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c305f168-85fc-490c-8026-c491ffe73b71 Dancer by Reagan Hoogesteger Doll by Zarria Belizaire Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My mother made me mine after I had seen a little white girl holding a beautiful doll. She wore a matching outfit with it, her smile shined, and all the other girls clamored up to her, demanding to know where she had gotten a doll like that one. It wasn’t long before everyone had one that matched them, they brought their dolls everywhere and I wanted, I wanted so badly to have one. When we went to the store for one the shelves were lined with dolls, some blond, some brunette, some with blue eyes, others with brown eyes, all of them were white. I had thrown a fit, upset that one hadn’t looked like me, that I didn’t have one to wear matching dresses with, where was my best friend? Mama had looked sad, almost haunted at the image of the white shelves. Still, she grabbed my hand and walked out of the store, reprimanding me on the tantrum I had thrown. It was a month later when mama came up to smiling, wide and bright. She held her hand behind her back and her body squirmed with untapped energy. Sensing her excitement, my attention zeroed on her, disregarding the toys I had been playing with. None of them were dolls but the bows and bracelets were fun to put on myself. "Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine." She sat me down, a giddy smile on her face. She brought her arm forward, holding a doll. It wasn’t white like the others or sewed with mechanic precision. Instead, it was a little uneven with dark skin and button eyes. It wore a purple dress as uneven as it’s body and no shoes. Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine. Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My daughter wanted one, seeing the girls at her daycare playing with the ones their mothers bought. She asked me for one when we got home, asking for a doll that looked like her, one she could dress up to be like her. I took her hand and walked into the store, hoping that there were dolls for her. There weren’t. Instead, there were shelves of pretty dolls with blonde, brunette, hair and blue, brown eyes, and white skin. I couldn’t help but feel as if everything had come crashing down, still, even now, there wasn’t a place for my daughter in perfection. There wasn’t a place for me. She had thrown a fit, upset to be leaving without a precious doll. We got stares from the families around us, some with pity, most with annoyance. At home I spent time searching for my doll, inhaling dirt and old memories. It took a month to finally pick her out of the pile of old treasures, a day to clean her. I found my daughter playing amongst her bows and fake make-up, dolling herself up in the way she couldn’t a doll. There was excitement in my chest as I presented the worn out, uneven, brown doll. She grabbed the doll with wonder swimming through her eyes. This was hers, just as it had once been mine. In the noise of my daughter playing with the doll, the lines between me and her blurred and for a moment we were one. A little girl, playing with a doll that looked just like her. Return to Table of Contents

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.

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents

4d9a123b-addc-496a-ae0b-29a71dbfac14 As we approach the upcoming warmer months of spring and summer, we bear witness to life emerging and evolving—to new and old, to reckoning and revelation. To our readers, we bring this life to you in language and art. As Élan emerges into its 36th year, we enter with fresh eyes but with the same purpose: to highlight, uplift, and empower emerging young writers and artists in conversation with the world around them. We invite you, our readers, to explore your own individual and diverging paths in this issue, to find single solace; to take a step back, to reminisce, to laugh, to feel, and to be affirmed in this anthology of personal exploration and self-evident truth. We bring you the Spring/Summer 2022 Issue: a labor of passion. A love letter to the capabilities of young voices and the possibilities of the future. -Editors-in-Chief Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk Return to Table of Contents

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Two Beautiful Things, Entangled at the Joints Angelic Reflection Cherry Cheesman Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

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

9 Happy Birthday by Daysha Perez Prom King by Isabelle Kim-Sherman INT. RORY’S BEDROOM - AFTERNOON Rory hits his head on his bookshelf. INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Rory’s MOM, a weary middle-aged woman, sits across the coffee table from OLIVIA, in a nice prom dress. Muffled crashing and banging can be heard coming from upstairs. OLIVIA Is…everything okay up there? MOM I’m sure he’ll just be a moment. Would you like some juice? INT. LIMINAL SPACE - DARKNESS SATAN You cannot run from your destiny, my boy. RORY Shut up! Just shut up! He claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. SATAN It is your duty to join me. A pause. RORY (infuriated) Well, what about your duty? SATAN What? RORY You never showed up! You were never around! It’s just been me and mom my whole life! You never even visit except to come and bother me about going to Hell with you. Why should I do anything for you when you haven’t even let me see you? SATAN Don’t speak to me that way, young man! Silence. Satan sighs. SATAN (cont’d., gentler) I know that I have failed you as a father, Rory. My duties in Hell have kept me from visiting your world, and you have suffered as a result. For that, I am sincerely sorry. RORY Yeah, whatever. SATAN You are getting older, and your responsibilities and your relationships will keep you tethered to your mortal life. It will become more difficult for you to join me. Another pause. Rory still looks skeptical. RORY What about Mom? What about my friends? What about Ollie? I can’t just leave them so soon. Satan sighs. SATAN I was just like you once, my boy. I loved my life on earth, and I wanted to put off my destiny for as long as I could. And when I met your mother, I fell in love with her. I knew I had to leave, but it always felt like the wrong moment. Then she had you. I stayed as long as I could, but I couldn’t escape my destiny. Nobody can. Your mother has raised you alone not because I left so soon, but because I left too late. INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Olivia and Rory’s mom are seated at the coffee table in silence. Olivia holds a glass of juice. Rory’s mom hesitates before speaking. MOM You know, Rory might be moving away soon. OLIVIA Moving where? MOM To live with his dad. OLIVIA Doesn’t his dad work in England or somewhere? MOM Something like that. OLIVIA Oh. He didn’t tell me about that. INT. LIMINAL SPACE - DARKNESS Rory nods, deep in thought. RORY Ollie and I have been talking about living together next year. We’re going to the same school. I figured I’d go and join you after we graduated college. But I don’t…know if I’d be able to do that to her. He sighs. RORY Yeah. I’ll join you now. At the last moment, he hesitates. RORY (cont’d.) Just…could you let me have this one evening first? INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Rory comes downstairs, fully dressed. RORY Sorry about that. It was hell getting this tie on. Olivia stands up. OLIVIA Hi, Rory. RORY Hi. You look nice. His mom stands, wielding a camera. Rory goes to his mom, gives her a tight hug. RORY’S MOM Oh! Thank you, sweetie. He lets go of her awkwardly and goes to Olivia. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a rumpled corsage. OLIVIA Thanks. It’s really pretty. RORY Thanks. RORY’S MOM Let’s get some pictures. Rory groans, but acquiesces. He and Olivia stand by the stairs. He puts his hands around her waist and they pose stiffly. RORY’S MOM Smile! They smile. Rory’s mom takes a picture. In the flash of the camera Rory’s eyes glow red. About the Writer... Isabelle Kim-Sherman is a writer from Santa Barbara, California. Her work has been published in Tablet Magazine, by the Jane Austen Society of North America, as well as in two California Poets in the Schools Statewide Anthologies. She has attended the California State Summer School for the Arts with a focus on creative writing and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio with a focus on TV writing. She enjoys filmmaking as well as playing the violin and the piano. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is a 9th grader at Douglas Anderson school of the arts. She is a visual arts major who has always had a passion for creative artistry, particularly painting. Most of the art she creates is acrylic paint on canvas considering she has been painting with acrylic since elementary school. She fell in love with the medium ever since and works with it frequently.

Read Past Winners 2023 Synesthesia Anoushka Dugar Read More 2021 2019 2020 Patient Flowers Khloe Klopfer Read More 2021 2019 2020 Syrup Ty'ana Pope Read More 2021 2019 2020 The Burning Light of the Clock Jamari Weaver Read More 2021 2019 2020 Barbarous Verdure Kalliope Gonos Read More 2021 2019 2020 No Fresh Air Ana Rosenthal Read More 2021 2019 2020 Our Cafeteria Dimitria Banov Russo Read More 2021 2019 2020 The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley Read More 2021 2019 2020 Oblivion Greta Reis Read More 2021 2019 2020 We Still Have a Heart in Ourselves Indie Pascal Read More 2021 2019 2020 We Just Want to be Loved Riayn Smith Read More 2021 2019 2020 Blank Page Cecelia Richardson Read More 2021 2019 2020 How Lucky we Are Meredith Anglin Read More 2021 2019 2020 Dear Linh Kate Kim Read More 2021 2019 2020 on your name Cloris Shi Read More 2021 2019 2020 Becoming One Amelia Elder Read More 2021 2019 2020 Toby Georgia Witt Read More 2021 2019 2020 The Castle Isabella Bolger Read More 2021 2019 2020 The Curious Murder of Lilliane Baldwin Hannah G. Klenck Read More 2021 2019 2020 Fading Marlo Herndon Read More 2021 2019 2020 Untitled John Walker Read More 2021 2019 2020 The Roaring Himalayas Rehan Sheikh Read More 2021 2019 2020 Questions of Youth Erion P. Sanders Read More 2021 2019 2020 Grief Janna Tannous Read More 2021 2019 2020 2022 2021 2019 2020

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

Escape by Elizaveta Kalacheva Saltwater by Nico De Guzman We held the funeral on the beach. Tides were in remission. They waned away from where your coffin composed my dirge of restrained wails. When it was time for your eulogy, I had to confess: I never found your message in a bottle. Traces of yourself became lost at sea. But I still pretended I recollected something. We were both alive once, before I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes. You waned away before I held your finger. Memories lingered and swirled with salt, a vortex in the ocean. In the middle, I found your body displayed in limbs, torso, eyes, but not whole. Never whole. The funeral was punctuated by pushing your coffin into the shore’s uneven mouth. What wouldn’t kiss you before accepted you, received you like a pill. Maybe it hoped you would embrace it too. My lungs continued to stutter, but this dirge was never meant for you. I lost too much from your disappearance. And years later, your body washed back to me, whole. I finally found your eulogy in the form of sea-worn shards left behind in your pocket. The black suit clung to your bloated purpling skin. As if letting you go would destroy it. I wonder if it was me or the lighthouse that led you home. About the Writer... Nico De Guzman is a Filipino high school student from Illinois. He is an artist in both visual and written forms, and his work ranges from sketches, to poetry, to zines. Poets who inspire him include Sylvia Plath, Ocean Vuong, and his teacher, Rana Hodge. His writing can be found in Under the Madness Magazine and is forthcoming in The Dribble Drabble Review. About the Artist... Elizaveta Kalacheva is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. She is known for her oil paintings and has won many awards for them. She is also exceptionally good at pottery, digital art, and many other mediums.

15 < Back Temporal Displacement Liang Jingyi Puzzle Man by Nishchay Jain Temporal Dispalcement by Liang Jingyi Prologue With the tip of my pen poised a few millimeters above a dog-eared notebook page and my room drenched in the distilled sound of gaudy reality shows from the cramped living room of my Spanish neighbor, I listen as the cacophonous summer night outside returns to a semblance of quiet. A stream of thoughts slowly washes away the restlessness of my heart. Holding onto each abstract thought, I begin to fathom the elusive shape of a repressed desire. A desire to write about our experience of time. Not in the sense of the ticking clock behind me, but the perceived temporal existence, the work of our minds, which, unlike our bodies, are not confined to the present. Every morning, I wake up to two realities – the physical, immediate reality teeming with sights and smells, and the parallel, imagined reality unfolding in my consciousness. In this constructed reality, the mind’s unique mechanism of memory and imagination transcends all artificial boundaries of seconds, hours, and years. Our minds roam despite our rooted bodies. On the drift of remembrance The crowd has a queer, submerging charm not unlike that of the ocean. Dodging one umbrella after another upheld newspaper while the enveloping street scenes reinvent themselves, I feel like a swimmer in the sea. I’ve always loved a light drizzle like this, invigorating especially in the somnolent afternoon hours. Taking a turn into the children’s park down a forest path, I am immediately enfolded in a rain-washed earthiness, which I inhale with an almost unquenchable thirst. I relish in a few moments of rare solitude until a woman appears at the end of the trail, hurrying as if late for an important appointment. As she passes, the lingering traces of her floral perfume cast a spell over me. A subtle blend of woodiness, sakura, and morning dew. I can’t quite discern what my consciousness is trying to salvage from the dormant sea of memory, but I remain in a motionless trance, afraid to disturb this incomprehensible process. A few seconds later, the frail partitions of my mind finally give way, and the tides of vivid remembrance come rushing into my consciousness. My last morning walk in Tokyo 3 years ago. A slight drizzle. Spring blossoms. Metropolitan speed. I now inhabit my past self who tirelessly fixed her gaze on every house she passed. The glimpse into the privacy of the Other offered tremendous solace, as if HER Tokyo resided in the domesticity of empty living rooms. She saw chairs left askew on the balcony where plants were starting to wither. She caught a glimpse of the Impressionist art on the wall, clashing somewhat with the inviting wooden dining table. She saw five Christmas nutcrackers arranged horizontally on a windowsill. She then conjured up a life – relatable in its humanity, rejuvenating for its exotic charm. 9am breakfasts with freshly brewed coffee, private conversations on the dinner table, living room drenched in a serene, diaphanous light on Saturday afternoons… She relished the feeling, much like when an author delves into the conflicted thoughts of the character and you, in the space of a few pages, become their immediate confidante. Wading along the forest path through the waters of remembrance, I relive vignettes of the past, as fresh and palpable as the canopy above me. On togetherness and solitude "I often think about the way we connect with one another – how the duet of language builds towards a cathartic crescendo where we both know, almost telepathically, that a connection is forged." I often think about the way we connect with one another – how the duet of language builds towards a cathartic crescendo where we both know, almost telepathically, that a connection is forged. I yearn to be seen, to feel the gaze of affection caressing my sensitive skin. But my body sighs, betraying my unbounded comfort in the shades, the corners, and the tunnels where my selfhood, liberated now from the grasp of public scrutiny, stretches into expansive shapes. I still remember that night with George and Anna many years ago. We were an inseparable trio in college. George and I were still together then. With them, I can be whoever I am at the moment. I stay afloat in the fluidity of my emotions. No politeness. No expectations. No pressing social obligations. In a small, tenebrous Turkish diner, we talked while sipping hot Apple tea from ornamental cups. Anna, who is a Buddhist, was talking about how the next generation of Dalai Lama is chosen in Tibet. As our conversation progressed from the innate call to awakening to karmic affinities, I felt entranced in a mythic atmosphere much like my first impression of Lhasa several years ago. Unmooring my mind from the dock of the present, I sailed to the Potala Palace, where the tangy incense-laden air permeated the sunset hour. I lingered there for a while, in my renewed memory of Tibet, while in the present Anna and George busied themselves with their perennial debate over the historicization of science. Later on, we went to a dessert bar where pop songs from recent years were blasting over the speakers. An attractive bohemian man in his twenties kept singing to his girlfriend whenever one of his favorite hits came up. We watched in amusement. I thought of how I might have enjoyed the company of someone like him – energetic, wild, unorthodox. George is the opposite – rational, gentle, thoughtful. Watching him search for the etymological origin of the word ‘sugar,’ which we brought up a while ago, I felt an ephemeral instant of suffocation. George would never take me on his motorbike for a midnight ride, wake me up at 3am to go dancing on the street, or hitchhike across the country without a thorough plan. I was suddenly reminded of an image in a novel I read a long time ago, where lovers are depicted as trees growing in the shade of each other. I thought of how the sanctuary of intimacy, nurturing as it is, may also prevent us from growing in other directions where we might flourish in a different way. Perhaps part of me still longed for the smothering heat of zest, the magnetic pull of a reckless soul. I carefully shelved this thought, closed the drawer in my mind, and asked George whether the word first came from Latin or Persian with full, genuine interest. Somewhere along my journey of absorbed recollection, my neighbor turned off the monotonous documentary. This sudden descent into quiet inundates my heart with a wistful longing for those convivial moments with George and Anna, now painted over by the brushstrokes of memory. On the temporal ambiguity of daydreaming On most days, I dream. It’s like being in a self-directed theater where past memories and imagined future happenings are enacted as if they were the pulsing heartbeat of the present. In the realm of daydreams, all artificial temporal boundaries are lifted. Time becomes fluid, liberating the self that has been gasping for air. In this temporal ambiguity, I feel a state of lightness, where all existential weights are lifted, where I am engrossed in the imagined Now. Ultimately, we invent time to impose order upon chaos, to salvage an illusion of stability from what is otherwise a cavernous hole where all that ever happens to us is an eternal fall. So, what if we fall? About the Writer... Jingyi is a lover of stream-of-consciousness narratives. She can often be found dreaming of a parallel reality, caught in minor existential crises, or wondering what movie to watch on Friday night. She currently studies at St. Joseph’s Institution. About the Artist... I am Nishchay Jain on ASD and I generally use Acrylic medium for my art work. Initially I started with watercolors but gradually I shifted to acrylic. I love painting my own imagination artwork Art makes me calm and it’s therapeutic for me. I was born in India and started making drawing at the age of 10. My art teacher taught me different skills and taught me to visualize the light and distance.

Unprepared by Shanwill Wang About the Artist... Born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, Shanwill has developed a love for arts and design. Attending Douglas Anderson has allowed him to explore his identity, the arts, and grow a skill base in multiple art forms and mediums. Along with this development, Shanwill’s art delves into his identity and his experiences as a queer person.