8 Relation by Bria Mcclary Flavor of a Star by Peyton Pitts Splayed on the bench, I kept listening for any dropped words like crumbs. The breeze was lonely, brushing past us like an anxious cat, but still quiet for us to hear the stars crunch together. I pulled my phone from my back pocket and attempted to zoom in on my camera, capturing a shy photo of these stars. They were chunky, blistering stars. A pale color, not at all like the yellow you’d see in those cartoons, but a flesh white, almost tainted blue from the surrounding nothingness. I sat there and pointed to the brightest one, looking over at Will and asking what he thought its story was. He looked puzzled with that furrowed brow and smirk combo as he asked me what sort of question had just leaked from my mind. I felt a rumble as Max laughed beneath me. I had been lying on his chest, feeling a strong heart beat to the rhythm of the wind as I spoke to Will, just a few feet over on the bench. Mira had been lying on top my own chest, though I’m sure she didn’t hear as such a heavy melody. Cody was still off in his own mind, describing the constellation to the west as “Cassie,” his apparent favorite. I didn’t look at Will, I stayed facing the star and paged my curious mind not for answers, but for questions that begged to be. “Genuinely, what do you think its story is? Why does it have to shine so bright and why is it far away from the other; do you think they had a fight?” He was looking at me now, eyebrows raised with the smirk, he knew I was being serious. Mira took his place in the conversation as she tickled my nose with a bud of lavender. “I think they broke up,” her finger erupted into view as it accused my bright star, “and that star is budging up next to that one because she wants to make her ex jealous. They’re lesbians, of course.” I felt Max’s breathing shudder as he prepared himself to provide his own input like an old classic, rusty machine turning its wheels for the first time. “Well, if we’re going on this hypothetical route, they may have been lovers, they may have been friends torn by the seed of jealousy. That star was too bright, and so its friend didn’t want to be out shined and moved away. Shit happens.” The orb seemed even brighter to me now, like I was getting closer to the truth. I felt like it could hear us, of all the small little things the star saw us . I heard Mira arguing with Max on whether or not this star was a lesbian, and the star just listened to all our little theories on what story it could tell. About the Writer... Peyton Pitts is a writer in her third year at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She attended Alpha Workshop for Young Writers and has been previously published Elan. She mainly writes in long-form prose, specifically in the genre of horror. This piece is written about a night from her days at Alpha Workshop. About the Artist... Bria McClary is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Bria is an arts major who dedicates their life to her artistry. They create art, generally in paints, and many kinds of mixed medias like cloths, collage, embroidery, inks, and charcoal because of the looseness the materials give and create with freedom in creating such pieces. Bria also has been a part of NAHS—National Arts Honors Society, and DA Black Arts Club throughout her junior and Senior year at Douglas Anderson. Entering and winning multiple silver keys and a scholarship from Scholastic Art and Writing Awards is also an accomplishment she is most happy about!

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 Papa On The Way Home Olivia Sheftall Small Title Zoë Wagner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley We wait for the day that peace comes, hope lingers in the hearts of many. We wait for everyone to have homes, and for the rights of the zany. While bombs destroy homes and lives, We watch from afar. The wives, Mothers, Children, Fathers, Friends, And people Killed and hurt, We read in our car. The memories of our friends Come flooding back. Hearts broken, lives broken, They can never mend But against all the odds Hope remains, Freedom and bravery nods. We get out from behind the windowpane, To preserve the blue and yellow. We help our fellows on this day, Something we could have done for more. So we keep the hope, That one day the children may play, That one day peace will come. In the blue and yellow, Everywhere. Return to Piece Selection

3 Narcissism by Elanee Viray Prom Dress by Mackenzie Shaner Charlotte stands in the center of her mother’s room, cramming the soft meat of her thighs into a dress a couple of decades too far gone. She’s crying. Mrs. White is cursing, holding a bobby pin in her teeth as she tries to work the fabric over her daughter’s hips. “I wore this dress for my prom, as did your grandmother, and yet somehow you are such a glutton that you cannot? You’re going on a diet; this is such a disgrace! Think of how this reflects on me!” “I know ma’am, I’m sorry.” Lacing the pin in the eye of the zipper, Mrs. White tries to get the leverage to close it, to no avail. Charlotte sucks in. Her ribs expand. The zipper pops clean off. The metal clang on the floor sets the frequency her mother’s voice reaches. Without much thought, the woman nodded, pointing the two ladies to the dim-lit corner of the store that held the plus-sized section. There, the dresses had obviously been tailored with modesty in mind; all long, billowy sleeves that hid the shape of your arms and collars that looked suffocating in nature, anything to cover the curve of the bust or the lack of a defined decolletage. Charlotte tilted her head at the dresses, looking down at herself and then back at them. “Ma’am, those aren’t my size. I’m a medium.” She reminded her mother, feeling her gut start to turn. “We’re the same size.” It all felt so wrong, every single minute detail, until she herself felt odd. For a single beat, she wondered if someone had made a mistake, whether that was her, or her mother. “Oh, Lottie honey, how about you finish this? I’ve eaten my fill. You’re probably still hungry, right?” Mrs. White motions to the TV dinner she made herself, dedicating today a “lazy day” where she could treat herself to not cooking dinner. Staring at the plate, Charlotte can’t decipher how much her mom had. She knows there is a right answer to this question, no matter how much her stomach screams. The inevitable look she’d receive if she were to admit defeat was not worth the temporary discomfort. “No ma’am, I already ate earlier, I’m okay.” “Really?" Charolette felt her mother scrutinized her, pulling at every detail and line of her body that was shown from under her clothes. Mrs. White frowned deeply, though quickly collected herself. “Oh- I was just joking. You didn’t think I meant that, did you? Come now.” She turned to the woman. “Where’s the mediums?” Then, the seamstress pointed the two in the right direction, and they went to browsing the store silently. Lottie, looking over her shoulder to see what her mother gravitated towards, tried to pick dresses based on that. She knew Mrs. White would never waste her money on something she did not approve of, so it didn’t make sense to look at the big yellow dresses if all her mother wanted was sleek purple. Just like she wouldn’t put her hair in French braids when her mom was looking for buns. Or wear pink lipstick if her mother wore beige. Mrs. White is just a girl now, looking through her mother's closet of nylons and perfectly tailored dresses that fit her body like a glove. One such dress looks like one right out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the threads nearly humming in her hands. She wants to wear it. The more she stands there the more she is convinced that the dress wants to be worn, too, and with a start, she pulls it over her head. “Did you ask if you could wear that?” Her mom’s voice is a butcher’s knife, and her eyes are sharper. Hawk like. Like instead of looking at her daughter, she was staring at a field mouse. “Margarite Anne, if you would have asked, I would have let you. Though looking now, I’m not sure if you can fit it.” “I can, mama. I can!” Margarite chimes in, looking at herself in the mirror with a sun-bright smile on her face. “How many times must I tell you? Address me as ma’am. And for Christ's sake, your stomach, Margarite. Don’t be silly. I just don’t want you to make a fool of yourself. Or me.” “Try these on Lottie dear, they’d be rather slimming on you, I think.” Mrs. White said, thrusting dresses into her daughter’s arms and promptly going to sit on a bench in front of the changing rooms. A silent gesture that their search was finished, whether Charlotte was done or not. As if she were a marionette, Lottie stepped into a changing room and locked the door. She worked her way out of her form-fitting jeans, wiggling her hips to pull them fully off and let them pool at the floor. The dresses hung in the background, and for a moment too long she stared there as well, pondering whether there was any dress to help her hide her fat and stow it away. Not these. Maybe that was the point. They were made for someone who didn’t look like her, and that became increasingly clear as she fixated on every small aspect of her imperfections. “I’m not being mean Lottie honey; I’m trying to help you. You won’t get anywhere when you let yourself go like that.” Her eyebrows were in dire need of a plucking- how had her mother not commented on such a thing already? Her lips were awfully chapped too. Her skin was so blotchy. She needed to take care of herself better, how did she leave the house like that? When she got home, she’d go to take care of such glaring issues. She tried on each dress in rapid succession, walking outside and giving her mother a twirl to show her what she already knew. Each time, she was sent back with a “Let me see the next one now.” No matter how much she liked the dresses before, until she no longer cared. She just wanted the search to be over. Finally, there was one dress left. It was the color of raven feathers, with no major detailing to attract eyes to unsightly spots on her body- and as far as Lottie and Mrs. White were concerned, that was everywhere. That’s why her mother loved it. The dress slimmed her down some, and she couldn’t help but feel a little bitterness at the fact that she only looked nice as an optical illusion. Once she’d taken a deep breath and sucked in, she walked out. “Oh honey, that’s perfect! Don’t you think so?” And her mother’s tone to an untrained ear may have been supportive, but to Charlotte, it was a challenge. A test. “I love it, ma’am.” “I’m happy to hear that, Lottie.” About the Writer... Mackenzie Shaner is a junior creative writer at DA who has been writing and creating narratives since she could use a pencil. About the Artist... Elanee Kristen Viray is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Elanee is a visual arts major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally Mixed Media art because of her vast love for experimentation. She has a preference for acrylic paint because it is very easy to work with on multiple mediums and allows her to get work done quickly. Elanee’s work has won multiple awards, from gold and silver keys at the Northeast Florida Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, to Awards of Excellence and Merit in the Duval County Art Show. Her work has also been featured in various exhibitions such as Extravaganza, Douglas Anderson’s personal exhibitions, and more.

80d55063-7849-4d34-844c-eef5acf1d9de Dreamscape Randos by Vera Baffour My mother's letters to my father. by Chloe Pancho I. December 6th, 2004 I remember the night, You, rubbing the hoof of my foot Our new-born, sucking on my right bosom The three of us are laying on the mattress That I grew up on, as you tell me that I deserve more. You offered to swim across the ocean For me In which you described the States As a gold mine waiting to be quarried With your hands itching to become dirtied. I hope your hands are a black as night, my darling. II. June 24th, 2006 The week before you left I witnessed you Hatch down a dozen mango trees With the universes dullest of blades In your calloused hands Scaling a school of fish large enough To feed the size of our village The week before that. You had saved me one fish that day Grazed upon its scaley stomach, the sweet blade Delicately twisting into the creatures soul, One by one, you scooped out its innards followed by its gills And though it was tiny and though it was grotesque With the same hard hands, You offered me its heart “From me, to you” you said. I keep that fishes heart in the pocket Of my cheek, so I will always remember What your affection tasted like. III. May 31st, 2008 When I have trouble sleeping at night I imagine you Still crouching at the end of my bed Counting the ribs of our baby, Smiling up at me as you say that She still has twelve. A perfect set. I count the ribs on the left side Of her chest when she is asleep. I can only bare to count up to The number six. IV. May 11th, 2009 Today marks another year We have been together, yet apart You send me a letter as a gift— Inside are two plane tickets. V. August 22nd, 2009 The world has finally given us permission And my heart cannot wait to see you on The other side of these large yellow and white wings I promised to introduce you once again To our daughter, who has reached her fifth year of life To show you that not only has our Love remained But grown. We are the perfect set, The whole fish. Return to Table of Contents

The Castle Isabella Bolger A long ride to a distant place A castle on a small hill all crumbled and worn history the castle has gone through many things war sadness isolation I think of this castle all its been through and how it still stands and maybe war after war sorrow after sorrow isolated again and again in the end can I stay standing like the castle on a small hill Return to Piece Selection

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

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 His Mother's Cries Incandescent Anai Harris Small Title Daysha perez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

< Back Bonded by Krislyn Fraser Haibun for Mom and Gramps (1945-2025) By Carter Manalla A dysphoric dream takes you back to the wedding; this familiar scene of white everything seems to torture your closed eyes. There's a pair of statues: one is your husband dressed in his tuxedo and the other isn't you. You assume that the marble woman will be switched out before the Mass begins—a lie you know is told just to calm yourself down. Your hair hasn't been flat-ironed, your makeup has not been done, the florist has yet to arrange her bouquets, and your father should be on his way with the wedding dress. There are ten minutes before the ceremony starts. Everything appears to be running late. Rummaging through your contacts, "Dad" eludes the simple search. Guests begin to arrive; the rows of soon-to-be filled pews blot your soon-to-be veiled forehead with sweat. That all-too-familiar harrowing heat of panic surges through your skin. You don't recognize any of the guests, in fact, you now fail to recognize the venue at all. False relatives like little amber flames spread throughout the waxy benches, lambs melt from their stained-glass portraits, and the Virgin Mary cries—a fire so hot, yet you are glazed in an ice-cold sweat. A September wedding marks Persephone's return to her creed of grief. The weather turns, and so do you. Orange leaves begin to fall like a reminder of all the small things that escape your sturdy hand—tiny embers of violence scattered in the winds of hurricane season. These little things you fail to control, the things that drive you the maddest, they are alive, and that is enough for them to be torturous and to be beautiful. You can’t get ahold of your dad; as much as you try, it is like he has disappeared. You breathe in. Dad is out of reach. Your eyes rise to revise his obituary. About the Author... Carter Manalla is a sophomore at the Willow School in New Orleans, where he is currently a part of an intensive creative writing program. He focuses on socio-political topics, but nothing he writes is limited to being one thing. About the Artist... Born in Mississippi, yet raised just outside of New Orleans, Krislyn Fraser is an artist whose portfolio includes work specializing in pastel, dream-like atmospheres and imagery through 2D, 3D, digital, and photography mediums. Previous Next

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 tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night A Girl's Universe James Helmick Small Title Autumn King Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

26 A Peek at Nature's Texture by Phuong Tran Je Ne Sais Pais by Ronen Manselle It is true that love is a powerful, wonderful emotion. But it brings so much hate. This is what Matis believed – no, knew. It was after the boy's mother died that he began taking in Germans. He’d stand there on the porch all day, waiting. Sometimes Matis would join him. There was something uncanny about the wait. It tugged at Matis, a horrible wrenching feeling. “A normal boy would smile,” he told his brother Antonie, the boy’s father. “Laugh, spend his time rolling over hills, breathe for heaven’s sake!” That was the last thing he’d ever told Antonie. “A normal boy,” the father said, coughing grievously on his bed, his face made wise by the lines and stretches that pulled even his brown hair to string, “does those things with his parents.” Matis forced himself to suppress the memory. “They beg us,” the boy said finally, still looking on the path. “’ S'il vous plaît,’ they say. ‘Pour la France.’ How can words like that not bring a man to tears? Do you know what that invokes, for each man?” “Would you help any man who begged you on the street?” Matis replied furiously. “Should any beggar cry ‘food, water!’ and invoke the name of France, must all men rush by his side? It is the man’s own fault he is poor. ‘They beg us!’” Matis imitated this dramatically, holding out his hands as if in a spout of passion. “‘Pour la France!’ How carelessly do these Germans invoke the spirit of France? They beg us unto death!” The boy looked sadder now, but still unwilling to look from the pebble path that led to their cottage. “The ugly maiden cries!” Matis stomped his foot. “Bleh! What, must we roll over dead?” “The Germans are not bad men,” the boy said quietly. “They are men.” “I have heard that. I have heard that they will give you a song, if you ask nicely. S'il vous plaît, sing me a pretty song!” Matis snorted. “I do not think I understand,” the boy told him. “Of course you don’t understand,” Matis told his nephew. “You speak in lyrics! Twisted tongue, lyrics, verse, but not French. Not everyone feels the same as you. The man coming today will probably forget about you the next month. Ditto for every other man who’s come here.” The boy shook his head. He crossed his arms stiffly, while a cool breeze rolled over the hills and through his loose hair. “But... that’s not what matters,” he said. “I help anyone who crosses this path. There are no exceptions. Only wanderers – and this war has made so many of those. You say they sing over the trenches. Of course they will sing! That is their magnum opus, insight into their final dreams crushed by the war – we are not so different, Matis.” Matis spat to his side. “You say you are waiting for an old man, with blue eyes?” Matis grumbled, his eyes wandering over the empty horizon. “Is he a Hun?” “The letter did not specify.” “Well, what was his surname? I can tell such things. Give me a name.” “I was not given a name.” “He is probably a Hun.” Matis said this assuredly, as his chair creaked, and the sun peaked around their little porch to discover his worn features. “Maybe.” The gentle breeze became the noise of the moment, and it swallowed their little conversation. Matis tried to rest in the quiet, tried to lay back in his rocking chair, tried to shut out all the world. But he could not. All that filled his mind was the Huns. He could never trust them. Everything they did was of hate. “You are nothing good, boy!” Matis cried. “You are bad news again and again. You and your nasty love, your nasty, evil love. You and your morals, and your pride!” Matis rose harshly, turning to glare at the boy, and he found the boy looking straight back at him. Matis could not hold the look for long. “I hate people like you. If only I were not your uncle... if only your father was here... you both have the same, nasty love.” “I am glad you are here.” “Well, I wish I were not!” Matis tried sitting back down, but grew awkward, and rose to stare deep into the boy’s eyes. They were blue – much like those of his mother. They were blue like the sky. Every emotion was in those eyes, so much so that Matis could not stand to look into them. “If only you were not so much like your mother. At least your father was French – but how could anyone love a German? They are not even human.” Matis burned with these bitter words, which ate him up from the inside out, his emotion growing distraught. “In every man,” the boy said with a cautious smile, “there is something that runs deep. It is some peculiar emotion, buried inside mankind. Some calling that churns around in our souls. It is impossible to name. Those who try merely end up grasping air – silky, white air, blown around with veins of sticks and leaves. It is inseparable from us. We all run from it... we all run... do you know what it is, Matis?” “Je ne pas,” Matis said hopelessly, barely keeping his voice from choking up. “I do not know... je ne pas, je ne sais pas! ... your father knew, and I do not. ” “That is where you are wrong,” the boy said stubbornly, nodding his head. “It is a choice. You do not have to hate the Germans. You do not have to hate this time. You may just wait... wait, and watch, and dream.” And to this Matis cried. It was a ferocious, coughing sob, one with tears still learning the way down his cheeks. It was so much more than the words the boy had said. Some harsh feeling had been sitting in Matis for a long, long time. It had been waiting in the very corners of his soul, deciding now to surface itself. For all of his life, he had been running, while staying in the same spot. He’d forgotten how little it mattered who came to their small cottage, and the buried joy he felt at the chance to welcome them. For a long time, the two men sat there, one in tears, the other standing, leaning, eyes fixed forever on the winding path, waiting. The boy was cursed – or perhaps more awake than any – to know the heart of man. He could not help but see the human in all suffering. The boy was cursed forever to wait, and Matis would stay with him, for he could not leave the boy alone, not for any reason, not all he had left. And when the sun would finally set, he would still keep watch over his little boy. About the Writer... Ronen Manselle is an avid writer who often spends his free time researching history, taking walks, or listening to music. He loves reading fantasy and historical novels. About the Artist... Phuong Tran is a visual art major and is currently a junior at an arts academy. He has an identical twin sister and three dogs.

A Thriving Abyss by Catye Evoniuk your favorite song like a song, this night is melodic and mellowing we cruise through roads in the hand-me-down car I got from my uncle, A broken stereo screen and two dents in the passenger door, hand on my leg other steering us home, so dark out all we can see is the pavement ahead of us. you look so silly driving my little orange car, your head nearly hits the ceiling at every turn, your hands too big for the steering wheel. you drive my Honda like it's your Mustang what felt like 60 was only 40 and when we reach your house; I can’t stop myself from giggling-- no shoes. criss cross in the passenger seat. my laugh echoes through echoes high pitched chuckling circles our ears. later, you play guitar in your room lying at the edge of your bed, I watch you play the hook from The Man Who Sold the World. my hair greasy, heavy black eye makeup smudged, but I couldn’t be more at ease the way you play this song like Bowie himself, all I can think about is how much I love it when your hair falls in front of your face as you play, pick hanging from your mouth I catch you looking at me through clumps of fluffy brown hair you shake your head, hair falling back in place you know I love it when you play me your latest favorite song. it's all I listen to for weeks. on my way home, my Honda clanks through roads my hands too small for the steering wheel, I play your latest favorite song, add it to all my playlists and learn the lyrics, so next time I see you I, too can sing along