never what he lingered on. Rather, it was always her manifesto that stuck with him; unforgettable words spoken under the hot, blistering hot summer sun: “Feo, I don’t wanna live like this anymore. Don’t you ever think that somehow, we’re missing out on something? Say, have you ever wondered what it’s like to be full ? Because I have. And I figure that it’s magical.” Fydor could not say why he ran, only that he was crying while he did. He did not think much about death. But there was something he was thinking about, and to Fydor, in the moment of mad glee and impulse, it was very important. For once in his life, Fydor would like to know what it is like to feel full. Just once. Just for a moment, so that he can know, for whatever it was worth, that it is indeed possible; not just another fantastical reverie that Nina’s big imagination construed, not just one more lie to add onto the growing tower of them, but instead real full, and overflowing with sweet, sweet, sweet Russian fullness – Boom . The soldier blinks once, as if something was caught in his eye. Pity, maybe. Somehow, to the soldier, and to everyone fighting – with their eardrums bursting to the sound of full ammo canisters emptying in a split moment – on a battlefield so full of screams, it had never been so silent; they had never realized how beautiful silence was. About the Writer... Ronen Manselle is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He loves history and hopes to continue writing throughout his future. About the Artist... Julia Dinzelbacher is a Junior at Episcopal School of Jacksonville. She specializes in photography, especially nature and candid photography. She got her first camera for Christmas of 2020 and started taking the photography class at Episcopal the following year. Now in her third year taking the art, she is excited to keep pursuing photography throughout high school.

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.

f4128fcd-2636-4bfa-ab1a-6b55a04bac9b Lucky Numbers by Christopher Thomas Iridescence for the Soul by Hallie Xu I didn’t know this at the time, but that afternoon was the beginning of our planting. My class had just finished our Red Scarf ceremony, and I found myself a little woozy. As a first-grader, I stood under a blazing sun for hours, reciting rehearsed chants until my throat parched and my temples tinged with sweat. As ceremonies go, this one didn’t deviate much from the others, laden with repeated Red traditions and symbolism that dulled once the novelty wore off. I looked down, observing how the collar of my white and blue uniform clashed conspicuously with the scarlet cloth laid over my shoulders and across my heart, bonding me to the Five-Starred Flag and to China itself. I shall henceforth not only be physically identical with our country but also share its past hardships, present endeavors, and future aspirations. At least that was what Teacher Liang hoped we’d understand. Her eyes were narrow and focused, reverential toward the ceremonies. She quickly punished any giggling or distraction. I was only six, but she drilled her eyes through me and the other kids, commanding our every move as if we were pieces of machinery. A part of me knew, by rote, that I was supposed to march forward and follow whatever Teacher Liang said, but I couldn’t help but steal glances at a purple flower we passed, aching to touch its velvety petals. When Teacher Liang passed by my roll, my spine, on survival reflex, immediately straightened. This seemed to satisfy her, and I was spared to continue forward in an upright posture, powered by awkward tension. Eventually, Teacher Liang dismissed students one by one. When she called my name, I stepped out of the formation and took neat steps until I was out of eyesight. Only then did I allow my spine to relax. I’d been a wild horse penned-up, and now I was free to roam for a moment. "The supposedly sacred Red Scarf hung sloppily around her neck; she used it as a sweat handkerchief." I was about to run toward the flower when I saw Gwendolyn digging by the Bamboo Grove. She was easy to miss — a child kneeling in the dirt, her bent torso hidden behind the tall grass, prodding the soil with her hands. The supposedly sacred Red Scarf hung sloppily around her neck; she used it as a sweat handkerchief. The Bamboo Grove wasn’t really a grove at all — it was a messy potpourri of plants, which included several bamboo trees tall enough to cast an emerald shade. Gwendolyn situated herself in an area vulnerable to the sun, and the way she dug with her bare hands was peculiarly captivating — how she paid no regard to the bees circling her head, the mud under her nails, or the dirty fingerprints on her scarf. I stepped into the shade. “What are you doing?” I asked. Gwendolyn didn’t respond. She pulled out a bag of Rainbow Ropes and ripped open the package. She took out the candy, cradling it in her palm as if it was a rolled-up baby snake, before setting it at the bottom of the hole she had dug. “Saving that for lunch?” We didn’t always prioritize hygiene. I reached for the candy, but Gwendolyn pushed my hand away. “Nope. I’m planting.” She looked at me for the first time, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Like what?” “A tree.” “You can’t.” I didn’t need a degree in botany to know that growing trees from Rainbow Ropes was absurd. “Yes, I can!” She turned towards me, her short ponytail flinging against her head in one quick flair. “I’m planting a special tree,” she told me, “You don’t understand.” Soon, she was immersed in her own world again. I tilted my head, trying to grasp any special qualities about the scene before me, but all I saw were sweat, soil, and a piece of dirty candy. I watched Gwendolyn cup soil in her palms and shower it over the candy, letting the dirt trickle through her fingers like raindrops until all traces of rainbow were tucked beneath the freshly churned soil. She was right: I couldn’t comprehend the planting at all, but I was captivated by her actions — by her. I felt something itch inside me, something like the first drop of melted snow rolling down from the high branches and crackling against leaves, echoing crisply throughout the forest. Gwendolyn’s unfathomable excitement convinced me that she possessed a different pair of eyes, one that allowed her to see a world that others couldn’t. I wondered what life would be like if I saw the same world she saw, one discovered through rose-colored prisms and adorned with layers of iridescent glow. Wouldn’t that be much more interesting than the monochromatic, everlasting red? Before I could allow myself to ponder these questions, the shrill of Teacher Liang’s whistle cut through the tranquil air. Startled and flustered, I stepped out of the emerald shade of bamboo and ran back to class. I made sure not to let my thoughts become too much of a distraction during the lecture on two-digit subtraction. I had met Gwendolyn for the first time at the new student orientation, two months before the planting. It was late August, a time still warm in Shenzhen. Teacher Liang greeted us from her lectern at the front of the classroom, elevated by one step. Formality hung in the air like incense in a temple; we sat up straight, our chins up, attentive. Teacher Liang smiled with satisfaction, concluding that “maturity indeed comes with growth.” I wouldn’t say it was natural growth that prompted maturity; weeks before school, my parents had instructed me to transform into a model student. According to them, elementary school signaled the beginning of my life-long competition with my peers, and the first victory was winning good impressions from teachers. They drilled orders into my brain, restricting my every move like a steel scaffold until I couldn’t tell what their intentions were and what were my own. The 48 students in my class lined up in a single file. I was Number 12. Teacher Liang’s projector ran out of power, and this hiccup allowed us to drop the professional persona and engage in small talk. Just as I resigned myself to an empty table, Number 11 turned around and stared at me. She was slightly shorter, with tanned skin and wide-open eyes. She had talked to Numbers 10 and 9 before. My heart sped up, mind racing to evaluate my appearance as my hands straightened the edges of my shirt. “Hi?” I tried. She kept staring, but her gaze was nothing judgmental. The moment was just verging into awkwardness when she finally replied. “You’re beautiful.” Before I could say anything, she turned back and resumed her conversation. I was shocked, but the feeling was different from receiving an unexpected gift or being jump scared. It was more personal, as if something had just bloomed right beside my sternum, sending a wave of warmth throughout my body. I had never thought of myself as beautiful. My grandmother used “beautiful” to describe some of my friends or the girl next door, but never me. Could I be cute? Maybe. Pretty? Sure, when I wasn’t all sweaty from climbing trees. But beautiful? That adjective was too elegant for me to wear, and for the most part that was fine. I’d accepted that beauty wasn’t for me and didn’t yearn for it, but hearing the word roll off her tongue so effortlessly flabbergasted me. I felt like a kid who had stumbled upon the jewelry mine buried deep inside her mother’s closet, a kid who had always secretly adored the treasures it held. Number 11 hadn’t introduced herself, disregarding the pleasantries of social collisions so commonplace in our world. It was like she stood in the middle of a rapid current that rushed me towards maturity, her hand outreached to offer the assurance and sincerity I craved but never received from anyone. It was strangely comforting, but that would be one of the less-strange things I’d find out about Gwendolyn Lin. In an afternoon of our eighth week of school I watched her plant in the Bamboo Grove, and henceforth we formed something like a friendship. Return to Table of Contents

My Mother's Spirits Tuesday Locklear Mother and Child Emily Nguyen At that moment in time, everything was warm. The image of his father and his sisters faded away. All that he saw was his mother pouring syrup. He traced his fingers along the mildly singed counters, collecting ash on his fingertips. He wiped the ash onto his trousers and kept going. The dining room held the worst memories. Every night, the family would sit together. Nicholas, his Mother, his Father, Becky, Rose. Eventually, Nicholas’ mother held both of them back, leaving his father and sisters to talk. Sometimes, Nicholas would sit in the living room, just out of sight, and listen. He never heard anything pleasant. “I don’t feel safe with her.” “She’s crazy—she says there’s ghosts in the home. Old beings.” “I caught her opening all the cabinets and closing them again, to scare the spirits away. Breaking grandma’s plates.” Nicholas did not understand what was wrong with his mother. He still doesn’t understand how those things could be bad. His bedroom was right at the end of the hallway. He remembered his melted mirror, his burnt blue blankets. When he was twelve, he came down with a nasty cold. His mother rocked him in her arms. Nicholas had nearly nodded off to bed, when he saw a white flash, and an ethereal booming clap echoed throughout the room. Nicholas’ mother bound up and slammed the window shut. Nicholas began crying. He hated lightning. His mother sat down at the end of his bed, and hushed him. “That wasn’t lightning, love. Those were spirits.” Nicholas sobbed harder. She crawled next to him. “No, no, no. Don’t be afraid of them. They’re kind, they just spook you sometimes.” She smiled. “I hear them talk to me.” Nicholas spent most of his hours with his mother, listening intently to her. She told him all kinds of stories and taught him about the world. She told him about the spirits. She loved those spirits. — “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” — “The outside is too dangerous, Nicholas.” she said to him, “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” And when he asked, “What about when I grow up?” She hushed him and told him he would never have to leave. He never wanted to leave. He loved this house; he loved his mother. His soul belonged here, with his soulmate. In his home he was free. His mother’s bedroom took most of the damage. The room was destroyed. Nothing was recognizable. Windows were shattered, wood was burnt beyond repair. He reached out to touch a beam of wood and heard the structure of the room shiver under his gentle touch. He had so many great memories with his mother. She taught him so much. She taught him about how awful his father and sisters are. How Becky loved three men. How Rose vowed to never love anyone, or have any children, dishonoring the entire family. How his father (may he rot in hell,) thought his mother was crazy. He remembered how, on his last day of school (around his 6th year?), she had walked to the school. She looked exhausted from the walk, but when she picked up Nicholas, she was smiling. She told him that he’d never have to go to school again. She pulled him out, so he could stay with her. She took his hand and walked him the 10 miles home. They arrived home around nightfall. His mother almost fainted at the door, and he had to carry her to her bed. She did that often. She would walk for hours with Nicholas, and return home late, forcing him to care for her. She would stay up for days, and pass out in the bathtub. Nicholas was always there to put her to bed. He looked around the room. His last memory of her was her holding him to her chest. He was seventeen. She hugged Nicholas, and said, “You’re old enough, now. You don’t need me.” Nicholas said, “I’ll always need you, mom.” “My job was to raise you, love,” she whispered, “Now, my job is done. You are raised. Your job was to grow up, and my job was to watch. Now we are both done. At first, I thought I could delay the inevitable, I could hold onto our relationship until we both die of age, but now that I think about it, that isn’t possible.” “But I can still stay here with you?” Nicholas asked. “As long as we’re together, we’ll live in this house.” She picked up a candlestick, which was illuminating the dark room. The light was flickering out. She held it up to her face. Nicholas remembered how his heart pounded out of his chest when she did this. The light illuminated her face in just the right way, making her serene expression look dastardly. His heart is pounding now, reliving the scene. For a second, young Nicholas thought she would drop the candle. But she didn’t. The candle almost slipped out of her hands, but she caught it. Nicholas could see the flames spreading down the blanket, up the curtains. He could almost see his mother’s face engulfed in them. But that did not happen. She caught the candle. It didn’t happen that way. Nicholas sat down in the ashy room. A cloud of dust flew up into the air, surrounding him. He pulled a matchbook out from his jacket pocket. He lit a match. He watched as the fire slowly crept its way down the matchstick. After that talk with his mother, Nicholas was worried for her—she told him to leave the room. He went to his room, and the fire started to engulf the home. The spirits knocked over the candlestick. It was the spirits. Return to Table of Contents

Crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis By Ariel Wu grandmother, who is from the north & has scoliosis, totters from the car like a bad tooth, the black, acidic sugar of dusk eating into her spine. in the bone-damp lampshade, her body swells like the skeleton of chinese lanterns in spring, bulging with pus-colored light. mama helps her out of the car, her hand on the crutch reverent like an empty ambulance. against the sunset, i strive & fail at tracing the straight lines in her shadows, a well-weeded garden. couldn’t you be more enthusiastic? father asks. grandmother says she feels neglected. in the crescent of our chinese bones, sympathy melts into bullets, dripping from our surfaces in heartfuls of ash. at night i dream of her figurine tucked into an embroidered shoe box, the stream of her flesh out flapped and brimming like butter. the chinese daughter i am, obsessed with steam irons & corks & labyrinths: how comely & beautiful it would be to straighten & disentangle a time-arched body. for dinner, grandmother nai makes pork dumplings with chinese chives, her hands snow-choked & soil-veined like grandfather’s tombstone in her birthplace, dough rising from the crevices of her hand like hemlock. the cuffs of the dumplings like rags. at dinnertime i hide in my room and tell mama the chives smell like dead rabbits and mama says she agrees. grandmother calls her a shen jing bing. good & chinese, grandmother lets poison flow in ivory rivulets in her body but sees everything as omens: my refusal to eat chives, shrapnel of the broken plate mama scraped her palms on, mama’s confessions to her faceless, bloodless heathen god. the day she and father fought mama for the fish bones mama forgot to dump in the trash, i stand behind my door, hearing grandmother’s wails billowing through her enclosed, sea-sealed body like a window, the glass unraveling her curvature like the gliding doors at the hilton. on the way to the airport, the car lights of father’s benz, deer-eyed and bloodshot under a fracturing sun, nai nai tells me to hold home on the tip of my tongue & that gratitude is a prayer to our ancestors. in our household, scoliosis is matrilineal, a legacy of arrow-backed heathens, the summer moon clipped between our knees. father’s benz ebbs into the distance like a hearse, the bony sky weighing on it’s back. About the Writer... Ariel Wu (she/her) is a high school senior from Shanghai, China. Her poems have been recognized by Chinchilla Lit, Nowhere Girl Collective, and PVLSE. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and Juniper Young Writers. When she is not writing about the quandaries of girlhood and over-analyzing literature, she can be found at various K-pop concerts. Check out her published work on Instagram at @ariel_by_sylvia_plath.