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Lila Hartley Lila Hartley is a Creative Writing junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. In her freshman year, Lila fell in love with performing literary works. She has participated in several open mics and in Douglas Anderson’s annual show, Extravaganza, in her freshman and sophomore years. She has had her fiction and creative nonfiction published in Èlan Literary Magazine, and a poem published in the Poetry Out Loud Gets Original Anthology. This year, Lila is the President of Literary Arts Honors Society at Douglas Anderson and Junior Director of Community Engagement for Èlan Literary Magazine.

9 < Back Ars Artis Emma Klopfer Lover of Chess by Elizaveta Kalacheva Ars Artis by Emma Klopfer “He died only days after completing this painting.” Our tour guide is a young woman with a crisp English accent identical to everyone surrounding us. Locals. “It was found sitting on his easel, untouched,” she continues, leading her pack of uninterested day-trippers. Babies clutching iPads. Adults answering emails. Grandfathers blinking heavily, pinched on the arm by wives desperate to get out of this grand home of artifacts and get a glass of wine. That’s how I knew they were locals. Nobody who’d never been to this museum would be so eager for the tour to conclude. “Oil on panel...” she prattles on, telling the story of how the museum got it. She is so distracted by her own blabbering that she doesn’t notice me linger at the edges of her vision, stopping at the bench in front of the paintings. Twins, Kate and Grace Hoare by John Everett Millais. On the Brink by Alfred Elmore. And on the parallel wall hangs Joan of Arc by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, framed in red velvet curtains. The brushstrokes of these paintings are what captures me. An animal’s tail was snipped. Someone’s hand held the resulting brush. They sketched an outline. They dipped it into linseed oil and pigment. My mind again returns to the delicate hand that, with a leaping eye, drew the lines, thecurves, the patches of color. The painting of the Twins is directly in front of the bench, and I sit. The tour has moved out of the room, anyway. What lovely faces they have. What realism. The one of the right’s face is long, a rectangle, her twin a bit softer. Their loyal hound sits besidethem, eyes red with alertness, head tilted downward. They are not recreations of women fromcenturies before, – they were real girls before Millais made them more real. The anxiety on her face is tangible – On the Brink of... what? Gambling goes on behind her, rambunctious, the smell of smoke wafts off the painting. I can feel the thick, bated breath of the man leaning over her – my – shoulder. The party is loud behind me. A lady flicks her fan, cryptography I am too young to comprehend. Victorian gentlemen behind me mutter about the dangers of gambling. Pale moon on pale skin, red and gold gaudiness behind me. I am her, all my money went on cards, unable to guard my expressions. All of these observations, all of this awe – none of it is my own. And then there is Joan. The half-sketched canvas on my lap looks pitiful in comparison. The guidelines for Mr. Ross’s assignment – to recreate one of these paintings – blur in my mind. I hadn’t been paying attention again. Littles does he know that there is oil paint in my room still drying from attempted recreations years ago. Red splotch for hair, eyes upward. That much, I can do. The one thing I can never capture is the eyes. Hers, in Rossetti’s painting, they hold something. Whereas my Joan’s eyes are empty, his Joan has eyes like wicker baskets full of – there, see? I cannot grasp what it is. Hunger? Prayer? Desire? I stare. I squint. I shift on my bench like a fidgety child. Adjust the angle. Tilt my head. I cannot decipher what lies in those eyes. And I must. I must. “Lovely painting, you think?” I uncrane my neck to find Mr. Ross with his blanched beard and woolen cap, dark eyes laden with sleepiness. “Yes, of course.” “How are you enjoying the trip, Jane?” “Very much, sir. I definitely think the school needed something out of the ordinary to keep us going.” Mr. Ross grunts out a laugh. “Admin didn’t seem to see things that way – though I’m glad you think so.” He pauses, and the warm air steeps with comfortable silence. “I’ve always been fascinated by Joan of Arc myself.” “Have you tried to paint her?” “Of course. What kind of art teacher would I be if I hadn’t? But I’ve also tried to capture her through poetry, sketches, essays,” the old man replies. “Too little is known about her. That’s why I love this painting.” “I was just trying to decipher it, actually,” I say, surprised. Mr. Ross and I are rarely on the same page. Usually, he’s too focused on his own pages – pages of a sketchbook, that is – to heed others’ thoughts. “To get into the art university I want to attend, my portfolio has to include a recreation. I want to do her, but I just can’t.” “May I?” Before I can agree, he sits beside me and sighs fleetingly, a sound that reminds me of my grandfather reclining in his favorite red rocking chair. “I’ve never been successful in my own attempts to replicate her. Always struggled with translating her eyes. She looks so emotionless, but so conflicted.” “I was just thinking the same. But how am I to translate that into oil?” I drag a hand down my face, and Mom and Dad’s faces blink through my vision. Mom’s got her hair twisted up witha paintbrush, as always, and Dad stares at a blank canvas. Unlike mine, his doesn’t stay blank forlong. “I think it might be exhaustion,” Mr. Ross says suddenly. “What might be?” “In her eyes. I think it might be exhaustion. See the color gray? How it’s the only cool color in the whole painting? It’s emptiness. It’s exhaustion. At least, I think that’s what Rossetti would’ve said.” I look down at the glimmerings of the pencil on my canvas. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of my aunt and uncle standing behind me. She holds a saxophone, he sits at his typewriter. My cousins, each clad in expensive ballet shoes, twist and tumble near me, graceful as swans. If you were to get into this university , Mom says as we stand in the center of the campus, tour long over, fountain pulsating water. It would enhance our family name. Your name. My name. Dad’s name. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want your Wikipedia page someday to say that you graduated from here? Oh, the pride you would feel! Slowly, the single oval of Joan’s eye falls into place beneath my swift fingers. Mr. Ross watches from over my shoulder, his pedagogical gaze mirroring that of my grandfather. One of Italy’s most famous theatre actors. “You – oh, you captured it this time!” And it is true. The unripe sketch of Joan stares upward, her eyes both drooping and enriched. She looks like she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders; which, historically, I suppose is true. Her face is similar to that of mine in my Art’s Academy ID photo. Mr. Ross wags his finger at me. “Maybe I’ve given away too much.” “How so?” “Rosetti meant for her to be an enigma ! Just as she was in real life. We’ve solved her puzzle, it would seem.” “It would seem so,” I repeat, still staring at my sketch. I know that it is futile to attempt to progress the piece any further. My wrist has been reshaped to be good at this. No, not good, superior. But the moment I add color, everything gets lost and muddled. “We have not solved your puzzle yet, Jane,” Mr. Ross says. “What do you mean, sir?” “Well, you’re a senior. And it’s February. Do you know where you’d like to further your education?” “You mean what college I want to go to.” Mr. Ross shrugs. “Many would call it that, yes.” “Yes. That’s what this portfolio is for.” “An art college, then.” “Univeristy,” I correct him. They’re the words of my mother. “Not somewhere to further your love of rock climbing? What about politics? Your essay on the legal system was astoundingly well-written.” “No, I’m going to an arts university.” “Hm.” Then he was gone, leaving his familiar smell of crushed velvet and linseed oil. I felt as though I had failed him, somehow. He wished me good luck with the rest of my painting and turned away. Then he was gone, leaving his familiar smell of crushed velvet and linseed oil. I felt as though I had failed him, somehow. And in my failure, a tiny seed of doubt had been planted. About the Writer... Emma Klopfer has been writing for as long as she can remember and writes primarily long-form novels. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and is 17 years old. Her work primarily discusses her connection to nature and the transition from girlhood to womanhood. About the Artist... An artist looks at ordinary things, things that wouldn't interest other people, people who have no time to waste, and it's like being hit by lightning. The feeling is so erratic and fleeting; an artist has to paint it to life before it is lost. I find myself in that very cycle, I live, then I paint it.

26d8ae08-f853-4650-862a-cc16b123ab93 Late by Jadalyn Gubat Firstborn by Satori McCormick I tried to tell my husband about my first son but every noble intent of the act failed. As we lay in bed months into our honeymoon, I attempted to sketch out the exact shade of his newborn skin (terracotta? rose? like the color of a brilliant desert sunset when it hits the sandstones just before nightfall?) and the deep black pools of his eyes when he opened them (he cried all the time and it was like he wailed, stopped, and opened his eyes just to fill them with sorrow all over again). But with each new sentence I paused, frowning, my hand outstretched in the middle of the air, and I could not remember if this was my baby I was talking about or the fantasy one I’d dreamed up in years since. My patient husband leaned over to kiss my forehead. He rolled over and turned off the light, leaving me in the dark wondering what color my son had been. But the tragedies topple over each other into peripheries. I was overjoyed to discover that someone wanted to marry me even after I was left destitute and childless and absolute societal wreckage. My husband was so sweet and shy I could hardly believe he was mine. He left every morning at seven to go to work in an office building and came home every night at five. He made his own coffee and poured a measured teaspoon of cream into it. He grew a beard and it tickled my mouth when he kissed me. He never asked me about my past. It was ancient history, a dark age, an aftertaste fading in my mouth. Our daughter was born on Christmas Day so we decided to name her Mary. She was pale and quiet like an angel. She never cried. In her crib, under a delicate canary yellow mobile of butterflies, she gazed up at me adoringly with caramel brown eyes. I took her everywhere with me. When she wanted to nap I cradled her in the crook of my elbow and watched TV, and when she was awake I took her on walks in the neighborhood in a pink stroller. My husband and I photographed her every minute development, whether it be an extra tuft of hair or a new dress or that the seasons had changed, but suddenly somehow autumn looked different than it always had once it enveloped our child. "Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him." At her third birthday party I invited one of my oldest friends and she approached me as I cut the cake for a group of eager toddlers. She started talking about how much I had changed, god, what a fucking miracle. I darted her a scornful frown and she laughed. She asked me how much my husband made at his job. Enough for us, I said. And this house? She glanced around at the white walls and contemporary furniture. She scoffed. You got yourself a real perfect life, she spat. Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him. What an ugly child. He looked at me with big black bug eyes encrusted with diamond lagoons and I had to look away. My husband was working late so I brought Mary to the mall. I bought her a light blue backpack to put all her things in. She stuffed in the most audaciously unnecessary things: a pack of crayons, her favorite stuffed animal, a bag of crackers, and a flower barrette, just in case the one I’d clipped in her hair that morning wasn’t adequate by the end of the day. I bought her ice cream in the food court. She savored it as we went in search of a toy store. I noticed a boy who must’ve been not older than eleven or so. He had shaggy black hair and deep golden skin and as he passed me he looked at me strangely. He joined a white couple that must’ve been his parents and they walked together through the wide glossy mall hallway. I tugged my daughter along faster and she whined in protest, her ice cream dripping onto the floor. In the hoards of people going the opposite way I lost track of the boy. Mary stumbled to keep up. I caught a glimpse of the family going up the escalator. I climbed in, pushing past strangers who shouted after me and at the top I saw them heading to the exit. I dropped Mary’s hand and followed swiftly. Just before I could reach the boy the mother whirled around and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing, following us?” Behind her I stared at the boy. He didn’t look like me. He wasn’t my son. I glanced at the woman, her face frightened and reddened, breathing heavily. Without saying anything, I turned back and made my way to Mary, who was beginning to cry in the midst of a thousand strangers. Return to Table of Contents

10 < Table of Contents The Hands That Create by Andie Crawford Ars Poetica by Bella Zaccaro " But it is an echo, waiting for me / to connect its formless gray / into the true image I saw." By the time I awaken from the stupor of lightning-strike, burning-fire inspiration, scrambling for a pen and page, the vision has already scattered and I am left grasping at embers and sparks. Still hot, they burn in tiny spots against my fingers and my palms, and I press them flat against paper to watch them carve a smokey shape. But it is an echo, waiting for me to connect its formless gray into the true image I saw. I make a wish for the glow and flawless feathers of the phoenix's fiery return. I make a wish for anything to burn as brightly as my dream. Shape it as I please or as I should, marked with patterned lowering of keys. It remains as curling wisps, either lost or extinguished, hissing for a quiet death. I step back and smell its sting, how it clings to the atmosphere and page, and test if letting cool air seep into its flickering form might solve its stubbornness. Time alone does nothing but age it. The drive to invoke my waking dream smolders in still-living cinders, reaches out from the smokescreen and pulls me back with its last warmth I long to bridge mind and reality. Look at the divination on the page and see not something unfinished, or else nothing at all — but what it could be, if cut into pieces and burned again, until pencilmark words curl up into black; until charred and softened to soil, to grow again. With ink-dipped knife I cut each word into its own, see the ideas flitting within paper-pulp, change and reshape the expanse of before; and I raise manmade lighter to the page. The paper does not burn easy against its meek flame mimic of better circumstances. Sparks fall tentative, sickly, hesitant in their blinking birth and faint from the moment they are lit. But in the dark they light the word in tiny whispers of space around them, dancing beyond lines on the page. In the dark it is all you can see. Precise, I pierce their descent and flatten them into words, patterns of inkblot and ash layering one over the last. Only as letters burn into themselves, reincarnated into black-blazed paper, does the fire against my palms look like a faint vestige of the vision that first struck me down. About the Writer... Bella Zaccaro is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson. She enjoys developing fantasy and sci-fi concepts, and focuses on metaphor-based storytelling in her works as a way of discussing complex themes or experiences. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting.

< Back Narcissus and Echo by Ava Ritterskamp About the Artist... Ava Ritterskamp is a Junior at Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint, but she also enjoys experimenting with other forms of media. Her piece titled “Narcissus and Echo” won the 2024 Congressional Arts competition and is currently on display in Washington DC. Ava is passionate about art and hopes to pursue a career in visual arts or architecture. Previous Next

9 < Table of Contents Metallic Amalgamation by Conner Pendry Midnight Oil by Teigan Edwards The lights cutting streaks into the pavement, the car humming when I pause at the start of the track, the gray bleachers the only thing protruding from the otherwise dismissive darkness. They ground me when my head aches under the oppressive weight of his voice in my ear. They center me when my eyes grasp for every detail of the track even days before race day. I feel like I can think. Like I can breathe here. " An hour on the track becomes a night, becomes a century." An hour on the track becomes a night, becomes a century. Time slows and jumps and fluctuates between sleeping and hyperventilating. Two minutes fill the space of a second, a decade. I lose myself and the voices and the burning, bleeding need to move in the hum of the engine, the lure of the void. And when it all settles down, when the car finally stops and my brain finds itself again, the slate is washed clean. A part of me wants to drive, to see if I could do it despite my fear. But Jessie is in the trunk, and I don’t want to be the karma that finally gets him killed. And, more selfishly, my head is too alive. To drive I need quiet, and right now I’m all noise – change the oil before the race on Sunday, go faster, faster, keep the first turn in mind but not so much that you’re in your head on the second . I want – need – to go so fast my world stands still, and Jessie is the only one who’ll drive like that on a whim in the middle of the night. Just so long as it’s on a nice, safe race track. I step out, not bothering to shut the door behind me, and pop the trunk. Jessie grins up at me in the bright light, arms up as if I’ll punch him. I might. Not because I’m impatient – though I am impatient, thrumming with the kind of dopamine only the sleepless ingest – but because he’s my brother, and he’d let me. His round glasses glint from their unstable perch too far down his nose. “Game time.” “Heck, yeah.” He rolls out and starts for the driver’s side, smirking back at me. I roll my eyes to make a point. But he just smiles wider. He has this way about him. The kind that says he does his math homework before he goes out street racing and brings the groceries in with one hand, his phone open in the other. The kind that gets into fights with everyone. Fights that everyone, himself included, knows he can’t win. But he squares up anyway, a smile on his face. I slide into the passenger’s seat. The leather isn’t worn the same way as in the driver’s. The smell is too much like my race engineer – hot coffee and motor oil – from when I gave him a ride home on the way to pick up Jessie. One of his hands is already molded onto the steering wheel. The other adjusts the phone connector and volume knobs. He whoops when his favorite techno track blares through the speakers. The car pulses with it. He switches to drive and floors the gas without a second in between for me to snatch at a breath. I make an involuntary, shapeless noise. The track runs under us, from us. Gray and black and blinding white. The speed is lovely, violent, seething. Outside the windows, a river of strobe lights rushes by. Clubs can’t compete. Dreams of it can’t live up to the real thing. It’s like being drugged and drunk and only half-disillusioned of a lucid dream. I can move, but moving feels wrong. Like shifting positions on one of those centripetal force rides at the fair. We’re spinning. We’re flying. We’re going as fast as I ever dare to go in broad daylight surrounded by my team. My gut burns but finally not in the way it does when I have to run the same turn a dozen times in one afternoon. I grab the armrest when I’m pressed further back into my seat. I’d close my eyes, but it’d be like closing them to monsters in the dark. I’m so still that I can feel my heart quaking in my chest, the only muscle that’s anything but taut. I’m a passenger on a reanimated train I can’t jump out of. I want to grab the parking brake, but I couldn’t hurt Jessie like that, and I can’t trust the car to stop just because it’s told. We need to slow down or we’ll miss a turn and spin out through the chain link fence and into the unseen woods. Every second is the last and yet every next second comes. My fingers twitch against my restraint. I clench my stomach to hold onto the way it churns, to push through it to the other, blissful side and keep gripping the door of this metal animal, its brain at my side, shouting over the music. He’ll stop if I ask him. The knowledge of my choice in it all is comforting. And I would ask. I would. If I didn’t have a race this week. If the rush, like a cold shower only without the sting, didn’t feel quite so good. If he didn’t have that look in his eyes – glued to his seat but smiling through the pain, smiling like he does in photos of us from high school. Like he does by the finish line when he wins a late-night race. Like he used to in the car on school nights. I almost died for that look, once. But I haven’t. Not yet. In high school, just before Jessie went off to state college, we’d take Cooper Highway north. It was dead except for us. Pine trees are stacked atop one another by the shoulders. No one used it late at night after the bigger interstate was built a few miles over. Beyond the windows, the world was leached of color, but we were brighter than we’d ever been. Jessie’s music and the headlights ate away at my brain’s insufferable conviction to stay awake. It wasn’t races that kept me up then. It was college and an early morning job and Friday afternoons helping the pit crew set up for race day. My budding fear of driving in the dark was fed by race track horror stories and hours of analyzing crash videos. But I needed to be awake, and to be awake I needed to sleep, and to sleep I needed to drown. About the Writer... Teigan Edwards is a senior creative writer at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. She has been enthralled by stories since she was a young girl and her mother sat her down every night to read. About the Artist... Conner Pendry is a sculpture major at Douglas Anderson with a focus in metalwork through processes such as welding, grinding and soldering. He is completing his sustained investigation for AP 3-D Art & Design based around exploring how metal can be unified into interesting compositions through a variety of techniques.

For Glory! by Raiti Namiranian As I Go to the Sea By Hanzhen Teng Cast of Characters VICE ADMIRAL YAMA a 49-Year-old male who has served in the Navy for 30 years. He has a plain naval watch. REAR ADMIRAL KA a 48-Year-old male who has served in the Navy for 27 years. They both graduated from the Naval Academy. Their passion for patriotism makes them take duties extremely seriously, and they consider honor more important than their own lives. Setting Midway, 1942. SCENE FOUR About thirty minutes later, YAMA, KA and other staff officers are still waiting for the information from the attack group. Yama stands on the platform near the ship bridge while looking up to the national flag waving in the wind. Ka comes out and stands by Yama. KA: It strikes with the screaming wind. ( referring to the flag ) YAMA: And now those sea eagles are fighting with the horrendous waves. ( referring to the pilots ) The transmission of a successful attack reaches the staff officers, and all start to cheer. One staff officer informs Yama and Ka about this success. KA: Good job boys! ( cheering ) Just within half an hour! They didn’t let us down! Kami is on our side! Yama, we shall win the battle! YAMA: What a great attack! These brave sea eagles broke the waves and returned back to the sky! Another staff officer comes to inform Yama and Ka of the enemy casualty and the loss of the attack group. Yama suddenly becomes serious since he realizes the battle isn’t over yet. YAMA: Gents, ( calling staff officers ) our attacking force destroyed one of their aircraft carriers, that is all due to every pilot's effort at the frontline, for those who lost their lives but made accomplishments in this mission … now, let’s give them a moment of silence. ( taking off his hat ) Yama’s voice is broadcasted to the whole crew, and all crew members remain in silence for a moment. Then all go back to their positions. KA: They became blooming cherry blossoms, scattered in front of Kami’s shrine… SCENE FIVE Dozens of aircraft can be seen far away from the ship bridge, they slowly approach the fleet under the flaming sunset and thin clouds. Those are the enemy attack groups coming for revenge. The battle command is conveyed to the crew members again. YAMA: ( somber expression ) It seems they have more aircraft than we do. That will definitely be a tough battle. KA: Their attack groups will arrive here in five minutes. Shall we launch our last four fighters? YAMA: Launch them as quickly as possible! We must catch any potential opportunities! The fighters are ready to take off, but an unexpected enemy attack group appears right above the fleet and dive down through the clouds. YAMA: ( roaring ) All prepare for impact! The bombs shook the entire aircraft carrier and destroyed the front deck. Yama and Ka are almost thrown up to the ceiling in the sound of explosion, and they drop from the midair. YAMA: Kami … why did you fool me…? ( getting up from the floor with difficulty ) Is everyone alright? ( looking around the room ) KA: I am ( a beat ) fine. My leg got hurt a little. That was a big impact … Yama helps Ka up carefully and pulls other staff officers up. KA: Yama! Forget me, go check the damage! ( leaning against the wall ) YAMA: I’ll be right back! ( walking to the platform ) The first thing that comes to Yama ’s sight is the deformed front deck with burning debris. YAMA: Put out the fire as soon as possible! ( yelling to the crew members working on the deck ) Call the medicals to come here and rescue the wounded! There are still several remaining planes above the fleet from the enemy attack group. YAMA: Check the damages of our fighters on the de— ( suddenly stopping while Yama realizes the deck is unable to launch fighters ) The thunder of launching and explosion of ammos appear again in the side of the deck. Ka walks out from the room and stands on the platform. KA: ( speaking weakly ) What damages were we suffered? What’s the situation? YAMA: ( yelling to the deck ) Ka, are you alright? Medical! KA: (interrupting Yama) Nah … I don’t really need medical; let them help others first … Yama looks at Ka for a while and agrees to Ka’s request. Then all devote to busy work. SCENE SIX Hours later, the hand of the clock on the wall points to 1:30 AM. In the past few hours, Yama, Ka, staff officers, and all crew members were trying to put out the fire and repair the damaged aircraft carrier. Fortunately, there were no enemy planes harassing the fleet. KA: Commander, our crew did their best to save this aircraft carrier, but ( a beat ) Our ship lost her source of power ( a beat ) we have to evacuate … YAMA: Such a meritorious ship. ( a beat ) Alright. ( a beat ) From now on, I have decided to abandon this aircraft carrier, and all crew members prepare to evacuate … KA: Oh ( a beat ) my ship ( a beat ) she has accompanied me for years ( a beat ) ( walking around the room and tries to see the front deck from the window ) The smoky clouds gradually disperse and the moonlight shines on the bridge. YAMA: The light from Tenkoku ... KA: Pure and bright … YAMA: It will bring us to the shore of Tenkoku … and we shall bloom together in front of the shrine in Tenkoku. Staff officers are asking Ka and Yama to evacuate together while they all walk down the bridge and stand under the banner waving in the night. YAMA: No, gents ( a beat ) under my command, I failed to avert the tragedy and save those young men ( a pause ) I didn’t fulfill my duty as a commander ( a beat ) I will not live with the expense of honor. Staying on the ship will be my atonement. ( Smiling at the staff officers ) KA: And I shall stand with him to the end. ( With a determined look, all staff officers bow heads in silence ). YAMA: Don’t feel sorry for us … you all know an allusion, as the Kusunoki brothers failed to protect the Mikado. They sacrificed their lives to atone ( a beat ) “would that I had seven lives to give for my country!” That was what they said, ( a beat ) what they thought, ( a beat ) now, we just step on the trace of past ancestry. KA: The Mikado has bestowed the honor upon us. We shall never fail in our duty ( a beat ) If we do, there is no way to confess, but death. YAMA: It’s time to say farewell. What should I leave for you as a souvenir? Yama takes off his cap and watch, and hands it to the closest staff officer, followed by Ka taking off his cap. YAMA: Let us see you off. There is one more thing. ( going to the flagpole and lowering the national flag ) Please, take this. ( folding the flag in his hand ) You all! Please keep it and take it back to that distant homeland. ( handing it to the closest staff officers again ) KA: Now! Everyone! Please take care! ( saluting ) Yama and Ka watch staff officers getting on the rescue boats. Then, Yama and Ka stand under the empty flagpole and the bright moonlight refreshes their faces. YAMA: At sea, be my body water-soaked … ( murmuring in a low voice ) Ka joins this short verse, an old poem, “UmiYukaba” by Ō tomo no Yakamochi. YAMA AND KA: On land be it with grass overgrown. Let me die by the side of my Sovereign! Never will I look back. END OF PLAY About the Writer... Hanzhen Teng is a senior at The Kiski School in Pennsylvania. With plans to major in history or cultural studies, Hanzhen has a passion for writing and enjoys transforming abstract ideas into clear expressions. His writing has earned him a bronze medal in the Harvard International Review and a high commendation in the John Locke Essay Competition. About the Artist... Raiti Namiranian has been drawing since she was young. Her favorite materials are watercolor, ink, and digital art. She is inspired most by eye-catching colors and natural beauty.

< Table of Contents Welcome to the Family by Amrita Ketireddy to my mother, who never cried in room 207 After Ocean Vuong By Aarushi Gupta “i dread the red of your eyes like a / twenty-nine-year-old dreads his birthday.” under a painting of indra (1) scorned, you make your mandir (2) in the familiar dip of the mattress. soon, the view will be replaced by the smiling portrait of your mother, who lays in bed behind. the mattress will turn white, for the only south indian snowstorm is the whirl of dupattas (3) at funerals, icicles melting under the weight of unshed tears. i dread the red of your eyes like a a twenty-nine-year-old dreads his birthday. not black remembering, but the pink of your unpolished nail forgetting itself, pressing crescents into my arm. red, commutative as death itself. if time is a mother, why does it freeze in hospital rooms, where the umbilical cord is forged again and again? locked in this furnace, withstanding the heat of being ganesha (4) for once, you think of the last time you prayed to god in this room. go on, mother, pick up the phone and call. morph into parvati, remember the time they churned my stomach, a samudra manthana (5) . painkiller amrut, splattered on the floor outside our house. floating in that puddle, i saw an eyelash, its shortness a gift you gave freely. yours or mine? perhaps, neither. it belonged to nani (6) first, but so did you. i wish i was there with you, wish i could feel the cosmic pulling of draupadi’s saree (7) pause. i wish i could tear a hole in it, sew an extra yard of cotton into the dupatta of time. but if there’s one thing i learnt the day you first walked into room 207, it’s that no one can hide from a mother’s wrath. (1) indra is the hindu god of rain, storms, thunder and lightning. (2) mandir is hindi for temple. (3) dupatta is an indian garment, similar to a shawl. (4) ganesha is the son of goddess parvati in hindu mythology. (5) samudra manthana refers to a myth wherein the gods churned the ocean to obtain the holy nectar called amrut. (6) nani is hindi for grandmother. (7) draupadi’s saree refers to a tale from the mahabharata wherein there was an attempt to humiliate draupadi by pulling off her saree. however, lord krishna intervened, making the saree infinitely long and preserving draupadi’s dignity. About the Writer... Aarushi Gupta (she/her) is a high school senior from Bangalore, India. You can find more of her work at www.aarushiwrites.com . About the Artist... Amrita Ketireddy is a junior at Creekside High School. She has done fine arts for nearly ten years alongside tennis. She is a member of numerous honor societies and clubs, though is an officer of her school's Creative Writing Club, Film Production Club, and FBLA. In the future, she hopes to study Software Engineering along with Fine Arts and follow her passion for creating things from the ground up.

1ec3a25b-d895-4232-92bb-d934108311d3 my childhood friends by Raymond Chen Return to Table of Contents

Just a Little Laundry by Ruby Wirth About the Artist... Ruby Wirth is a student at Douglas Anderson. She is pursuing a dual major in sculpture and painting. In her work, she aims to connect with viewers by expressing herself and creating immersive worlds to explore. Her ideal mediums are found objects, paint, and clay.

11 < Back Where I'm From Giovanni Jacques Bantu by Nyriel Saures Where I'm From by Giovani Jacques I am from Saturday morning bible studies, men in suits preaching about Bondye, and all that he sacrificed for me. I am from hours spent,// watching Palmettos swing in the breeze,// songbirds singing their divine songs,// of love, and// freedom. I am from hours spent, watching Palmettos swing in the breeze, songbirds singing their divine songs, of love, and freedom. I am from oak trees towering over Bolete mushrooms, its mycelium in a bond with all the roots of all the oak trees one could see. All connected. I am from makak, and wop kon jorge, echoing from the lips of the ones you love, the moment you happen to be less than perfect. I’m from brothers badgering, and pesky sisters, and mothers love. I am from facetime calls with loved ones live from an island, envy held on both sides of the screen, both wishing to be in the shoes of the other, both wanting to escape. About the Writer... Giovani Jacques is a first-generation Haitian-American writer hailing from Jacksonville, Florida. He describes writing as a unique outlet for him, using it to express complex concepts and ideas that otherwise wouldn't see the light of day. About the Artist... Nyriel Saures is a senior art major. She's been creating art ever since she was a little girl. Besides art, she really likes fashion too. She plans on continuing her artistic journey going into college and even after that.

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