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1 < Table of Contents Summer by Elizaveta Kalacheva Before the Kudzu Elise Russell It’s between Alabama and Mississippi that the sun turns soft. All I can do is half-see, and the vines turn telephone poles into looming shadows, jungle monsters reaching their tendrils toward the future. When muted violet, blue-green-mosquito-breeding- marsh overtakes the monotony of that roadside tree— the kind that only knows the highway, like some codependent childhood sweetheart, too afraid to leave— and when looking out the window isn’t a dizzying blur of there-then-gone foliage, everything just opens . And suddenly, I get to imagining how it used to be, years and years ago: when rigs and refineries didn’t dot the wetlands like the egrets do. Plumes, not of smoke, but pure white and soft. "Before the water hyacinth, the nutria, the apple snail, / when we weren’t training jasmine to grow in / isometric triangles and concentric circles, / did nature know the word ‘tame?’ Does it now?" Before the kudzu, what were we? Before the water hyacinth, the nutria, the apple snail, when we weren’t training jasmine to grow in isometric triangles and concentric circles, did nature know the word “tame?” Does it now? There are men in safety vests along the highway driving cherrypickers, holding chainsaws And they try to cut back what comes back: Overgrow , overthrow , overgrow . About the Writer... Elise is a Junior at the Willow School in New Orleans, and a member of Willow’s Certificate of Artistry (CA) Creative Writing Program there. They have lived most of their life in New Orleans, apart from two years near Washington D.C. With a passion for stories since they could read, Elise loves to learn and explore life through language. Besides writing, they also enjoy music, cooking, crocheting, and traveling. Their creative writing teacher, Dr. Allison Campbell, supports their work—you can find her at allisoncampbell@willowschoolnola.org . About the Artist... Elizaveta Kalacheva is an aspiring artist from Russia now based in America and currently studying at Savannah Arts Academy. Her art draws inspiration from Picasso, Monet, and Van Gogh. Their revolutionary styles influence her work, blending modern innovation with classical beauty. She weave her cultural experiences into each piece, creating a unique fusion of traditions and perspectives. Art is her passion, and through her creations, she aims to invite others into a world where colors speak volumes and imagination knows no bounds.

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

Once an Editor-in-Chief of Élan when she was a student, Tiffany Melanson has been Élan’s faculty sponsor for the last 11 years. Recently, she stepped down from her position in Élan to further her artistic career. The mark Mrs. Melanson has left on our publication is unmistakable. It is through her that Élan became what it is today: a vibrant magazine embodying the hearts and minds of teenage artists from around the world. We are honored to continue creating in her legacy. This issue of Élan is dedicated to you, Mrs. Melanson. We thank you for all that you have done to bring life to our publication and wish you luck with whatever you do next.

13 < Back To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil Sarah Gozar Tighten Up by Micayla Latson To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil by Sarah Gozar Sometimes Moses Garcia still dreamed of his earliest memory. On his first day of school, he smiled and watched two flags rise to the heavens. First it was the American flag in its red, white, and blue glory, dancing in the wind with all its freedom. Last came the Philippine flag, proud to display its new bright shining yellow sun. The Philippines finally gained liberation after three hundred thirty-three years under Spanish rule. And they owned this long-dreamed freedom to their fair skin human saviors sent by God. Finally, the Filipinos wept after all those long agonizing centuries. Unfortunately, the wounds inflicted by the Spanish wouldn’t heal even with the country of freedom taking them under their wing. Moses’s family remained lower class even after surviving along the new generation endowed with American blessings: wealth, grooming, and education. Colleges were owned by America, and few lucky Filipinos could afford the privilege of attending there with their dirt brown skin alongside their well bathed pale saviors. Thankfully there was an alternative. Filipinos were given free American passports to go to their new homeland. The tall clean cut American leaders promised the guarantee of a stable job and the right for prolonged education. They called this “ the little brown brother dream. ” If America promises, they will provide, just how they promised them freedom and taught them English to give them real lives. Every Filipino formed this thought the first time they saw the two flags raised together and kept it since. When Moses was born, his parents didn’t think he’d survive till walking age. Thankfully, he did. His mother and father never wasted their spare time not devoting themselves to prayer ever since. Now it was his turn to pay back his debt on them. If the Philippines couldn’t provide—why wouldn’t the promised land? America was their unexpected anchor when they fell lowest. But for the past two years, Moses Garcia had only seen one flag planted on the ground next to his new home. It was the America flag on American soil—a sight he once could only dream. But nothing new came to the dream. Every day, he tanned his already dark dirty skin to cake it with even darker soil until he looked no different from mud. He took to harvesting golden wheat and placing it on an old rectangular wagon moved by an old horse some American would drop at his place every time the one before it died. None of these horses lasted very long. But he never went without one for too long so there was no need for complaining. "When the heat became too much, he’d pull out the only coin he has. It was from his homeland." When the heat became too much, he’d pull out the only coin he has. It was from his homeland. On the upside was the head of a sharp-nosed American president, and on the tails was the woman of the Philippines. He’d swallow his need for water and continue working. From the distance he heard a horse whining very much alive and untamed. Two minutes later an angry cursing white man marched past him carrying a thin envelope, this month’s pay. Moses didn’t need to open it up to know how much of it went where. Most of it went to pay off this month’s farmland rent. Little brown brothers could never gain American citizenship. Meaning, he had no chance of finally owning the land. He’d have to continue paying it off by rent, which turned out to be more expensive than the price in full next year. A few sacrifices meant nothing for repaying his debt as a son. He’d have to continue providing for the selfless couple who gave everything to him. Someday, when the clean white men noticed his hard work, they’d reward him with just enough money so he could finally return home and save the remainder for his parents. Then he’d become an adult, get a beautiful wife with fair skin so that their child would have a better chance appealing to the American standard, a better future. But every time he saw how the currency here never included anything about the Philippines compared to the money back home where America was on everything, he felt his “ little brown brother ” American Dream crumble bit by bit. Something blunt repeatedly poked his back. He turned around sweating and saw the man who’d give him his wage for this month. The white man’s right arm, still pointing a tree branch at him waved it back and forth in some sort of defense. Moses stood still. Then the white man smiled. “Money at home.” The red face American said, doing a poor imitation of Moses’s native accent. Even though it was a requirement to speak fluent English to earn his right to stand on this land. Moses probably knew more about their history than he did. “I know, thank you.” His accent improved every interaction. Amused, the white man merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled as he threw the tree branch onto Moses’s wagon carrying a tall wheat pile. Golden straws high flew for a second before falling to the ground without grace. The white man scoffed. “No worry,” he still spoke in that fake accent of his. “Dirt touched it, it on dirt now. I no eat.” When Moses showed no reaction the American rolled his eyes and calmly strode away. His expression remained the same even after, this wasn’t the first or last time this would happen. Back in his school days, history books referred to Filipinos as dirty savages that desperately needed someone to save them. It said the Americans knew that the moment they set foot on their soil and knew they still needed far to go, guiding them even after winning them freedom. If their pale clean American saviors viewed them as dirty savages, then a dirty savage home to the Philippines he is. Moses went right back to work until he couldn’t endure his thirst anymore. As he was drinking water, he saw this month’s payment atop the wooden table he’d made himself. Moses was still thirsty, but he held himself from refilling his cup. With shaky hands he opened the envelope and found his nightmare to be right, his already tiny wage was cut down even more. Several calculations ran through his mind. It was down by a third now compared to last year. Now he needed to avoid water more than ever just to pay off the rent and deliver the same amount of money to his parents. Their only son was gone, and he could not show any signs of struggle. He hated sorrow more than anything, sorrow was what they felt raising him and he did not want them to have more. He automatically pulled out the Filipino coin he brought with him. Home seemed farther than ever, not enough money to go back, not enough money to see the American dream, and not enough money to prevent him from becoming even browner and making himself more inferior. With this realization Moses went out for harvest again and tossed his coin onto the rich soil from his poor filthy hands. It shined brightly in the Southern sun, burning hellfire in this heavenly country. In the afternoon a young Filipino went looking for him. He noticed the most efficient worker in these crops wasn’t harvesting his area clean. The younger brother never knew how Moses did it. He never once saw him sitting atop a wagon without a sign of the day’s labor proudly threatening to overflow. He never saw him with a blank stare in his eyes trying to remind himself of his purpose for being here. The junior both envied and admired his senior for his unwavering little brown brother dream. When he found him, the young one was surrounded by the comforting familiarity of an ideally clean harvest within the never-ending fields. He released a jokingly frustrated sigh and smiled, then stopped. The man behind it laid face flat on the ground. Beside him, their homeland’s empty coin with the shiny top side facing up with the damaged bottom buried and hidden in dirt. Here was the last sleeping place for the man who reminded him of how much of a boy he was for jumping on a path he never fully believed in. For a moment the boy stood still. What was his older brother doing? He was covering the soil which would serve as the spot for the seedlings next year. He sputtered in disbelief, giving up was not in his nature, it went against his name and role as older brother—that’s when the boy realized that his brown comrade would not stand up again. The young one sat down beside him and held his matching dirt covered dark hand before reciting a prayer to God to deliver his hard-working senior brown brother home, and finally to heaven. About the Writer... Sarah Gozar is a tenth grade student at Douglas Anderson majoring in Creative Writing. Her goal in writing to is to capture human moments as honest as she can. Her favorite animal is the penguin. About the Artist... Micayla Latson is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. At the Arts Academy Micayla is a Visual Arts major, who has been dedicated to art her entire life. Currently during her time at Savannah Arts she has produced many pieces, some helping to spread awareness to various issues in society. Although not pursuing art in college she still hopes to be making art in the future and wishes to spread impactful and powerful messages within her community using her artwork.

7 < Table of Contents Light of my Life by Olivia Henry At the Foot of My Grandmother's Bed by Hadley Volner At the foot of my grandmother’s bed A silk bench stood alone Its legs nearly crumbled Under the weight of death’s exhale Propped on its silk pillow A large, pristine, gloss-glassed picture faced the dresser The golden frame traced with a fresh wreath of carnations The outline of her husband smiled through the glass I used to curl up at the foot of my grandmother’s bed But the cushion was crammed with his frame He remained out of sight, a wishful footnote She could not bear his glazed features next to hers Though she spoke as if he were lying next to her " His deserted pillow gathered dust / Only blown away by her yearning sighs / As his frame now occupied my pillow / I took my place at his" His deserted pillow gathered dust Only blown away by her yearning sighs As his frame now occupied my pillow I took my place at his As she whispered her weekly troubles The window’s glint illuminated my nods But though I slept beside her Only her words filled the sheets My ears caved Heavy with stories of distant friends and a distant God She felt each second of silence bring down a crashing pressure For a moment her words brought back his presence I don’t sleep at the foot of my grandmother’s bed I lie next to her as she contorts my features I have a white comb-over and milky cataracts And when she holds me I’m him About the Writer... Hadley Kasia Volner is a freshman at The Willow School in New Orleans, LA, enrolled in the Certificate of Artistry Program. A multi-sport athlete, Hadley ranked in state for the one-mile run in spring 2023, and has been involved in the competitive soccer club, The New Orleans Jesters, for seven years. About the Artist... Olivia Henry is a Visual Artist in 11th grade majoring in Photography. While she does like painting as well, photography peaked her interest as she likes to experiment with new mediums. She tends to make pieces involving everyday life, trying to create a sense of living in the moment.

17 < Back Lucky Money Lauren Underberg Lucky Money by Lauren Underberg "It’s as ordinary a place as you remembered—set in a sunburnt shopping center above an Asian market—although you hadn’t anticipated sitting up on the stage." It’s as ordinary a place as you remembered—set in a sunburnt shopping center above an Asian market—although you hadn’t anticipated sitting up on the stage. Usually, it was reserved for a big birthday or family reunion, and you suppose it was technically both, but you follow the waiter as he weaves his way to the very back of the room. From there, you can see the entire restaurant—circular tables curving outwards, waiters pushing carts piled high with meat buns and dumpling steamers, Mandarin and Cantonese and English and a little Spanish running together, until falling in a steady wave at the foot of the stage, then drawing back out. They arrived soon after you did, your Gung Gung helping your Poh Poh up the stairs as she waved off your mom, spotting you with a big smile. “ Luh-len! ” she said, like over the phone. “ Hao-ah-you? ” Next arrived Uncle Raymond, your mom’s favorite—when they’d lived in Hong Kong, he’d take her and her siblings to the park and tell them scary stories before they went to sleep. Aunt Becky (whose daughter is your mom’s cousin, or better known as the one with ten mil’, a spray tan, and enough plastic surgery to be an Asian Jennifer Lopez) was third. She brings you perfume and a brand-new watch. Last but not least was Crazy Uncle Alex—retired Wendy’s chain tycoon, now part-time Uber driver—striding in with a box of gourmet cookies, each one bigger than your hand. You set it across the empty chairs on the side, completing the circle. It’s not the usual round-up from your childhood—technically speaking, they’re either your great-uncle or aunt, but you’d only met Uncle Alex three years ago, and you hadn’t seen the other two since a baby or ever at all. Technically, you were supposed to see them with the rest of your family here in a week, on your Gung Gung’s seventy-fifth birthday. Technically, your mom and her sister are still Facebook friends, but only in the sense that she can’t see your mom’s posts drowning in her feed of the latest Coach bag or vacation selfie with Wannabe Jennifer Lopez. Technically, you’re officially unofficially estranged. In rapid succession, your mom reads off the order, confirming with your relatives before dictating to the waiter, who plucks your menus in a fanlike revolution and steps off the stage. They resume their conversation in Cantonese, bickering back and forth. Mainly, you just stare into space until your mom breaks the conversation for you to share or agree with something. She smiles, and you nod. Nod and nod. The first round of food arrives, and your Gung Gung places a rice noodle roll— ha cheung —on your plate, and then another one. “Oh— uhm-goi ,” you thank him, smile. Fiddle with chopsticks. “—and my dog,” Uncle Alex is saying, swiping through pictures of a fluffy bichon frisé on a chaise lounge. “Oh, your new apartment?” your mom says, and he hands over his colossal iPhone. “Private pool, all to myself.” He nods, sitting back. The ha cheung falls off your chopsticks. “Pool and puppy,” Uncle Raymond tuts, sipping from his tea. “ Ooh. ” Uncle Alex mutters something, launching on a tirade. Your mom glances between them, smiling, shaking her head. She whispers translations to you, including the curse words. “—like a fat buddha. He’s just sorry he doesn’t have a life!” Uncle Alex says, grinning. “I have a son and wife,” Uncle Raymond says, and Uncle Alex’s mouth folds back into a line as he stares at the pictures on his phone. “He’s still in Brooklyn?” your mom asks. You give up on the chopsticks. He nods. “Visited him last month—starting to travel again.” He taps on his phone to show two flights. “Oh, Seoul! She—” “And Auckland,” he says. “—loves BTS, don’t you?” She smiles, nudging you. You laugh a little loudly. He blinks. “You should speak to Uncle Raymond—I’ve been trying to teach her Cantonese this summer because she wanted to learn—you remember, tell him what your name is.” You stare at her, betrayed, but she nudges you again, so you piece together a smile that comes out more like a grimace. Uncle Raymond watches expectantly. “ Lei goh…mei —no. Uh.” You stare at the table. “ Mei goh…hai… ” You flail for something hollow. His expression returns blank. You sigh. “I don’t know.” Your mom laughs. “Ai-yah, it’s because I put her on the spot. My Cantonese is so bad anyway, kindergarten level, right, Ma? Ma.” “Hah?” Your Poh Poh looks up from the teapot. “Remember? You named her ‘Lok-yee.’ ” “Oh, yeh. ” She chuckles. “‘ Hahp-py-girl.’ ” Both of which you’re pretty convinced you’ve failed at . You smile. “ Lok-yee, Man-yee, ” Uncle Alex chants. Your mom’s name. “She said it sounds like ‘lucky money,’” she says, laughing, mostly to silence. Your Gung Gung grins, patting your shoulder. “You and yoh mohm ah very lucky, hah? ” Chuckling, he picks a meat bun with his hands to take a bite. You throw down your chopsticks and do the same. “When did you get in?” Aunt Becky asks. “Oh, just yesterday afternoon. We met up with them” —your mom gestures to your Poh Poh and Gung Gung, as rehearsed— “and my brother and his kids yesterday.” “Oh, but no Belinda?” Aunt Becky’s magnified eyes dart between the two of you carefully. Your mom sighs into her response. “ It’s …complicated. I just wanted to come up here once everything settled down, you know? I haven’t since—” “2019,” you say, and everyone glances at you momentarily. “Before we moved back,” your mom concludes. “Besides, we’re here for them.” Aunt Becky nods solemnly. Uncle Alex picks between his teeth. A server comes around once more, leaving yellow tarts on the Lazy Susan. Your mom’s face lights up. “You should try this—it’s like an egg tart that I used to eat as a kid. Oh, ma’am—could we get some spoons? Uhm-goi. ” Daan tat. It melts in your mouth. About the Writer... Lauren Underberg is a junior in the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Their work appears in the department’s student-run literary magazine, Cadence. They have been referred to as a long-distance runner on multiple occasions, which basically means they'll never write a short short story in their life.

< Back My Light by Daysha Perez Orbit By Allison LaPoint A celestial body in orbit of another—by definition—is in a constant state of freefall. Yet, they never touch, because there is just enough tangential inertia to keep them falling parallel to the surface of the other body. Always falling, but never connecting. You told me this as we sat on my roof, covered to our necks in wool. We gazed up at pinpricks of light, effervescent and shining through the dark ocean above us. I could barely see you in the dead of night; the new moon plunged the town into a pool of nothing. The world fell away around us, as it does when one is young and happy. It was us and the sky alone. Your planet is a swirling violet, I imagine. I see six rings, matching the ones you keep on your fingers. You and I were so far away from Earth and the rest of our galaxy. We were a binary planet system: you orbited around me, and I you. You reached your hand up high and made a cross in the air. Do you see that one? Yes. Cygnus, you said, your voice pensive. His best friend was thrown into the river by Zeus. Cygnus prayed to him, begging him to spare his friend, for he knew his friend would die if he didn’t save him. So, the god transformed Cygnus into a swan, and he dove into the river, pulling him out. The greatest sacrifice. The ultimate act of friendship. We were so young then, and your face was full of hope and wonder. Do you promise we’ll always be friends? You asked this with such fear, such anticipation of this future, this “always” that crushed all possible ulterior outcomes. The intensity of your gaze made me squirm, and the rough shingles of the roof scratched my bare shoulders. I said yes. What else could I do? I could feel it when our orbit broke, and you went soaring into the dark nothing of space. I didn’t realize at the time it meant that I would go as well and be lost and alone in the universe. We had been friends for so long, I had forgotten what it was like to not be a part of your orbit, or for you to be absent from mine. That night on the roof seems so far away now, and so do you. I find other beings and other ways of being. I become a part of something bigger, a system of planets like me, all orbiting around a commonality between us. Our star. "That night on the roof seems so far away now, and so do you. I find other beings and other ways of being. I become a part of something bigger, a system of planets like me, all orbiting around a commonality between us. Our star." I don’t know where you went, or where you are, but I hope you have a system too. About the Author... Allison LaPoint is a junior and aspiring artist. In her free time, she enjoys exploring various forms of creative expression, such as writing, visual art, theater, and music. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is an 11th grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is a visual arts major. Her main medium is acrylic paint on canvas and also experiments with mixed media often. Previous Next

16 < Back Night Painting William Du Journey Towards Self-Discovery by Kenzie Kurdys Night Painting by William Du Night never sleeps, but it can hide. Long have I dreamt of you in shades of olivine, deep in a grave, your face bound in vague question. Leave it to the daylight outside, A single thread of sacred light encircling the world, shedding a luminous rain on the heart of a colt charging through the soundless woods like they were never there. A shadow passes over the moon, All that remains is the lantern’s spit, and I imagine you in a patch of trees, burning down bright branches of cherries and elderberries, chopping a rabbit’s heart into dust. "You will be empty of giants, lovers,// And I will follow the way those exotic birds tread..." You will be empty of giants, lovers, And I will follow the way those exotic birds tread, the way a caged canary sings for the red sky and a moon as if lit from the inside. Warm, resonant and ink-tuned— now the spirit water sweeps me, I leave you my clothes, the redbud, the dogwood, that water strung the griddle. Will you turn and make a circle? Or will my song bark you up, in a way that even now I cannot describe: all I know is that one day, I will be found there in the red & black unmetered time of my body, my arms will float in the hot water, my hair fanning as I descend grains of clay heavy enough to drag my eyes out of the blue-grey, ocean-breath, towards heaven. About the Writer... William Du is a current junior at Delbarton School. His intention with his writing is to bring light and beauty into the lives of those who consume it and provide comfort in difficult times. His works have appeared in the Eunoia Review, the Weight Journal, and Teen Ink Magazine. In addition to writing, William enjoys reading classic literature, playing piano, and writing satire. About the Artist... Kenzie Kurdys is a senior in high school currently pursuing the development of her own artistic style.

< Back I Am Going To Grow Wings by Leo Bowyer My father is old, and life is a cowardly lover. I am what remains of him. I have his eyes and his nose, and he wants to give me his mind. Perceptions of Potential By Olivia Sheftall Potential is a point on a graph, placed at ( ∞ , ∞ )—a plane shooting up, determinedly straight, to reach infinite. We craft machines with grand wings because that’s the closest we’ll ever get to flight. My father is old, and life is a cowardly lover. I am what remains of him. I have his eyes and his nose, and he wants to give me his mind. I itch for wisdom. He is the only one I trust to annotate my brain. To take pen to cerebrum and underline profound neurons, cross out what I should purge. With a sun-dried finger, he conducts his great symphony titled “What is Happiness?” It is his life’s work. The rise is where our nature brings us joy, or so I’m told. If I keep reaching for that point, I will experience consistent happiness. In short, I am in total control, and that is both a relief and a burden. (A little girl waddles along the pool deck, pale skin and baby fat wrapped in a towel. I never noticed how beautiful a toddler’s walk is. So unrehearsed, so immediate, so different from my own. With each step, they are an exponential function spearing through the graph paper like Icarus into the Sun. Happiness comes so easy to them.) I am inspired by what could be. My father is at a point in his life where there is very little mystery in the future. I wonder if he's happy, if he feels he's reaching his potential. I can't tell if he's filled with a dissatisfaction with the world or with himself. Perhaps, because he's been told from his birth that he is made for excellence, he sees the world as chains clasped around his wrists. His choices, that have led him to a life he wouldn't choose, reflect exterior fault—they should never be traced back to his own hands, even when they are stained red. He wants to save me, and in doing so, save himself. What is wisdom but a constant beating from experience? Suffering takes you by the hair and teaches you a lesson, shoves the cold hard truth down your throat. This is to say, happiness does not mean leading a life with no slings and throws. Quite the opposite. He warns me that staying in the humid atmosphere of ignorance will keep me soft and unscathed, but trap me in a suffocating dissatisfaction which trumps any battle scar. I have a deep faith in his word, but that does not mean I will take his advice. As a human being, when I am given the answer, it is my responsibility to ignore it. My father has spent 73 years ignoring his, indulging himself at every corner, and in turn, denying his soul. Like every naïve child, I am determined to be the exception. I crawl out of my skin, using my ribs as a ladder, and I escape through my words. I am bound by nothing but my potential. About the Author... Olivia Sheftall is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She’s a passionate writer of all genres but takes a special interest in personal essays and screenplays. Sheftall has been in numerous spoken word performances, including Coffee House 2023, and is very involved within her community in Jacksonville, Florida. Her work has been published in Élan twice, as well as in Poetry Out Loud Gets Original. About the Artist... Leo Bowyer is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. His favorite medium to work with is acrylic paint. Previous Next

Fall/Winter 2022 Cover Art: The Photographer V2 by Mary Lefleur Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editor's Note Brendan Nurczyk & Emma Klopfer & Niveah Glover Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 0 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Before I was Mint The Photographer V2 Abigail Griffin Small Title Mary Lefluer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 1 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Perched Nostalgia Annika Gangopadhyay Small Title Maria Bezverkh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 2 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Prom Dress Narcissism Mackenzie Shaner Small Title Elanee Viray Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 3 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button в машине (in the car) Back to Nature Alisa Chamberlin Small Title Sachiko Rivamonte Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 4 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Dry The scars from my armor Tejal Doshi Small Title Shanwill Wang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 5 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Bracelet Nylah Watkins Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 6 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Prenatal Exposure Reclaiming my roots Maeve Coughlin Small Title Julie Hathaway Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 7 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Flavor of a Star Relation Peyton Pitts Small Title Bria Mcclary Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 8 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Prom King Happy Birthday Isabelle Kim-Sherman Small Title Daysha Perez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 9 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Defining Myself as an Eternal Being Oddity Jackson Birdsong Small Title Lucas Lowery Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 10 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button For Naomi Effete Naomi Carr Small Title Kylie Tanner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 11 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Summer Mornings Shrill and Cut Loose Keira Doody Small Title Annalisa Strub Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 12 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Amaranth and Adolescence I am my own enemy Gray Fuller Small Title Kierra Reese Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 13 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Universes with you NO WAR Reese Mitchell Small Title Elizaveta Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 14 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Tidewater Evergreen Grace Thomas Small Title Babafemi Fatoki Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 15 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Torn Small Title Micayla Latson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 16 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Broken Culture Parts from a whole when Special Processed American Me Jaslyne Tam Small Title Camille Faustino Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 17 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Archaeology Hexagonal Miracle Annika Gangopadhyay Small Title Moheb Asimi Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 18 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Red Packet Bridge Xin (Cindy) Nie Small Title Camille Faustino Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 19 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Roadkill Ant Town Marlo Herndon Small Title Jeremy Hall Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 20 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Call it Our Mother Tongue Life in a Shadow Saria Abedin Small Title Isabelle Woods Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 21 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button It is Life Branching Out Ava Devenitch Small Title Micayla Latson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 22 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Still Wait in the Water Small Title Babafemi Fatoki Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 23 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Haitian Mangoes Color blind Giovani Jacques Small Title Tatyana Hardnett Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 24 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Davis's Voice Esmé DeVries Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 25 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Je Ne Sais Pais A Peek at Nature's Texture Ronen Manselle Small Title Phuong Tran Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 26

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

< 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.