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Patient Flowers Khloe Klopfer The snow was dense and heavy on the snowdrop’s delicate stem, making her shiver and wail. When was the time to grow? Would it ever come? Or would she forever live in ugly torture? Would she forever live in darkness? Suddenly, the snowdrop’s wishful prayers had been answered by the beautiful force that holds this world in its fingertips. The snowdrop saw a sliver of light, a raindrop on a painfully humid day. She took it as a sign, her time would come soon, but she must be patient with herself, even if it hurt so horribly that she wished to scream in anger and frustration, she must wait. So she did. She waited, and waited, and waited. Until that one, singular raindrop, became a thundering storm. All the ice drifted away to a happier place, while the beautiful snowdrop stretched her wings as the clouds and the sun kissed her and warmed her until her pale smile brightened the earth much more than the sun ever could. The poppies may look at her in disgust, the roses may shun her beauty, but she was happy. She was proud of herself for holding onto that piece of thread that those cruel poppies and envious roses could never have held onto for so long. She had been patient, she had been kind, and her love would live on longer than the rusted petals of the roses and poppies could imagine in their dark, shadowed roots. Return to Piece Selection

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents

Nomos (The Law) Ninah Gibson Nomos (The Law) Ninah Gibson Return to Table of Contents

< 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

< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

Fall/Winter 2025 Cover art: I Am Going To Grow Wings by Leo Bowyer Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors Note View Jeneva Hayes, Deidra Curtis Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The ouroboros eats its tail in perpetuity, and True Colors View Anayelli Andrews-Nieves Small Title Ryleigh Marsh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Perceptions of Potential I Am Going To Grow Wings View Olivia Sheftall Small Title Leo Bowyer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Corner Cycle Memphis, Egypt View Tremaine Shears Small Title Maya Wynn Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Before the Fall Peacock & Peahen View Sofiya Sharova Small Title Chloe Mathern Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Umbilical Cradled by Beauty View Vanessa Chen Small Title Angelina Gao Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Haibun for Mom and Gramps (1945-2025) Bonded View Carter Manalla Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Believe in the unseen, have faith At once View Kiyura Davis Small Title Sol Cuneo Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Genetic Dawn Fish Out of Water View Hannes Duncan Small Title Stefani Thomas Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Cadaver Lab as a Medical Student Scarlet Waves View Elise Lewis Small Title Charleigh Herrin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I know I’m supposed to treat you kindly, I can’t Embracing Flesh View Olivia Chao Small Title Haven Foster Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Moses never swam View Marcus Holley Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Misson log 1001- POST BURIAL REPORT Curling Lights View Meheru Alaspure Small Title Sophia Waller Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I eat lemons the way I eat oranges A Warm, Fuzzy Feeling View Caitlin Spinner Small Title Leo Bowyer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Life is a Circus Life is a Circus View Small Title Yujin Jeon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button ersatz memories Foreign Accent Syndrome View Olivia Shin Small Title Colson Gomez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button North-East FL Under the rain View Brianna Clark Small Title Jason Galub Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Part Ways at the End Waiting with Bun-bun View Luigi Avila Small Title Sophia Waller Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Peony Season Human Scrapbook View Mary Bartels Small Title Alexis Swenson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC 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< Back Moses never swam By Marcus Holley yet you know the ocean better than yourself. You predict the tides, instinctually knowing how to swim against rip currents, never straying too far from your precious post of a bathroom towel & flip-flops. Absorbing the shock of choppy waves when a thunderstorm is impending— that’s when you stay. Going against better judgement of the rain, for the possibility of being washed away like the breadcrumbs of your sins, already overflowing at nine years old— that you would throw into a body bigger than your own on the day of atonement. Yom Kippur— praying for cleanliness in complete consumption. Do you still feel bad for the fish who have unknowingly choked on carbohydrates soaked with your internal carnage? A piece of you dissolving in the salty stomach acid of a guppy— too small to digest the suffering that it’s been fed. Gills restricted with the expansion of leavened bread that your ancestors walked forty years to make rise with scorching desert sand-embedded soles- only for you to return, falling into the soft grain of the beach. You can’t part the sea with the cloud’s tearful torment & generationally blistering, God-willing pain… so you hope he & the fish alike can forgive your attempt at swimming towards your soul’s salvation— drowning in redemption you failed to find. About the Author... M arcus Holley is a senior poet in Douglas Anderson School of the Arts’ creative writing department. He is the Senior Art Director for Élan Literary Magazine with a goal of expanding the combination of visual art and literature into the community. His adoration for writing and spoken word has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage. Previous Next

< Back Alexander 103 by Qilin Pote Rosalind the Unsinkable By Kala West Charlie Forrester was in a hurry. Such a hurry, in fact, that he failed to notice the tuba case lurking in the middle of the narrow corridor and promptly tripped over it. The big man bit back a howl as he fell to the ground, clutching his shin, people swarming around—no— over him and up the stairs to the ship’s main deck. Dazed, he stared at the object he’d stumbled on. It did not take long for him to be trampled to death by the other passengers. The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead. However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache. "The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead. However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache." He stormed up the stairwell, puffing his way toward the shouts still ringing above. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the pounding to the head he’d received, but as he emerged, he could have sworn the deck seemed to be at an angle. Moments later, that was confirmed when a crate slid over and hit him directly on his hurt shin. “Bloody, stinking thing !” He kicked it and proceeded to hop around, holding his foot and scowling as he took in the grim sight before him. The long row of lifeboats previously fixed to the rail was no longer there; the waves were crawling with the lifeboats. But there, just visible over the side of the ship, one more was being lowered into the water. Charlie limped towards it, scanning for a vacancy. He blinked as he beheld the little rowboat’s contents. Then, he rubbed his eyes. At that point, Charlie decided he must still be dreaming and spun in a circle three times. As he turned the third circle, smiling confidently, for he knew his hallucinations would resolve themselves, he thought to himself how very clever he had been to recognize his muddled brain’s tricks as fiction. But, when he came to a standstill, the spectacle remained. His grin fell, turning into a gawk at the very real tuba occupying the very last seat. He shut his mouth and waved to the thin man worriedly twiddling his thumbs beside the instrument. “Oy, you there!” The fellow did not seem to notice as Charlie gestured to him. “You, with the tuba!” The fellow looked up at last, surprised. “Oh. Hello. Have you come with her case?” the man asked. “Who—what?” “Her case. Rosalind’s case.” He motioned toward the tuba. For a moment, Charlie stood, stunned. "No. No, I haven’t got your tuba’s bloody case!” The man’s mouth thinned into a distressed line. “Oh, well. I was practicing with Rosalind, you see, and I was in such a rush to get her to safety that I seem to have dropped her case somewhere along the way while I was trying to put her back in—” “You call your tuba Rosalin—wait a damn second!” Charlie gaped. “You! Why, it was your case I tripped over! You’re the whole flaming reason I’m late in the first place!” The man’s face brightened, his hands fluttering excitedly as he spoke. “Oh, you’ve seen her case? Thank the heavens, you’ve found it! Would you mind fetching it for—” “Would I mind? Would I mind? Now, listen here, what I mind is that this is the last goddamn lifeboat, and that great big thing is taking up the last goddamn spot!” Charlie could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. The man cringed and turned his attention toward his instrument, brushing off some imaginary speck of dust from its surface. “Oh, what ever can I do?” His voice was almost featherlike, seeming to skitter from one word to the next like some small animal. “Her case, her lovely home, it’s gone! Oh, dear, dear Rosalind. Forgive me.” The curiously curled moustache perched upon his upper lip quivered as he paused solemnly. Charlie glared at his reflection in the brightly polished tuba, painfully aware of the rapidly increasing distance between him and the lifeboat as it was lowered into the waves. “That’s all right and good, fella, but—” The man turned hastily to Charlie, collecting himself. “My sincerest apologies, sir, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name i s Nelson. William Nelson." “Alright, Will, I’m Charlie, but this—” William continued, an absent smile forming on his lips, seeming not to have heard Charlie. “And this is Rosalind, my tuba. I should have introduced her first, of course.” Charlie could no longer contain himself. “Just throw the thing overboard, you bloody fool!” William’s large eyes widened; he had the audacity to look wounded as Charlie seethed. “This ship is nearly done for, I’m about to go down with it, and your tuba is the only thing keeping me from jumping into that boat and saving my own backside! I’ll tell you, when we get to shore, I’ll pay for the whole damned instrument. By the lord, I’ll pay for thirty if you want, you numbskull!” The lifeboat was out of reach now, or Charlie would’ve pitched the tuba over the side himself. He could barely hear William’s reply over the cacophony of bending metal far below. “I’m terribly sorry, Charles, I do apologize, but Rosalind does not know how to swim. Unfortunately, I cannot expose her to the ocean, lest she may…” As the din drowned out the remainder of his sentence, a distant expression crept over the man’s face, and he seemed to forget Charlie was there as he puttered on. “Put it on your lap, dammit.” Charlie was fuming. Nelson appeared vaguely distressed to see that Charlie was continuing to address him. “What? Oh, no, I would never deny Rosalind the basic dignity of having her own seat. No , it simply would not do.” William’s gaze began to wander back to his tuba, and Charlie knew the conversation was approaching a dead end. Think, you idiot, think! “This is absurd! This is madness! This is—” Charlie took a breath. Then another. “The tu— Rosalind looks cold.” Panic filled William’s eyes and he began taking off his jacket to put around the instrument. Before he could do so, Charlie said, “No, no, you must cradle her. In your lap.” He cursed the stupidity of his words but forged onward, knowing this was his final chance at survival. “It is the only thing to do, really. A lady mustn’t be kept at arm’s distance, or she may feel… underappreciated.” “Oh.” At that moment, William Nelson looked so miserable that Charlie almost wished he could take the words back; they seemed to have struck too close to home. As the reedy man scrambled to do exactly as advised, he moaned “Forgive me, Rosalind, for I have been a cruel friend indeed! How can I ever make my neglect up to you, allowing you to feel so lowly and uncared for…” Charlie stared in wonderment as the seat was cleared and Nelson’s soft cooing began to emerge from beneath the tuba’s great mass. The ship let out a deafening groan as the lifeboat neared the water. Without any further hesitation, Charlie flung himself over the rail, and down he sailed into that final seat. Of the seven hundred and six survivors of the sinking of the R.M.S. Titanic , the tuba was one. About the Author... Kala West is a junior at Evanston Township High School. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, playing the violin, and spending time with her dogs. About the Artist... Qilin Pote is a Draw and Paint major in 12th grade at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They specialize in paintings and mixed media works that show a slice of life from the stories of things around them. Previous Next