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6f178f10-c39c-4e20-af87-b3599b872ff0 Blooming Petals by Bria Mcclary Rose-Colored Glasses by Mackenzie Rud A single chain-link fence snaked along the property line of San Pablo Elementary. I hardly even noticed it until I had to pass by it every day of 5th grade on my bike ride to school. For some reason, it has always captured my attention. I was so used to seeing fences rusted to hell and back, as if they were mere days from falling apart, but this fence looked so pristine. The clean metal glinted so nicely where the sun kissed it. The gleam was always reminiscent of my mom’s reflective hair clips (silver woven between strands of dark brown until it looped into a half-bun). Thick sheets of laminated poster-board were scattered along the surface, tied in between the chains with thick rope and flimsy zip ties. Each poster was its own planet and had been spaced accordingly to mirror a shrunken down version of the planets’ true distance from one another. All were emblazoned with pictures and facts, but I was always drawn back to the distance. It really forced my kid-brain to consider how vast the universe was. The fence is still standing but it has been deteriorating for a while. It had welcomed every threat imaginable, like moths drawn to a flame. Looking back, the signs were always there. There had always been hints of rust lurking around the chains, waiting for the moment to strike with a parasitic, vice-like grip. The signs were always sun-bleached, any remaining color ready to fade at a moment’s notice. The flowers were always riddled with persistent, invasive weeds. With perspective, your understanding shifts. Facades can crack and crumble, revealing the undesirable underneath; a lesson I hadn’t learned until recently when things fell apart with my mom. It is a tradition, a constant when nothing else is, to pass the fence. Despite not going to the schools in the surrounding area anymore, I still see the resilient chain-link every day, as my bus stop is just beyond the elementary school’s borders. The fence is so familiar, nostalgic, even. I can’t help but draw comparisons between it and my personal relationships. There was never a middle ground when I rode my bike past the fence. I felt obligated to either speed past it as fast as I could or go at a snail’s pace. Going fast caused everything to blur together wonderfully. The fence would look all silver, loops of metal indistinguishable from the rest. The flowers planted alongside the bottom would become one big patch of color that followed me as I sped towards the crosswalk. It always felt like something straight out of a cartoon, bright and animated, but going slow allowed me to appreciate the signs. I could take the time to absorb it all. Those were the two polar opposites I faced, either a pause or a rush. To keep the promise of the comparison, this was always how it was with my mom, yet not nearly as positive as the bike rides. Most times, she would unashamedly ignore both me and the tension looming over us. Days and nights would go by with few words passing between us. It was the suffocating type of silence, as if one wrong word would end it all. Occasionally, she would pretend to listen, but it was always clear she wasn’t invested. Her eyes would glaze over, and she would mumble unrelated comments. The latter half, the adrenaline rush, was always a whirlwind of emotions. Her erratic behavior, ever unpredictable, was paired with screaming matches and pointless arguments centered around myself or her ex-husband (my dad, who had escaped her ensnarement years ago). Her deep-seated indignation gave way to a passionate fury as the hours dragged on. She would scream her throat raw until her motive was lost, and everything felt blurred and muddled, until she would inevitably fall back on her constant: Heineken. "Oddly enough, the moment I can pinpoint as the beginning of the end of our relationship involves that dilapidated school fence." Just as it took a while for me to pick up on the fence’s declining state, it would take years for me to realize the ongoing situation with my mom. I was unable to recognize the abnormality of a house being somewhere to tread lightly upon, rather than a home. It became something I was subconsciously aware of yet chose to ignore in favor of avoiding the fallout. I did so until everything was too much to handle. I couldn’t shove my feelings or anxieties down and pretend they didn’t exist. San Pablo didn’t bite the bullet and start repairs until last year either. They waited until the fence had unapologetically gaping holes. Oddly enough, the moment I can pinpoint as the beginning of the end of our relationship involves that dilapidated school fence. It was the summer between middle school and high school, and I was hesitantly awaiting my acceptance letter to a high school I had auditioned for. As soon as I got it, things exploded between my parents. My dad wanted my mom to sign a notarized agreement saying that she would not move away from my bus stop. He wanted me to be able to ride my bike to the pick-up spot. My mom was always late for everything, and seeing how the school was an hour away, missing the bus would be a problem. I have always been under the impression that she believes time waits for her. She received an emailed draft of the papers and had a meltdown. She was convinced there was some secret trick, or something hidden within the subtext. I had read them myself and knew that to be untrue, and I told her such. It was an off-handed remark, really; I had not thought before I said it, but it became the catalyst. She yelled until her voice was hoarse, only to start right back up again. With wild gestures, she told me it was all a big conspiracy. My dad was supposedly creating a masterful ploy to steal custody from her. I couldn't even begin to explain how wrong that was. The papers were so simply written. They stated the only way my dad would get full custody was if she moved me to Orange Park. That request was understandable, as she had moved me there the previous year even though I went to school at the beaches. My mind was reeling at this point. Everything was dull and distant. It felt like I was submerged under water. I told her I was done, that I was leaving, and stumbled towards the shoe rack. She yelled after me with a favorite phrase of hers. I was “misremembering it all”. I don’t know what there was to “misremember” about it as the terms were written down. I had my hand clenched around the doorknob when she made one final attempt to keep me trapped. It was a sob story I had heard endlessly before: my dad was brainwashing me. Every inconvenience, every time she lost her temper, every perceived slight against her was my dad’s fault. In her mind, her shortcomings as a parent were because he divorced her. The speeches were always filled with half-baked lies, but it still stung to hear her talk so poorly of my dad after all he had done to shield me from her mess. He had spent years cleaning up her mistakes so I could cling to that belief of a loving, picture-perfect family. The impact of the door slamming behind me made the window tremble. I felt numb as I mindlessly walked. I hadn’t noticed it before, but tears had been steadily falling down my cheeks. I wound up at San Pablo with my nostalgic memories of elementary school dragged to the forefront of my mind. Not my best years, but hey, I was begging for any distractions. My hands shook as I called my dad. I have no memory of what I told him—repression is a hell of a thing—but the little comfort our talk offered was nice. I wanted nothing more than for him to pick me up and take me home, but I knew that would only lead to a kidnapping claim, courtesy of my mom, whose house had never been my home. After ending the call, I didn’t turn back. I put my hand up on the fence as I walked and let my fingers dip in and out of the gaps. The metal wavered in such a satisfying way. I returned to the house after an hour to my mom with a glass of wine shaking in her twitching hands. She apologized with a sickly, honey-laced tone, but as soon as the bottle was drained, she pounded on my bedroom door and returned to the verbal barrage. Weeks later I returned to San Pablo, aching for the familiarity of the fence, but my heart dropped. That was when I finally realized the poor state it was in. My naïve perspective, my rose-colored glasses, shattered. My favorite planet poster, Venus, swung in the wind and made an awful raucous as it hit the metal links. The onslaught of disappointment was crushing. It felt as if the decay had happened overnight. My mom’s steady decline had spiraled as well. She always had a balancing act between her narcissism and her addictions, but it began to teeter. It would take getting Baker-Acted for meth usage and suicidal tendencies, being held in a facility for weeks, a second eviction looming over her head (without anywhere to go), and me outright saying I did not feel safe for her to sign away her custody. She still claims she did nothing wrong and expects me to come running back. She claims my dad is ruining our relationship, but she has texted me three times in the three months following her giving up custody. It has been very weird living at my dad’s house permanently. It’s liberating and wonderful, but it’s hard to believe I’m free from the suffocating tension I lived with for so long. I feel like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for some unforeseen consequence to rear its head, but I am slowly getting back into the swing of things. With the opportunity to step back, reflect, and to fully take off those warped rose-colored glasses, my perspective has been broadened, and both her and the fence’s facades have cracked. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Editors' Note É lan has begun to stride into the new as we enter our 38th year. New thoughts on our legacy, new perspectives on our future, new voices and artists to elevate, and new promises to you—our readers who have been willing to go on the road of self-discovery with us. We remain committed to our purpose, yet we are excited to continue towards the next stages of our growth. As the year draws to a conclusion, we stride to strike a balance between the familiar and everything we are on the precipice of. É lan's Fall/Winter 2023 nestles itself comfortably between sentiment for the past and longing for the future. This issue's work reflects this, encouraging readers to establish their own balance by focusing on self-evolution, relationships, and the parts of ourselves that want to bend and expand. We ask that you be open to the new and explore the realm of words and art these artists have created. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Jaslyn Dickerson & Avery Grossman

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

13 < Table of Contents Lament by Kierra Reese About the Artist... Kierra Reese is a junior at Douglas Anderson .At the school, Kierra is a draw/paint major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally in acrylic, because of the beautiful colors and contrast acrylic's make.

< Table of Contents Still Holding On by Andie Crawford The Myth By Hannah Rouse Mermaids, much like humans, have fingers so they can thread through seaweed. The only differences are their shimmery, scaly tails and magical lungs or gills or whatever they use to breathe underwater. Maybe their skin is seafoam green, and their fins like stained glass with the texture of damp leaves. In my head, they look just like in the stories and the movies. They’re out there somewhere, singing ships to sleep. Perfect and perched on jagged rocks. Dancing in waves that collapse into nothing. They fall in love with sailors and revel in the wreckage of storms. They’re not afraid of sharks or the vast, aqua emptiness that is their home. *** I always wanted to be a mermaid. Even when I wouldn’t swim in the pool unless my parents checked it for spiders and frogs. I wore Disney Princess floaties on my arms, a small inflatable tube on my stomach, and green and blue goggles to protect my eyes from the sting of salt water. I wouldn’t put my head underwater until I was five or six years old, when an older girl asked to play mermaids with me. After that, I finally managed to dip my skull beneath the ripples. My long, brown hair, pulled lovingly into a braid by my mother, once dry, dripped with dreams of my legs merging together and growing gold or green scales. *** I used to reenact the giant rock scene from The Little Mermaid at the mini-golf course. I sang “Part of Your World” softly to myself. The rough surfaces scratched at my skin but all I could think about was swimming with Flounder, about having a dinglehopper. At seven years old, I still wanted a Snarfblatt more than anything in the world. My new room at my grandparents' beach house was decorated entirely by myths: dolls, ornaments, signs, and miniature statues. With my toes in the sand, I observed the whitecaps breaking in the distance, wondering when I’d see her for real. *** There is a painting hanging on my wall: a mermaid sits on a rock, arm outstretched toward a white unicorn—beach waves in her hair, a pale gray seashell bra, and a glittery green tail. The sky behind them swirls, pink and purple around a flaming sun. But their reflections show them as they are. A girl and a horse under a boring blue sky, fantasizing about a life where they could be something magical. *** “I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells.” Until I was thirteen, I wore a full-length pink mermaid tail in the pool. Exhilarated by the sensations of gliding, slicing through the thick water. I took my hair down and let it float behind me in the chlorine, a cloud of thin brown strands with a mind of their own. I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells. Imagined that I was fearless enough to swim, not in the confinement of a pool, but engulfed in the ocean’s cerulean darkness. *** “I’ll give you a dollar to stand by that shark,” Mimi said, pointing to Tommy, the giant fifty-foot statue of my worst fear, whose gaping mouth was the entrance to Jaws Resortwear. I didn’t look at him, but knew all too well what the store and Tommy looked like. Beady, black eyes. His sharp teeth pointed at any poor soul who wanted to enter. All the windows next to him were covered in towels with the terrifying creatures printed on the front. Other sharks, Tommy’s friends, I presumed, were posed to look like they rose through the concrete, their faces full of hunger. I shook my head. Just the thought of standing anywhere near the store made me sick. “Five dollars,” she smiled. I did not. “Ten dollars?” I wouldn’t have stood by the door of Jaws Resortwear for anything. She upped the offer to twenty, thirty, then finally, forty. I always refused. For the rest of the week-long vacation, Mimi tried to make that same deal each time we passed Tommy, the ominous entrance to the store. Not once did I budge. Not once did I even think about actually letting her take the picture of me standing in Tommy’s mouth. On the surface, this is why I cannot live in the ocean. *** For him, my bra was not made of seashells, but rather of wires and lace and polyester. I did not have a tail. My hair draped across the armrest as if again just released from its braid, free to float. I reveled in the way he looked at me. Perhaps he was just a shark, like Tommy, and I just never noticed his bloodthirsty mouth. Or maybe he was the ocean. Seaweed limbs wrapping around me. Hands all over, the stinging tentacles of a jellyfish searching for something shiny in a shipwreck. But he found nothing worth loving in the rotting planks of wood. Drowning in the stained leather of the couch, I began to see myself as the reflection in the painting. The reality. No magical lungs or gills or whatever the mermaids would use to breathe in the chaos of the ocean if they were real. Nothing more than a girl trying to touch something that looks mythic, magic, but is just as raw, as real as she is. *** Now, I don’t dare go in the ocean. Not a single painted toenail touches the seafoam. Even pools scare me when I can’t feel the floor below me. The concrete scraped holes in the thin fabric of the pretend mermaid tail I outgrew. But I still think if I stare at the ocean for long enough, I’ll see the sparkle of a mermaid's fin somewhere in the distance. So, I watch the waves closely, waiting for my girlhood to return. About the Writer... Hannah Rouse is a junior Literary Arts major at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School. She has been published in Asgard, Fledge, Under The Madness, Appelley, Free Spirit, and You Might Need to Hear This. She won runner-up in Georgia Southern University’s High School Writing Contest, as well as fiv e G old Keys, a Silver Key, and five Honorable Mentions from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She received first prize nationally for the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest in 2023. Hannah is also a competitive dancer and enjoys spending time with her two cats. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her best mediums are drawing and painting.

< 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.

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 Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

Incandescent by Daysha Perez His Mother's Cries by Anai Harris On the 16th Street Church Bombing, 1963 Mama cried for her ; s he cried for the little brown girl that lived at end of our street who was no longer with us. But instead , buried underneath the ruins of the church . I felt my mother's cries. I could tell by the way her tears stained her cheeks : she was losing her faith. She had been there after the explosion. When the little girl's mother ran through the crowd and fell to her knees at the foot of the ruins. Where she found nothing but the sho e she had put on her daughter that morning. The girl's mother sat there asking God why. Soon after , my mother began to do the same. Every night , she would ask God why. Why he’d taken something so precious. Not long after , we stopped going to church. My mother claimed there was not a church to go to and my father was just happy to sleep in on Sundays. My mother cried , knowing that horrible things were always happening all around her. Mostly , she cried knowing that she could do nothing about it. Yet another tragedy m anufactured in the eyes of hate. Hate so strong that death was not a sacrifice b ut a relief. I cried for my mother. She cried for the world. Who cried for me? About the Writer... Anai Harris is a junior in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. With five years of experience in writing plays, ballads, mysteries, and numerous poems, Anai has developed a diverse and impressive portfolio. She has participated in various contests with her original work, including the Tomorrow's Leaders Contest and the NaNoWriMo Contest. This year, Anai was honored with an award from the James Weldon Johnson Young Writers Contest. Anai is excited to bring her creative writing to new heights as she embarks on her next writing adventures. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is a 11th grader at Douglas Anderson school of the Arts. She is a visual arts major who has always had a passion for creative artistry, particularly painting. Most of the art she creates is acrylic paint on canvas. She fell in love with the medium in elementary school and works with it frequently.

Questions of Youth Erion P. Sanders Why do I have to remain silent Yet, I am the one who suffers Why do I have to continue to struggle Yet, it’s okay for you to strive Why do I have to endure the unrealistic Eurocentric beauty standards That degrade my every feature Yet, I can’t say or do things to uplift my brothers and my sisters Why am I often ostracized Yet, treated as if I’m the problem The real problem here Is that I still haven’t received my reparations “dear”. Every day I’m targeted Yet, when I use my voice, I’m ignored or beaten down Why do you love my culture Yet, you love nothing about me Why do I have to teach my child to be careful with where they go and how they speak I will teach them to fear this world, even as a baby I may be young I may not understand some things But I do know that people don’t care They don’t care about things that don’t affect them Even if means the suffering of others that they talk to and interact with everyday I am this nation’s youth, and this is what I had to say. Return to Piece Selection

Poemgranate Autumn Hill Brazen Hasina Lilley From the homemade kitchen My grandma hands me A ripe and gorgeous pomegranate Held in its napkin -- It is all I need I bite into its bitter red shell directly with my teeth And my fingers pick, exposing its white flesh and juicy red, With such ease in small, calloused hands I have always been a messy eater With pieces of food finding its way down a mountain To be eaten off the pasture But amongst pigs and chickens Ripping apart a pomegranate With my teeth seems like the most civilized thing to do Return to Table of Contents

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 Just a Little Laundry Small Title Ruby Wirth Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

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