< Back That Time of Day by Valentina Zapata Rotting Roots By Alethea/Jamie Lohse The very air in the South pants, muggy and oppressive, down her neck, like a monster’s breath. As she steps out of the car, Elaine can tell she’s home just by the taste of a humid breeze and the sting of mosquito bites on her arms. The Oakley family’s home is dingy, deserted, and small — not traditional. The paint outside is weathered and stained, a makeshift flowerbed has been overgrown by weeds. The double-wide trailer is hardly a home at all, but it's the closest thing to it that the Oakley family has ever had. Elaine hauls her only suitcase out from the trunk and slams the lid. It isn't as if there are any neighbors around to disturb. Her grandpa bought this land for cheap, way back when there was even less around than the godforsaken nothing here now. He plopped the trailer down, propped it up with some cinderblocks, and there it stayed. Out here, everything stays. This North Florida mud — stickier than honey but not half as sweet — clings to anything, if it’s unlucky enough. Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her. She knows Pa left the trailer to her because he had nothing better to do with it. The old man could never sell this wretched thing. Still, Elaine feels that he liked the idea of her having it. That always was Pa’s special, sick form of pride. His children were extensions of himself, and maybe this was his final selfish act: a subtle way of keeping the little he owned, even in death. It wasn’t a charitable way of thinking. In Elaine’s experience, that meant it was the truth. "Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her." The sun starts to set over the trees, casting golden light behind their towering silhouettes. Elaine picks up her pace, as if she can outrun the rising sound of crickets. She’s always hated being out here at night. It started a few weeks after Elaine had turned seven. On a random Saturday, Pa woke her and Camden up by kicking them out of the house with a simple, cruel: “because I said so!” Elaine started crying, but Camden, eleven at the time, knew better. Only Pa was allowed to throw tantrums in this house. Her big brother gave her a piggyback ride the mile-walk to their neighbor’s house, just to calm her down. The Carsons were kind folks, with some kids around their age. They always let her and Camden stay for dinner without asking any questions. Elaine couldn’t count how many meals she must owe them over the years. The day was alright, but the path home was different in the dark. In Elaine’s young mind, she swore the trees had changed shape, that the wind was whispering something ancient and terrifying through their branches. The crunching of leaves and strange sounds from the forest weren’t any regular critters, but a great beast stalking them through the night, something big and mean, with pitch black eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Elaine remembers telling Camden, "These woods turn hungry when the sun goes down.” Usually, her brother would just laugh at her for saying something so stupid. That night, he’d stared at the star-filled sky for a moment with an expression like piano music in an empty chapel. Elaine finds herself thinking about that look on her brother’s face a lot more than she probably should. She hadn’t seen it again till Camden's fifteenth birthday, when Pa first goaded him into trying a drink. “Just a sip, son. C’mon, you’re a man now, aren’t ya?” If she had said something back then, maybe it would have made a difference. But she didn’t, and thinking about it would do nothing but kill her. That night, Elaine was small and afraid. She didn’t question it when Camden wordlessly grabbed her hand and pulled them into a run for the rest of the way home. Pa was passed out drunk on the couch when they came in. Elaine knows this place is empty now, but she still finds herself bracing for the smell of booze. After years of disuse, the trailer doorknob is a little rusty. Still, when she fishes a key out from under the ancient welcome mat, it opens just fine. As Elaine steps inside, the first thing she notices is that there’s far less mess than she was expecting. The place looks cleaner than she’s ever seen it. Pa ’s church had handled the funeral, so they probably cleaned up too, as a good deed. Elaine faintly remembers them calling her, offering condolences, and inviting her to speak at the memorial service. The woman on the phone didn’t bother hiding her shock when Elaine politely declined to attend at all. The quiet gasp from the other end of the line still lingers in Elaine’s ears, like an itch she can’t scratch. She knows they spent the reception wondering what “Poor Ol’ Tommy” did to deserve such a rotten daughter. Everyone said he found God, towards the end there. By Elaine’s count, that would have been the fifth time Pa had “found God” over the years. This time though, he never got the chance to relapse. Pa had died a good man. The trailer door shuts softly, leaving Elaine alone in the dark. She freezes, a sudden and irrational unease washes over her. She slowly turns, cautiously staring into the black void. She reaches for the light switch, but no illumination follows the click. The darkness seems to press heavier, and in the deafening silence, Elaine can only hear the faint sound of her own shallow breaths. Her chest tightens with a senseless panic, and the image of unseen hands reaching for her flashes behind her eyes. She stumbles, trying to run to the windows, and tripping over her suitcase in the process. When her hands finally find the blinds, she rips them open with a resounding ‘clack’ in the silence. Fading sunlight spills in, revealing nothing but her own shadow. As a girl, she’d been terrified of the dark. Never once before college did she sleep without a nightlight, despite Camden’s teasing. When she was in middle school, Elaine had been so determined to quit that she threw her nightlight into the retention pond. She wound up not sleeping for three days straight before she finally broke and begged Pa to buy her a new one. After that, she’d been resigned to the fact that it was impossible for her to rest in the dark. Every time Elaine closed her eyes, she swore she could feel something watching her. Creeping closer. Just waiting for the chance to strike. Eventually, the nagging dread always twisted into a gripping terror. She’d snap her eyes open, shaking and desperate, only to find an empty room. It was stupid. Elaine knew that, even as a kid. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of, girl. You keep on crying like that, and I’ll give you something to cry about!” About the Author... Alethea/Jamie Lohse is a young queer writer from Orange Park, Florida. They are currently a Junior in Douglas Anderson School of Art’s creative writing program. They love to draw outside of school, and hope to one day pursue the medium of sequential art. They've previously been published as a print exclusive in the Élan 2023 issue with their non-fiction work titled “Sparks in Rainstorms”, a personal essay on life and its end. In future endeavors, they're working on a multi-media urban fantasy horror story called “The Chaska Investigations”. About the Artist... Valentina Zapata is a sophomore at New World School of the Arts. She explores multiple mediums across different art forms, from ceramics to animation. The majority of her works are acrylic paintings. Zapata takes an interest in themes of identity, childhood, and family.

Eye Can See by Adrian Gibson allegory deferred by Lynn Kong Elderly white thread, teeth and strands of soul: Grandmother’s hands are crumpled like youth’s pink silk dress, like the roof of my mouth when I was born as a lump of clay, virgin to bruise and doubt’s edge— gums bared to verity. She ties a slender noose— milky and knitted with exile— and drapes it around my tooth, where frailty clasps earth and rustles somewhat. How is it that I wish so much to be unscathed? I clutch at violation, sucking rue and the dross of parched mirrors. But I cannot give it up, that tooth. I am still so infantile. Someday, when bubonic fragility melds with grace unmired, there will be a wonder akin to that graveyard odyssey wherein all false selves are discarded like the teeth of one’s childhood. Tongue prods void and rests.

My Mother's Spirits Tuesday Locklear Mother and Child Emily Nguyen At that moment in time, everything was warm. The image of his father and his sisters faded away. All that he saw was his mother pouring syrup. He traced his fingers along the mildly singed counters, collecting ash on his fingertips. He wiped the ash onto his trousers and kept going. The dining room held the worst memories. Every night, the family would sit together. Nicholas, his Mother, his Father, Becky, Rose. Eventually, Nicholas’ mother held both of them back, leaving his father and sisters to talk. Sometimes, Nicholas would sit in the living room, just out of sight, and listen. He never heard anything pleasant. “I don’t feel safe with her.” “She’s crazy—she says there’s ghosts in the home. Old beings.” “I caught her opening all the cabinets and closing them again, to scare the spirits away. Breaking grandma’s plates.” Nicholas did not understand what was wrong with his mother. He still doesn’t understand how those things could be bad. His bedroom was right at the end of the hallway. He remembered his melted mirror, his burnt blue blankets. When he was twelve, he came down with a nasty cold. His mother rocked him in her arms. Nicholas had nearly nodded off to bed, when he saw a white flash, and an ethereal booming clap echoed throughout the room. Nicholas’ mother bound up and slammed the window shut. Nicholas began crying. He hated lightning. His mother sat down at the end of his bed, and hushed him. “That wasn’t lightning, love. Those were spirits.” Nicholas sobbed harder. She crawled next to him. “No, no, no. Don’t be afraid of them. They’re kind, they just spook you sometimes.” She smiled. “I hear them talk to me.” Nicholas spent most of his hours with his mother, listening intently to her. She told him all kinds of stories and taught him about the world. She told him about the spirits. She loved those spirits. — “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” — “The outside is too dangerous, Nicholas.” she said to him, “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” And when he asked, “What about when I grow up?” She hushed him and told him he would never have to leave. He never wanted to leave. He loved this house; he loved his mother. His soul belonged here, with his soulmate. In his home he was free. His mother’s bedroom took most of the damage. The room was destroyed. Nothing was recognizable. Windows were shattered, wood was burnt beyond repair. He reached out to touch a beam of wood and heard the structure of the room shiver under his gentle touch. He had so many great memories with his mother. She taught him so much. She taught him about how awful his father and sisters are. How Becky loved three men. How Rose vowed to never love anyone, or have any children, dishonoring the entire family. How his father (may he rot in hell,) thought his mother was crazy. He remembered how, on his last day of school (around his 6th year?), she had walked to the school. She looked exhausted from the walk, but when she picked up Nicholas, she was smiling. She told him that he’d never have to go to school again. She pulled him out, so he could stay with her. She took his hand and walked him the 10 miles home. They arrived home around nightfall. His mother almost fainted at the door, and he had to carry her to her bed. She did that often. She would walk for hours with Nicholas, and return home late, forcing him to care for her. She would stay up for days, and pass out in the bathtub. Nicholas was always there to put her to bed. He looked around the room. His last memory of her was her holding him to her chest. He was seventeen. She hugged Nicholas, and said, “You’re old enough, now. You don’t need me.” Nicholas said, “I’ll always need you, mom.” “My job was to raise you, love,” she whispered, “Now, my job is done. You are raised. Your job was to grow up, and my job was to watch. Now we are both done. At first, I thought I could delay the inevitable, I could hold onto our relationship until we both die of age, but now that I think about it, that isn’t possible.” “But I can still stay here with you?” Nicholas asked. “As long as we’re together, we’ll live in this house.” She picked up a candlestick, which was illuminating the dark room. The light was flickering out. She held it up to her face. Nicholas remembered how his heart pounded out of his chest when she did this. The light illuminated her face in just the right way, making her serene expression look dastardly. His heart is pounding now, reliving the scene. For a second, young Nicholas thought she would drop the candle. But she didn’t. The candle almost slipped out of her hands, but she caught it. Nicholas could see the flames spreading down the blanket, up the curtains. He could almost see his mother’s face engulfed in them. But that did not happen. She caught the candle. It didn’t happen that way. Nicholas sat down in the ashy room. A cloud of dust flew up into the air, surrounding him. He pulled a matchbook out from his jacket pocket. He lit a match. He watched as the fire slowly crept its way down the matchstick. After that talk with his mother, Nicholas was worried for her—she told him to leave the room. He went to his room, and the fire started to engulf the home. The spirits knocked over the candlestick. It was the spirits. Return to Table of Contents

A Girl's Universe by Autumn King tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night by James Helmick I have heard little praise of that feeling of silk in the folds of fingers, glass as dreams. Sunlight devouring the sky in its jaws. Little praise of my drowning my face in your pitch pupil. At midnight all the black looks the same. Praise my finger for how it glows bluer than skin between the choker & nape of the neck, praise the ice burn of the buckle & warm hairs that tug & tug & tug, spilling in the sauna of your maw when I press a thumb onto your knife-edged fang & open up, wild vanilla lush on your lithe & sandy tongue my blood drops a stunning shade of purple. Recurring dreams of wind rushing through my fur? The song sounded like a perversion of music in the rabid writhing of the instrumental, the noise eroding the palate of the human ear. From afar, I heard it purring as lights pulsed color from basement concerts. I curled up on the concrete, prickly tail jostling with the circadian rhythm. My memories clearer than ever. Sometimes as a teen I would get on my bike & ride until I started crying. I have heard little praise of those who bark. Your lyrics scribbled, pens snapped & ink flecks splattered on your flesh, speckling the coat a star-map, each sparkle a promise, wishes waiting on the tip of your lithe tongue purple in this lighting, orange in the next. When I was young I slept in the backyard among the silky weeds & under the light-pollution. I must have known the stars were only invisible. Pack-animal recordings in my earbuds, I held a human hand to moonlight & cast a dog’s shadow. About the Writer... James Helmick (they/she/he) is a young artist in Jacksonville, Florida. Their speculative sci-fi short story has earned a Scholastic Gold Key, and they are passionate about writing poetry. James enjoys open mics and spoken word activities. About the Artist... Autumn King is a 10th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her preferred mediums are digital art, watercolor, and painting, but she also likes to explore new mediums she's never tried before.

Wishful Thinking by Rose Knudsen To the dock of the Black River by Alicia Vinson Today, I run The black essence that connects my feet To that painted on the concrete Diligently admiring these stains Of blue vandalized soul Kids restricted by the streetlight Whose mamas only trust them with the other brown folk Rusted plaque regulations in white Our neighborhood speaks love Yet the city speaks Wildfire and bruises Anyone who’s smart would awaken For safety is our killer Anyone whose timeline is smeared in white-out Would lead prayer We ask, what will this city be painted in? The murals of our youth, Or the tears blooming the flowers of our ancestors? We know the answer As the backbone of this city, we must go The tears Make up this ocean Holding the planks up with such prosper Which I run towards, For the sanctuary of my grandma’s cradling For the flowers that rub my veins in hymn While I wait my turn On this dock; this grave My friend I get your fear, I do For our dock is not painted a chalk gold glaze It is raw wooden brown The water leaking our blood at their palms Sister and brother I believe we will continue this revolution For our roots will elongate to and from the fractured heart To the children so criminal For the black boys Limited in toys And girls whose hair not cherished in the eyes of the sea But masked in the bitter plucks of bleach and chlorine From hands to dock we clamp Dock to droplets we kiss Not a taste of the discolored boat on our lips The time on our watch reads2000 And I understand the strong fingers that Pull me towards your revolt Eyes blank with fear “Will we simply float past time In the tombs of our blood? To be passed down from generation To generation we Will carry us, only us?” Crooked smile in confidence My feet dive into our waters A bridge of your love To the promised land Until our sea is so black Floods the city of our rhythm That they can’t run, that they can’t wait

Black Walnut Eli Mears Dead to the World Jillian Atwood The black walnut is a silent void, an altar bloodied and pulled into the spirit that chopped gaps, long wrinkled hardened bark, yanking you in by the fingers into the nutcracker designed for divine fruit. Alone on a rural Maryland hill where people once prayed to immortals like the black walnut and died under the shredding of their chestnuts who rotted from their uncaring vows the black walnut too fickle to die, and echoing into you. They told you it was bitter, strong, epochs twisted into a dendro, a nut, a God you sensed the moment you laid eyes on it like a child rubs her hands in old dust and senses the ground you felt your size. Fruit advances and some say it never ages long enough to enjoy like grandparents who could not face the blackness of an empty life, who faded into flickering ghosts, as they gazed upon the black walnut in the silent glory of drifting grass. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents The Switchboard Operators By Allison Clausen It seemed like every time Helen returned to the telecommunications office, there were fewer women working and more calls to connect. The office was only slightly brighter than the dusk outside, illuminated by a few flickering lights that hummed above the rows of consoles. Each console had hundreds upon hundreds of jacks that made Helen’s head swim when she looked at them, and multicolored wires she tried desperately not to tangle. “The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights.” She had started developing a callus on her thumb and index finger from the strain reliefs dragging across her fingers as she connected call after call, though she told herself she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her hands. The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights. The two of them had become something close to friends over the past few months. They had always known each other—they lived in the same area, ran into each other in shops or restaurants—but had only started talking when they started working. Not during work, as Rose connected international calls, and Helen was in a different room with domestic ones, but afterwards. When Helen arrived at the office, Rose beamed at her from the position at the first console, causing their supervisor to snap, “That’s four more hours, Ms. O’Neal,” though Rose accumulated four hours each shift, so it was hardly worth saying. Helen never smiled in response, keeping her gaze steeled forward. If she offered anything in return, she was bound to receive extra hours as well, and her shift wouldn’t end at the same time as Rose’s. Rose was only doing what she could to ensure the two of them didn’t have to walk the darkened streets of Providence alone, and though she had never said so, Helen appreciated it. The supervisor’s eyes raked heavily across Helen’s face, but she refused to glorify him with so much as a glance. She moved to the next room, head raised, back straight, and set her purse down on a chair before the console, hanging her hat on the back. There was no use sitting down—there weren’t enough of them working the night shift, and Helen had to stay standing to sprint back and forth between each jack. There was only one other woman with her at the moment. But under their supervisor’s harsh glare, they weren’t allowed to speak. There was hardly time to talk, anyway, not with the constant ringing and connecting, over and over and over. As usual, Rose and Helen left the office together that morning and stepped down the sidewalk in unison. “That building gets so stuffy,” Rose complained, making a big show of taking a deep breath in through her nose. Helen took a breath too and walked lightly in her heels. “It is,” she agreed. “Especially after being on your feet all day.” “And never talking. Ugh!” Rose exclaimed. “You know, when we all started getting jobs I thought, ‘This is it. We’re finally going to be treated like men.’ But we still aren’t, are we?” “I don’t want to be treated like a man ,” Helen said with a scoff. “But I wouldn’t mind some decency.” “They could at least let us talk,” Rose said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Or smile, even. You remember Betty? “Sure.” “Word is she hasn’t been around because they fired her for laughing. Can you believe that? Laughing!” Helen shook her head in vexation. “I heard they’ll fire you if you get married.” “Mm, I heard that too,” Rose said, “and that’s a real shame because I’ve had an eye on someone for a while now.” “You have?” Helen turned her head to look at her. Rose was focused on something in the distance, something Helen couldn’t see. “Since when?” Rose didn’t look back at her, fiddling with the bag around her shoulder. “Since we started this job, that’s when. Part of me got it to impress him.” “Well, who is it? What’s his name?” Rose shook her head. “I’m not telling until I know he and I are serious.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. “There’s not a man at all, is there?” The two of them fell silent, accompanied only by the noise of their heels on the pavement. The sun was just barely making its way past the horizon, a dim green peeking in between the buildings behind them. Helen’s house was only a block or two away, and Rose’s a little farther, but there was no way they were going to walk so long without saying anything, though what to say was troubling. Helen had a hard time imagining Rose in a life outside of their job, not that she couldn’t believe Rose wasn’t out and about flirting with men. No, the thought was entirely believable. But Helen never did anything like that. She went home to her parents, ate a small meal, woke up, ate again, and went to work. She hardly talked. She hardly laughed. She had no man to impress. Only twenty dollars a week, sore feet, and calluses. After mulling it over in a few short moments, Helen broke the tension and asked, “They let that new girl wear skates.” Rose’s hand on her bag fell still, and she glanced over at Helen, eyebrows raised curiously. “Who?” Helen shrugged. “Think her name is Louise.” Rose looked a little dubious. “What, she just skates around the place taking calls?” “Mhm.” “Could be fun, I guess.” “I never learned.” “It’s not too hard,” Rose responded, a smile starting to crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “I’d teach you if we ever had a second to ourselves. Heaven knows we need some fun around here.” The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “Did you hear about the girl in Boston?” “Do you know how many girls in Boston there are?” Helen asked instead of answering. “She worked switches, too,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Killed herself last night. It was in the paper.” Helen let out a heavy exhale, murmuring, “Can’t really blame her.” Rose made a noise of agreement, then asked, “You wouldn’t though, would you?” “No,” Helen said. “I need the money. Besides, I’d miss this.” “Miss what ? Taking calls?” “No way,” Helen shook her head. “I’d miss talking to you.” She had spoken before she even realized she was thinking it, and the thought surprised her. Now that it had been said, and the words were lingering in the early morning air, Helen realized speaking with Rose may be the only thing she ever looked forward to. It was starting to stump her, but she didn’t dwell on it too long, Rose’s voice cutting through her thoughts: “I have considered leaving, but I wouldn’t go to any extremes or anything.” Rose was full of surprises tonight, sharing more than she usually did, so Helen asked another question. “Why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I left?” “Mhm.” “I told you, to impress someone.” Helen raised an eyebrow. “Well, is it working?” Rose shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet.” “I doubt anybody’s worth working this job for.” Rose met Helen’s eyes for a brief moment. “Some people are,” she said. About the Writer... Allison Clausen is a senior Creative Writing student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Even outside of school, she spends most of her time writing, and has an appreciation for all genres. Her favorite genre to write is fiction.

7 < Table of Contents Light of my Life by Olivia Henry At the Foot of My Grandmother's Bed by Hadley Volner At the foot of my grandmother’s bed A silk bench stood alone Its legs nearly crumbled Under the weight of death’s exhale Propped on its silk pillow A large, pristine, gloss-glassed picture faced the dresser The golden frame traced with a fresh wreath of carnations The outline of her husband smiled through the glass I used to curl up at the foot of my grandmother’s bed But the cushion was crammed with his frame He remained out of sight, a wishful footnote She could not bear his glazed features next to hers Though she spoke as if he were lying next to her " His deserted pillow gathered dust / Only blown away by her yearning sighs / As his frame now occupied my pillow / I took my place at his" His deserted pillow gathered dust Only blown away by her yearning sighs As his frame now occupied my pillow I took my place at his As she whispered her weekly troubles The window’s glint illuminated my nods But though I slept beside her Only her words filled the sheets My ears caved Heavy with stories of distant friends and a distant God She felt each second of silence bring down a crashing pressure For a moment her words brought back his presence I don’t sleep at the foot of my grandmother’s bed I lie next to her as she contorts my features I have a white comb-over and milky cataracts And when she holds me I’m him About the Writer... Hadley Kasia Volner is a freshman at The Willow School in New Orleans, LA, enrolled in the Certificate of Artistry Program. A multi-sport athlete, Hadley ranked in state for the one-mile run in spring 2023, and has been involved in the competitive soccer club, The New Orleans Jesters, for seven years. About the Artist... Olivia Henry is a Visual Artist in 11th grade majoring in Photography. While she does like painting as well, photography peaked her interest as she likes to experiment with new mediums. She tends to make pieces involving everyday life, trying to create a sense of living in the moment.

541a1371-2508-48aa-9d08-613f36b1a509 My Inner Brewing Conflicts by Alana Guifarro motherland by Evangelina Ariana Thornton your eyelids slope like yunnan’s mountainous horizon; your skin is the pale- yellow of your grandparents’ love letters; the bridge of your nose, the peak of a muddy shallow gorge; your hair is woven from the wooden silk loom. Child, curve your pink lips like the weathered moon gate in darkened gardens, to form the vowels that don’t exist in your second language. This is how we say go and collect , the steamed fish of spring festival feasts and the lush-green rice paddies you have never seen. Your tongue flounders like a foreigner’s; your muscles strain in international waters. Sleepless, you bend over your bathroom sink, excavating your reflection. Your irises are the black ink of pine resin soot, bones exposed like unraveled handscrolls. You toil with your mouth until your cheeks sting and thighs twinge, staying there until the moon rises in that distant country, struggling to speak to the origins of your body and to enunciate your motherland. Return to Table of Contents

Crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis By Ariel Wu grandmother, who is from the north & has scoliosis, totters from the car like a bad tooth, the black, acidic sugar of dusk eating into her spine. in the bone-damp lampshade, her body swells like the skeleton of chinese lanterns in spring, bulging with pus-colored light. mama helps her out of the car, her hand on the crutch reverent like an empty ambulance. against the sunset, i strive & fail at tracing the straight lines in her shadows, a well-weeded garden. couldn’t you be more enthusiastic? father asks. grandmother says she feels neglected. in the crescent of our chinese bones, sympathy melts into bullets, dripping from our surfaces in heartfuls of ash. at night i dream of her figurine tucked into an embroidered shoe box, the stream of her flesh out flapped and brimming like butter. the chinese daughter i am, obsessed with steam irons & corks & labyrinths: how comely & beautiful it would be to straighten & disentangle a time-arched body. for dinner, grandmother nai makes pork dumplings with chinese chives, her hands snow-choked & soil-veined like grandfather’s tombstone in her birthplace, dough rising from the crevices of her hand like hemlock. the cuffs of the dumplings like rags. at dinnertime i hide in my room and tell mama the chives smell like dead rabbits and mama says she agrees. grandmother calls her a shen jing bing. good & chinese, grandmother lets poison flow in ivory rivulets in her body but sees everything as omens: my refusal to eat chives, shrapnel of the broken plate mama scraped her palms on, mama’s confessions to her faceless, bloodless heathen god. the day she and father fought mama for the fish bones mama forgot to dump in the trash, i stand behind my door, hearing grandmother’s wails billowing through her enclosed, sea-sealed body like a window, the glass unraveling her curvature like the gliding doors at the hilton. on the way to the airport, the car lights of father’s benz, deer-eyed and bloodshot under a fracturing sun, nai nai tells me to hold home on the tip of my tongue & that gratitude is a prayer to our ancestors. in our household, scoliosis is matrilineal, a legacy of arrow-backed heathens, the summer moon clipped between our knees. father’s benz ebbs into the distance like a hearse, the bony sky weighing on it’s back. About the Writer... Ariel Wu (she/her) is a high school senior from Shanghai, China. Her poems have been recognized by Chinchilla Lit, Nowhere Girl Collective, and PVLSE. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and Juniper Young Writers. When she is not writing about the quandaries of girlhood and over-analyzing literature, she can be found at various K-pop concerts. Check out her published work on Instagram at @ariel_by_sylvia_plath.

18 < Back Beloved Omen Emerson Flanagan Narcissus by Liza Kalacheva Beloved Omen by Emerson Flanagan Josephine sat perched on her balcony, porcelain teacup cupped in her hands, her nails tapping the sides. She watched the bustling streets of Paris, young people coming and going early in the morning. Below the apartments across the street, a café full of older couples enjoyed the winter breeze. Her eyes darted from jewelry pieces to expensive wrist watches, envying their glamour. Standing, she went back into her apartment. The walls fashioned knickknacks from cuckoo clocks to displayed vampire hunting kits, her ever-growing collection. She walked with her cup, pushing her small bifocals up on the bridge of her nose and eyeing Van Gogh’s Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette painting hung in an aged, golden antique frame along the hall’s wallpaper. Setting the tea down, she flipped through her wall of clothes that spilled from the closet and into the room. Grabbing a small pile of clothes, she slipped behind the folding screen to change. Upon leaving and seeing herself in the mirror, something felt different. She puffed her chest out a bit but felt an emptiness. A lack of presence. She shuffled through the top drawer of her vanity and pulled out her cravat, tucking and flattening out her Edwardian-style blouse, a fashion trend she’s always been fond of. The corset dug into her ribs, poking and prodding with each movement but she didn’t mind. It made her chest and shoulders seem wider, more threatening. Puffier, yes that was the word. Josephine pinned her brooch that bore the portrait of a beautiful lady on her left side of the blouse. She didn’t wear this brooch often, but today she believed today was important. The woman who had this before her had been wearing this on her special day, so it only seemed fitting. She picked the shiniest earrings she could find before standing in the mirror again. She pushed her chest out again and felt a bit better. She spun around and danced for a moment, watching her cage crinoline sway rhythmically. Pleased, Josephine made her way to the door, stopping by a cluttered bookshelf and opening a small box. Inside were her most prized objects. Engagement rings, lockets with photos, and pocket watches of all sorts, taken from passersby. She didn’t like to steal, but something drew her to it. An overwhelming feeling of greed gnawing at her from the inside out. She liked the exhilaration of it. And, if it went well, she had a new, glistening object to look at. Shifting through the box she removed a necklace. A simple, gold chain with a charm on it. Not just a flat, gold charm, no, this necklace was special. The centerpiece was a black diamond surrounded by small ruby gemstones. Josephine hesitated to take it with her in fears that maybe he would not like it. Would it be too much? Too forward? Too feminine? She thought again and put it in her coin purse, certain he would like it. She grabbed a pocket watch that matched her theme for the day. Running her thumb over the lid she pondered the emblem of the crow. "People must be intimidated, she thought. Intimidated by Death’s whetted scythe. All but him." Josephine left without hesitation for the shop. Her heels clicked against the paved and cracked streets of Paris, echoing across the concrete buildings and ringing in the ears of those around. Some ignored her while others stopped to gossip. They’d call her things like the reaper or “an omen of death.” Perhaps it was the way she dressed? The way she held herself when she walked? Well, that’s what she thought, at least. Though, the thought never remained long as she shooed it from her mind. Death is dominant over life. People must be intimidated, she thought. Intimidated by Death’s whetted scythe. All but him. She pushed open the door to the coffee shop and stepped in. The aroma of the morning roast was so captivating one could sit there for hours. As usual, the same few old people sat at the tables outdoors while young businessmen sat inside, reading. Josephine went to approach the counter, but at the same time, he rounded the corner. A tall, olive-skinned man with a flashy smile. He had freckles across his nose and cheeks that laid out like constellations. Stars she could reach out and touch. Stars she could keep for herself. “Josephine!” he said, tying the apron behind his waist as he approached the counter. His nametag read “Albion.” Josephine nodded at him with a smile and looked at the menu. “You’re early today,” he continued, “got something important to attend to?” he concluded, leaning over the counter towards her. She looked up and smiled again. “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s important. Something I’ve been meaning to do.” She spoke. His expression changed to intrigue. “Oh? Can I know?” “Certainly,” she said, taking out her coin purse, "open your hand.” He hesitated but obliged. Josephine plopped the necklace into his hand and looked at him eagerly. She puffed up her chest again, standing up straight. “A necklace?” Albion asked wearily, looking at her confused. She nodded. “Ah... Well, this looks rather expensive, I don’t want to take this from you.” “Please, it is a gift.” She said, pushing his hand closer towards him. “Do you not like gifts?” Albion shook his head. It wasn’t disgust or displeasure on his face, no, it was worry. Did he know the person who she had taken it from? “Take it, Josephine. Maybe I can accept it some other time. I fear I may lose it.” he laughed it off, handing the necklace to Josephine again. She frowned, retracting her chest, and softening her stature. It was okay, she thought, he’ll take it later. She thanked him for his time and left the shop. Lost in thought, she bumped into a man on the sidewalk. “Watch it, freak!” He shouted at her. Freak? Was he speaking to me, she thought, or someone else? She felt herself return to that dusty old classroom again. Sitting on the creaky, chipped wood floor surrounded by hundreds of laughing faces, waving fingers and a wall of people. She wanted nothing more than to run, flee, anything. Fly. To leave all judgement in her dust and fly away to a place where she could see a bright smile and the stars in one place. A place she could have all to herself. But for now, that place is but a distant dream. Not that it mattered much. She perched on her balcony once more, this time, clutching the new addition to her collection: a twenty-four-carat engraved pocket watch signed, “my Emily.” Her wings drooped behind her, dusting the concrete floor with sleek feathers as the breeze blew past. She twirled the necklace between her nails, now loosely resembling talons, with her free hand, lost in thought. Would Albion ever say something like that? “My Josephine” or something of the like? She’d like that. For him to look at her with that warm smile and say it. Just once, that would be enough. About the Writer... Emerson Flanagan is an active sophomore writer in the creative writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys writing fiction, fantasy, and poetry. She prides herself in her use of description with setting and characters. 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.

< Back how to make oolong tea by Rebecca Yang first stage – Taizhong, 1920 1. cultivating rows and rows of sprouts, heads tilted towards the sun. bred on small Taiwanese farms or grown on clear mountain ranges or rammed in little cracked pots—it doesn’t matter where they’re from. what matters is the collective, eager desperation to be used. 2. harvesting spring is best for results. it’s when the air is warm but not suffocating, when the boy looks coyly at you from the hallway, when the humidity holds its breath. hope is when you’re hand-plucked and placed into the basket, not knowing the heat ahead. "when the boy looks coyly at you from the hallway, when the humidity holds its breath. hope is when you’re hand-plucked and placed into the basket, not knowing the heat ahead." 3. withering leaves placed under sun, only useful once broken in. brown crackling into black, skin tanning beneath straw hats, back breaking with the knowledge that every rice grain counts. each clumsy finger scavenging, watching the mist rise from your body and disappear into the sky. 4. oxidation years later, air can be allowed to seep through your fractured skin, like an apology, a guilty prayer. as if the scars and veins weren’t enough, here is a small red envelope for your work, shamefully tucked beneath a bowl of thinning fish broth. here is a granddaughter trying to speak Taiwanese for your sake, a last pitiful effort. second stage-–California, 2020 5. kill green also known as fixing, also known as shedding your heritage. because that boy laughed at you when you tried to say “ending,” but it came out as “un-ding.” because eating rice everyday makes you fatter. because red dragons and paper lanterns don’t exist on the West Coast. but most of all, because when grandma left, she took Taiwan with her. 6. rolling and drying locked into a wooden cage and tumbled. if you can’t beat them, join them. so you rack up friends like baseball cards, slather makeup until your skin bleeds white, kiss every blonde-haired boy you can catch. wiping the lipstick from your mouth, you look into the mirror and wonder who that girl is in front of you. 7. roasting burning, but softer. flames seeping slowly, not noticeable until you find your fingertips charred with ink and the smoke spilling into your lungs. temperature controlled to create the optimal potential—hot enough for you to crumble under the weight of 4 APs and cheerleading competitions, but cold enough to make you guilty for complaining about your little, first world problems. 8. packaging now, it’s ready to enjoy. steep the leaves in scalding water and watch them slowly drain into watered down remains, bleeding out from a plastic bag. you don’t even recognize its taste—there’s not enough flavor, not enough bitterness. About the Author... Rebecca Yang is a sophomore at Orange County School of the Arts, where she studies Creative Writing. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High School Writing. In her free time, she plays Bach on the piano.