Furman University

Burrell, Kayla

The Echo a 2
One autumn day, the dandelion
noticed it was turning white
within its green-wrapped bundle, drying
into	wisps	ideal	for	flight.
The	flowers	around	it	had	already	
swapped their pollen-yellow gowns
for feathers that the wind would carry
far across the cooling ground.
Our dandelion didn’t want to 
lose its friendship with the bees
who every sunny morning paid a
visit, buzzing tenderly—
nor did it want to lose that silk-like
shimmer of its petals in
the scattered rays of summer twilight—
but its time was at an end.
Eventually, the plant reopened
to reveal a ghostly orb.
A gust arrived that evening, cold and
swift. The dandelion roared
and shook its mane. The white wisps trembled,
disappeared into the sky.
The	flower,	shocked	and	disassembled,	
swiftly	learned	it	loved	to	fly.
Dandelion 
Poetry  c  Kayla Burrell


English

Dandelion

University, Furman

FURMAN UNIVERSITY’S LITERARY AND VISUAL ARTS MAGAZINE
MMXXV
Dear Reader,
 I am incredibly honored to bring you the 2025 edition of 
The Echo. Following the tremendous accomplishment of last year’s 
magazine, we began our submission period during the fall 
semester in order to prepare for the sheer volume of submissions 
we anticipated. Our team worked tirelessly to curate each piece, 
and the edition in your hands showcases a mere fraction of the 
hundreds of submissions we received. Each page in this book 
features the exceptional creativity, artistry, and vulnerability of 
Furman’s student body. 
 This edition would not exist without the talent and passions 
of the poets, painters, photographers, novelists, embroiderers, and 
all creatives who submitted to our magazine. I’d like to thank 
Dr. Laura Morris and Dr. Joni Tevis for their endless support, 
advice, and trust in me to continue the success of our literary and 
visual arts magazine; Editorial Board members Pauline Bailey, 
Mason Blount, Savannah Jones, Clara Long, Caroline Prewitt, and 
Dimitriana Tsiali for their enthusiasm, wisdom, and deliberate 
decisiveness; and my Assistant Editor, Alice Tyszka, for her 
constant encouragement and optimism. 
	 From	submitting	a	poem	during	my	first	year	to	serving	as	
the Editor-in-Chief for my last, The Echo has remained a core 
staple of my Furman experience. Every year, I am struck by the 
vast range of images, themes, forms, shapes, moods, colors, and 
subjects to which students are drawn. As you leaf through this 
issue	of	hazy	experimental	nonfiction	essays,	reflective	star-shaped	
poems,	and	even	painted	Ukrainian	eggs,	I	hope	you	find	what	
resonates with you. 
 Please enjoy the 2025 edition of The Echo. Create fearlessly.  
editor’s note
Alissa Xiao
Class of 2025
Editor-in-Chief of The Echo
contents
prose
Home z Ainsley Buss       4
Shape of Absence - Gracie Moore    11
The Legend of the Sea Squids - Stephen Turner    25
Red Letter London z Ava Shutze    36
An Eyeful of Stars z Ainsley Buss     50
Memories of My Father z Sarah Albouchi    70 
photography
There was once a locket  . Ava Shutze       3
The Cows Coming Home . Anna Timbes           7
Beach Days . Noel Duclos                      10 
American West . Opal Weber      13
Bee & Nectar . Noel Duclos       14
In the Rafters . Thomas Demetre        18
Embroidered Livestock . Noel Duclos     19
Descend Into Your Own Dream . Ava Shutze     21
Eye of the Horse . Noel Duclos         24
Hawk Landing . Noel Duclos      31
The Vastness of the Canyon . Opal Weber       33
3:06 . Ava Shutze        42
I Want Pizza . Andrew Chinn      43
Love . William Nix       45
Lake . William Nix       46
Where Are We Going . William Nix      55
Seeing South Carolina . Opal Weber     57
Lion’s Den . Melina George      65
Young Fisherman . Opal Weber         68
Fall Leaves . Noel Duclos       74
Biker in Indre By . Anna Timbes        76
penelope . Nabila Wilson       78
Alyssa P. . Jacob Robertson       79
MELINA III . Anna Timbes       80
Hello California . Andrew Chinn         81
What bubbles up in yellowstone . Opal Weber     84 
Blue-Footed Boobies . Anna Timbes      89
poetry
Dandelion c Kayla Burrell         2
The Bee c Kayla Burrell          15
Lungs c Emily Clancey           20
The Bell c Kayla Burrell          23
Resentment and Hubris c Kathryn Wilson        30  
Fleeting Memories c Alyson Cramer      35
What the Sky Gave Us c Nick Lombardo        44
Riptide Chorus c Stephen McLean        47
Intrusive c Emily Clancey        48
The Christmas Tree Burning c Olivia Bishop     56
My Shadow Walked Away From Me c Lucy Hammock      58
Zoo Animal c Kristen Gainey        60
As Above, So Below c Stephen McLean         66
backyard wood c Olivia Bishop         69
Don’t c Carter Ozburn        77
Transition One c Tate Denham        82
Quiet c Philip Temple         87
A Dream c Kathryn Wilson        88
studio & digital art
The Pigeonhole Ratio 5 Jacob Robertson            1
Reminiscence 5 Natalie Davis          5
Psyanka Egg: Flora of the Carolinas 5 Aria Carter           6
sent away 5 Reagan Kennedy          8
normalcy 5 Reagan Kennedy         9
Ivo and His Daughter 5 Fran Morris       16
Fingers of a Flautist 5 Aria Carter         22
Boa on a Jungle Branch 5 Sophie Crook-Delgado        32
Kukur Tihar - Golden Love 5 Sophie Crook-Delgado     34
I Know What I Must Become 5 Fran Morris        49
Echoes of Dissonance 5 Alexa Anders      59
scared 5 Reagan Kennedy        62
Toxic Recipe 5 Natalie Davis        63
The Perseverance of Culture 5 Aidah Wani         64
Visions of a Bluebird 5 Jacob Robertson         67
Lit Candle 5 Isabelle Seward        75
Ferry at Dusk 5 Natalie Davis        86
Front Cover: normalcy 5 Reagan Kennedy
Back Cover: sent away 5 Reagan Kennedy
Interior: World-inspired patterns 2 5 Hai Tran Nguyen


Preface & Table of Contents

Duclos, Noel

The Echo a 10
Beach Days
Noel Duclos
Photography


Beach Days

Weber, Opal

The Echo a 13
American West
Opal Weber
Photography


American West

Clancey, Emily

The Echo a 20
I used to be a competitive swimmer. I didn’t know it then, but swimming 
makes you strong. My shoulders were broad. There was so much more room 
in my lungs. 
I	should’ve	done	something	with	that.	I	should’ve	shouted,	flouted	every	rule,	
demanded	to	be	defied	or	deified,	instead	of	standing	petrified	by	the	side	of	
the	pool–	shrinking,	struggling,	slipping	beneath	the	surface	of	a	suffering	that	
should only come up to my knees, should not crush my chest or grip my veins 
and squeeze. 
With	all	that	strength	in	my	body,	there	should’ve	been	fire	in	my	mouth.	I	
wish I’d screamed about the things that I don’t talk about. 
Lungs
Poetry  c  Emily Clancey


Lungs

The Echo a 23
Today, I am a ringing bell
unseen behind an ear,
a metal droplet in a shell
resounding low yet shrill
with cold, metallic overtones
of undulating dread.
The pendulum disorients,
sets trembling steady hearts.
The Bell
Poetry  c  Kayla Burrell


The Bell

Davis, Natalie

The Echo a 63
Toxic Recipe
Natalie Davis
Studio Art


Toxic Recipe

McLean, Stephen

The Echo a 66
S
o
me 
 nigh 
ts, I
look up 
at the night
sky and stare, 
transfixed,	at	the
stars	dropped	on	the	infinite	void
above the horizon. They stand there, light years apart, pin
pricks of hope. I am in awe of their beauty, seemingly eternal—I will never see their changes, as 
they will never know of mine. But starlight is a constant of time,
guiding the lost for long centuries, their light 
much older than their purpose.
Still, I hold my
 gaze, and reach 
out towar
ds that 
endle 
ss d
re 
a 
m
Some nights I look down,
A
nd
see the
stars embedded 
in the a
sph 
al 
t
As Above, So Below
Poetry  c Stephen McLean


As Above, So Below

Albouchi, Sarah

The Echo a 70
	 When	I	was	fifteen,	my	father	went	back	to	his	home	country,	
Tunisia, to attend his younger brother’s wedding. He returned, having 
married a woman half his age and only nine years older than me. 
 If that shocked you to read, imagine my own shock at the news after 
having believed that my parents were happily in love with each other. 
 I mean, I knew that they weren’t married, that they had been 
divorced for some time. I still don’t fully understand the reasons for their 
divorce, but I do know - and I did know - that it wasn’t because they fell out 
of love with each other. If they were not married legally, they had still been 
married in the eyes of our religion, and in their hearts. 
 When they told us of the divorce, my parents had said that 
nothing would change between the four of us. When my father returned, 
new wedding band decorating his hand, he told us that nothing would 
change. Everything would be as it always had been between us. 
 And, I’ll give him credit where credit is due, initially there wasn’t 
anything that changed. At least, not that I could place. There isn’t very much 
that I remember from my childhood, as most of it has been shrouded in 
trauma and a life spent constantly on the verge of a panic attack. Because 
of	this,	it	is	difficult	to	know	whether	my	lack	of	memories	containing	my	
father is from my general lack of memories or from his absence. But there is 
absence. A stark, heaving absence that I carry with me wherever I go. 
 One memory that gleams like gemstones in the fog of my past is 
carline in elementary and middle school. My father would pick my sibling, 
Sonia, and I up every Wednesday, and sometimes, when work was slow, he 
might surprise us on another day of the week. We would tell him all about 
our day in the car, go out to eat and play in whatever play area there was, 
and then come back home and play games, watch a movie, or do our home-
work, with him there to help. I used to get so excited when I saw his car 
there, and I remember waiting and hoping every single day that he would 
surprise	us.	Even	when	I	was	first	in	high	school,	I	remember	standing	
outside and just hoping, wishing that he would stop working for a few 
hours to spend time with us. It was especially prominent when he returned 
Memories of My Father
Nonfiction		z  Sarah Albouchi
The Echo a 71
from Tunisia after the marriage. I would wait and wait by the curb, not 
seeing my mother’s car, and hoping, hoping that it meant Baba was coming 
to pick us up. 
 At some point he came to get us less often. We had switched schools, 
and he had moved around his work schedule, so there was no designated 
day for him to pick us up for a long while. I would still stand there, wait-
ing. After some deliberation, we decided that Mondays would be the new 
Wednesdays,	since	that	was	his	day	off.	This	is	where	the	most	prominent	
changes began. 
 We stopped going inside to eat. We would drive through, and he 
would drive us home, and then we would watch a movie or play a game. 
A few weeks later, my mother decided she didn’t want him haunting her 
house, and even though I understand why, I am still a little mad at her for 
it. (We don’t go to his house, and he doesn’t seem to want to spend money 
on anything at all, not even the gas to drive his car to us, so why couldn’t 
we	just	stay	at	our	house?	Why	couldn’t	she	suck	it	up	for	a	little	while	to	
let	us	have	these	meager	moments	with	him?	Why	couldn’t	she	have	loved	
him	better	so	that	he	didn’t	leave	to	get	another	wife	in	the	first	place?	Why	
didn’t	he	stay	with	us	anyways?	Why	didn’t	he	want	us	more?)	
 I don’t recall when, exactly, he stopped asking about the details of 
our day. I don’t recall when, exactly, I stopped waiting and started dreading.
 Another memory of my father is Saturdays, the other day we 
spent with him. He went to work later in the day, so we would spend our 
mornings together. Sonia and I would sneak into my parents bedroom and 
ambush him, jumping up and down on his sleeping form as we had seen 
it done in movies. After he had truly awoken, we would make chocolate 
croissants together, the Nutella smearing across our hands and - somehow 
- on Sonia’s nose. While we waited for them to cook, we would play horses, 
or he would run us around the house on his shoulders. I was always afraid 
that my head would hit the ceiling or that I would fall, but I giggled and 
shrieked all the same. Sometimes, he would take us out to Dunkin’ Donuts, 
where we would each get two treats and, if we were especially lucky, a 
chocolate milk. Sometimes he would let me loose in a bookstore; he would 
carry all my books around for me and only laugh when we left the store 
with twenty or so books that would be devoured in a month. On the drive 
home, if the road was empty, he would swerve back and forth between the 
The Echo a 72
lanes, the car at full speed. He always made silly noises, sometimes as 
though he were some strange, exotic bird, and sometimes as though he were 
revving up the car. Sonia and I would rock viciously side to side in our seats 
due to the momentum, cackling and screaming at the top of our lungs. 
 My father works all day on Saturdays now. Has to, now that he has 
to support two families. 
 If we are in the car with him, he always asks when I’m going to get 
my license so that I can drive myself. If I have a book I’d like to get, I have to 
work up the courage to ask him to buy it. Half the time, he says yes. The 
other half, he asks me if it’s really necessary, and if I really need so many 
books. I usually don’t ask, and just listen to the audiobooks.
 So yes, the absence is there, and yes, everything did change. And for 
the record, also yes, I do hate my father more than an average child should. 
 But, I still make chocolate croissants on Saturdays. I stand in the 
kitchen and bang the cardboard container against the countertop to open it, 
just like I used to. I laugh softly to myself when it doesn’t work, but I keep 
doing it anyway until the pressure causes it to open. I tear apart a couple 
of the triangular dough pieces to make baby croissants, which I sit next to a 
regular	sized	one.	I	fill	the	dough	with	far	more	Nutella	than	necessary,	so	
that it spreads onto my hand when I roll them up. After I put them in the 
oven, I ask Sonia if they want to lick the spoon I used to spread the 
chocolate. They refuse. I lick it clean myself. It tastes like breathless giggles 
early on a Saturday morning. 
 Even though I dread what mood he might be in and how that might 
cause him to act, I still let him pick us up on Mondays. We mostly talk about 
college or graduation, both of which I have told him all the details of 
multiple times. I don’t know if he asks because he has forgotten, or because 
that is the only thing he knows about my life, currently, and therefore the 
only connection he has to me. I still ask him about his life, even though 
I know he will answer vaguely, because I still want to know the man my 
father is now and the boy he once was.
 I still go to his restaurant to eat his food, even though it’s not as 
good as it used to be and I don’t really like it at all. I still play cards with him 
and, if he has the time, chess. He usually beats me - he always beats me - 
The Echo a 73
but I play anyway. The exhilaration of trying to play against him and almost 
winning is the closest I have been able to get to how I felt riding on 
shoulders as he ran me through the house. I still curl myself into a ball, mak-
ing myself as small as possible and wish that I was truly small again, so that 
he could pick me up onto his shoulders, or onto his back to play horses. I’m 
still a little girl who wants her father. I still stay there for him, even though 
he has not stayed there for me.
 So, yes, the absence is there, and yes, everything has changed. But, 
no, I don’t really hate my father at all.  z


Memories of My Father

Robertson, Jacob

The Echo a 79
Alyssa P.
Jacob Robertson
Photography
