Search Results

Lily Pond by Kadynce Singer Excerpted from St John by Kathryn Moore The pickup was stalled under a palm tree. It was summer, the beginning of summer, so the palm had these little fruitish clusters. Now and then, one would thupk down on the hood. The antenna wagged in time with the palm fronds. Some sort of staticky reggae-kumbaya played through the old stereo for a few seconds before coming back to the news. --oday, we remember a hero, brother, an--…d father. Known in the Ocea…--y area as “John the Baptist,” Brother John--…omas was the former nav--…and pastor of St Francis souther--…ptist church located on--…thside Rd--…. He was known fo--…r his traditional baptisms in the St…--ns River. He passed on…--s day--…rs ago-- I turned off the radio. I cranked the window back up, then pulled back the door handle, once then twice, jerking it. The air was like sand and brack, smelled like the wet marsh. A small sedge of sandhill cranes prodded at the sand in the middle of the parking lot, a plague of boat-tailed grackles picking at their legs. I leaned into the backseats of the truck and got my toolbox. “I emerged from the marsh onto the beach. It was soft-sanded beach. Far on the horizon past the delta and ocean was a lonesome fleet of cargo ships like ghosts.” Out of the truck bed, I got my fishing pole and a change of clothes. I’m not really a fishing person; heard a story from my neighbor once about how a friend of theirs caught a hook in the back of their head, and it stuck: the back of my head pangs whenever I think about casting from behind. I more just stand in the water and toss it out in front of me, let the line move down current on its own. From here the marsh surrounded me on three sides, the parking lot and trees at my back. I shoved the butt of the rod deep into the waterbed. There was a row of shallowed indentations all along the mud from previous fishes. I laid out my change of clothes on the hood of the truck, slipped some tools and a handheld radio into my pockets, and then I waded north into the reeds, away from the pole and the truck. The grasses were about breast-high, tickling my arms. Sifting through the reeds I saw a few sparrows flutter around each other; I heard an egret croak. The grass made shift- and crackling sounds, like how I’d imagined corn stalks would do, and like sea oats at the beach. My foot slipped on a crabhole and a fiddler crunched under my big toe; more crabs pinched at my feet. As I waded northward the mud got caky and softer, the air felt saltier, stickier. I emerged from the marsh onto the beach. It was a soft-sanded beach. Far on the horizon, past the delta and ocean was a lonesome fleet of cargo ships, like ghosts. One of the ships’ navigation lights blipped in and out in the late sunrise. An egret stalked the wet bank with some semipalmated plovers, eyeing me. I kicked my shorts off my ankles and undid my fishing shirt. I emptied my pockets and then unzipped my shorts. The cargo ship with its navigation lights blinking let out a low pitch wail, startling the congregation into flight. The great white egret turned its eye to the ships and stood still. I turned on my handheld radio and sat it next to my clothes. --t’s a cool 75 degrees out there this m--…ou’ll want to have your umbrella with…--this afternoon--…. Scattered thunderstorms throughout NE FL, all--…up into SE GA this evening. Traffic on I95 is alm…stagnant down--…thside-- The water was between low and high tide by about halfway. Most of the beach was wet; my feet pressed neat indentations, and then waves smoothed them away. The egret turned its eye to me again and stalked out of my way. The water’s coolness spooked my skin into gooseflesh. I sifted the sand with my toes, sand fleas and coquina shells shifting around beneath. Small, fleeting fish came in with the waves to nip at the sand but avoided me. My steps were heavy and skimmed broken shells. I trudged another step and another, up to my neck, my chin, and then my toes dug into rock. I closed my eyes and ducked under. The river muffled the air, the wind, the reeds. It was murk and muddy water; it felt like bathing. The mud mixed with my hair and settled into my pores. My fingertips were raw and pruney and grit with sand; seaweed brushed against my wrists and algae slipped my hands against the rock. Salt steeped through my eyelids, through my lips. I get nightmares of this moment: where a hook catches my scalp and tugs, where waves bash my skull open like a coquina mermaid’s bra, where something else touches my foot, my back. Where infection worms its way from my ear to my head and drains out everything good. Where I’m forever half-naked at the bottom of the Johns. Where the rock sinks me down with it and holds me for the rest of my breath. When the water had come into my lungs, the sand broke its hold with a suction I could feel. I gasped a mouthful of brackish water and choked; I brought the rock to my chest, heavy and rough like a bare-chested bearhug. Slogging out of the water with it was like the weight on my knees and shoulders, low and hefty, encumbering. I dropped it on my bundle of clothes. It made a thick whump I felt in my feet. I collapsed myself crisscross on the sand next to it: it was a concrete sort of cinderblock, gruff and gray, eroded from the water. I scrubbed at the concrete with a fraying brush, scraped between grooves and barnacles. The handle was slimy with the water from my palms, and so was my chisel--it slid out of place every time I cut in. I used a broken brick washed down from up shore as my hammer. It was grave, anniversary work. The graving read as it always did: In memory of a Great Man; may he rest peacefully with the LORD in this last baptism. A steady drizzling rain had started up, the ship with the navigation lights was blaring its foghorn; the great white egret had stalked back into the reeds. I decided I’d toss it back. My arms yelled at me. The splash was underwhelming, like that of an Olympic diver. I bagged my clothes and tools in my fishing shirt and washed out in the saltmarsh stream. Checked the pole: nothing but the blue crab that always tangled my line. My new clothes were warm and humid on my body. I tugged the pole out of the riverbed--another hole, another day--and tossed it back in the truck bed. I wouldn’t be coming back. The truck rattled to life. The radio spit out a hip-hop beat, then a woman’s bitten rasp continued talking: Ailing third-…--orld countries ar--…the globe, waiting…--for your k--…nd and generous donation.

7 < Back Last Call at the Yellow Bird Lauren Underberg Man With the Hat by Bria McClary Last Call at the Yellow Bird by Lauren Underberg Business never used to be slow on a Tuesday night, crowds staying well over curfew, waiting to rise with the rest of the city at daylight. As the days grew longer and the sun more unforgiving, it seemed that spring had drawn to a close, and so the dancers went back home to their second lives. These nights, there were rarely “problems” at the bar, and the old docksmen weren’t any harm once they stumbled past the door, dribbling spilled baijiu on their way out. One of three waiters had shown up in the past week, a mild-mannered boy clearly too young to be working at such an establishment. Uncle probably made an exception, and Irene had a feeling it had to do with the unusually pearly white plates being bused back to the kitchen, coupled with the boy’s shifty gaze. She let him go home early ever since the crowds had begun to dwindle over the weekend, and she was ready to close the restaurant tonight at ten-thirty, the earliest since Typhoon Ellen had cast the island in total darkness, nearly six years ago. That is, if it wasn’t for the triad. “ Puk gai! ” “ Aiyah , Fanfan, there’s no reason to shout.” “Oh, you say that when you’re being cheated by an egg-headed ninny in a suit! Gimme the dice.” “It’s your turn to drink.” The scrawniest of the three grabbed an empty shot glass, downing the tepid air in a menacing wince before slamming it back down. Irene knew them by their orders: Brian Lam (gin and tonic), low voice and dreamy eyes, or so she’d overheard the girls at the bar say. He frequented the least, often away renegotiating contracts overseas, but when he did appear it was always in a different tailored suit with the same faded pair of cufflinks. She remembered that once, a British officer had gotten in without a warrant, barking in sharp consonants at one of the guys who drew in and lost the most crowds with his deck of cards. Brian drew him aside, exchanging what appeared to be strained pleasantries, and within seconds the officer gave his sincerest apologies and was promptly led away by one of the hosts, never to be mentioned again. Irene only knew Fanfan (a beer was enough to get him tipsy, three and he’d be passed out) by his nickname, but that was all that people seemed to call him. He wasn’t exactly what she’d call trouble, but she also found herself with less and less pity for his laments each time they sat at the bar. Uncle said he was the best shot on the island; rumor had it he’d killed a man three cabs away, coming in from the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. The game resumed as Fanfan shook the dice. “Three twos!” Brian sighed, glancing into his own cup. “Five threes—” “ Bu xing [1] ! ” Fanfan cried. “I can’t do this anymore,” Brian said, fingers pressing to his temple as Fanfan pouted. “Aw, are someone’s pockets getting too heavy? Maybe if you spared a few hundred dollars, you’d be better able to sit back on your—” “Gentlemen, please,” the third said, glancing up from his drink with a grin. “There’s a lady present.” Kit—the newest in town, a hot cup of oolong every night from the first he walked in. Pain in the ass. Irene turned her back, repolishing the crystal. “Yes—our apologies,” Brian quickly said, folding his napkin on the counter. “We’ll be taking our leave shortly.” “ Coward! A real backstabber finishes the job!” Fanfan howled. “Alright, alright,” Kit said, shaking the cup. “One more round.” Brian sighed. “Don’t encourage him.” “Like you did?” Kit shot him a look, and Brian fell silent, watching him tilt the cup back to examine its interior. “Four fours.” Fanfan groaned, beating his forehead against the counter. Brian frowned. “I think you’re bluffing.” Kit twirled the cup between his fingers, holding the other’s. A cryptic expression seemed to stretch itself across Brian’s face as he reached into his pocket, fanning out the bills he’d collected that night. Fanfan peeked between his fingers, while the other placed them in the center of the counter. “ Bu xing ,” Brian said. Kit slid the cup down the counter, coming to a halt between the other two players. They peered in. Irene paused, listening as the song on the jukebox drew to an end. “ Ging zau [2] ! ” Fanfan cried, snatching the bills from the counter and falling out of his seat. Kit smiled over his shoulder. “A gin and tonic, please—plus some ice.” [1] “Not possible!” (Players shout it when they suspect someone of bluffing in Chui Niu, a popular Chinese drinking game.) [2] “Cheers!” (Used in reference to when someone has to drink as a penalty, either during a toast or drinking game.) About the Writer... Lauren Underberg is a junior in the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Their work appears in the department’s student-run literary magazine, Cadence. They have been referred to as a long-distance runner on multiple occasions, which basically means they’ll never write a short short story in their life. About the Artist.... Bria McClary is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Bria is a visual arts major who dedicates their life to her artistry. They create art, generally in paints, and many kinds of mixed medias like cloths, collage, embroidery, inks, and charcoal because of the looseness the materials creates and the freedom in creating such pieces. Bria also has been apart of NAHS—National Arts Honors Society throughout her junior and Senior year at Douglas Anderson. Entering and winning multiple silver keys and a gold key art portfolio along with multiple scholarships from Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

Read here about guidelines to submit to Élan's annual Middle School Writing Contest. Middle School Art and Writing Contest 2025 submissions are closed. For the first time we are now accepting visual art submissions! Élan celebrates the writing of students between 6th and 8th grades in our annual Middle School Art Writing Contest. The winner of the contest is awarded a certificate and publication of their work on the Élan website. Students can submit their writing in any form, including poetry (of any length and style), fiction (of up to 3,000 words), and nonfiction (essays up to 3,000 words). Each student can submit up to three individual pieces. Email Submission Guidelines: Writing (Required) The subject of the email should be the writer’s full name and then “Middle School Art and Writing Contest Writing Submission.” (For example: Sara Rodgers Middle School Art and Writing Contest Writing Submission) In the body of the email, please include the writer's name, age, primary email, school, city, and home address, followed by the titles and the genre (ie, poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, etc.) of each piece being submitted. If applicable, include a sponsoring teacher’s name and email address. Include a professional biography (150 words maximum, in 3rd person). Example: Sara Rodgers is a 7th grade student at LaVilla School of the Arts. They love writing poetry, and riding horses in their free time. Each piece must be attached as a separate WORD DOCUMENT and the file MUST be named the title of the piece. The contest only accepts editable WORD DOCUMENTS at this time. The contest only accepts original work, and fanfictions will not be considered for publication. Do not include your name in the body of the document, as all submissions go through a blind reading process by our staff. Make sure your piece title is included at the top of the document. If you want to submit work to the Middle School Art and Writing Contest that was not published when you submitted it to a previous issue this work must first go through major revision or else it will not be selected for publication. You may not submit more than three pieces in a single submission period. If a teacher is submitting on behalf of multiple students, please attach student submissions labeled and clearly indicate the work of each individual student in the document(s). Email Submission Guidelines: Art (Required) The subject of the email should be the artist’s full name and then “Art Submission.” (For example: Sara Rodgers Art Submission) In the body of the email, please include the artist’s name, age, primary email, school, city, and home address, followed by the titles and the medium (ie, oil on canvas, charcoal, photograph, print, etc.) of each piece being submitted. If applicable, include a sponsoring teacher’s name and email address. Include a professional biography (150 words maximum, in 3rd person). Example: Sara Rodgers is a 7th grade student at LaVilla School of the Arts. Their favorite medium to use is acrylic paint, though their watercolor paintings have also won awards. Name each art file “Piece Title (Full Name)”—example, “Water (Sara Rodgers).” The art pieces must be a jpeg or png file. Submit the highest resolution quality format that can be sent as an attachment – 300 dpi or higher, and at least 2 MB. If your art does not meet the dpi requirement, there is no guarantee your art can be considered. Ensure that the photo of your art is clear and taken from a straight angle so that all aspects of the piece are visible with minimal glare. The contest only accepts original work, and fan art will not be considered for publication. If you want to submit work to the contest that was not published when you submitted it to a previous issue this work must first go through major revision or else it will not be selected for publication. You may not submit more than three pieces in a single submission period. Submissions for the 2024 Middle School Art and Writing Contest are closed. Check Out Past Winners Last Years Winners Past Winners

The Roaring Himalayas Rehan Sheikh Born in the laps of Uttarakhand, I was always in awe of the beauty of the mountains and the forests but could never gain courage to go to explore it. From the windows of my house I have enjoyed the breathtaking view of the Himalayas several times but recently I was having an urge to walk through the mountains and capture its beauty from the inner core of my heart. Uttarakhand has a total geographic area of 53,483 km², of which 86% is mountainous and 65% is covered by forest .Most of the northern parts of the state are part of Greater Himalaya ranges, covered by the high Himalayan peaks and glaciers, while the lower foothills were densely forested .The unique Himalayan ecosystem plays host to many animals (including bharal, snow leopards, leopards and tigers), plants and rare herbs. Two of India’s great rivers, the Ganges and the Yamuna take birth in the glaciers of Uttarakhand, and are fed by myriad lakes, glacial melts and streams. Uttarakhand lies on the southern slope of the Himalaya range, and the climate and vegetation vary greatly with elevation, from glaciers at the highest elevations to tropical forests at the lower elevations. The highest elevations are covered by ice and bare rock. Nanda Devi is the highest land point of Uttarakhand with the altitude of 7,816 metres above sea level. Sharda Sagar Reservoir is the lowest land point of Uttarakhand with the altitude of 190 metres. Western Himalayan alpine shrub and meadows occur between 3,000 and 5,000 metres, tundra and alpine meadows cover the highest elevations, Rhododendron-dominated shrublands cover the lower elevations. Western Himalayan subalpine conifer forests lie just below the tree line; at 3,000 to 2,600 metres elevation they transition to western Himalayan broadleaf forests, which lie in a belt from 2,600 to 1,500 metres elevation. Below 1,500 metres elevation lie the Himalayan subtropical pine forests. That day as I could see the snow-capped mountain peak from the roof of my house suddenly I was in a trance and strange stuffs started creeping in and out of my head. Civilisation changes, climate changes, weather changes but the mountain stand still and can we even guess how many incidents they have witnessed. The mountain withstands all the natural calamities and stands strong through ages. The Himalaya has witnessed numerous intriguing and interesting events ranging from the rich exchange of art, science and culture between civilisations of Europe and Asia to threatening wars and disputes that intimidated India. The rugged terrain and the harsh climatic conditions did not discourage travellers such as Fa Hein and Hiuen Tsang from entering India through the snowbound Himalayan mountain range. The day when Alexander, the Great Macedonian Emperor, came to conquer this country through the Khyber Pass in the Himalaya, the Himalayas still was there and today when I was looking at the peak it is still there. While Atisha, the great Buddhist monk carried the word of Buddha to parts of Tibet and China and to all those places lying on the Silk Route, Adi Sankara moved through the Himalayan Passes establishing the doctrines of our Sanathana Dharma. Return to Piece Selection

Grief Janna Tannous I am the blood gushing out of my grandfather’s nose, that seeps into the cracks of the old wooden floor. I am the rough waves that hit the edge of the lighthouse, only to be met by cascading darkness. I am the many once-lit candles, that flicker with solitude, only to be blown out suddenly, with no explanation. I am the wide open fields, that seem to go on for miles, but only last a few. I am the hymns sung at the service, where the white snowflakes seem to contrast the color of my attire. I am the many stones of the named, yet only one seems to be clear, and it’s someone whom I know. Return to Piece Selection

Our Cafeteria Dimitria Banov Russo She was gone. I didn't realize it in time. I was in shock and felt guilty for not crying, but I did just not believe it. I felt like the whole world had come to an end. It was just me and a huge nothing all around me. For this moment I thought I had lost Lizz forever, but she is still here with me as I write these lines down. She is still here in our cafeteria. It is almost as if I could see her here. Almost as if I could touch her. Return to Piece Selection

< Table of Contents Daffodils by Dare Macchione Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult By Astrid Henry In January, I made a trip out to Long Island to visit his mom, my “paternal grandmother." I wanted to tell her about my plans to sell the house. My father grew up in a poor, small boating town where the rain never stops. I stayed in his childhood bedroom, in the upstairs of his parents’ old house. His dad died while he was still in high school. He had to drop out to support his family. He always told me how important it was that I stayed in school so I could turn out smart and get a real job, one that pays nice and keeps the lights bright. His room is painted navy blue and baseball memorabilia lines the walls like a museum. It feels like I’m in a shrine to his young mind, all the things my father held dear as a child. Old comic books are hidden in the closet, where his brothers couldn’t steal them. I come down for dinner and his mom. Again, my grandmother has cooked what looks like a full 7-course meal. I’m not hungry. I try to shove down as much as I can, but the meat is tough, and the potatoes look like melting snow—the kind that’s been pissed on. It’s way too much food for just the two of us, but I’m not going to say that to her. I only stay for a week, the entirety of which I’m stuffed full of her cooking. She sends me home with enough leftovers to last me until spring. I never ended up telling her about the house. “Someone told me dust is made up of skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned.” I’m back in the city. Back in the tiny, emptying house I was raised in. I’m back to cleaning and now all I can notice every time I try to take something down or clean an area out is how my father is all around me, from the pictures in frames to the dust on the fan. Someone told me dust is made up of dead skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned. If I ran DNA tests on the dust up there, they’d probably find Mom’s skin cells too, not just his. She walked out when I was only five to be with another man. Things didn’t work out between the two of them, but still, she didn’t come back. My father was heartbroken, he really had believed it was him and her forever. I think that might have been the start of his death, when he started to put his faith in the bottle. I could never understand why he did that sort of thing—why he poisoned himself with cigarettes plastered in warnings and spent his evenings swimming in the bottle. The top of our kitchen cabinets were—and still are—covered in bottles, empty and full. That really confused me. It was like he kept it there, in plain sight, to shame himself. Because, really, when you stand in the middle of the kitchen, it feels like one of those church paintings where the angels are looking down on some poor, sacrificial lamb. I think a part of him did it to remind himself of his mistakes, and to remind himself of the easy way out every night. I haven’t taken them down yet. They’ve always been there—it just feels wrong. Taking them down would feel like I’m kicking a part of my father out of his own home. I feel guilty, like if maybe I had gotten him to quit smoking, this wouldn’t have happened. But I know that kind of feat would be impossible, inconceivable, really. Life was a lot different after he got sick, but his vices were the one thing that never changed—not without an act of God. I remember how they couldn’t stop him smoking until two days before he died, and that was only because he had gone into a coma. I try to keep the nicest pieces I can find of him to maintain the best image I can in my mind—the best version of my father. In the hallway bookshelf, there’s only about three books that were his. The King James Bible, a copy of Slaughterhouse Five he could never finish, and a book so old the covers have been torn off and it’s just yellow stained pages glued together. He must’ve really liked that one. I wish he had more possessions left, more things I could collect, more things I could use to get inside his mind. But here I am, left with only a few crummy books and a gaping reminder of all his worst habits. All his other belongings were really just Mom’s stuff, a few pieces of jewelry and a yellowed, dried-up perfume she left behind. It smells like kitty litter. Cleaning out the house is making me decently miserable. I’ve made arrangements to move once it’s off my hands, probably out to somewhere with a bit more sun. The house is, apparently, a prime piece of real estate, something I really couldn’t imagine affording on my salary. The listing description is pretty crap. It reads, “Nestled in the heart of Queens, this cozy, two-story abode, built in 1928, features three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an unforgettable charm.” I finally finished cleaning the house, just in time for the photos. I even took down the shrine of liquor bottles in the kitchen. There were some hidden water stains that had to be repaired, which cost me a lot more than I would like to admit. I feel really empty walking out of the house for the last time, leaving it all clean and empty. The bedroom I’ve slept in my entire life staged as a guest room, my father’s room suddenly bright and well decorated. To my surprise, the house is sold within two days of the listing being posted. The realtor tells me that’s not uncommon, som e crap about desirable real estate. She keeps trying to make me look at the other houses she’s listing. She obviously wants me to buy another place, but I just feel sick. I’m staying with one of my old friends from college until I can secure a place worth moving to. I left most of the stuff I kept from the house in a little storage unit. All the things I don’t have a use for but still want to hold onto. My suitcase is stuffed full, but it’s more convenient than carrying two. I have nothing truly tying me down anymore, and it makes me feel strange. I was told that feeling would be freedom, but it’s something else entirely. I got half a million dollars to never step foot in my home again—the home where I learned to walk and first experienced the offers of life. I am forever rid of the home where my father's spirit breathes in the walls and his presence slips around the corners as you try and catch it. Never again will mold fill my lungs as I try to remember the smell of his cologne. About the Writer... Astrid Henry is a young writer from Florida. Currently, she is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. About the Artist... Dare Macchione is a freshman at New Orleans Conservatory for Creative Arts (NOCCA) a nd dual enrolls at Delgado Community College (DCC). Previously she spent summers attending The Art Academy (St Paul, MN). Her medium of choice is acrylic paint. She also has created art in watercolor, graphite and ceramic.

Cameron Pickering Cameron Pickering is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, and the Junior Poetry Genre Editor for Élan Literary Magazine. He was recently published in a Jacksonville literary zine, Alternate Routes, and also performed in Douglas Anderson’s annual showcase, Extravaganza. In 2023, he won a Regional Gold Key for poetry in the Scholastic Art and Writing Contest. His favorite genre to write is creative nonfiction, but fiction was his first love.

< Table of Contents Felicity by England Townsend 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.

The Burning Light of the Clock Jamari Weaver Time, my old friend turned foe, Once a blank canvas I was free to paint my memories on, Now sand slipping through my fingers, When youth clouded my senses, The sprint towards the glowing light of an illuminated future started a fire, Flames burned me with ambition and passion, Leaving me with the scars of who I was, View clears with age, Lights become flashy advertisements hiding behind a unspoken cruel truth, Then comes the turn around, Bombarded with emotion in an unconscious moment of reflection, The realization the run has been in the wrong direction your whole life, Fire now ash, Memories become priceless, Forgotten thoughts a sudden haven for rapture, What was blurs, The truths I once knew become unclear, You may attempt back to the ignorant paradise of the past , But the burden of your knowledge replaces the once bliss of naivety, My essence withers with the exit of those play filled park days, The tune of my existence, Once a new classical piece of slow progression, Now an aged chaos of wrong notes and stressed keys, Reality drowns me as I attempt to reach the glimmering shine of a future of enjoyment not survival, I can feel the invisible war, The fantasy of youth, The opening of my eyes, The two sides of my soul sparring for what?, A final decision? A black and white feeling? An escape from the suffocation at the hands of society? Maybe to stop the generational repetition, “ Enjoy your youth while you can,” Pressure from the words, I am filled with rage for the ignorance exerted by a simple line, Of the audacity of those who forgot the war, But in the end it’s just time and me, The never-ending battle with my subconscious soldiers of emotion. Is time to be enjoyed? To be feared? To be angered by? To be reminisced? I know not the answer, I would rather bask in time’s incomprehension than fear the inevitable Return to Piece Selection

Spring/Summer 2025 Cover art: Narcissus and Echo by Ava Ritterskamp Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Editors' Note Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors' Note Avery Grossman, Jaslyn Dickerson, Jupiter Hayes Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" African Winter Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button African Winter Crossstreets Mila Rose Bredenkamp Small Title Katherine Chen Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Little Things Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Little Things The Forgotten Art Form: Joy Eva Rami Small Title Moss Edwards Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" The Discovery of Fire Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Discovery of Fire In Another Universe Olivia Sheftall Small Title Ariana Formica Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Word Origins: Stetorous Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Word Origins: Stetorous Popop and Me Lila Hartley Small Title Isabella A. Buckhannon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" You Told Me Not to Watch Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button You Told Me Not to Watch Meshes Conlan Heiser-Cerrato Small Title Sofia Lataczewski Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Refraction Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Refraction Heart of Sand Esmé DeVries Small Title Eva O'Donnell Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Narcissus and Echo Small Title Ava Ritterskamp Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Zest Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Zest Florida’s Gift: The Forbidden Fruit Reagan Lichtenwalter Small Title Hailey Edwards Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Rotting Roots Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Rotting Roots That Time of Day Jamie/Alethea Lohse Small Title Valentina Zapata Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" The World Is Burning. Look Back Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The World Is Burning. Look Back zlatá hvězda Chloe Backes Small Title Sabrina Inga Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Rosalind the Unsinkable Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Rosalind the Unsinkable Alexander 103 Kala West Small Title Qilin Pote Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" The Second Law of Thermodynamics Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Second Law of Thermodynamics Crushing Pain Elizabeth Lindsey Small Title Shawn Ivonet Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" how to make oolong tea: Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button how to make oolong tea: Rebecca Yang Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Return it to where it persists Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Return it to where it persists For My Country Sarah Gozar Small Title Violeta Estrada Rios Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Orbit Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Orbit My Light Allison LaPoint Small Title Daysha Perez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Fire Flower Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Fire Flower Unzipped Joycelyn Zhang Small Title Yujin Jeon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Liquidation is the Prerequisite for Transformation Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Liquidation is the Prerequisite for Transformation Bloom Olivia Chao Small Title Hannah Botella Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

How Lucky we Are Meredith Anglin How lucky we are to be alive. How lucky we are to exist, and to comprehend, and to feel love and sorrow and hatred and peace, and to experience. How lucky to walk the earth and feel the grass under our feet and to hear the sweet music of life surrounding us. And how beautiful it is to cry. How beautiful for us to feel so much emotion that we simply cannot contain it within our bodies. For us to instead place a bit of that emotion within a droplet of water and release it from ourselves. How powerful that is, that we can feel so deeply and so fully that we simply overflow. That we cannot hold it in any longer. How beautiful it is to live. And how rare. How impossible it is that we are in a seemingly infinite universe and that we just happen to be on the one planet we know of that can host life. Have you ever thought of that? We are on the one planet that has art on it. We are on the one planet where people can dance. The one planet that holds nature and food and children and joy and dreams. And how lucky we are. How lucky. That we may have hearts among us that fill with love for every other heart, that hurt and bleed and burn and go beyond the point that you would expect to empty them of any feeling at all, yet still love tremendously and blindly. Hearts that can see a beautiful picture or read a beautiful line of poetry and be filled with love and sorrow and yearning and care, deep genuine care for everything that breathes, oh, how lucky we are indeed! Return to Piece Selection