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Marcus Holley Marcus Holley is a senior poet and performer in the creative writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the senior Art Director for Élan Literary Magazine with a goal of expanding the combination of visual art and literature into the community. His adoration for writing and spoken words has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage.

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

Caitlin Spinner Caitlin Spinner attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, majoring in Creative Writing and working as the Junior Prose Genre Editor on Élan Student Literary Magazine. She has previously had her work featured in Alternate Routes fourth edition and has been in several performances including Douglas Anderson’s annual show “Extravaganza” in 2025. She gets involved in groups at her school, being a member of Literary Arts Honor Society and Spoken Word. When she’s not writing, you can catch her making paintings, playing video games, doing photography, or writing new songs.

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

Deidra Curtis Deidra Curtis (She/Her) is a young African American writer in Jacksonville Florida. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts as a Creative Writer and the junior Editor-in-Chief of Élan. She has a love for the thriller genre when it comes to fictions tales to read, but her passion runs deeper for writing personal poems on societal issues and creative nonfiction.

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

< Back Narcissus and Echo by Ava Ritterskamp About the Artist... Ava Ritterskamp is a Junior at Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint, but she also enjoys experimenting with other forms of media. Her piece titled “Narcissus and Echo” won the 2024 Congressional Arts competition and is currently on display in Washington DC. Ava is passionate about art and hopes to pursue a career in visual arts or architecture. Previous Next

84634af5-fc84-434b-b781-7ab398ad378f Marine Karma by Grace Kim The summer you learned to bike by Eva Chen the summer you learned to bike was the same summer i learned how fragile a body can be - you, who grew mountains for shoulders, had skin bruised like mangos from wrestling with hot gritty sand & it was that same summer where i learned to spin bandages from tattered dirty wools, & you wore wet cloth hanging from the branches of your knees all throughout june. still yet you insisted to soar with your bike & i watched you - wide eyed, hands gripped to the rubber of the bars, you sprung into the midsummer air & when your body collided with the dust, you exploded with laughter so heavy, the whole forest shook & all i could do was grip my first-aid box a little tighter waiting on you to fall. by the end of july, i became a girl with hands so fast i could catch anything, and you, a boy, with the ability to fly. Return to Table of Contents

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

6 The Bracelet by Nylah Watkins The Bracelet sits pretty, and lonely on her nightstand. Each bead is brown; a subtle combination of Mahogany and Russet. But, when the bead is turned over, the brown slides into a shade of wheat, then back to brown again. Gilded gold cylinders engraved with flowery designs rest between each of the beads, trailing down to a rusty elephant charm. The Bracelet never sees outside of the house, it barely leaves the nightstand. When the girl leaves every morning, she turns the beads over to their wheat side. When she comes home, she likes to look at the brown side of the beads, staring with a hint of jealousy, wishing she could switch sides just as easily as her beads do. When the girl wraps up her daily staring-session, she straightens herself up, and turns the beads of the bracelet to the wheat-colored side, and stares at them before bed, prepping herself before she goes to sleep. When she wakes up, she keeps the beads on their lighter side all morning, before flipping them once more. Sometimes, she thinks about leaving the beads on the brown side. She never does. She allows herself one last glance at the brown beads, then she flips them over to their wheat-colored side and leaves for the day. This girl is pretty, and she is never alone; but she is always lonely. She gets up at 4 am every morning to build herself, no matter how tired she is. Some days, she cries when her alarm rings at the early hour. She curses herself until she gets out of bed. The girl has the same routine: shower, wash face, moisturize. She combs out her hair. Concealer before foundation, then more concealer on top. Thin black eyeliner with black mascara coating each lash, until they weigh heavy on her eyes. She picks out something cute to wear, usually a mini skirt and a crop top; her boyfriend likes it when she wears these clothes, even if it’s cold outside. She arrives at school early to meet him. They kiss until the bell rings. She does not want to sometimes, even though she never says this. At lunch she sits with her large group of friends, people who she hardly knows even though she’s known them for years. They speak in tongues, that’s what it sounds like to her anyway; she could less about their meaningless words. They invite her to parties, to sleepovers, she says yes. She never says no anymore, she’s learned not to. When she would say no, they would pout or shoot her dirty looks; why not Addie? Do you think you're too good for us? She has never said no again. Her boyfriend is loud behind her, he wraps his arm around her waist and laughs with his stupid friends. When he remembers her existence, he kisses her, again, in front of everyone to show that she is his. She smiles and giggles when he does this, but she wishes he would stop. She pleads with him in her eyes every day to stop, but he never sees her. He never has. All she can do is hold tight, and wait for the day to pass, for the moment where she can return home to her Bracelet, flip the beads over to their side of Russet and Mahogany brown, and stare at them once more. About the Writer... Nylah Watkins is a writer and a student at Douglass Anderson High School. She enjoys spreading the messages, and having meaningful conversations to provoke the thoughts of others. She strives to improve herself and the livelihood of those around her.

< Back Alexander 103 by Qilin Pote Rosalind the Unsinkable By Kala West Charlie Forrester was in a hurry. Such a hurry, in fact, that he failed to notice the tuba case lurking in the middle of the narrow corridor and promptly tripped over it. The big man bit back a howl as he fell to the ground, clutching his shin, people swarming around—no— over him and up the stairs to the ship’s main deck. Dazed, he stared at the object he’d stumbled on. It did not take long for him to be trampled to death by the other passengers. The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead. However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache. "The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead. However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache." He stormed up the stairwell, puffing his way toward the shouts still ringing above. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the pounding to the head he’d received, but as he emerged, he could have sworn the deck seemed to be at an angle. Moments later, that was confirmed when a crate slid over and hit him directly on his hurt shin. “Bloody, stinking thing !” He kicked it and proceeded to hop around, holding his foot and scowling as he took in the grim sight before him. The long row of lifeboats previously fixed to the rail was no longer there; the waves were crawling with the lifeboats. But there, just visible over the side of the ship, one more was being lowered into the water. Charlie limped towards it, scanning for a vacancy. He blinked as he beheld the little rowboat’s contents. Then, he rubbed his eyes. At that point, Charlie decided he must still be dreaming and spun in a circle three times. As he turned the third circle, smiling confidently, for he knew his hallucinations would resolve themselves, he thought to himself how very clever he had been to recognize his muddled brain’s tricks as fiction. But, when he came to a standstill, the spectacle remained. His grin fell, turning into a gawk at the very real tuba occupying the very last seat. He shut his mouth and waved to the thin man worriedly twiddling his thumbs beside the instrument. “Oy, you there!” The fellow did not seem to notice as Charlie gestured to him. “You, with the tuba!” The fellow looked up at last, surprised. “Oh. Hello. Have you come with her case?” the man asked. “Who—what?” “Her case. Rosalind’s case.” He motioned toward the tuba. For a moment, Charlie stood, stunned. "No. No, I haven’t got your tuba’s bloody case!” The man’s mouth thinned into a distressed line. “Oh, well. I was practicing with Rosalind, you see, and I was in such a rush to get her to safety that I seem to have dropped her case somewhere along the way while I was trying to put her back in—” “You call your tuba Rosalin—wait a damn second!” Charlie gaped. “You! Why, it was your case I tripped over! You’re the whole flaming reason I’m late in the first place!” The man’s face brightened, his hands fluttering excitedly as he spoke. “Oh, you’ve seen her case? Thank the heavens, you’ve found it! Would you mind fetching it for—” “Would I mind? Would I mind? Now, listen here, what I mind is that this is the last goddamn lifeboat, and that great big thing is taking up the last goddamn spot!” Charlie could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. The man cringed and turned his attention toward his instrument, brushing off some imaginary speck of dust from its surface. “Oh, what ever can I do?” His voice was almost featherlike, seeming to skitter from one word to the next like some small animal. “Her case, her lovely home, it’s gone! Oh, dear, dear Rosalind. Forgive me.” The curiously curled moustache perched upon his upper lip quivered as he paused solemnly. Charlie glared at his reflection in the brightly polished tuba, painfully aware of the rapidly increasing distance between him and the lifeboat as it was lowered into the waves. “That’s all right and good, fella, but—” The man turned hastily to Charlie, collecting himself. “My sincerest apologies, sir, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name i s Nelson. William Nelson." “Alright, Will, I’m Charlie, but this—” William continued, an absent smile forming on his lips, seeming not to have heard Charlie. “And this is Rosalind, my tuba. I should have introduced her first, of course.” Charlie could no longer contain himself. “Just throw the thing overboard, you bloody fool!” William’s large eyes widened; he had the audacity to look wounded as Charlie seethed. “This ship is nearly done for, I’m about to go down with it, and your tuba is the only thing keeping me from jumping into that boat and saving my own backside! I’ll tell you, when we get to shore, I’ll pay for the whole damned instrument. By the lord, I’ll pay for thirty if you want, you numbskull!” The lifeboat was out of reach now, or Charlie would’ve pitched the tuba over the side himself. He could barely hear William’s reply over the cacophony of bending metal far below. “I’m terribly sorry, Charles, I do apologize, but Rosalind does not know how to swim. Unfortunately, I cannot expose her to the ocean, lest she may…” As the din drowned out the remainder of his sentence, a distant expression crept over the man’s face, and he seemed to forget Charlie was there as he puttered on. “Put it on your lap, dammit.” Charlie was fuming. Nelson appeared vaguely distressed to see that Charlie was continuing to address him. “What? Oh, no, I would never deny Rosalind the basic dignity of having her own seat. No , it simply would not do.” William’s gaze began to wander back to his tuba, and Charlie knew the conversation was approaching a dead end. Think, you idiot, think! “This is absurd! This is madness! This is—” Charlie took a breath. Then another. “The tu— Rosalind looks cold.” Panic filled William’s eyes and he began taking off his jacket to put around the instrument. Before he could do so, Charlie said, “No, no, you must cradle her. In your lap.” He cursed the stupidity of his words but forged onward, knowing this was his final chance at survival. “It is the only thing to do, really. A lady mustn’t be kept at arm’s distance, or she may feel… underappreciated.” “Oh.” At that moment, William Nelson looked so miserable that Charlie almost wished he could take the words back; they seemed to have struck too close to home. As the reedy man scrambled to do exactly as advised, he moaned “Forgive me, Rosalind, for I have been a cruel friend indeed! How can I ever make my neglect up to you, allowing you to feel so lowly and uncared for…” Charlie stared in wonderment as the seat was cleared and Nelson’s soft cooing began to emerge from beneath the tuba’s great mass. The ship let out a deafening groan as the lifeboat neared the water. Without any further hesitation, Charlie flung himself over the rail, and down he sailed into that final seat. Of the seven hundred and six survivors of the sinking of the R.M.S. Titanic , the tuba was one. About the Author... Kala West is a junior at Evanston Township High School. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, playing the violin, and spending time with her dogs. About the Artist... Qilin Pote is a Draw and Paint major in 12th grade at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They specialize in paintings and mixed media works that show a slice of life from the stories of things around them. Previous Next

9c381bf7-b3d4-41b8-892c-5c1b521c65f3 A Mother's Love by Chloe Robertson Oliver by Esmé DeVries At the first house I lived in, the backyard expanded into a lush forest. We had a freezing, trapezoidal pool and often found critters from the woods swimming or, more often, drowning in the icy blue. Because of this, my father taught my brother, Oliver, how to decapitate a rattlesnake far too young in his life, sparking our eagerness to explore the great outdoors. Oliver and I quickly got into the thrilling habit of exploring the woods behind our house, feeling that our youthfulness protected us from harm. During summer and on weekends, the two of us, intrepid explorers, would hike into the trees, following the thin, winding creek down the hill, where it fed into a lake. He would walk in front of me, being older and braver, leading the way into the dangerous unknown, past brambles and hedges that threatened to bar our path. Sometimes, we would bring fishing poles down, though it was more common for us to be found frolicking in the black ooze produced by the lake. We used to run across the banks when the water level was low, sinking deep into the sludge and quickly fighting to unstick ourselves. He ran first and he ran faster, but his feet got stuck in the mud more often than mine. Once, abandoning our rods and reels, we took to the mud again. Oliver, of course, tested the waters. About halfway across, his toes caught, and he fell face first into the soggy bed. I was too young to find this properly funny, especially when he stood up, coughing and sputtering, sporting only one shoe. He blew dirt out of his mouth and fell back to his hands and knees, digging for his other shoe, a pair of Reeboks he had had forever. I rushed to his aid and we both dug holes that refilled every other second, plunging our arms into the closing cavities, coating our skin up to our shoulders in mahogany slop. When the sky darkened and we waved the white flag, Oliver and I walked back to the bank, squelching and sticking, so that he could ceremoniously throw his remaining shoe into the lake. I remember taking off my own shoes as we headed back up to the house, whether out of solidarity or just so that I could run my dirt-caked socks through the cool creek water, it didn’t matter. It was all the same to us. Back at the house, Mom let us hear it. She wasn’t mad about the shoes, just about our late arrival home. Oliver didn’t speak to me much for the rest of the evening, though I couldn’t work out why. I reasoned that he was upset about the shoes or getting chewed out by Mom. Still, I wasn’t quite ready to forget our day. "I would burrow under my blankets and read princess books under the dim light of a flashlight. In that regard, not much has changed." Not long after this experience, Oliver began private school and by the time I had gained acceptance to the same institution, he had gathered a collection of like-minded friends. I had never had as many friends as him growing up. I still don’t, but back then it was more difficult for me to grasp that my older brother, who I looked up to, was able to branch out to people other than me. Once upon a time, I could slip into his room late at night to play with our stuffed animals. Then, he started having people spend the night or he himself would leave. I would burrow under my blankets and read princess books under the dim light of a flashlight. In that regard, not much has changed. He even got so bold as to bring his friends down to the lake, into our watery sanctuary. I, thinking they had just forgotten to invite me, would follow him down. We would circle the lake, clinging tight to trees and slipping on loose dirt, not daring to run through the mud as Oliver and I once had. These friends stuck with Oliver all throughout his formative years and as a result, he and I spent less and less time together. When he entered sixth grade and I entered third, we were blocked to share a recess period at school. It was the first time this had happened, and my friends and I were eager to play with the big kids and share a space with people we looked up to. But even then, we avoided each other. Perhaps it was a mutual effort. Over the years I had fallen in with a good crowd of girls and we spent the days playing a rather inventive version of manhunt, darting through the trees and under the slides. Oliver played as many contact sports as he could come up with. Most often he was found playing basketball, but once, the two of us had taken to hovering around the chalky red four-square courts. I was perched on the adjacent hill, giggling foolish. Presumably to get rid of me, Oliver called to get my attention and as I turned, he catapulted a maroon football into my eye. I thought for sure he had blacked my eye, and fled the scene in a hurry, rushing back into the school and to the bathroom that was farthest from the playground. This was back when school bathrooms had doors, so I was able to hide my shame in a secluded environment. I don’t remember returning to recess, though I must’ve at some point. I imagine that I spitefully concluded that my eye was fine, maybe a little bloodshot, and gathered my courage to return to my anxiously awaiting friends. It was likely that by the time Oliver and I shared a car ride home, we had both completely forgotten the incident. But I still wonder if he meant to do it. At the end of my third-grade year, my father announced that we would be moving to Florida. Oliver, from what I could tell, was very understanding about the whole thing. Our parents probably explained more of their reasoning to him than they did to me, providing him an opportunity to roll with the punches. I, however, had reached peak stubbornness in my ninth year of life and dug my heels in as much as was possible. Fortunately, I had no control over my own life and therefore could not do any lasting damage. We moved in June of that year and because of our different viewpoints, the stake that had been poking its way between Oliver and I plunged much further. My negative attitude coupled with his unfortunate seventh grade desire to fit in bore no healthy fruits. He made fun of me and I, deeply immersed in my sensitive stage of life, couldn’t brush it off until I too realized that bickering was the teenage trend. In our new house, Oliver’s room was upstairs and mine down, in complete opposite corners of the house. We had only ever been separated by a few feet of hallway, but now, there seemed to be a million miles between us. Half the time, I don’t even know when he’s home. Even such a small change forced us further apart. There’s never been a need for me to go to Oliver’s room and I haven’t exactly wanted to. The only time he ever comes to mine is to borrow my stapler or tell me dinner’s ready. We just don’t see each other much anymore. He’ll be going off to college soon and is making the most of his senior year with his buddies and his girlfriend. I hardly ever leave my room. To me, we’re on opposite sides of the hedge of protection that childhood offered. Oliver had already crossed it and stood proudly on the other side, waving at me mockingly through the leaves. I wondered if I would ever cross. When we had once been so close, so similar, now he stood acres away. Since moving to Florida and since Oliver began high school, the two of us have taken a pair of safety scissors to the hedge, clipping away at its leaves and branches slowly but surely. Occasionally, one of us will start watering the hedge, erasing our progress. It’s slow work and we may never get back to what we once were. It’s okay. I don’t expect us to. Return to Table of Contents