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

< Table of Contents Broken Limbs by Abigail Cashwell I confess to the sea By Jacob Jing that I am exhausted. that I know there is no sky where a lover can fly without the destiny of descent, but I still find myself there, waiting to be hurled back down. in his fiery descent, Icarus was comforted by a tender wind, and returned to the water from the womb of his undoing. if the tragedy is that he recognized the fall too late, then where is the gentle nosedive for the one who predicted plummet from the start? where are the soft waves that will cradle that loveless execution? what I want is to be told that I am enough, that I have been good, that my descent will be more soft than lethal. if not that, then I want to be mourned with more softness than I was loved. to be told that my body once carried something kind inside it. I still need to forgive myself for burning in the name of safety you failed to offer. the scorched plumage: a casualty of my useless heart. before you tell me to swallow my tears, let me first become fluent in the shame “let me first feed these feathers to / the flame.” of wanting to be held. let me first feed these feathers to the flame. let me love the wounds you gave me before I take to the sky once more, chasing what the sun leaves behind. About the Writer... Jacob Jing is a young writer currently studying visual arts at the University of North Texas. He has been published in Spellbinder Magazine and is forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit. In his free time, he enjoys photography, naps, and the $3 milkshakes from the student union. Find more of his work at https://linktr.ee/Jacob_Jing . About the Author... Abigail is an 11th grade student at Savannah Arts Academy. She enjoys using acrylic paint and experimenting with color. She also likes making art pieces using references from places she has traveled to. After high school she plans to go to college to become an art teacher at an elementary school.

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

< Table of Contents Gilded Embrace by Isabella Woods Wax-Feathered Heart By Izzy Falgas In a prison trapped by way of sea and land, watching as your fingers run through soft wax, I’ve seen gentle smiles and calloused hands; father deftly lining quills up from the smallest. They took him forty-two days to construct which left me forty-three to gaze down at you. “I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. / All I could grasp was dripping wax.” You soared, wings brushing my sky as I perch on my own chariot of ignorance. I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. All I could grasp was dripping wax. Your eyes were on the sky, counting the stars of Orion— why did they never lock onto me? Too far to hold you, near enough to hurt you; is arm's length still too close? Cupped in my hands is your ambrosia I never had. You were never vain; I was the selfish one. Washed up on the white sands of Icaria, death held close as the sun fell in love with a dead man. About the Writer... Izzy Falgas is a freshman in Harrison School for the Arts and is in the Creative Writing department. She enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction in her free time, as well as creating other forms of visual art. She has won many awards and accolades for her visual art, including FAEA’s Award of Distinction and a gold ribbon in SSYRA’s visual category. She has a novel in the works, but is mainly occupied by piles of homework and playing with her four-month-old puppy. About the Artist... Isabella Woods is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy. She knew at a young age that she was interested in doing art. Some of her influences have come from her grandmother, mom, and teachers who have all inspired her with their own art. Now attending Savannah Arts Academy, she is able to be creative everyday with multiple different kinds of art.

2 < Back Elegy for Big Talbot State Park Brendan Nurczyk Capture Memory by Kaleigh Simmons Elegy for Big Talbot State Park by Brendan Nurczyk "I’ll write on the stark singular// page at midnight, bright and limited// as a coast, I was here" We’ll get there in time to watch the heron empty its beak of fish into the Nassau Sound, flurry of silver bodies etching blue knives, these wasted afternoons becoming lessons in learning to love every part of the branch the Spanish moss snags, our soft dislodging of eyes and the stubbornness of sand, and brine, the way the hot air cuts into the cold. Waist deep in the water and dancing hard on my sprained ankle, I’ll point at a white abandoned shirt hanging from a branch on the shoreline, dark yellowed-in armpits, a calcified once-body, and remark, It could be anyone’s, even ours. And you’ll nod silently as the water swells now at our shoulders and moves us farther and our skin now more salt than human. And when we’re back on the shore we’ll write our secrets in the sand and then quickly bury then. Let them die in the mouth, let us swim for hours, idiot fish. And I’ll think of this place, bruised into a childhood I measure by hurricane seasons, by the perspiration that builds on the windows of the house. The messages I scrawl into the glass that warp and evaporate, and there’s no proof I was ever here besides this single moment eaten apart by mosquitos and low sun like the oranges we emptied of any flesh with our sticky hesitant mouths. I’ll tell you on the other side of the shore, between here and Amelia Island, in the pruned topography of my hands. I’ll write to you on the gullies of eroded dunes, on every inch of available skin on the body I bury under layers of clothes and inside summers I waste with nothing but the pumping of my lungs to the rhythm of the wind adrift cycads. I’ll write on the stark singular page at midnight, bright and limited as a coast, I was here, you don’t have to believe me, but I was. About the Writer... Brendan Nurczyk is a poet and essayist from Jacksonville, FL. He is an alum of the Iowa Young Writers Workshop and reads for the Farside Review. About the Artist... Kaleigh Simmons is a student at Savannah Arts Academy. The mediums of their piece are Alcohol Marker and Color Pencils.

5 < Back to you, the sea Mia Yen Il fiore by Samantha Criscuolo to you, the sea. by Mia Yen You are the assemblage of a ship, a thunderstorm, and a scream. You are burnt orange tempura— an amalgamation of colors that just happened to turn out a shade clear enough to pass as the color between red and yellow. You are frantic and wavered strokes, peeling from the cardboard— the colors screaming with you. You are the blood sky in Turner’s Slave Ship and you are the storm in Cole’s The Oxbow . The sea is painted with impasto— pastel and baby blues and whites. The sea is wrapped in layers upon layers of oil paint— and underneath is even more paint, like soak-stain, like Frankenthaler’s The Bay . It’s only the blue and the blue and the blue. The sea is cold the same way Braque’s The Portuguese is, disjointed, like it shouldn’t be whole but it is. It feels like too many faces, too abstract to be placed in something as simple as a box. If Oppenheim’s Object had a face, this would be it. It watches you, watches over you— like the “You” in Bruegel the Elder’s Hunters in the Snow . You look at this world of blue— the weight of the colors is crushing. They strangely belong, unlike you— the bright yellow skin of Kirchner’s Self Portrait of a Soldier . A severed hand. You think it’s sickly. You don’t want to be Schwabe’s The Death of the Gravedigger. You think it’s unusual. You don’t want to be Redon’s The Crying Spider But although you are not the dream in Monet’s The Saint-Lazare Station, Although you are not the cold in Mondrian’s Gray Tree, You are the red that burns and burns until it is completely burnt— You are not red just for the sake of it. You are the upper half of Munch’s Anxiety . You are the yellow of overwhelming love in Klimt’s The Kiss , You are the golden fruits in Ruysch’s Fruits and Insects . You are heart and you are gold and you are the reminder of vanitas. "You are the scream and the call of a human. // You are the purposeful combination of colors" You are the purposeful combination of colors You are the assemblage of a ship and the thunderstorm that weathers it. You are the scream and the call of a human. You are the purposeful combination of colors that became this shade of burnt orange tempura. You are the amalgamation of life. About the Writer... Mia Yen, from California, is a junior at Orange County School of the Arts in the Creative Writing conservatory. She has a love-hate relationship with writing dialogue and enjoys writing flash fiction and short stories. She is currently interested in scriptwriting, as well. About the Artist... Sam Criscuolo is a student at Douglas Anderson. The medium of their piece is photography.

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

Fading Marlo Herndon You, you came back with your fiery eyes and burning touch Trying to light me up again The smell of smoke filled the air as you trudged closer Making its way into my lungs ‘I miss you’ poured from your lips like tar But all I heard was the crackling fire behind you Your fingertips traced from my jaw line to my ear Tucking my hair behind it You leaned close Hesitation chilled my spine My mind drifted back to the last time I saw you I pulled back My chest felt like it was burning Silver droplets fell from the icicles on my fingertips This is what you do Make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside Then you watch as the ice melts away Leaving me to condensate You came back with your fiery eyes and burning touch Trying to light me up again But it`s time for you to go I`d rather be cold than let you burn me Return to Piece Selection

55abbc5c-f352-45e7-96ae-2384491fa7fe Commensalism by Arabella Riefler Between the Eyes by Maeve Coughlin "The fear wouldn’t even process before the lights faded, he’d told her, and besides, all animals went to heaven." His daughter used to get upset when her father came home with dead animals. She would look at her father with tears in her eyes and ask him if he’d at least been gentle. So, he made her a promise that he’d kill them so fast they wouldn’t even feel it. Right between the eyes, he’d said. The fear wouldn’t even process before the lights faded, he’d told her, and besides, all animals went to heaven. She was only satisfied with the deal when she got a pet rabbit (to replace the one he’d killed that day, she’d said, although she didn’t believe it could be replaced). Eventually he bought her one from the pet store. His daughter’s name was Millie. They also called her Milkweed, and LiLi, and Mil. The hunter’s son was only two years older – nine – and he had only ever known himself by the name Ziggy, but his legal name was Zenith Goldson. Together, those two had hung the stars and the moon. And the hunter would bring them something fresh to eat. Suddenly, the doe’s head shot up. Her ears twitched in every direction, nose wiggling. For a moment, the hunter thought he’d been seen, but then there was a sound from across the clearing. Click. Then, a roar. Thunder condensed into a single syllable rather than rolling growls. A bullet grazed the back of the doe’s head, leaving a shallow gash. She screeched, all the air in her lungs whistling out, a noise of fear, of fury. Then, she breathed in. The bullet had passed her, whizzed through the leaves, and landed in the hunter’s chest. He grunted, wind knocked out of him, brought a hand up to his heart. The doe was leaping off through the woods, her white tail straight up, scared half to death. Led was lodged in the hunter’s right atrium. The muscle twitched and jumped erratically, blood spraying out onto the brown leaves, soaking into the damp soil beneath them. His heart overflowed – with the thought of his family, of how much he loved them, of how lucky he’d been to know them. His hand came down again, sticky. The man came down with his hand. “Shit!” Someone said from the other side of the clearing. The doe was gone. How unfortunate that the other hunter’s killing shot was successful all the same. “Shit,” he said again, quieter. He approached the dying hunter in a rush. Branches snapped in his wake. It was evening when a police officer arrived at Mrs. Goldson’s doorstep. She and her children sat around the dinner table, staring at their canned-tuna-and-barbecue-sauce sandwiches. No one had touched the food. They were worried sick. It was possible that the lousy meal would make them sicker. It was Millie who stood first. For how small she was, she had her father’s strength – not in her delicate little hands, but in the marrow of her bones. She let the officer in. Mrs. Goldson was right behind her, clutching the yellow fabric of her dress. “Where is he?” She asked. “What happened to him?” The officer removed his hat and held it to his chest. He glanced at Millie. She held his gaze, eyes flaring – or perhaps that extra shimmer was from unshed tears. He looked away. “Mrs. Goldson,” he said. “He’s… gone.” In the silence that followed, he handed Mrs. Goldson a piece of paper, slanted handwriting scrawled across it. St. Bernard’s Hospital of Marble, North Carolina. Room 113 . “It was an accident. He was shot by another hunter. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Goldson held the paper in one shaky hand, the other still clutching the fabric of her dress, wrinkling the freshly ironed cotton. She didn’t say anything, just stood there and shook. Millie stood, too, frozen in time. Then, with a shudder, she turned to the officer, only a fraction of an inch. “Sir,” she whispered. “Please… did he… at least, was it quick?” She paused, then met his gaze through the blurriness of her tears. “Right between the eyes?” Return to Table of Contents

1 < Back Mango Heart Mango Heart by Camille Faustino About the Artist... Camille Faustino is a student at Douglas Anderson. The medium is mixed media involving acrylic paint folded and layered paper, trasferred photos, and plastic.

6b5b6bc7-3542-4110-9115-40f80c1497a1 Groceries by Camille Faustino The Orange Tree Across the Street by Sarah Ermold It wasn’t trespassing, Because the house was for sale And the orange tree in the back yard was public property. Grandma promised it was safe and held my hand when we crossed the street, Because I was still in elementary school and didn’t know better. I gripped a Longaberger basket soaked in stress and Florida humidity, And picked the rotting fruit hanging from the shortest branches. Watched the fruit flies at my feet scream in excitement, As they invade the soft veil of the peel encrusted in a silky brown slime. Their weak bodies drowning in the bitterness Of the perished organs decomposing in ant piles and feral grass. I reached to pick it up, and Grandma slapped my hand. She wiped my hands on my shorts and told me The best oranges hang from the tree. Grandma squeezed my hand before we stepped onto the pavement, And walked the thirty feet back to the house. I sat in the chairs that lined Grandma’s kitchen table, As she lathered the forbidden fruit in the water that leaked from her faucet. She sat a napkin in front of me, heavy with the slobber of a freshly polished orange. I held the meat of the orange like rotting flesh on my tongue. She watched me as we ate the oranges together, With each bite, the pith slide between my front teeth like dental floss And the pulp bled from the corners of her mouth, I used the lung shape of the orange’s body to put on a smile. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, because they were the best oranges she ever had. When she offered me another, I told her I was full. And when we were finished, I told her they were the best oranges I ever had. When my mom came to get me, Grandma begged me to take them home. Shoved them in the used Publix bags from under the sink. Her hands coated in orange saliva and my bitter lie, She made sure to put them in the car so I wouldn’t forget them. Grandma buckled me and the oranges into the car seat, As she told mom of our day, elbowing me to tell mom, These were the best oranges I ever had. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Editors' Note As Élan has continued to sail into its 38th year of publication we have explored the fluidity of authentic art, and the variety of ways it can appear. In these pieces, artists from around the world grapple with the hard realities of what makes them belong and stand out as they perch on the precipice between childhood and adulthood. Journey with us as we dive deep into the true meaning of these human desires. As Editors-in-Chief, we are beyond proud of the work the staff and artists have put into this issue. We hope that you will allow this collection of work to sit with you. Let the tides of emotion within these pages take you out to sea and lead you somewhere different from where you began. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Avery Grossman, & Jaslyn Dickerson