Search Results

Fall/Winter 2025 Cover art: Narcissus and Echo by Ava Ritterskamp Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Title" View Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Small Title Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

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 Dedication Élan Staff Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

784437cd-4e6f-4020-bff7-08e80d205b06 Tangled in Transformation by Camille Faustino A Tribute to Mitski’s “Class of 2013” by Hollis Ackiss my mother makes separate noodles for me in a big pot of chicken noodle soup because she’s been on a diet ever since she got out of jail, and she still loves me yet she doesn’t know my name and when i wake up at eleven pm to feel the bowl is still warm, sitting in the fridge, labeled with a name i remember she called me by, i realize why my brother and i stayed up so late that one night ambling in the kitchen to see her make spaghetti at one am in her denim and name tag when she only got home from work an hour before, and she never saw any new dishes in the sink. now i stand on my tiptoes to reach the opaque glasses on the top shelf as i pour a drink, every light off in the house except for the fridge, filled with soda again even though now it’s all diet. i know i should sleep soon when i have work tomorrow, and my back hurts but i can only let her hold me as many times as i can allow myself a moment of reprieve; the first night we moved into this house we watched a movie in silence and with my head hovering over her shoulder she says she waited for this moment. Return to Table of Contents

< 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. Previous Next

< Back In Another Universe by Ariana Formica The Discovery of Fire By Olivia Sheftall the darkness was deep, broken only by pale faces. frost bit at bones and bloomed in hearts. the wild whispered of a pillar of light, appearing in flashes, and left something so warm and bright it cut through the night. this creature trembled, flicked, crackled and consumed. the birds called it Destruction. the fish called it The End. the flowers called it Untamable. The men called it Fire. "he liked the way it danced / and licked at the air. / it reminded him of what it meant to / thrive." he picked it up and cradled it, like Mother Mary in the moon, and held it close for all of time. he liked the way it danced and licked at the air. it reminded him of what it meant to thrive. About the Author... Olivia Sheftall is a sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She’s been a passionate writer of all genres but has a personal preference for screenwriting. Sheftall has been in numerous spoken word performances, including LaVilla Showcase 2022 and 2023, Coffee House 2023, the Climate Crisis Poetry Contest at Jacksonville University, and many more. Her work had been published in Élan Fall Edition 2024. About the Artist... Ariana Formica is a visual arts sophomore at New World School of the Arts. They like mixed media, specifically in collage and textiles. She hopes to pursue a career in art therapy with a side practice of jewelry, fiber, and sculptural work. She has won a Silver Key in the 2024 Art Scholastics, and Florida State Winner for the 2024 Doodle for Google. Previous Next

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

9482b418-f06e-49b5-ad36-f0f37af4d902 Innocent Until Educated by England Townsend Return to Table of Contents

Braids Mackenzie Shaner Abyss of Gold Joshua Hein I write this poem for my Grammy. The only woman who did my hair since it was long enough to work with. She’s the only person I know who could twist it in beautiful braids. I’d sit on my knees, hands clasped in front of me, Staring at the cartoons on her TV. Her coarse hairbrush- With bare bristles from their plastic bulbs being long forgotten- Combing through the thick strands. Nimble fingers parting each side expertly Like pieces of thread she used to suture old teddy bears. I’ve always been aware of my indigenous heritage, Though even more aware that I don’t look like it. It’s far more apparent in my Grammy. Her skin is tanned indefinitely, With long black hair resembling that of an elegant horse's tail, Swaying in air as it prances with such confidence, You’d wonder if it had been taught, or simply born that way. I’m white as snow, With the type of skin that peels in the sun, And instead of gold underneath, All I see is red- But I’m told you still see it in my hair. Besides vague ideas and a name, I didn’t know about my heritage, Only recently I learned that hair has meaning, Some teachings say that your hair holds your life story So, it’s put in braids- for protection To keep it safe so the story may grow with you. Part of me was always bitter that I didn’t know much about myself But that wasn’t completely true In every day she did my hair, she was protecting me. 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

< Back Bloom by Hannah Botella Liquidation is the Prerequisite for Transformation By Olivia Chao When I fall asleep at night, I assume the fetal position, I wrap my arms around myself tight in hopes of becoming a chrysalis. When I awake, butterflies will burst from the seams of my clothes. Inside my abdomen, my rib cage and organs will be replaced with a conservatory. Thousands of wings will crowd my middle. Milkweed replaced with muscle and tissue. Caterpillars will gnaw at me in order to transform into something I was never capable of turning into. Sludged up chrysalises splatter open on the marble. Maggots fester at the bottom of the drain, eating away at the corpses of the ones that couldn’t fly away in time. My body, chest to stomach, has burst open. Flaps of skin hang loosely at the sides of my empty vessel. Looking up at the shower head, I hold each flap and let the water flow in let it wash away all the milkweed and gore. Clear liquid fills the space where my organs used to be. Clear liquid comes out. It spills onto the porcelain. Stepping out of the shower. Dew covers my skin. Standing in front of the mirror, I gaze into the shell of my anatomy. Acid crawls up my throat, threatening to spill. I turn around to walk away. I am stopped by the hands that come from the mirror they grab onto my spinal cord and beg. They beg me to look a little longer at myself— to see what can be gained from looking a little longer. "I turn around to walk away. / I am stopped by the hands / that come from the mirror / they grab onto my spinal cord / and beg." I pry each finger away from my bone. And I leave. I let the waves carry me away from the bathroom I am reminded of the hallway. It beckons me closer. The front door glows. I do not turn around. Instead, I fall back into bed. I hold myself tight, letting the tears soak my pillowcase. I wait for the new caterpillars. In hopes of finally becoming a chrysalis. About the Author... Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. They go to school at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts for Creative Writing. Their artwork has previously been featured in the Downtown Jacksonville Public Library and their writing has been published previously in the Fall/Winter 2024 Edition of Élan. About the Artist... Hannah Botella is a junior at New World School of the Arts High School. She is from Cuba and currently resides in Miami. Her relationships with her family influence her art greatly. Through using fabric and techniqures like embroidery passed down by tradition, her goal is to honor the bonds in her life in a means of coming to terms with being the first to leave Miami for college. She enjoys working figurativeley and incorporating fine lines, sewing, and fabrics within her pieces. Previous Next

6 < Back A Night Swimmer Esme DeVries Depleting Vehemence by McClain Allen A Night Swimmer by Esmé DeVries My father is a creature of habit. I understand I’ve inherited this from him. He wants the best for us, his family, and he strives for it in everything. This I wish I had inherited. Where my dad is habitual, my brother, Oliver, is spontaneous. I see this difference as the reason they bonded so easily. I, in my similarities, wasn’t as lucky as to have the close-knit, macho connection. This combination of my father and brother’s two personalities made for interesting family vacations in the Floridia Keys nearly three times a year for most of my young life. It was on this triannual pilgrimage that I came to closer know my father and brother in a way that, at the time, was beyond my comprehension. It was some spring break, many years ago. In those years, back before my brother and I became our own people, grew flaws, and went our separate ways, vacations ran together. We always stayed at the same hotel: the Chesapeake. It had a certain charm that comes with a low budget. Stray cats roamed the property and my brother and I took to naming them after Harry Potter characters, though perhaps most memorably, there was a little pool out behind the place. It was a perfect rectangle and, if memory serves, lacked anything that could be distinguished as a “deep end” or a “shallow end”, yet much of who I am is dedicated to it. Memories of my brother roughhousing with me and the pair of us trying to coax our mother to swim with us span my recollection. In every way, it was a majestic expanse of sea. "It wasn’t often I got to stay up long enough to see the sun disappear into the Atlantic." One night, after my mother had gone up to bed, my brother, dad and I stayed in the pool. The darkness was thrilling, terrifying, and intoxicating. It wasn’t often I got to stay up long enough to see the sun disappear into the Atlantic. Oliver and I drifted eagerly throughout the pool, keeping our heads just above the surface of the water. Something about the cool saltiness of the pool was safer than the eerie blackness hanging heavy over the ocean. We were in our own little world, blanketed and isolated together. Dad, under the chillingly adult cover of night, was teaching us to swim the length of the pool in one breath. He could do it easily. Several quick breaths and he dipped gracefully under the water. Even in this, he was habitual, masterful. Oliver and I watched him push through the pool. Time went slowly. With Dad underwater, the two of us were silent, watching and learning. Our breaths mingled with the spring air, our heartbeats in time with Dad’s swim strokes. He made it to one side, then the other, and halfway back in one breath. Oliver was next. He mimicked Dad’s movements perfectly, naturally. Thin as a beanpole and quick as a bullet, he darted through the water like a pale silver minnow. Even in this recreation, I saw our differences. Where I was clumsy, he was tactful. When I was quiet, he was noisy. He swam to the other side and halfway back before resurfacing. Finally, it was my turn. I did just as I had been shown. Short breaths, then the plunge. Underwater was another world. I strained my eyes to see through the chlorine. The light embedded in the side of the pool gave the water an eerie green glow. I swam without grace, the only thing driving me my burning intention. My lungs, limbs, and eyes seared. Above me, I could hear my father and brother yelling. Perhaps encouragement. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t make it to the other side. I resurfaced, completely exhausted and utterly devastated. It hadn’t occurred to me that this was something Oliver and Dad could do that I could not. I had watched them execute the task so flawlessly and had, foolishly, thought I could achieve the same. I turned to face them, pushing my hair from my eyes as the graceless child does, and waited for their disappointment. But Dad and Oliver, simultaneously reliable and shocking, merely beckoned me back to the other side and told me to try again. This I did, to no avail. Yet my family pushed me to try again. I got no closer. I can’t remember if I ever wanted to give up. If the inclination was there, it was chased away the second I broke the surface of the water and let Dad and Oliver shower me with teachings and encouragements. Countless efforts pushed the hours later, to the point where I don’t know if I was driven by the need to reach the end and know success or my family never letting me give up. If they never gave up on me, who was I to give up on myself? I felt, as I swam, that I was becoming something new. As I acquainted myself with the water, I became amphibian and as I acquainted myself with the night, I became more adult. That night is my earliest memory of being with my dad and brother alone, in pursuit of a common goal. This would soon grow into a strange, inconsistent relationship. There was always something for the three of us to team up on, yet our collective dynamic was an uneasy thing. To look back on it is to watch myself wobble on a tightrope in a swaying trio. We could not all be balanced at the same time. Such it was with swimming. Dad and Oliver did it with gentlemanly grace, while I dogpaddled through a thick sludge at a snail’s pace. Though what I lacked in power, I made up for in passion and at some point, late in the night, I decided I was swimming my last night. Hearing their voices break through the water, I swam on, though the end seemed to grow no closer. I knew if only I reached it, I could seal my fate as a night swimmer with my father and brother for the rest of my life. I felt the dry crumbliness of the wall beneath my wrinkled, outstretched fingers. I broke the surface of the water, exhausted, yet triumphant. The water that drained off my face was a burden set down. Oliver and Dad were yelling unintelligible things, waving their arms in the air and high fiving one another. Together, we celebrated my victory, though it was a small one, practically meaningless, with no one there to see it. Tired and giddy, we went up to bed, climbing the stairs in the mysterious florescence of the hotel hallway lights. Towels hung limply on our bodies, wrapped across my bony shoulders and my brother’s narrow hips. My body ached, but it was an ache of accomplishment. I had earned the right to my weariness. Inside, Mom said she could hear Oliver and Dad screaming through the walls. I know now that she knew, as mothers often do, that that night marked the beginning of our schemes in a group of three, though I was unaware. About the Writer... Esmé is a sophomore creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts who has been recognized previously in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. About the Artist... McClain Allen put, I've been inspired by art my entire life and precisely the way it encompasses our world and everyone in it. Art can completely change the way someone thinks as it pushes the boundaries we establish within ourselves, to see beyond the picture and find its hidden meaning. My art expresses my reality of the world in a creative light through its composition and use of colors to emulate realism and depth. It displays my individuality by bringing life into my work that feels real to everyone.

< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.