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

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

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

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

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

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.