Search Results

Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant You Used to Know How to Dance (Really Well) Somewhere, outside of my conscious memory, I am two years old and I am helping make peppermint chocolate frogs. Before my mom moves across the country away from my dad, they have a small chocolate business. We have a house in Sedona, Arizona, and steps away from the door is the Chocolate Kitchen. From borrowed memories, the kitchen is silver and grey and light blue. There are the countertops of stainless steel and cold marble, to assist in tempering and various other chocolate pursuits. Here, a large melting pot. Here, the fridge. A smart-looking freezer stands next to the fridge, and the floor is cold to the touch, even in the heat of an Arizona summer. The walls are lined with giant racks of cacao powder, cacao butter, and Belgian truffle moulds. “and I will finally hold on to memories of my own, of two different flavors: Arizona as cinnamon, Florida as saltwater taffy.” In these borrowed memories, I am very small with whisps of light blonde hair and bright blue eyes. My dad is tall, lanky, and bald, with a loud laugh and clever fingers, and my mom is the same, but with some of the blonde hair I inherited. She wears summer dresses and platform flipflops, and my dad wears loud colorful shirts. I wear soft dresses and whatever I want, a Cinderella dress on an August afternoon, because I am too young still to be judged for those things. Here, in memories I will never have, we are happy. The frogs are happy too, I think, because they have little speckles of white chocolate on their backs, because I am the one who picked peppermint, and because I think that everything must be happy when I am. My mom returned us to Jacksonville, Florida some months later. It is not the first time we have come, and it will not be the last time we will leave here together, but this time our center of gravity is a small pink beach house with a tire swing on the big magnolia in the back. I will grow up here, and in other small houses, and I will only cry at night for my dad for a year. I will be another year and another year and another year older, and I will finally hold on to memories of my own, of two different flavors: Arizona as cinnamon, Florida as saltwater taffy. There are only a few good cinnamon memories, but in this one I am still blonde and still missing my dad when I am not with him. We are on my grandmother’s yellow corduroy couch, he and I, and he is reading Roald Dahl’s “Fantastic Mr. Fox” aloud. His voice drops dramatically, and I know before he says the name that Badger has something to say. “’Foxy!’ cried Badger. ‘My goodness me, I’m glad I’ve found someone at last!’” My dad’s voice gravels and rises and I gravel and rise with it, so eager to laugh with him. Soon he’s falling asleep and I’m poking his cheek, scratchy from having shaved the day before, but I give up in favor of falling asleep too, curled up in his lap like a creature full of trust. Time passes, and my hair turns darker even as I spend more and more time in my saltwater taffy home. Cinnamon memories are soon displaced in favor of Michigan ones, tasting like licorice and something just a little wrong. Soon, my father will take me to a Coney Island (where I will order one of only a few vegetarian items—he seems to have forgotten this life-long trait of mine) and he will tell me in so many words that he wishes I had not been born. When I get home to saltwater taffy and my mom and our house with a red door and the pecan tree out front, I will cry in her arms until I fall asleep. The next day, or perhaps the days following, my mom will start telling me stories about a light blue kitchen and peppermint chocolate frogs and a dad who loved me so much he broke down in tears when I was born. She will tell me that he promised to be the world’s best father, and perhaps her voice will tighten here, but neither of us will talk about it. She does not need to tell me about the bad parts. Instead, she will tell me that when she met him, they danced really well together. She tells me about the ferocity of his joy, and the quick passion of his interests. I will listen, even though I know nothing about the man she describes. The man she met, who wrote her poems and studied art in Italy for months, is not my father. We will both pretend he is. Often, my father will tell me he is going to change. In one licorice memory he will take me to a small diner in downtown Lapeer, order me a hot chocolate and a blondie, and apologize, telling me he has realized the error of his ways. He will reach for my hand with fingers that are no longer clever, but I will clutch my mug like it could take me away from this moment. Still, though, I am young, here, and I will want so dearly to believe him, a creature of hopeless hope. I have so little proof of my own that he can be good. 15 years after my mom and I moved away, when I am less than a month from 18 and I am finally learning that none of this was my fault, my father will call me. I will ignore it, but his voicemail will apologize for neglecting to love me as he should. His voice is flat, and his pauses are long enough that it feels like he didn’t plan this at all. He promises to seek out more ways to show his love to me, says he’s proud of me, and that he thinks I have a lot to offer to the world. Seven, five, even three years ago, I would have called him right back and heard him out, crying as he finally said what I had always needed to hear. But this is not then, and I know that I am worthy of praise, that I am talented and brave and strong. I have proved these things to myself, and that’s all I need. So when my father leaves me this two and a half minute voicemail of hollow praise, a last-ditch effort at fatherhood, I will laugh. There is nothing else to do.

MIDDLE SCHOOL ART AND WRITING CONTEST 2025 WINNERS Élan celebrates the work of students between 6th and 8th grades in our annual Middle School Art and Writing Contest. FIRST PLACE SECOND PLACE THIRD PLACE First Place Biblical Angel by Isaac Anderson Resilience's Dark Embrace by Annie Lin I cried out loud to the soundless void, Yet no one heard my trembling plight. Alone I wait, in inevitable despair In the chill of solitude, she cherished my soul. Through life's obscured passages, whispers of dream linger, Where resilience hides occult, a quiet force— Hand in hand with sorrow, yet unseen, An esoteric support in daily exertion, its course She comforted me; I searched blindly for her. Blindly— Blindly— Blindy, taking my step to my cessation. In the heart's hidden depths adumbrate, Each hardship enriches intricacy, crafting beauty, Serene harmony within life's chaos unfurls, The grand fresco of life, sculpted by resilience's inner essence The world spins on, unheeding my tears, A heart aching with unspoken fears. I seek the light, the one she provides. Now, I watch the fading of my dreams Harmony of life’s chaos, struggle and endurance, Silent guardian, shielding the heart's resilience, Dual nature, the ability to empower while exhausting the spirit, A story of survival and pain, a burden to the weary soul She left me; I wanted to die. Die— Die— Die, lifeless in this perishable land. A hidden strength, a quiet force in the night, Hurt the heart, darken the soul's light, No light left in the eye, where shadow dawdles, Only darkness, forever, amidst life's tumultuous storm. Alone, I feel so hysterical I feel so delusional, I always thought I was insusceptible to the world But she is trying to annihilate me, so damn slowly She does not sincerely love me, All upright lies, my eternal craving. About the Writer... Annie Lin is a 7th grader at Julia Landon College Preparatory and Leadership Development School. They enjoy every moment that involves music, from concerts to bus rides. They love dramatic performance and expressing their ideal aspects in each act. They mix different forms of art into poems, adding a personal touch into each piece of art, poetry or just a simple doodle. About the Artist... Isaac Anderson is a 6th grade scholar at Matthew W. Gilbert Middle School, who became interested in art at nine years old when he received his first sketchbook. From there, his talent sharpened and his interest in art increased. Second Place Yearning by Alana Rihaly Yesterday I Could Fly by Coleson Roth High in the sweet savory clouds The birds at my batting wings Soaring through the silver sky Yesterday I could fly The rumbling of the salty ocean So far beneath my claws The breeze, blowing me dry Yesterday I could fly My roar like lightning command Sending ripples through the air Seagulls rattle in fear of my mighty eye Yesterday I could fly About the Writer... Coleson Roth is a Creative Writing major at LaVilla School of the Arts, currently making his way through seventh grade. Coleson focuses mostly on poetry and sometimes fiction works. Although Coleson does not like to write fiction as much as poetry, the opposite is the truth for reading, he loves reading fiction books that capture his mind so much he cannot pull away. About the Artist Alana Rihaly is a talented mixed-media artist. She's created original pieces since she was seven years old with the unconditional love and support of her mother and aunt. Art has often been a vehicle of her emotional expression. Third Place Hope to Making it Far 1 by Lashunda Patterson Poppies by Heidi Le Kindergarten. Practically a warzone, except the only thing we were fighting over was who got what colored carpet square. Every day was as monotonous as a broken record and filled with grubby little fingers taking all of my sparkly crayons. I desperately wanted something new and fun to happen, and, as a kindergartener, I just wanted to be taken to a magical world where I could do nothing and not have to learn math. Unfortunately, the daydreams never came true, until one day, something sparked. In the playground. In the big, old, mystical, magical-looking oak tree, a door suddenly appeared. It was dark brown, almost to the point of blending into the tree, a wooden door that you could only fit in if you crawled. It was a portal to another realm that only my brain could have conjured. I opened the door and was met with wet grass and a tunnel composed of broken, gnarled branches. They cut my legs as I crawled deeper and deeper into the seemingly never-ending tunnel. At last, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, a beacon of hope that beckoned me closer and closer. I touched the tingly light and immediately fell. I fell for what felt like ages, and I spiraled down and down as tiny voices whispered in my ears all the things I wished someone would tell me. I fell until the light started to fade and was replaced with bright blue skies. Underneath me was a carpet of bright red poppies as far as I could see, and in the near distance, a brook. I walked over to it and leaned my head over the sparkling water. I looked at my reflection, but instead of just me, I saw one more face staring back. She looked like me. A stronger, older, prettier version of me, and she smiled. It was a soft smile. Not the kind someone uses to comfort you, but the kind like they understand you. She smiled again and spoke this time. “Not yet. There’s still more time.” The reflection started to fade, and I desperately tried to save it. “When will I be able to come back?” I whispered to the water and was met with nothing. I stood, gathered myself, and turned. “Adira? Are you okay?” Someone called out. I sat up and blinked rapidly at the faces above me. “What?” “You tripped.” Someone said, but I wasn’t listening to them anymore. I was looking at the tree. Where the magical door once sat, there was just rough bark in place. I looked down at the sandy dirt and saw something sparkling. Buried in the sand, I picked it up, dusted it off and saw bright red, the same shade as the poppies: a bright red, sparkly crayon. Hope to Making it Far 2 by Lashunda Patterson About the Writer... Heidi Le is an 8th grade student at James Weldon Johnson College Preparatory. She loves to write stories and poetry. She can usually be found reading or writing notes for a book. In her free time, she enjoys archery and playing guitar, as well as dreaming. About the Artist... Lashunda Patterson is a 7th grade student at Matthew Gilbert Middle School. She creates cartoon characters with the hopes of bringing joy and inspiration to others. View Previous Winners

Pray Christine Xu Imitation Smile Hasina Lilley Sea otters hold hands in sleep, So they can stay together, safer As a raft floating on the Pacific. Sometimes they make it; often, They don’t as nets drag them up And throw them in buckets full Already of others just like them Believing safety lies in numbers. Hunters slaughter them for fur, Prized still around this globe Despite the treaty to safeguard Them from harm so they can Float contented along the shores. Thus the plight of many humans: Too greedy for their own good, Too ready to slay the innocent. Return to Table of Contents

Toxic Emily Khym Lover Boy Isaac Riley Slithering slimeballs Green UFOs Scavenging algae The crisp air Swept over The drowsy ocean waves As ants marched in and out Of the tiled dock. Green balls of slime Danced to the tune Of the salty breeze, Bumping And pushing each other. Fish suffocated Under the oxygen-deficient waters And people Stared in Awe At their Reckless artwork. Return to Table of Contents

945dccfc-1beb-4e0f-9b71-bb84e3582363 LORD BABA (GOLDEN PRIDE) by Taylor Ekern The Last Rite by Giovani Jacques “The sinner will always plead in time of strife.” It was a saying that he was anything but unfamiliar with; his mother making no failure to let it flow from the tips of her lips in any situation she deemed fit. She was an Italian woman that possessed a quite remarkable short, pudgy stature, though her qualities of remarkability, at least to the people that surrounded her, stopped there. That latter portion of her life was spent as a widow, becoming a God-fearing recluse, devoting any time previously invested into her husband and her son, Paul, in the church. The saying was one that Paul hadn’t heard as of late, as communication between the two dwindled as the years went by. The estranged relationship was much to Paul’s own doing, but whenever she did find the chance to, (as scarcely as those chances came,) he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at it, believing he would never alter his beliefs, not even on his death bed. “You’re just like your father, Paul.” His mother would scoff, “When the time comes, my last prayer will be in celebratory nature, not a pleading one. God willing it will be the same for you.” As her days waned, and it was clear that her time had in fact came, her last prayer was exactly that. The day of the last rite failed to see many tears shed. At least not by Paul, nor his mother. For her, there wasn’t too much to be in a grievance over: as death was more of a release to the pains and aches that life was guaranteed to distribute. Besides, it seemed as if she knew where she was headed. Her designated nurse, Alaila, Paul only remembering her name because he recognized it as the Basque word for joy, spoke of the fabulous dreams her patient recounted to her. Dreams of triumphant Angels watching in glee as she gracefully walked upon Heavens steps. Dreams of her husband patiently awaiting at the top of those steps. During Paul’s minimal visits to her bleak, dimly lit hospice room, he was hard pressed to avoid the lady, instead opting to give her a smile and slight words of encouragement to his ailing mother. “She has a wonderful spirit. You should come by more often; it’d give her more comfort.” When he did come by and conversation became scarce, he remembered Alaila’s recounting of her dreams, and wondered aloud about them. “It was God speaking to me Paul,” she’d say in a state of wonder, “and your father was right beside him. God willing, it was your father beside him.” Paul never asked for her to expand on what she meant by God-willing in this instance, deciding that it was for the best to let her dreams run unobstructed in her last days. For Paul, the lack of tears stemmed from the endless booze that dripped through his pores: A rundown liquor store placed conveniently near the hospice building allowed for him to not have to face the reality of his perishing mother, at least not while sober. He’d walk in as he usually did, eyes focused on dirty tiles, avoiding the gaze of the young store attendant who never failed to offer his smile and a polite “Welcome” to the mellow man who made him himself a usual at the establishment. At times he thought about responding: “Today, I’ll say hello. Maybe even ask about her day,” he’d think to himself, attempting to give some form of an unconvincing pep talk. He’d never go through with the plans though, in the end realizing that he saw him as nothing but another drunk: one that rushed to the same gas station cooler every time he entered and evacuated without a word as he began to guzzle them as soon as he exited. Realizing that he was just one of the many. "He didn’t know how he’d be able to make it home that night, but he also didn’t know if he planned to." For a drunk, he had a quite impressive inability to hold his liquor, not that he wanted to anyway, and the effects of corrupted vision and drowsiness, as usual, began its quick onset. He didn’t know how he’d be able to make it home that night, but he also didn’t know if he planned to. It was all worth it for him though, reasoning to himself that he’d do, “anything to avoid the tears.” ] However, the tears that were shed, and the main source of sorrow, ironically came by way of the nurse tasked with easing the pain death would bring. On the day in which death knocked its scythe on the grey hospice door, it was the nurse, her tag reading Alaila (A name that Paul recognized as the Basque word for Joy), who appeared to be the most distraught by the situation. Distraught to the point that Paul found that he had to be the one to comfort the young woman. Paul’s whispering pleads to quiet it down complemented by the pungent alcohol smell his breath carried, was to no avail. “Aren’t you sad too?” she whimpered, confused at the lack of emotion that came from the drunk son. The sound of snot being siphoned up the tunnels of Alaila’s nostrils made the sentence inaudible enough for him to ignore it, perhaps because he realized that the true answer to that question, would be unsatisfactory. The sniffles and yelps became too much for the old woman who lay on her death bed, accompanied by the hospitals catholic chaplain prepared to oversee her death, eventually motioning for the young woman to depart from the room, and to not renter until she was “gone at last.” With that, Alaila shuffled her feet past Paul, giving him a slight rub on her way out. The clergy member began to commence the last rite, a series of prayer and rituals done on catholic practitioners near death. Paul’s now mute mother began to motion for his exit as well, seeking for peace and quiet in her last moments. He drunkenly made way for the exit without a word opening the door to join Alaila in the depressing Hospice hallways. Taking a last look around at the room, the lack of people increasingly became of note; The only people finding themselves present in her last moments being Paul, a now absent nurse, and a chaplain who knew nothing about her thirty minutes ago. It was only in the time of death that Paul truly learned of his mother’s excessive reluctivity: never did he get a call from a loved one inquiring on her health, nor did he hear of anyone coming to check on her in person. It became apparent that, especially after his father’s death, all she had was Paul. It was revelation that plagued his mind in the weeks leading up to the moment. As an adult, he seldomly made any attempts to maintain a relationship with his mother, instead choosing a life of overindulgence in whatever vice he chose. Whenever the going got tough though, he’d never fail to make a phone call asking for money, a request in which she always obliged. However, the time in which they had a real conversation? One in which wasn’t congested with awkward-over-the-phone small talk; couldn’t have been any less than two decades from their last. By now, a couple of new nurses awaited by Alaila’s side, listening in on their queue to enter the room for the inevitable last breaths. The commotion generated by the two nurses attempting to calm the now hyperventilating Alaila down was just enough for Paul to slip away without notice. But truthfully, Paul only desired to avoid the stares loaded with accusation that would arrive when leaving at time like this, Paul knew that they’d notice eventually, regardless of the secrecy in which he had done so, but this way he wouldn’t be here to see it. He made the trek back to the conveniently placed corner store, seemingly tracing his exact steps back to the gas station’s cooler, purchasing the same three cans of beer he purchased just hours before. In a drunken state, Paul was able to gurgle a babylike, “Hello” to the usual cashier that was on shift. This time the store attendant didn’t bother saying hello though, nor did he bother providing a smile. Paul was too intoxicated to notice. But as usual, on Paul’s way out, he stared. Watching the man as he began to drink the case of beer as soon as he stepped off the premise and hop back behind the wheel. He didn’t know how the strange drunk would be able to make it home that night, but it also seemed as if the drunk didn’t plan to. He diverted his attention away from the man, smiling and offering a “Welcome” at the next customer who walked through the sliding doors. Return to Table of Contents

c305f168-85fc-490c-8026-c491ffe73b71 Dancer by Reagan Hoogesteger Doll by Zarria Belizaire Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My mother made me mine after I had seen a little white girl holding a beautiful doll. She wore a matching outfit with it, her smile shined, and all the other girls clamored up to her, demanding to know where she had gotten a doll like that one. It wasn’t long before everyone had one that matched them, they brought their dolls everywhere and I wanted, I wanted so badly to have one. When we went to the store for one the shelves were lined with dolls, some blond, some brunette, some with blue eyes, others with brown eyes, all of them were white. I had thrown a fit, upset that one hadn’t looked like me, that I didn’t have one to wear matching dresses with, where was my best friend? Mama had looked sad, almost haunted at the image of the white shelves. Still, she grabbed my hand and walked out of the store, reprimanding me on the tantrum I had thrown. It was a month later when mama came up to smiling, wide and bright. She held her hand behind her back and her body squirmed with untapped energy. Sensing her excitement, my attention zeroed on her, disregarding the toys I had been playing with. None of them were dolls but the bows and bracelets were fun to put on myself. "Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine." She sat me down, a giddy smile on her face. She brought her arm forward, holding a doll. It wasn’t white like the others or sewed with mechanic precision. Instead, it was a little uneven with dark skin and button eyes. It wore a purple dress as uneven as it’s body and no shoes. Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine. Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My daughter wanted one, seeing the girls at her daycare playing with the ones their mothers bought. She asked me for one when we got home, asking for a doll that looked like her, one she could dress up to be like her. I took her hand and walked into the store, hoping that there were dolls for her. There weren’t. Instead, there were shelves of pretty dolls with blonde, brunette, hair and blue, brown eyes, and white skin. I couldn’t help but feel as if everything had come crashing down, still, even now, there wasn’t a place for my daughter in perfection. There wasn’t a place for me. She had thrown a fit, upset to be leaving without a precious doll. We got stares from the families around us, some with pity, most with annoyance. At home I spent time searching for my doll, inhaling dirt and old memories. It took a month to finally pick her out of the pile of old treasures, a day to clean her. I found my daughter playing amongst her bows and fake make-up, dolling herself up in the way she couldn’t a doll. There was excitement in my chest as I presented the worn out, uneven, brown doll. She grabbed the doll with wonder swimming through her eyes. This was hers, just as it had once been mine. In the noise of my daughter playing with the doll, the lines between me and her blurred and for a moment we were one. A little girl, playing with a doll that looked just like her. Return to Table of Contents

Escape by Elizaveta Kalacheva Saltwater by Nico De Guzman We held the funeral on the beach. Tides were in remission. They waned away from where your coffin composed my dirge of restrained wails. When it was time for your eulogy, I had to confess: I never found your message in a bottle. Traces of yourself became lost at sea. But I still pretended I recollected something. We were both alive once, before I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes. You waned away before I held your finger. Memories lingered and swirled with salt, a vortex in the ocean. In the middle, I found your body displayed in limbs, torso, eyes, but not whole. Never whole. The funeral was punctuated by pushing your coffin into the shore’s uneven mouth. What wouldn’t kiss you before accepted you, received you like a pill. Maybe it hoped you would embrace it too. My lungs continued to stutter, but this dirge was never meant for you. I lost too much from your disappearance. And years later, your body washed back to me, whole. I finally found your eulogy in the form of sea-worn shards left behind in your pocket. The black suit clung to your bloated purpling skin. As if letting you go would destroy it. I wonder if it was me or the lighthouse that led you home. About the Writer... Nico De Guzman is a Filipino high school student from Illinois. He is an artist in both visual and written forms, and his work ranges from sketches, to poetry, to zines. Poets who inspire him include Sylvia Plath, Ocean Vuong, and his teacher, Rana Hodge. His writing can be found in Under the Madness Magazine and is forthcoming in The Dribble Drabble Review. About the Artist... Elizaveta Kalacheva is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. She is known for her oil paintings and has won many awards for them. She is also exceptionally good at pottery, digital art, and many other mediums.

What Happened to Us by Dion Hines How to: make it to room 404 by Chloe Pancho Step #1 . Say hello to the man at the counter. He says hello back and tells you to say hello to your mother for him as well. You promise that you will. Get your temperature taken beside the front door. You didn’t know how to use the machine the first time you came in contact with it. You stood as close to it as you possibly could, thinking that was the only way for it to check your temperature properly. He was the one to correct you and say that there was no need to get so close. A full twelve inches in front was ideal. You laughed and thanked him and now you look forward to your quick greetings. “Don’t forget to say hello to any of the staff or any other breathing person that exits out of the elevators, assume they crave just as much comfort as you do.” Step #2 . Make your way towards the hallway on his right and onto your left. Walk past a water fountain and a gender-neutral bathroom until you ultimately reach the elevators. Press the button to ascend towards the higher floors and wait until one of them opens for you. Don’t forget to say hello to any of the staff or any other breathing person that exits out of the elevators, assume they crave just as much comfort as you do. Once inside the elevator, press the button etched with the number 4 and make your way towards the ER where Mama is most likely to be sleeping. Step #3 . Introduce yourself once again. (Note: The ER is separated from the rest of the hospital by two heavy-set metal doors. On the wall is a white intercom in which each individual must push to announce their presence and reason why they would like to enter the ER.) Reiterate your first and last name, as unlike the man at the front, you are never fully able to recognize the voice that is on the other side. Tell the face-less figure that you are here to visit your mother. They request for your mother’s name and ask you to wait as they confirm that the patient knows of your existence. Step #3 .5. You imagine a life in which her accident never happened. Step #4 . Listen to the unfamiliar voice as it announces that you are permitted to see your own mother. They instruct you to stand back as they open the doors, but before the sentence is finished, take three steps back as you are used to these procedures. The first sight you encounter once you enter the ER is an empty gurney stationed in front of the first room. You remember it as the room for the unconscious woman. The woman looked the same age as your mother, dark hair just like your mother as well, you don’t know how to describe her eyes as you have never actually seen them open. You expect to see her today, but yet she is not there. Her room is completely empty. The bed wiped of its sheets, the curtains drawn dark. You want to ask one of the nurses what happened to her, ifshe is okay. But you do not. Step #5 . Smile. You finally make it to your mother’s room. Your father is inside along with your mother's registered nurse. They both say hello to you as they adjust the tube that is going to be feeding your mother lunch today. Keep smiling. Your father leaves your mother in the nurses’ care as he comes over to hug you. He asks you if you are okay and how school was today. Smile at him and tell him that everything is okay. Your mother finishes her lunch a little after you and your father are done conversing. The nurse reassures the two other conscious people in the small room that your mothers vitals are finally starting to look better. She soon leaves the three of you alone. Look at your mother. There are wires and multi-colored lines wrapping around her body, all with their specific use and purpose to keep your mother here. It is then when you notice truly how much weight your mother has lost. She has always been a small woman. Standing at a mere 5’2 most of her life, she looks even smaller now, frail, fragile almost. Her eyes are sunken in, hands slender to the point of concern. She looks almost dead. “The man at the front told me to say hello to you,” you tell her. Massage her forearms as you remember Papa telling you they were bothering her during your last visit. She doesn’t respond. You didn’t expect her too. Step #6 . Close your eyes. Papa’s lap will act like a pillow for you tonight. The denim of his jeans scratch the side of your cheek, and his thighs are bony like chopsticks, but you will cling onto any form of familiarity life is willing give to you. Listen to the local news playing on the hospital TV along with the constant buzz of the heart monitor sitting beside your mother’s bed, telling you that it is okay to go to sleep, that your mother will still be right there, in her bed, when you wake up.

< Back Popop and Me by Isabella A. Buckhannon Word Origins: Stetorous By Lila Hartley 9 W Union St, Jacksonville, FL 32202 7 of July 2024 Word-decider people Oxford University Address of wherever the dictionary is created (Oxford?) Dear Oxford Dictionary word-decider people, I hope this letter finds you well. When I was younger, I would send you letters to submit words I thought should be added to the dictionary. While it has been at least a decade since I sent my last submission, I came up with a new word, and I figured I should send it. Before I tell you what it is, I must tell you the story of Stet Smith. Stet visited the gas station every day. He lived about thirty minutes away, but he swore that this one was the best. He stopped here once two and a half years ago and never stopped coming. He said we had the best cashiers and taste in music. I started working here a couple of months after that, at which point the manager, Dennis, had an entire section of training about Stet for new workers. “This is Stet.” He pulled up a photo of a smiley old man, clearly in the middle of telling one of his many stories to the man organizing the shelves. Y’know how places will have photos and protocols for thieves or people who’ve given the business trouble? It almost felt like that, except we were trying to keep him here—like we were trying to coax an outdoor cat—but Stet didn’t need coaxing, or maybe we were so good at it that he began to believe the decision was of his own free will. ……………………………………………………………………………………………… Of the Union St. Gas Station Employees’ Guidebook, Section V – Customers – Subsection III – Stet Smith Stet Smith Overview: 73 years old (Circa 2023) 5’9” Vietnam veteran Widower of his beloved wife, Darlene. One son, John (42); three grandchildren, Alexas (13), Beckham (9), and Mabel (7); John’s wife is Abby (40). Family lives in Houston, TX. Comes in every day. Weekdays and Saturday, comes in between 9 and 10 AM. Sunday, comes around 2 PM. Birthday September 13th Diabetic, that will not stop him from getting his usual. Stet usual: Diet Coke on Sundays, coffee Monday–Saturday, pretzels. Every once in a while, a glazed donut. When Stet is here… Treat him like a friend. Greet him as soon as he enters the store. Let him talk to you. Listen. Ask questions. Nod. Smile. Respond. If he holds up the line, kindly invite him behind the counter to continue his story. We have a seat there just for him. You must say something along these lines, with a smile, otherwise he’ll get worried he’s bothering you: “I want to hear more! I have this extra seat back here. Why don’t you join me? You can help me stay organized.” If he pushes back about not wanting to bother you or slow you down, say, “You are not bothering me at all! Please, it is lonely back here. It’s nice to have some company.” He would never say it, but he knows that feeling. ……………………………………………………………………………………………… He wasn’t a particularly small man; he had the large belly that all old men seem to develop at some point or another. We often talked about our families together. I talked about my son, Jake, who Stet always insisted on calling his full name, Jacob. For the past two and a half years, he loved seeing pictures and videos and hearing stories. Jake had been ten months old when I first met Stet. Now, he is three years old, and Stet felt a special kinship to Jacob. They had the same birthday. Stet said he reminded him of when his son was a baby, despite that having been forty years ago. In exchange, he told me about his wife, how she would jokingly ask if he was the next Sarah, carrying their child in old age. He said he would respond with, “I think we might be a little old for that, but we could do it again. You are already an amazing mother.” He spoke of her like a giddy child having seen his playground crush, except he had gotten to marry her. He talked about how they were from the same small town, how they met in eighth grade, and how—from the start—he’d had a huge crush on her. He saw her on the third day of school during gym. Her golden-brown hair was cut into a bob, curled perfectly. She was playing volleyball in the gym romper all the girls had to dress in. Stet said he wanted to be a gentleman even as a fourteen-year-old, and so he waited until ninth grade to ask her out. He spent the whole summer in between as a paperboy so that, on the first day of ninth grade, he could bring her flowers wrapped in that day’s paper and chocolates to ask her out. He did just that and she said yes. Doesn’t that just make your heart warm? They went on their first date at the diner down the street from the school. He said he doesn’t remember anything other than laughing and watching her laugh. “I knew that I wanted to hear that laugh for the rest of my life.” He always got the same thing: a diet coke or black coffee, and a bag of pretzels, and every once in a while, he’d get himself a day-old glazed donut from the pastry case. “Shhh.” He raised his pointer finger up to his lips. “Don’t tell my doctor!” he’d chuckle. “Look, I’ve lived this long. If a donut is what kills me, I’ll count myself lucky that was it!” I always chuckled with him. Sometimes, I’d say, “I’d happily die with a donut in hand, or maybe a bowl of mac n’ cheese.” “Mhm! You get it!” Sometimes, I teased him. “Oh, Stet! If you die, I’ll get real mad!” or, “I imagine your doctor would be more concerned about the decibel levels your stetorous emits!” “Yeah, yeah.” He’d sarcastically roll his eyes. He could be sassy if he wanted to—a shocking revelation when we found out. Every year, his capacity for sass seemed to elevate until it was no longer a surprise when he let out a witty remark, until it became as common and loud as his stetorous. About the Author... Lila Hartley is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. In her freshman year, Lila fell in love with performing literary works. She participated in several open mics and in Douglas Anderson’s annual show, Extravaganza. She enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Lila is currently the Vice President of Literary Arts Honors Society at Douglas Anderson. Previously, her poem The Blue and Yellow was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s Middle School Writing Contest the 2022 Spring/Summer season and placed third in the writing category. Her creative nonfiction essay titled “An Open Door” was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s 2024 Fall/Winter edition. About the Artist... Isabella Buckhannon is currently a senior at Hamilton High School. Through her artwork, she enjoys embracing the art of reminiscence, reliving the magic that surrounds childhood innocence, and fond memories that can feel difficult to remember. Her favorite medium to use is Tempera paint, as she enjoys the bright, solid color it creates, helping her establish a nostalgic feeling in her pieces. Though Isabella enjoys painting and art, she also spends her time nannying and enjoys watching and playing with the children at her work. She has been holding the paint brush since she could stand to face an easel and finds comfort in illustrating her memories on the canvas. Previous Next

Granny Girl by Ji'niyah Alexander November's Cardinal by Emerson Flanagan My grandmother holds my hand, gaunt fingers laced between my own sticky, curious fingers. The smell of her skin clings to me, powdery roses and oversweetened strawberry perfume that sticks to the back of my throat. She chirps over family, sipping on unsweet tea with lemon, perched on whining leather in her faded pink nightgown. My grandmother listens to my stories for oily action figures and crayon smeared Barbie dolls when a stuffed animal audience can’t laugh or applaud. She’ll stay on the porch, lounging beneath wind chimes while I chase butterflies and beetles through her planter. My grandmother holds my hand, cold fingers laced between my own bony, soft fingers. I’ll drive down the bumpy street of Fisherman’s Cove, the color black hanging heavier than usual. The house is quiet. Weekly pill organizers lay on the dining table, my grandmother’s nearly full. Her chair sinks with her imprint, leather peeling and quiet. I’ll sit on the porch and hum along to the quieting wind chimes only to stop as a red cardinal lands beyond the screen door. I smell the sickly sweetness of my grandmother’s perfume in the wind as the cardinal takes off only to be replaced with the thick odor of diesel exhaust and the neighbor's cigarette smoke. About the Writer... Emerson Flanagan is a senior in the Creative Writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and is the current Senior Art Director of Élan. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, often pulling inspiration from herself and the arts. About the Artist... Ji'Niyah is a senior at Douglas Anderson, as well as a drawing and painting major. Her works are all influenced by her life experiences as a black girl. She specializes in painting but loves to try all forms of art. Ji'Niyah was the youngest to win third place in the Jacksonville fair mural contest and the youngest to live paint at a Winedownfest event.

< 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.