I'm Not Alone by Micayla Latson I am listening to my parents arguing downstairs by Alisa Chamberlain Cooking oil laces the stove, something disrupting The homely kitchen below the ground I rely on for safety. A desperate scream let out by the most gruesome Banshee graces my ears in a way that causes me to jump. I shiver, as loud cries drift up from the kitchen below, Beasts awakening every time I ask any question. The unstoppable force and immovable object meet, Once again, chipping paint off the walls with their bare voices. Unable to sit still, I pace the dusty floors of my chamber, Which was once a room, at a time I can remember only faintly. As the wailing grows and fades, and grows again, Accompanied by the deepest harmony, trading places every couple of minutes. The two creatures cannot seem to find solace within themselves. I continue pacing as I stare out at the murky duskiness developing Over the surface of my neighbor’s artificial pond. I can feel my lungs rise and fall at the growing pace Of a racehorse anxiously pawing the ground, waiting to exit its crate Just as the plastic ones which once brought me solace Now rattle on my bedroom’s nightstand Ready to implode with the energy held inside, Ready to ride out into the night, The darkness and hungry monsters less terrifying Than the ones butting horns in the kitchen of disarray but the hooves are trapped on a worn nightstand, directly above As the two creatures fighting bar any innocent from passing. Hooves quake as the rift at the heart of my home expands, Thunder overpowering the bitter darkness outside, Lightning frying the trees outside, Breaking the glass from the inside of my once-living room, Bright lights and clashing sounds roaring against each-other, Creating whirlwinds that turn what was once a home Into an empty house, animals hiding in dusty, ransacked crannies As the two banshees in the kitchen wave wildly. For all I know, they could’ve been practicing a funeral song, A dirge only meant to be heard by fellow omnipresent ghosts Something I intrude on without knowing. I hear a blunt thok as something metal graces the kitchen tiles. The wailing intensifies as if a bomb dropped, a shard of metal Twisting and scraping the insides of the banshee’s rotting hearts Cutting through their jagged white flesh as if they still lived. My pacing ends as I hear one of them lose their war, Flying away amidst the destruction of the kitchen below me, Evading the shrapnel behind the front door. Slam. One last shriek, and utter silence devours me and my moonlit study.

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 Worship/War Inocencia Su Thar Nyein Small Title Ian Castro Soto Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

17 < Back Lucky Money Lauren Underberg Lucky Money by Lauren Underberg "It’s as ordinary a place as you remembered—set in a sunburnt shopping center above an Asian market—although you hadn’t anticipated sitting up on the stage." It’s as ordinary a place as you remembered—set in a sunburnt shopping center above an Asian market—although you hadn’t anticipated sitting up on the stage. Usually, it was reserved for a big birthday or family reunion, and you suppose it was technically both, but you follow the waiter as he weaves his way to the very back of the room. From there, you can see the entire restaurant—circular tables curving outwards, waiters pushing carts piled high with meat buns and dumpling steamers, Mandarin and Cantonese and English and a little Spanish running together, until falling in a steady wave at the foot of the stage, then drawing back out. They arrived soon after you did, your Gung Gung helping your Poh Poh up the stairs as she waved off your mom, spotting you with a big smile. “ Luh-len! ” she said, like over the phone. “ Hao-ah-you? ” Next arrived Uncle Raymond, your mom’s favorite—when they’d lived in Hong Kong, he’d take her and her siblings to the park and tell them scary stories before they went to sleep. Aunt Becky (whose daughter is your mom’s cousin, or better known as the one with ten mil’, a spray tan, and enough plastic surgery to be an Asian Jennifer Lopez) was third. She brings you perfume and a brand-new watch. Last but not least was Crazy Uncle Alex—retired Wendy’s chain tycoon, now part-time Uber driver—striding in with a box of gourmet cookies, each one bigger than your hand. You set it across the empty chairs on the side, completing the circle. It’s not the usual round-up from your childhood—technically speaking, they’re either your great-uncle or aunt, but you’d only met Uncle Alex three years ago, and you hadn’t seen the other two since a baby or ever at all. Technically, you were supposed to see them with the rest of your family here in a week, on your Gung Gung’s seventy-fifth birthday. Technically, your mom and her sister are still Facebook friends, but only in the sense that she can’t see your mom’s posts drowning in her feed of the latest Coach bag or vacation selfie with Wannabe Jennifer Lopez. Technically, you’re officially unofficially estranged. In rapid succession, your mom reads off the order, confirming with your relatives before dictating to the waiter, who plucks your menus in a fanlike revolution and steps off the stage. They resume their conversation in Cantonese, bickering back and forth. Mainly, you just stare into space until your mom breaks the conversation for you to share or agree with something. She smiles, and you nod. Nod and nod. The first round of food arrives, and your Gung Gung places a rice noodle roll— ha cheung —on your plate, and then another one. “Oh— uhm-goi ,” you thank him, smile. Fiddle with chopsticks. “—and my dog,” Uncle Alex is saying, swiping through pictures of a fluffy bichon frisé on a chaise lounge. “Oh, your new apartment?” your mom says, and he hands over his colossal iPhone. “Private pool, all to myself.” He nods, sitting back. The ha cheung falls off your chopsticks. “Pool and puppy,” Uncle Raymond tuts, sipping from his tea. “ Ooh. ” Uncle Alex mutters something, launching on a tirade. Your mom glances between them, smiling, shaking her head. She whispers translations to you, including the curse words. “—like a fat buddha. He’s just sorry he doesn’t have a life!” Uncle Alex says, grinning. “I have a son and wife,” Uncle Raymond says, and Uncle Alex’s mouth folds back into a line as he stares at the pictures on his phone. “He’s still in Brooklyn?” your mom asks. You give up on the chopsticks. He nods. “Visited him last month—starting to travel again.” He taps on his phone to show two flights. “Oh, Seoul! She—” “And Auckland,” he says. “—loves BTS, don’t you?” She smiles, nudging you. You laugh a little loudly. He blinks. “You should speak to Uncle Raymond—I’ve been trying to teach her Cantonese this summer because she wanted to learn—you remember, tell him what your name is.” You stare at her, betrayed, but she nudges you again, so you piece together a smile that comes out more like a grimace. Uncle Raymond watches expectantly. “ Lei goh…mei —no. Uh.” You stare at the table. “ Mei goh…hai… ” You flail for something hollow. His expression returns blank. You sigh. “I don’t know.” Your mom laughs. “Ai-yah, it’s because I put her on the spot. My Cantonese is so bad anyway, kindergarten level, right, Ma? Ma.” “Hah?” Your Poh Poh looks up from the teapot. “Remember? You named her ‘Lok-yee.’ ” “Oh, yeh. ” She chuckles. “‘ Hahp-py-girl.’ ” Both of which you’re pretty convinced you’ve failed at . You smile. “ Lok-yee, Man-yee, ” Uncle Alex chants. Your mom’s name. “She said it sounds like ‘lucky money,’” she says, laughing, mostly to silence. Your Gung Gung grins, patting your shoulder. “You and yoh mohm ah very lucky, hah? ” Chuckling, he picks a meat bun with his hands to take a bite. You throw down your chopsticks and do the same. “When did you get in?” Aunt Becky asks. “Oh, just yesterday afternoon. We met up with them” —your mom gestures to your Poh Poh and Gung Gung, as rehearsed— “and my brother and his kids yesterday.” “Oh, but no Belinda?” Aunt Becky’s magnified eyes dart between the two of you carefully. Your mom sighs into her response. “ It’s …complicated. I just wanted to come up here once everything settled down, you know? I haven’t since—” “2019,” you say, and everyone glances at you momentarily. “Before we moved back,” your mom concludes. “Besides, we’re here for them.” Aunt Becky nods solemnly. Uncle Alex picks between his teeth. A server comes around once more, leaving yellow tarts on the Lazy Susan. Your mom’s face lights up. “You should try this—it’s like an egg tart that I used to eat as a kid. Oh, ma’am—could we get some spoons? Uhm-goi. ” Daan tat. It melts in your mouth. About the Writer... Lauren Underberg is a junior in the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Their work appears in the department’s student-run literary magazine, Cadence. They have been referred to as a long-distance runner on multiple occasions, which basically means they'll never write a short short story in their life.

< Back Crossstreets by Katherine Chen African Winter By Mila Rose Bredenkamp Proud fever trees, lined like soldiers along the broken, cracked road. Sweet bile creeps elegantly down their languid forms as they observe and form a formidable barricade. The lady in the supermarket has a gold tooth; it winks as she smiles at us. She complains of the cold, scanning our jar of peanut butter, her beaded bracelet clinking happily. She says the electricity is out again. We say our water has been cut off. We all nod solemnly, smiling and shaking our heads, and there is a mutual exhausted humor that passes through us. It is with a loud smile and an orchestral laugh that she wishes us well. She means it. The fever trees turn their gazes from the supermarket window back to the street, where darkness has long since spread out. They observe hushed figures that scatter awkwardly and pull frantically at the veins of the streetlights, rip thorns out of the fever tree flesh to place onto the road, in search of flattening tires. "The fever trees turn their gazes from the supermarket window back to the street, / where darkness has long since spread out. " where darkness has long since spread out. Tomorrow night, there will be no light on this street; there may not even be light in the houses that line it. But the lady in the supermarket, in her singsong voice, wishing us all well, reverberates through the empty streets. And the pumping heart of Africa stays bloody, warm and red, an encasement of thorny fever tree roots preventing the frost from settling. About the Author... Mila Bredenkamp is 17 years old. She was born in South Africa and is currently living in Singapore studying at the German European School of Singapore. In her free time, she enjoys reading, baking, sketching, and writing poetry and short stories. Her favorite poet is Sylvia Plath, and she hopes to discover more about poetry and read the work of famous poets. After school, she hopes to go into a field surrounding writing or travel. About the Artist... Katherine Chen is a 17-year-old senior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is oil and chalk pastels. However, she also frequently uses collage and various unconventional forms of medium to express her art. She has won several Gold Regional Keys in the Scholastic Art Awards. Hoping to continue her art journey, Katherine will be pursuing art for university.

< Table of Contents Gilded Embrace by Isabella Woods Wax-Feathered Heart By Izzy Falgas In a prison trapped by way of sea and land, watching as your fingers run through soft wax, I’ve seen gentle smiles and calloused hands; father deftly lining quills up from the smallest. They took him forty-two days to construct which left me forty-three to gaze down at you. “I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. / All I could grasp was dripping wax.” You soared, wings brushing my sky as I perch on my own chariot of ignorance. I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. All I could grasp was dripping wax. Your eyes were on the sky, counting the stars of Orion— why did they never lock onto me? Too far to hold you, near enough to hurt you; is arm's length still too close? Cupped in my hands is your ambrosia I never had. You were never vain; I was the selfish one. Washed up on the white sands of Icaria, death held close as the sun fell in love with a dead man. About the Writer... Izzy Falgas is a freshman in Harrison School for the Arts and is in the Creative Writing department. She enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction in her free time, as well as creating other forms of visual art. She has won many awards and accolades for her visual art, including FAEA’s Award of Distinction and a gold ribbon in SSYRA’s visual category. She has a novel in the works, but is mainly occupied by piles of homework and playing with her four-month-old puppy. About the Artist... Isabella Woods is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy. She knew at a young age that she was interested in doing art. Some of her influences have come from her grandmother, mom, and teachers who have all inspired her with their own art. Now attending Savannah Arts Academy, she is able to be creative everyday with multiple different kinds of art.

Élan is a literary magazine publishing the best writing and art from high school students around the world. Read about our history and staff. Élan is an international student literary magazine published by the Creative Writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. Originally created as a grassroots publication of the English Department in 1986, Élan found its permanent home upon the creation of the Douglas Anderson Creative Writing Department in 1990, overseen by Jacquelin Jones. Now, Élan sees work from students globally, including Japan, Korea, India, and France. Publishing three times a year, a staff of passionate high school juniors and seniors continues Élan’s legacy of creating a world-class literary publication and opening opportunities for the diverse and talented young writers of the world. Élan has won the Highest Honor for Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (REALM) contest three years in a row. The REALM program publicly recognizes excellent literary magazines produced by students with the support of their teachers. REALM is designed to encourage all schools to develop literary magazines that celebrate the art and craft of writing. Mission & History Staff Staff Jeneva Hayes Editor-in-Chief Scott Parmelee Senior Layout & Design Editor Charlotte Parks Junior Art Director Jamie Lohse Community Engagement Director Colson Gomez Associate Director of Art and Marketing Deidra Curtis Junior Editor-in-Chief Jay Lechwar Junior Layout & Design Editor Hannes Duncan Senior Genre Editor Lila Hartley Community Engagement Director Astrid Henry Senior Managing Editor Olivia Sheftall Junior Layout & Design Editor Caitlin Spinner Junior Genre Editor Tatyana Jones Senior Marketing Editor Collette Carlee Junior Managing Editor Marcus Holley Senior Art Director Cameron Pickering Junior Genre Editor Giana Bradshaw Associate Director of Community Engagement and Marketing

Toby Georgia Witt Tiffany grasped the wheel and sat up straight and stiff. Her gaze bounced about the playground quickly. She looked at a group of little kids zooming around a plastic playset, zipping down slides and swinging on monkey bars. She looked at a group of older boys chasing each other in the dirt, shouting and grinning, and she looked at kids on the swings pushing each other and pumping their scuffed-up legs. Tiffany wondered if Toby ever hung out with any of these kids, she wondered whether he liked the swings, the monkey bars or the slide, she wondered all these things and so much more, but her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, tap tap tapping, on the windshield. “Ma’am,” a women's voice hollered. Tiffany’s head snapped away from the playground and into the eyes of the tired old woman before her. Her skin was tan with a reddish tint, matching her greasy hair thrown into a messy bun. She looked like she had been mushed up like playdoh with all her wrinkles. She tapped her finger nails on the windshield again, she had cheetah print acrylics. “Ma’am your son is here,” a little boy clutching the arms of his racecar backpack was standing outside of the car with a blank face. “Oh!” Tiffany said loudly, her face burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said to the wrinkled woman. “That’s all right ma’am,” the woman said with a sigh. “Toby come in the car,” Tiffany said, grabbing the wheel again. Toby swung open the car door, still wearing a blank expression, and hopped his little pale body inside. “How was your day at school honey?” Tiffany asked, focusing on the road and pulling out of the school parking lot. Toby crossed his arms and scrunched up his face. “Mmmph!” He grunted, blowing his bangs out of his face. Tiffany furrowed her thick brows, concerned. “Well what is that supposed to mean honey?” She asked. “I don’t want to tell you!” Toby screeched unraveling his arms and balling his hands into fists, “Because you’re not my Mom!” Toby wailed. Tiffany closed her eyes and sighed, “You know I don’t like it when you say those things Tobes,” she said looking at Toby’s tear streaked face in the rearview mirror. He sniffed and wiped away his tears, preparing to let out another scream, “I DON’T CARE!” Toby shouted at the top of his lungs, and then he burst into a miniscule ball of rage, kicking and punching everything in sight. Tiffany sighed and let him have a temper tantrum, he just got like that sometimes. Toby had calmed down by the time Tiffany was pulling her beat up van into the driveway, his face was still puffy and red. “Yay!” Toby shouted throwing the car door open and running to the front door, his little blue backpack thump, thump thumping against his back. Tiffany smiled and got out of the car, right behind him. The scratched front door opened revealing a grinning face, tattooed arms reaching out. “Toby!” Miranda said, “Miranda!” Toby yelled, jumping into her arms. Miranda grinned and looked up at Tiffany. She stood up, Toby still in her arms and pulled Tiffany closer to her and gave her a kiss on the lips. Tiffany smirked, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Miranda gave Tiffany that charming grin and said, “I guess I can’t,” and she set Toby down on the floor. The rest of the afternoon was peaceful. Miranda whipped up chicken and cheese quesadillas while Tiffany helped Toby do his homework at the dining table. Toby talked for the entirety of dinner, jamming quesadillas into his mouth and going on and on about his new 1st grade teacher Ms. Crabtree and how he played kickball with the second graders at recess. Eventually he winded down after desert, (hot fudge sundaes,) and Tiffany and Miranda tucked him into his flowery quilts. “Can I get a racecar bed?” He asked eyes closed, “Like the one I used to have, like the one you saw...” Tiffany and Miranda exchanged glances not knowing what to say, eventually Miranda spoke, “We’ll think about it Tobes,” she said and then Tiffany pecked him on the cheek. After that Tiffany and Miranda went to their bedroom, Miranda slipping into the sheets and cracking open a dusty book that she had been reading. Tiffany sat next to her. “Miranda,” Tiffany said glancing in her direction, “Toby had another tantrum today. Miranda set down her book, “Oh no Tiff, I’m sorry, when was it?” “As soon as he got in the car,” Tiffany said. “Did he say you weren’t his Mom?” Miranda asked. “Yes.” Miranda ran her warm, callused hand over Tiffany’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” Tiffany smiled, “It’s ok. Do you ever think...” she started, contemplating if she should say this or not, “do you ever think about giving him back to his parents?” Miranda shot up angrily, “Tiffany!” She hissed, “we made a promise when we took Toby and we are going to keep that promise no matter what!” Tiffany sighed, she hated it when Miranda got upset. “I know I know it’s just I feel like he has the right to be with them...” Miranda shook her head, “You can’t get soft about that kind of thing Tiff,” she said laying back down, her back facing Tiffany. Miranda, click, turned off the lamp and pulled the covers closer. “Good night.” Tiffany said. “Good night.” Miranda said stiffly. The next morning Miranda woke up first, she hastily took a shower and then threw her ratty pink bathrobe on and ran outside to check the mail. She shivered in the cold as she pulled out stacks of bills and then: a letter. As quickly as she could she tore it open and snatched out the loose-leaf piece of paper inside. It read: Tiffany and Miranda, we have agreed to pay the ransom for our son Toby. Please have him back to our house by 6. Return to Piece Selection

1841830b-e835-4756-b712-b37651d49a80 I Sea Trash by Christian Silva the girl in the pool has all her clothes on by Ali Ximines I often think of the summers I spent with the lavender-haired girl by the side of the community pool - too afraid of what the town would think of me if I jumped in, but too mesmerized by her blue-green eyes to go home. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, really, for an innocent swim was hardly cause for a scandal. But the truth of the matter was, the lavender-haired girl in the pool…well, she had all her clothes on. "It was invigorating, she declared - and because of my cowardice, I had to take her word for it." You see, she always jumped in that way…fully dressed, sneakers and all. Said it felt better when the water made your clothes cling, air-tight, to your skin. It was invigorating, she declared - and because of my cowardice, I had to take her word for it. Because while the experience was ever-so-tempting, it just wasn’t done. And so I returned, day after sweltering summer day, denying myself the luxury of a sunlight swim with her, all in the name of maintaining appearances. I could have slapped myself. As a result, the only opportunity I had to let go of the boundaries that persistently reared in my head every day was during the cover of night. We’d sneak into the pool almost every evening and swim together: two trespassing fish with cotton scales. And when her hands traced a path down to my waist on one particularly humid evening, I could pretend that the shiver traveling down my spine was caused by my damp clothing - not the sight of the moonlight reflecting in her blue-green eyes. It’s quite funny, really, the way I couldn’t remember what I ate for dinner last night if you pressed a pistol to my temple, but I can recall every second I spent with her in vivid detail, simply by closing my eyes. There will always be the ghost of her lips on mine, a tentative exploration that we could only undergo in the dark, echoes of her whispers in my ears, full of words that made me shiver even when we were dry. Those very words filled my ears every afternoon, when a subtle shake of my head was all I could answer to the unspoken but persistent invitation those eyes offered me from the pool - never demanding for me to join her, but making it clear that the choice was mine. This afternoon, hands that don’t feel like my own tug at the hem of my shirt, begging me to tear my gaze away from her, to stop admiring how perfectly that lavender hair compliments the bright blue of the pool, to escape to the locker room and change into a swimsuit, to remain ordinary for one more day. She’s floating on her back now, an otter in denim overalls and a Hayley Kiyoko t-shirt. I stand up from the pool chair, forcing myself to finally leave, but aquamarine eyes meet mine, and my legs betray me, refusing to take another step away from her. We stare at each other for a moment, her steady gaze never wavering, asking a question that I’m afraid to answer…it’s much too long, really, considering the vantage point the pastor’s daughter has from the top of the diving board - but that one look is enough to crumble my defenses. I don’t want to say no to myself anymore. And I know what the pastor himself thinks about the shade of her hair, the clothes she wears, the opinions she freely shares, the way her parents are prone to leaving her by herself for days at a time, the unconventionality that makes her so magnetic. But the pastor doesn’t know the girl in the pool. I do. The pastor hasn’t spent any time with the girl in the pool. I have. The pastor hasn’t heard the gentle tingle of her laugh, hasn’t seen the tender way she feeds the birds in the park, hasn’t spent hours watching her sing while braiding that hair. I know the girl in the pool has all her clothes on. And I love her all the same. I don’t go to the locker room. I don’t change into my pale-peach swimsuit. I stand, walk a few paces back, and do a running jump into the water. There’s a colossal splash before I sink to the bottom of the pool, knowing very well that the whole town saw me, and hoping that they did. There I sit, one leg over the other, picture-perfect blonde hair hovering above my head. My heart pounds twice before I open my eyes, and…there she is. She giggles, and although I can’t hear her under the water, the sight of it puts a warm glow in my chest. We lean forward until our foreheads touch, and my eyelids flutter closed in contentment. The summer is almost over, but we’ve only just begun. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Felicity by England Townsend 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.

Editor's Note Zoe Lathey & Blair Bowers We present this issue to you through a new lens. As the world is changing, we are changing, ever growing and learning. Within this new platform we want to share with you the changes Elan has undertaken, after 35 years of creating a space for artists to share their voices and express their ideas, we have launched a cleaner, newer, better online space. On a continuous journey of self-exploration, we want to share with you the journey of these unique individuals who share their stories through art. We bring you the Spring 2021 Issue; as you travel through this issue we encourage you to also think of the new year and the new beginnings for yourself, as Elan has and as these artists have. This issue contains a world of possibility and exploration, let it guide you and speak to you. We thank you for taking the time to explore with us and with these artists. Sincerely, Zoe Lathey and Blair Bowers Return to Table of Contents

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.

Southern Heat by Madison Bradley Excerpt from Homes and Houses by Audrey Brant Restless spirits live here. But they are alive. They have bodies, but no souls. They inhabit this house, but they don’t truly live in it. Their home is not this structure. This building holds them, but it does not hug them. There is an absence of presence here. An absence of positive emotion. Wood and concrete and walls and a roof do not create a home. Only love can do that. Shingles and lumber and cement do not create love. Only warmth and light from people can do that. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette.” And not the warmth that comes from a furnace, or the light that blooms from a bulb. The kind that comes from a heartbeat or a compassionate mind. Isolation and alienation make a home into a house. Irritation and annoyances spill over into hatred. Little things build up into big problems. A once-shared home becomes a house divided by stress and fading tolerance. Storms of silence brew between a family until it’s unbearable, and somebody leaves. They thought, for the longest time, that homelessness was being without a place to stay, or living on the streets. But when you’ve lost your family, when you’ve lost the people you love or their love for you, that’s when you are truly without a home. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette. And somewhere along the line, a glimmer of hope appears, like shining stardust into a pool that sends golden ripples to the outskirts of its vessel. An unforeseen rosy light overcomes the house and blankets every room. This light is not from the fixtures in the ceilings or from the televisions omitting their unnatural glow; this light is from peace. The loneliness that came from the individual’s departure dissipates into serenity. The remaining inhabitant finds that their house is more of a home than it ever was.