Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Unprepared Small Title Shanwill Wang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

75fbf722-74e2-4369-a394-331442371c4a Wasting Time by Elizaveta Kalacheva Recursions by Nolan Lee I couldn’t cope with the stone in my brain when Sir left. Things vomited words like pills from a pink gullet. Water swimming by like a fish. Sound’s sound. Visions of my dog having caught his own tail turning red turning into a snake, turning. I could not see red but the color of red, not myself but the one acting as myself, etc. Hereness, thereness, sameness: The mannequin in the department store’s Men’s section, a good clean knife, crossing out your annotations on Pygmalion. Here there Sir you’d written nonsense dictionaries filled them with invectives segueing to non-sequiturs made me understand them. You’d said a stone is made for throwing. You’d see the lean dogs hung on their own bones and tell me throw the stone. I didn’t question yourself. Flew as cruel as its own silence. You’d said stop staring at your eyelids. The bird was leaving with a stone in its beak. I say to Sylvie, your brag couldn’t last thirty years: “I am, I am, I am,” but Morning alone is just a dish of ash. I’ve seen the sun careen and crash like a man without children. It is okay, I say. I am my own child. Return to Table of Contents

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

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

782edfde-bc01-404c-ae29-eb641aece495 An Evening to Remember by Audrey Lendvay Return to Table of Contents

The Curious Murder of Lilliane Baldwin Hannah G. Klenck Scene One Narrator: October 18th. The investigation begins. October 23rd. The autopsy is complete. October 29th. The investigation begins. The case of Lilliane Baldwin is an odd one, to say the least. In the beginning of the investigation, there were over 53 suspects, and after almost 5 months, the police, along with several private detectives, narrowed it down to three very much valid, and very much possible, murderers. (As the narrator says their names, the characters walk on stage.) Jason King, Madelyne King, and Eloise Morton. The lover, the lover’s wife, and the ex-friend with debt. (The narrator sighs.) And then, of course, there was Emilia Wells. Emilia wasn’t a suspect, no, just the opposite. She was the main investigator on her half-sister's case. She was out for vengeance, and perhaps that’s why she did what she did. She hosted... (Long dramatic pause) A dinner party. Set up for the sole purpose of solving the murder, Ms. Wells’ dinner had been planned since the police department narrowed it down to 12 defendants. It was a long time coming, to say the absolute least. So, on March 3rd , she invited Madelyne, Jason, and Eloise to her ginormous mansion left to her by Lilliane, and she solved her sister’s case. This is an exact recount of that night. (End Scene.) Scene 2 Narrator: No one knew about March 3rd prior to the party except for, of course, Emilia and those she was investigating that night. The suspects for the Lilliane Baldwin case were kept mostly in the dark about the case. Most didn’t even know the full scope of the case, or the total amount of people accused. So, on that faithful night, Eloise Morton didn’t know she was the first to arrive. (Eloise timidly enters from stage left, slightly hunched over. Emilia enters from stage right) Eloise: Hullo, Emilia. I-I came early as to not cause a bad impression, but now I see that I am the only one here. (This line is said choppily and awkwardly.) Emilia: Oh, Eloise, how silly. (Emilia smiles tightly. Eloise’s face lifts briefly.) Emilia: Nothing you can do can erase the permanent mark you’ve left on me. (Emilia stops smiling. Eloise’s face falls suddenly. She slowly slinks past Emilia and sits. Emilia is watching like a hawk the entire time. We miss a beat.) Narrator: Perhaps if Eloise was fully informed, she wouldn’t have been such a social disaster. Then again, being a suspect for your best friend’s death is stressful. (Jason King enters stage left. Jason walks loosely, smoking a cigar, acting very carefree.) Although, there is no explanation for Mr. King’s behavior. (Some say he was just rude, others blame it on the positively monstrous amounts of cocaine he did. It was a different time.) Though it isn’t very easily understood why he didn’t even cry when he heard Lilliane was dead. (Madelyne enters from stage left, head high, lips pursed, heels clicking.) Then there was his wife, Madelyne King, the movie star. In her prime, she was the picture of elegance and beauty. Such a shame that Jason couldn’t see what the rest of the world saw. We’ll never truly know how much his ignorance hurt her. And we don’t have time to figure it out. Emilia has a murder to solve. (Jason and Madelyne sit. Emilia smiles forcibly.) Emilia: Now that we are all present, we can finally begin. Sit. (This line starts out very sweet and calm, but becomes firm by the end. All sit except Emilia and Narrator.) All of you know why you are here, I trust no one needs this to be explained to them. (Emilia glares at Jason.) One of you is going to jail tonight. You know who you are, and you will be caught. (Madelyne glances around the room. Jason scoffs. Eloise looks down at her feet.) Dinner will be served in approximately thirty minutes. Feel free to chat among yourselves. (This is said sharply.) Narrator: Maybe Emilia hosted dinner instead of having individual investigation because she figured that with four conflicting personalities, someone was bound to confess something. If that was her intention, then she succeeded. (Jason, Eloise, and Madelyne murmur among themselves until Jason leans back to make sure Emilia’s out of earshot.) Jason: Thank god. Dragon Lady’s finally gone back to her lair. She’s so emotional. Wah, wah, wah. She needs to loosen up. (Eloise lifts her head. She’s clearly angry and a bit confused with Jason’s words.) Eloise: You do know her sister just died, right? (Jason scoffs then smirks.) Jason: That was over a month ago. She needs to chill out. Eloise: She’s solving her sister’s murder. Jason: Half-Sister. But still, women are just so melodramatic. (Eloise’s hands are in fists. She stares at her feet. She is clearly fuming with fury. Madelyne laughs nervously. Madelyne wraps a lock of her hair around her finger and plays with it. Eloise looks up.) Eloise: Jason, may I just say that you are the most- (This line is said increasingly angrier until Eloise is cut off by Emilia’s entrance from stage right. She’s holding a folder filled with paper and photographs. As she says the name of the item, she throws a picture of it onto the table.) Emilia: A bloody hammer, bootprints in the mud, a pearl necklace, and a threatening letter. All of these have one crucial thing in common. (Long dramatic pause.) These are all evidence to solve my sister’s murder. (Jason rolls his eyes once more.) One of you did it. And by the end of the night, I will figure out which one. And I will do whatever it takes to avenge her. (End Scene.) Return to Piece Selection

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Two Beautiful Things, Entangled at the Joints Angelic Reflection Cherry Cheesman Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

d50d566b-31f5-487b-90ac-6354d713118a dovetail by Sachiko Rivamoute The Bird by Blair Bowers The fear of revealing myself looks like a bird in a cage. Wings clipped like my truth: I am not the writer I once was; No longer the little girl with a notebook in the back of a classroom, writing story after story. Once was a baby bird, First feeling the freedom of an artist, Learning to write was when I learned to fly. Yet the bird I have become, the poet I have become flying into this cage of my own creation Faulty feathers trapping me inside, Year after year I have become a poet too afraid to be anything else. I wonder if I can’t tell stories anymore From my flocking feathers, beak sewn shut no longer being able to break free of these chains and clichés. I want to be let free, a paradox of my own words I am begging to be let free. Clipped wings and all. Return to Table of Contents

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

< Back A Warm, Fuzzy Feeling by Leo Bowyer They burn the flesh all over my mouth, and I crave the sting. I digest what’s deleterious I eat lemons the way I eat oranges By Caitlin Spinner I eat lemons the way I eat oranges when I hunger for acerbic tastes. I dig my long nail into the lemon skin: the color is luminous and fresh. My cuticles are paper-thin, Hyponychium—the flesh stings with impulse. I peel it like an orange, picking wet strings of pulp, tearing off individual slices, arranging them circular on a ceramic plate. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges. I survive by chance; I live in doubt. I chew the slices from the plate— They burn the flesh all over my mouth, and I crave the sting. I digest what is deleterious. A vile taste— head-clearing, fresh, fruitful: a bittersweet rapture. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges; I cut into myself the way I cut into citrus, convinced it’s what I need. Blood becomes a thick maroon juice. I love the bitterness as if it were sweet, I cry but it tastes like a smile, I run from sweetness as if it were poison, I hurt myself like I know what’s best for me. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges— I peel slices, pack them in a lunchbox, sealed in a Ziploc bag, perfect side for a tuna sandwich. Lemons have the same amount of vitamin C, and the same curvature shape. But yellow and agonizingly bitter— a quicker erosion of the tooth enamel. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges. Even though I don’t like lemons. About the Author... Caitlin Spinner is a junior in the Creative Writing Department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is currently the Junior Prose Editor for Élan Literary Magazine. She has previously had her work published in the fourth and fifth editions of [Alternate Route]. She is a member of school clubs including the Literary Arts Honor Society, Spoken Word Club, and Creative Writing Black Art Club. She has also participated in her school's annual showcase Extravaganza in 2025. She believes that her passions—history, politics, and psychology—greatly influence her writing. About the Artist... Leo Bowyer is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. His favorite medium to work with is acrylic paint. Previous Next

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