Bright Adventures Ahead by Abigail Cashwell New Orleans Nights by Zoë Forstall the sun kisses the sky just before it slips under the horizon it tucks behind lake pontchartrain’s expanse and leaves a blank space to welcome the evening i lay quietly, reminiscing on the park’s bench the night’s ecosystem becomes a celestial dance once more the buttered dandelions we once wound into flower crowns sway alone between grassy hills with the windchimes the cicadas hum their unforgiving gospel into the pollen soaked air where fleshy clouds join the sky i sit accompanied by the moon and stars being our own constellation through depths of boundless darkness About the Writer... Zoë Forstall is a senior at The Willow School and an accomplished student leader and entrepreneur. As the founder of both the Confidence Club and Content Creator Club, she empowers peers in self-expression and skill development. Serving as head of the Spirit Points Committee in student government, she promotes school spirit and unity. As an International Youth Neuroscience Association member, a certificate in Neuroscience I, and recognition by the U.S. Naval Research Academy for her first place science fair project, Zoë plans to pursue neuroscience on a pre-med track in college. Beyond academics, she enjoys helping others, listening to jazz music, practicing self-care, writing poetry, and exploring new hobbies. About the Artist... Abigail is a high School senior at Savannah Arts Academy. She has been published in É lan Literary Magazine's Spring/Summer 2024 print issue. She enjoys all mediums but enjoys acrylic paint the most. She loves traveling, so most of her paintings come from places she has traveled to. After high school, she plans to go to college to be an elementary art teacher.

< Table of Contents Broken Limbs by Abigail Cashwell I confess to the sea By Jacob Jing that I am exhausted. that I know there is no sky where a lover can fly without the destiny of descent, but I still find myself there, waiting to be hurled back down. in his fiery descent, Icarus was comforted by a tender wind, and returned to the water from the womb of his undoing. if the tragedy is that he recognized the fall too late, then where is the gentle nosedive for the one who predicted plummet from the start? where are the soft waves that will cradle that loveless execution? what I want is to be told that I am enough, that I have been good, that my descent will be more soft than lethal. if not that, then I want to be mourned with more softness than I was loved. to be told that my body once carried something kind inside it. I still need to forgive myself for burning in the name of safety you failed to offer. the scorched plumage: a casualty of my useless heart. before you tell me to swallow my tears, let me first become fluent in the shame “let me first feed these feathers to / the flame.” of wanting to be held. let me first feed these feathers to the flame. let me love the wounds you gave me before I take to the sky once more, chasing what the sun leaves behind. About the Writer... Jacob Jing is a young writer currently studying visual arts at the University of North Texas. He has been published in Spellbinder Magazine and is forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit. In his free time, he enjoys photography, naps, and the $3 milkshakes from the student union. Find more of his work at https://linktr.ee/Jacob_Jing . About the Author... Abigail is an 11th grade student at Savannah Arts Academy. She enjoys using acrylic paint and experimenting with color. She also likes making art pieces using references from places she has traveled to. After high school she plans to go to college to become an art teacher at an elementary school.

< Back The Forgotten Art Form: Joy! by Moss Edwards Little Things By Eva Rami It goes like this: the little things will start to matter more. Once, we satiated our longings by professing them exuberantly, singing, kissing. Now, we move the stars in silence—sitting long hours in quiet company on a balcony and swatting mosquitoes away from one another’s arms, because the words will always elude us, but killing insects is innate. We muddy the hems of our jeans—meandering home after a day’s rain, when the runoff has puddled and drenched the concave asphalt—because folding up the cuffs of our jeans means surrendering to some unspoken direction, and we would rather suffer another load of laundry than risk being called a do-gooder. Someone will smile at us, a second too long, and we will construct careful narratives of a future. We live our adolescence like this: arms open, eyes pleading, for someone to brave with us this gnarled land. Perhaps this is how we live our whole lives. We wonder: were we sculpted by God’s hand only for our hearts to spend the rest of time seeking again such a divine touch? Let us sit here. Hold me now. Then, I may know what It is to be seen. About the Author... Eva Rami is a current junior at the Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts in Houston, Texas, where she studies creative writing. Eva’s work has received recognition from the Scholastic Arts & Writing Competition and the New York Times student contests. Recently, she was named a Texas Young Master of Creative Writing by the Texas Cultural Trust and the Texas Commission on the Arts. About the Artist... Moss Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Their work includes scenes from their own life, incorporating exaggerated colors, lighting, and elements to create a new world. They enjoy experimenting with mediums including cardboard, oil pastels, and colored pencils to create more texture.

< Table of Contents Lurking by Sophia Gapuz the disease called home. By Anayelli Andrews-Nieves The machinery hums its familiar tones. Lyrical stories and medicinal lies Course through my veins, And yet, even with that saccharine anesthetic, I can’t get it out of my sight— the way everything in the house seemed to live , how each system pulsed and breathed, and my survival hinged on all of it. “Bougainvillea petals are floating in my IV.” Bougainvillea petals are floating in my IV. i can see the tree from that hospital bed’s window. i picked the petals from the concrete and mixed them in myself. Their memories leak out and The color seeps in. My skin is colored a shade that looks so wrong, Blooming from blemished skin. it’s a shade that once meant i was home. I’m dyed down to my bones In the colors of a dead man. they were supposed to save me. the systems have already stopped sending signals. the house became pallor and cold a long time ago, and yet the curtain hasn’t been pulled over it. “allow me,” and “i wouldn’t dare,” the heart monitor screams as my fingers run along white fabric. sometimes i think i must be a corpse still attached to life support, endless wires connected jaggedly to my veins. they stretch and tear and dig into my rotting, festering flesh. when (if) it ends, will these marks be burned away? there is no remedy for what isn’t a disease, and a decayed heart cannot beat again, so what am i to do? sweetening my senses until there’s nothing left, swallowing down falsities, i’ve changed nothing. that place is still so very far, so far that i shouldn’t be able to say “i still, i still, i still,” but the words form the sound of my pulse, and the words stab into my heart. i still hear birds chirping in a cage on the front porch, i still find myself in sync with the whirring of an oxygen machine, and i have such a weak heart that it will beat in a different rhythm if it believes its going at the wrong pace. But for my own sake Even with my weakened body, I can stand At the gravestone of a memory. About the Writer... Anayelli Andrews-Nieves is a student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department and a member of the Black Arts club. She is a biracial, queer writer and was born and raised in Florida. She enjoys writing and reading fantasy stories that have a balance of character and plot focus. A side from fiction, she also has an interest in free verse poetry that uses visceral descriptions to get across intense emotional ideas. About the Artist... Sophia Gapuz is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She majors in drawing and painting, and explores the world in an emotionally abstract lens, continually searching to create something new.

< Table of Contents Second Place Team by Stella McCoy Texas Children By Isobel Stevenson We are eight and nine and ten, sitting in the back of a truck, moving up and down, down and up with the rhythm of the rocks. The stars are out, so many they almost block the moon. We are lunar creatures, free as a breath of air, souls full of summer and sunburn. We are Texas children who bore heat rash before scars, who caught snakes and watched scorpions fight in lights. We are tough kids: Lord of the Flies unbound, barreling towards a farm to blister and pick grass. “I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class, and he nods. I feel infinite.” Sonny takes my hand in the bed of the truck when I almost fall out. He’s one of the tough boys I want to be. He’s rogue and brave and I’m almost as tall as him. “You gotta hold on,” he says, always watching out for me. I nod, keep his hand close, and look up at the sky. I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class and he nods. I feel infinite. In the back of the truck, we are infinite: Texas children turned lunar creatures, barreling through our memory. About the Writer... Isobel Stevenson is a high school student in Houston, Texas. She loves the summer more than the winter , and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. About the Artist... Stella McCoy is a current junior at Headwaters School in Austin, Texas. She particularly enjoys using 2D media within her work, such as oil and acrylic paint. Within her subject matter, she’s often inspired by other artistic disciplines beyond the visual arts, including ballet and classical guitar.

Elan welcomes you to explore our 39th year Fall/Winter issue. These curated pieces venture across time periods, journey through personal depths, and traverse cultural foundations. Each piece present within this issue was crafted, selected, and edited by teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. Our mission has always been to highlight these voices, and as we move into our 39th year, we will continue to do so. We encourage you to open yourself up to the possibilities of the impossible. Take the time to crack the spine and immerse yourself in the voices of young artists. Signed, Avery Grossman, Jaslyn Dickerson, Jamie Lohse & Jeneva Hayes

< Table of Contents A Mother's Love by Emilia Hickman My.BaptistChart.com By Abbey Griffin After Nicole Sealey “My / father’s mother’s more sweat than blood / half the time.” I have been anxious. I’ve created half the scars on my own skin. I can’t focus. My mother has, my mother’s mother had, high blood pressure. My father is depressed. My father’s mother’s more sweat than blood half the time. My grandfathers are dead or gone. I sleep fine. I don’t eat. Wellbutrin for a will to live. B12 for keeping my eyes open. My eyes are opposite—one near, one far: compensating. I shiver at shadows. Aunt Susan died of cancer. DeeDee, a stroke in bed. Uncle KiKi died at 34, slipped on a cliff during a night hike, no spotter. I have wasted time in weighted blankets wondering if I will die at twilight, too, under a gaping map of slasher stars. I’m anemic. My blood wells too easily, like apples, and my forehead breaks out oily, Ash Wednesday staining my crown the shape of Daddy’s fingerprint. I know from dust we were born and to ashes we will return, but there is a sunrise I haven’t seen in Boston Commons and a memoir, open on a library desk for me. About the Writer... Abbey Griffin (she/her) is a writer in Florida. "What the Living Do" by Marie Howe made her fall in love with poetry and decide to devote her life to it. She hopes that everyone can find their own inspiration throughout their lives and a unique understanding and love of the arts. About the Artist... Emilia Hickman is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. She specializes in reali sm, an d her favorite mediums are drawing and painting.

< Table of Contents Daffodils by Dare Macchione Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult By Astrid Henry In January, I made a trip out to Long Island to visit his mom, my “paternal grandmother." I wanted to tell her about my plans to sell the house. My father grew up in a poor, small boating town where the rain never stops. I stayed in his childhood bedroom, in the upstairs of his parents’ old house. His dad died while he was still in high school. He had to drop out to support his family. He always told me how important it was that I stayed in school so I could turn out smart and get a real job, one that pays nice and keeps the lights bright. His room is painted navy blue and baseball memorabilia lines the walls like a museum. It feels like I’m in a shrine to his young mind, all the things my father held dear as a child. Old comic books are hidden in the closet, where his brothers couldn’t steal them. I come down for dinner and his mom. Again, my grandmother has cooked what looks like a full 7-course meal. I’m not hungry. I try to shove down as much as I can, but the meat is tough, and the potatoes look like melting snow—the kind that’s been pissed on. It’s way too much food for just the two of us, but I’m not going to say that to her. I only stay for a week, the entirety of which I’m stuffed full of her cooking. She sends me home with enough leftovers to last me until spring. I never ended up telling her about the house. “Someone told me dust is made up of skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned.” I’m back in the city. Back in the tiny, emptying house I was raised in. I’m back to cleaning and now all I can notice every time I try to take something down or clean an area out is how my father is all around me, from the pictures in frames to the dust on the fan. Someone told me dust is made up of dead skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned. If I ran DNA tests on the dust up there, they’d probably find Mom’s skin cells too, not just his. She walked out when I was only five to be with another man. Things didn’t work out between the two of them, but still, she didn’t come back. My father was heartbroken, he really had believed it was him and her forever. I think that might have been the start of his death, when he started to put his faith in the bottle. I could never understand why he did that sort of thing—why he poisoned himself with cigarettes plastered in warnings and spent his evenings swimming in the bottle. The top of our kitchen cabinets were—and still are—covered in bottles, empty and full. That really confused me. It was like he kept it there, in plain sight, to shame himself. Because, really, when you stand in the middle of the kitchen, it feels like one of those church paintings where the angels are looking down on some poor, sacrificial lamb. I think a part of him did it to remind himself of his mistakes, and to remind himself of the easy way out every night. I haven’t taken them down yet. They’ve always been there—it just feels wrong. Taking them down would feel like I’m kicking a part of my father out of his own home. I feel guilty, like if maybe I had gotten him to quit smoking, this wouldn’t have happened. But I know that kind of feat would be impossible, inconceivable, really. Life was a lot different after he got sick, but his vices were the one thing that never changed—not without an act of God. I remember how they couldn’t stop him smoking until two days before he died, and that was only because he had gone into a coma. I try to keep the nicest pieces I can find of him to maintain the best image I can in my mind—the best version of my father. In the hallway bookshelf, there’s only about three books that were his. The King James Bible, a copy of Slaughterhouse Five he could never finish, and a book so old the covers have been torn off and it’s just yellow stained pages glued together. He must’ve really liked that one. I wish he had more possessions left, more things I could collect, more things I could use to get inside his mind. But here I am, left with only a few crummy books and a gaping reminder of all his worst habits. All his other belongings were really just Mom’s stuff, a few pieces of jewelry and a yellowed, dried-up perfume she left behind. It smells like kitty litter. Cleaning out the house is making me decently miserable. I’ve made arrangements to move once it’s off my hands, probably out to somewhere with a bit more sun. The house is, apparently, a prime piece of real estate, something I really couldn’t imagine affording on my salary. The listing description is pretty crap. It reads, “Nestled in the heart of Queens, this cozy, two-story abode, built in 1928, features three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an unforgettable charm.” I finally finished cleaning the house, just in time for the photos. I even took down the shrine of liquor bottles in the kitchen. There were some hidden water stains that had to be repaired, which cost me a lot more than I would like to admit. I feel really empty walking out of the house for the last time, leaving it all clean and empty. The bedroom I’ve slept in my entire life staged as a guest room, my father’s room suddenly bright and well decorated. To my surprise, the house is sold within two days of the listing being posted. The realtor tells me that’s not uncommon, som e crap about desirable real estate. She keeps trying to make me look at the other houses she’s listing. She obviously wants me to buy another place, but I just feel sick. I’m staying with one of my old friends from college until I can secure a place worth moving to. I left most of the stuff I kept from the house in a little storage unit. All the things I don’t have a use for but still want to hold onto. My suitcase is stuffed full, but it’s more convenient than carrying two. I have nothing truly tying me down anymore, and it makes me feel strange. I was told that feeling would be freedom, but it’s something else entirely. I got half a million dollars to never step foot in my home again—the home where I learned to walk and first experienced the offers of life. I am forever rid of the home where my father's spirit breathes in the walls and his presence slips around the corners as you try and catch it. Never again will mold fill my lungs as I try to remember the smell of his cologne. About the Writer... Astrid Henry is a young writer from Florida. Currently, she is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. About the Artist... Dare Macchione is a freshman at New Orleans Conservatory for Creative Arts (NOCCA) a nd dual enrolls at Delgado Community College (DCC). Previously she spent summers attending The Art Academy (St Paul, MN). Her medium of choice is acrylic paint. She also has created art in watercolor, graphite and ceramic.

Fall/Winter 2022 Cover Art: The Photographer V2 by Mary Lefleur Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editor's Note Brendan Nurczyk & Emma Klopfer & Niveah Glover Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 0 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Before I was Mint The Photographer V2 Abigail Griffin Small Title Mary Lefluer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 1 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Perched Nostalgia Annika Gangopadhyay Small Title Maria Bezverkh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 2 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Prom Dress Narcissism Mackenzie Shaner Small Title Elanee Viray Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 3 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button в машине (in the car) Back to Nature Alisa Chamberlin Small Title Sachiko Rivamonte Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 4 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Dry The scars from my armor Tejal Doshi Small Title Shanwill Wang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 5 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Bracelet Nylah Watkins Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 6 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Prenatal Exposure Reclaiming my roots Maeve Coughlin Small Title Julie Hathaway Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 7 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Flavor of a Star Relation Peyton Pitts Small Title Bria Mcclary Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 8 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Prom King Happy Birthday Isabelle Kim-Sherman Small Title Daysha Perez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 9 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Defining Myself as an Eternal Being Oddity Jackson Birdsong Small Title Lucas Lowery Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 10 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button For Naomi Effete Naomi Carr Small Title Kylie Tanner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 11 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Summer Mornings Shrill and Cut Loose Keira Doody Small Title Annalisa Strub Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 12 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Amaranth and Adolescence I am my own enemy Gray Fuller Small Title Kierra Reese Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 13 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Universes with you NO WAR Reese Mitchell Small Title Elizaveta Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 14 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Tidewater Evergreen Grace Thomas Small Title Babafemi Fatoki Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 15 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Torn Small Title Micayla Latson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 16 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Broken Culture Parts from a whole when Special Processed American Me Jaslyne Tam Small Title Camille Faustino Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 17 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Archaeology Hexagonal Miracle Annika Gangopadhyay Small Title Moheb Asimi Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 18 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Red Packet Bridge Xin (Cindy) Nie Small Title Camille Faustino Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 19 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Roadkill Ant Town Marlo Herndon Small Title Jeremy Hall Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 20 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Call it Our Mother Tongue Life in a Shadow Saria Abedin Small Title Isabelle Woods Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 21 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button It is Life Branching Out Ava Devenitch Small Title Micayla Latson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 22 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Still Wait in the Water Small Title Babafemi Fatoki Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 23 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Haitian Mangoes Color blind Giovani Jacques Small Title Tatyana Hardnett Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 24 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Davis's Voice Esmé DeVries Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 25 Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Je Ne Sais Pais A Peek at Nature's Texture Ronen Manselle Small Title Phuong Tran Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 26

< Table of Contents 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.

Jeneva Hayes Jeneva Hayes serves as the Senior Editor-in-Chief of Élan. She enjoys writing and reading realistic fiction and has won a Scholastic Arts and Writing Silver Key for one of her fiction pieces

Collette Carlee Collette Carlee is a student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is the Junior Managing Editor of Élan Literary Magazine, has earned two honorable mentions from Scholastic Art and Writing for her prose, and is a WordPress Certified Editor. Her work combines satirical comedy and Southern Gothic literary elements.