Becoming One Amelia Elder I lay in the grass Every time I go to leave My skin aches for the grass The tingling feeling That reminds me Everything will be okay The sun coating my skin With fresh, thick, steamy pools of heat Causing a sudden redness plastering my forehead Circus music Ringing my ears Spinning my head around And I can see everything The World, Space, darkness, light The world seems great But I'd rather hide from it Preferring to lay in the grass The grass that protects me Hiding my heart, Keeping me safe from all pain Make sure it doesn’t get hurt Then I feel a sucking motion. Does my heart want to go out there? Explore things? Find love? Be in my chest, thumping hardly? I'm pulled towards the ground Trying to break free But the grass pulls me down Within five seconds I'm in the Earth, Space, the Universe I've become one, with my heart The empty void inside of me is filled My heart is not only protected by me But by the Universe I have become one, finally, Again. Return to Piece Selection

< Back Edith's Gloves by Zoë Wagner somewhere in an autumn field By Sofiya Sharova You wonder when it first arrived. This pervasive sense of slick, sickly rot creeps up your skin with all the tenderness of a forgotten corpse in a field dyed scarlet by late autumn, reaching out for comfort with shaking fingers gnawed by vermin. Surely there must have been a time before it—when the caverns of your memory were not haunted by its musty stench, when they did not hold its cloying voice in their crevices, letting its slithering roots break them open further to expose the blackening flesh beneath. It sits in your mind now, lounging on a throne it built from the stones it took from your walls, leaving gaps infected with a graying, whispering twilight. You don’t try to take it. It reaches for you anyway, wrapping its hands around your legs, sinking its nails into veins of scarlet blood. You try to ignore it. You look towards Spring’s new growth instead—towards the shy green buds on the old branches of the crabapple trees, towards the way the sunset bleeds across the sky in watercolor testimony, and toward the sunlight reflecting a smile. You watch the gentle fall of rainbow light over the face of one whom you try to save, but the decay is still there in your veins, isn’t it? Hand over hand, it pulls itself along, letting your own blood stain its lips. That which it has touched turns gray and old, as if has lived through all the ages of the world. You can only feel your ribs crumble to cold earth within you while the twilight of decay grows until it blinds you, until you learn to see in shades of ash, and the rot trickles through the pathways of your mind in inevitable desecration. Withering turns from nightmare to eternity. You reach towards the weightlessness of the sky, to the soft, blessed hush of the snow as it drifts lovingly down on midnight streets, and yet the decay grows. It snaps up pieces of your thoughts with predatory glee, painting your mind in bitter shades of rot in return. You can pretend it's not there, waiting over your shoulder, threading its claws into your spine in muffling embrace even as you cup a rose in your mortal hands and call it meaning. Even as the crucifix swings over your head in sacred echo, and you grasp for a light you are forgetting how to reach, because the decay is always there, breaking apart your vertebrae one by one, slicing at the sagging flesh on your hips with a seeming finality. Try as you might to escape it, it finds its way into the pauses between your breaths, letting its withering, curling, hideous petals force themselves into being in the caverns of your heart. They claw their way out of your throat until their roots burst through your heaving chest, searching for more to consume, and you crumble to the ground, your insides cleared out by decomposition, yet still the decay yearns for more. It grows stronger upon the elixir of your vitality, whose rotten weight you can no longer bear. You sink to your knees, not in prayer, but in defeat. Because try as you might to look away, try as you might to have hope in the promises of spring, the lecherous growth that lies waiting in the depths of your skull will gut Hope and string its wheezing harp with what remains of her tendons, playing its mournful song on the remnants of your will. Try as you might to look away; that corpse still lies in that scarlet field, gnawed hands curving on your shoulders, raising itself from the earth by the frame of your back. It opens one eye as one who awakens from long slumber, turning your head to meet its hollow gaze–its pupils are an eternal gray; eons have fallen in their embrace, and you will be no different. There is no outrunning its silent demand for recognition, nor the grotesque elegance of its cadaverous patience as it pulls you in, sinking into its gaping eye that waits with horrifying certainty. It clears a space beside it. Yet another beauty withers in your sight. That space, that open grave, has been echoing in your mind for as long as you care to remember. Molded to the contours of your spine, laid lovingly with the detritus of rot, a soft bed of overripe apples and moldy leaves. You stare into its eyes, inexorably. More of the caverns wither in your head, dissolving to the dust you came from, the dust you make oracle, making gold in your shaking hands. Dust pours into the graves, amidst the waving flowers of the field, vivid red against the gray sky. The decay whispers, taking your vertebrae and placing them carefully into the slots it has carved. The corpse wraps its hands around your waist, whispering of all the gaps it has found—all of the excess that will hang from you in rotting sweetness. You feel your sternum begin to cave inward. The decay is blooming, stretching petals into your heaving lungs. Yet, you still turn away, searching for gold in the dust beneath your bloody knees, saying you are praying. About the Author... Sofiya Sharova is a junior at Denver School of the Arts. She enjoys using visual art and writing to explore the relationship between humanity and nature, on top of being a circus acrobat in her free time. About the Artist... Zoë Wagner is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy, where she majors in visual arts, an opportunity she's very grateful for. Her favorite medium to use is acrylic paint, but she is inspired by the master oil painters of history and is starting experiment with it as well. She hopes to continue creating art and developing her skills! Previous Next

Unprepared by Shanwill Wang About the Artist... Born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, Shanwill has developed a love for arts and design. Attending Douglas Anderson has allowed him to explore his identity, the arts, and grow a skill base in multiple art forms and mediums. Along with this development, Shanwill’s art delves into his identity and his experiences as a queer person.

Scott Parmelee Scott Parmelee is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, and serves as Élan’s layout and design editor. He enjoys writing poetry and short stories.

< Back Lure by Rowyn Michels even bison chase heaven By Amy Wu the tune of the plains is windy where the chords rain like the sinking doorsteps to the end soft muddied humus drains into the horizon and they carry imprints of life with choruses of burgeoning flesh it beats like mine does, draining into the crevices of a wary ravine, collapsing on the thick tissue of a slaughtered body but obstinate limbs clutch onto this grass which is dying, frail and motionless croaking a despair from below yes, send me a sign that it thrashes momentarily before it pauses for one final breath and gets up lifted into an oblong of content nothingness thrown back down onto this terre to lay in it is not just degrading life but a sustaining beat this song of porcelain hope mellow to the touch herded into the glistening pearl the pinks of the sky await failing only itself like them I too chase something sick and alive. About the Author... Amy Wu is a senior at Mountain View High School. She enjoys writing poetry as a means to explore her heritage, deep-rooted familial connections, and the origins of her own philosophies. About the Artist... Rowyn Michels is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. Her favorite media to use are colored pencils and acrylic paint. Her work is often inspired by animals and nature. Previous Next

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

20 Ant Town by Jeremy Hall Roadkill by Marlo Herndon Leaking out against stiff black pavement, oozing chunks of red out his pale stomach -the body blocking the way to every love to ever be mine. Abhorrent, his limbs stretch out as if trying to grab & pin me- the indent in his chest the only fresh thing for miles. The sight of the carcass flares my eyes creating crisp tears that only cling to burn -why else would this body not turn to ash. Simply swerving to steer clear of his memory fails me, the antlers pierce the tires, my head thrashes with the fallen glass, a shard seeps through & buries itself in my beating heart- it refuses to stay away, births hands of red but not eyes -in protest, longing for the gentle love I knew. The newborn hands steer back towards the vile memory -that refuses to die -that violation he committed between my thighs. He gave me life some days, which in the after is what kills me, what made the hands ignore the road signs, the memory of the good guy I saw before, with a smile brighter than streetlights, who’d put my hand on the stick shift to show me we were safe to give me an allusion of control, before he took me for that spin, that forced collision – his keys in my ignition against that bedframe- he ignored the red lights I gave him. What remains of him can be found on every road & every passenger I welcome for as long as my skin burns & the organ in my chest remains & tries to learn – to live with the buried on the way. About the Writer... Marlo Herndon is a local poet & author. Currently they are invested in learning from their community & creating more art. About the Artist... Jeremy Hall has been going to Savnnah Arts Academy for 4 years and this is one of the pieces he's most proud. He finished this while I had covid in 2021 and believes it shows his best abilities in his most confident areas of expertise.

Salmon Sophia Rose Smith Contortionist Rowan Blankemeyer Colored ripe and stumbling— caught further and back down stream. You've found your way between notebook lines, past the margins, (college-ruled), loosened the blue stripes with a seam ripper. Hair braided and pushed into your palm— your fingers rip between the three fat trunks in search of equilibrium: chunky velvet and glass noodles. You’ve fleshed out the whorls in your hands, left prints of ink in the fresh snow. By autumn the marks in the mirror seem to dehaze delusions, caught in the blindspots between streetlamps and gutters. Beneath skin is paler flesh to fit their crayon colors. It can be scrawled in a waxy film on printer paper, but that can be scraped away with fingernails. You’ve fought your way pounding the waterfalls upstream. Caught: you ripped up the balance of their symmetry. You will find a place in the world and how to speak it. Find it in the full words buttressed behind your teeth. Return to Table of Contents

15 < Table of Contents Border Town by Ricard Siyi HE Farewells by Rowan Paton Ludovica had not seen Mother Freya since the day before. She had searched the estate from grounds to roof, excluding all the places young girls were not supposed to linger. Perhaps her caretaker had fallen ill? The thought brought fear rippling into her feeble stomach. The winter was harsh that year, even for the normally pleasant Caer. It was the first year in her life she had seen snow fall over her local shores. " Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves." A few days prior, Mother Freya had taken her down to the oceanside. Bundled in thick layers of lavender wools, they had wandered along the beach together. Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves. She had sat down by Mother Freya’s side for hours, leaning against the woman’s shoulder as she wrote of the snow’s elegance. Mother Freya sat and drew with blue-toned ink. She drew Ludovica sitting on the beach, and she drew images of shells rising beneath the waves. Accompanied by the humming of the stinging winter winds, they created together. The woman had helped the girl dress the previous evening. She had brought Ludovica a supper of warm broth with roasted meat and rose tea. After, she had tucked Ludovica into bed, singing her a lullaby. But she had not even stayed to wait for the girl to sleep. The next morning, she did not return. Ludovica refused to ask her mother or Maurine about Mother Freya. The girl did not want her to get in trouble for her absence. She was intelligent for a twelve-year-old girl, and she noticed the gashes and black eyes hidden on the necks of the servants who slipped up. She had not even dared ask her father. Instinct told the girl to hold her tongue no matter how her anxiety festered. Mother Freya was never late. Mother Freya was never ill. Mother Freya would never desert her without bidding goodbye. In a final moment of desperation, Ludovica found herself wandering about the veins of the estate. This was the name bestowed upon the servants’ passageways, the tunnels connecting secret doors dispersed throughout the building. She heard Mother Freya mention the veins on a few speckled occasions, yet Ludovica had never dared venture within them. She knew the layout of her home well enough to understand the flow of the passageways. Many times, she had studied the sketches of the estate’s composition, in which the veins were clearly detailed. She hoped to be able to find the servants’ quarters, even though she knew Mother Freya never slept in them. She could only hope the other servants could provide some assistance. Mother Freya was well-liked among them, and she hoped her reputation was enough to spare her from loose tongues. She wandered for more than three candlemarks, stranded in the veins. She never lost hope, silently sticking her head into each room she passed in hope of finding the woman. Every room she found was empty, housing only silence. Though she tried not to panic, she felt herself beginning to lose hope. Her mind flickered to Hekate. No, she thought. Hekate would be in school. Just as the girl began to lose hope, she tripped over a loose brick protruding from the floor. She shrieked as she fell, skidding roughly to a halt. She begun to shake. Her hands were bleeding raw, and she held them awkwardly in front of her. Maurine would have her head if she got blood on her dress. Using her elbows and the support of the wall, she took a trembling stand, fighting back tears. She gave into the pain, sinking until she sat on her knees, leaning against the wall. She scarcely noticed the light footsteps approaching her, lithe as those of a cat. She lifted her gaze, squinting through the dim to behold the figure before her. “Oh, Dov, my sweet child,” a melodic voice uttered, welling with sadness. “What are you doing in here?” Ludovica wiped her tears away, unaware that she had smeared blood over her cheeks. She squinted up at the figure, now leaning down beside her. She grinned at the voice of Mother Freya. “I was looking for you,” she stuttered, still shaking from the sting of aching flesh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I know I’m not supposed to…” Mother Freya pulled her into a tender embrace, holding the girl against her chest. Her long, elegant lock of braided hair fell over Ludovica’s shoulder, smelling faintly of ash and soot. “Quiet, my child,” the woman whispered, her gaze planted firmly ahead. “I don’t have much time.” “What?” Ludovica mumbled, her heart skipping a beat. She clung to the woman’s clothes, yearning to never let go. “How do you mean?” The woman did not respond. She gently freed herself from the child’s grasp, tenderly holding Ludovica’s hands before her. “Ludovica,” she whispered. “What have you done to yourself?” She smoothly lifted the small hands to her lips, placing a soft kiss on each of Ludovica’s bleeding palms. “All better,” she hummed, still holding them. Ludovica gasped in wonder as the pain melted away, leaving her fingers blessed with a warm prickle across her skin. “Where are you going?” she questioned, closing her eyes as Mother Freya gently rubbed her hands. The woman did not respond, but as they stood there, Ludovica felt even her fear begin to dissolve as if by magic. She was left only with the warmth and the serenity of that moment, the serenity of Mother Freya’s spirit. “Don’t worry, Dov,” the woman told her, her voice as placid as a lullaby. She raised Ludovica’s hands and placed them on her face, allowing the child to see without light. Ludovica closed her eyes and felt Mother Freya’s face, feeling from her jaw and her lips to her nose and her prominent cheeks. As her fingers rose, she found a feature which was foreign to her, and she felt Mother Freya exhale. Ludovica felt a bandage across the woman’s eyes, dampened and chillingly warm. She wrenched her hands away in horror, sinking to her knees once again. She gazed up at the woman who had raised her to that moment, only able to see an outline of the woman she was. Mother Freya sighed, verbalizing the weight of her heavy heart. “Goodbye, Ludovica,” she whispered, backing away from the child. In a flash of a moment, she was gone, engulphed by the shadows from which she had wandered. And Ludovica was left, her healed hands resting in her lap and bearing the burden of Mother Freya’s blood. About the Writer... Rowan Paton (they/them) is a young, queer writer from Florida. Currently, they are working for Élan Literary Magazine as their Junior Fiction Editor. Outside of Élan, they are in the process of compiling a collection of gothic short stories, tentatively titled "Angel Anatomy." About the Artist... Richard Siyi HE is currently a junior at Beijing No. 4 High School. His passion lies in biology, and he have a particular fondness for painting and writing about nature.

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 As I Go to the Sea For Glory! Hanzhen Teng Small Title Raiti Namiranian Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

The Fish Kaysyn Jones False Prophet Vera Caldwell I forgot to buy water at the convenience store. My feet are curling and cramping in my rubber-soled boots with it, and the ache’s grounding. All the cigarette smoke feels like it’s staining my eyes grey, filling my head with air till it floats all the way out of the car, above the clouds, where the sun is hiding. God’s hands are white, like what peels off the skin after a sunburn. White like plaster. I wonder what happens when you peel it? Is He like a hollow statue? And then we’re at the lake. The snow fell hard here. I feel small, drifting, wrapped in my hoodie and my coat, cut by the ice in the air. Everything is white: the cooler for the fish and the beer cans, the sky, my gloves. Everything is white but the trees holding up the snow and the mismatched red-and-black folding chairs I carry out onto the ice. My father cracks a hole in the ice. It sounds like a breaking bone. The bait goes on the end of the fishing hook, and then the drop, and then the waiting. My vision darkens, then fades. I dream that I am alone on the lake. I’m holding my little fishing pole tight in my hands when something pulls on the string, delicate, then harder. I yank back. I strain against a red sky, ripping at the water, trying to drag absolution from the endlessly dark hole in the ice. Instead, I draw a hand. A limp, colorless hand with my silver fishing hook through the palm, dripping red blood onto the snow. The colorless hand is connected to a colorless arm, which is connected to a colorless head on a long neck and the thing has the largest, most beautiful eyes. I’m looking at my angel. The angel crawls from the hole in the ice. It scrabbles and heaves with fingers that have no nails. Its breath is a wreath of steam in the air that floats towards the red sun to kiss it. Drip. Drip. Drip. Every vein in its translucent body, I can see. There is no heart, only blue lines that pulse in the center of the angel. But there are eyes, and those eyes don’t move from mine. Those eyes are mine. It was like meeting a bear in the woods. I knew that it could rip me apart, and it knew that I would let it. But that’s why we both knew it wouldn’t hurt right. The violence would be meaningless. The viscera wouldn’t be fit for marble any more than a whore for the altar. Spoiled goods. What would be taken is already gone. I move first. I break the spell. I take off my glove, and bare my palm to the angel. The heart-line is the love-line and I want something to love me. Anything to love me. “Please.” And the angel raises its bleeding palm, and it gives me a taste of salt. And the angel turns and the angel walks away. Its steps melt the snow and make the ice see-through, showing all the minnows still swimming under all of the powder. The hook stays in its palm, and the fishing line catches aflame and lights the sky. The angel leaves red footprints across the lake, and I realize that the lake is not a lake, but a river, covered in thousands of red prints, all of them melting the ice, burning, underneath a shining sky. I wake up. The sky is hidden under a gray front, but the shadows of the trees have turned violet and blue. I can’t feel my hands or my face. Next to me, my father is sprawled in his folding-out chair. The lid of the cooler is tilted off, a collection of tails hanging halfway out of it, next to a hollow gallery of beer cans. The tails drip blood onto the thick snow. My father casts an eye to me and back again. He takes a long draw of beer, smacks his lips, and takes another. There is a tug at my line. “Well?” My father says. “Reel it in.” Return to Table of Contents

Florida Girl by Hailey Edwards The Effects of Seasonal Changes on Floridian Coastal Wildlife By Scooter Wirth Prologue “When the tiny turtles are ready to hatch out, they do so virtually in unison, creating a scene in the sandy nest that is reminiscent of a pot of boiling water. In some areas, these events go by the colloquial term "turtle boils." Once hatched, the turtles find their way to the ocean via the downward slope of the beach and the reflections of the moon and stars on the water. Hatching and moving to the sea all at the same time help the little critters overwhelm waiting predators, which include sea birds, foxes, raccoons, and wild dogs. Those that make it through the gauntlet swim to offshore sargassum floats where they will spend their early years mostly hiding and growing.” — National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, February 9, 2024 * * * Before I was even conceived, my mother laid a strip of surfboard wallpaper all around my room, painted the walls like the beach, and placed a sign across from my bed reading: “Wiggle your toes in the sand.” The first place she took me was to the sand, and in it I became an elemental. I was more comfortable amongst dune, shore, fish, and bird than amongst kitchen, bedroom, man, and dog. The glare of the sun was similar to the hazy tint of a dream to me. The only air I could breathe was salt and brine. My hair, which fell in waves, was bleached platinum by sun. My eyes were a piercing turquoise-green-gray. They knew the true color of the ocean. If I didn’t have a bed to return to, I could’ve lived as an ocean sprite, an apostle of the waves. I felt like I was suffocating when the sky grew dark. I was unable to sleep some nights, feet always primed to run straight into the waves. My mother held me down to my bed like a soldier, and still I struggled against the chilling dark of night. I hated sleeping. I found myself in an alien world. Here, trees grew tall and dark; they sprouted needles instead of leaves. Here, the ground was caked with soggy snow. Here, the horizon rose in jagged peaks. What frightened me the most, though, was that here, I was entirely different. I didn’t care for the ocean, I skied on waves of snow, and I smiled at the bite of the cold through an open car door. On frozen ponds, I found my reflection. It seemed my hair had one day unexplainably curled, just like my father’s had. I was skinnier than I should’ve been, just like my father. The shoes I stood in were an old pair of Timberlands, not my usual sandals. I was the spitting image of my father. This is when the dream became a nightmare. I felt if I got too close to that ice, I might want to move away from the beach. I felt that this reflection might draw me in, might tempt me to become him. I ran before my reflection could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in this place. I suppose that explains why my father’s skin was like ice. “Y’know, back in New Hampshire, we used to go outside in shorts on summer mornings when it was this exact same temperature,” he would say to me as I stacked layer upon layer over my shoulders and struggled to grab my backpack from beside me as the seatbelt tangled with my buckle. When I finally pulled myself from the car into the biting wind of January, I looked back at him with resentment I knew I had no reason for. It was how different we were, or perhaps how distant he felt, that drove me to roll my eyes at comments like that. When I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a slice of his face, only his eyes, I thought the mirror was pointing at me. I wondered how somebody with his alpine inclination could give birth to somebody like me; I wondered if he was really my father. I ran from my reflection before he could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in him. Then, he took me to the only hill in Jacksonville: a small uprising in the city that seemed a lifetime away, a foreign land of alien wonder and blinding, scorching, metropolitan lights. From there, I was able to see the sun sink beneath the horizon for the first time, not just the ribbons of purple-orange lightning that called in wary surfers from their heaven. The full sunset was tender, red, fiery, and the sky was dark, empty, twinkling with stars. Even on the hottest, muggiest Florida nights, I found myself shivering. Here, though, against the lights of the city, the night felt warm. About the Writer... Scooter Wirth is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the winner of a 2022 scholastic gold medal for fiction and a 2024 Extravaganza featured artist. He frequents gothic genres and writes pieces that often revolve around the comparison of humanity and the natural world. He also enjoys songwriting and intends to pursue both forms of art in the future. About the Artist... Hailey Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys storytelling through her art, and her favorite mediums include digital, painting, and oil pastels.