Atrium Magazine

The lives of captured gators in Florida Crowds gather to watch the alligators compete for raw chicken during the Gator Jumparoo at Gatorland in Orlando, Fla., Wednesday, Nov. 5, 2025. (Delia Rose Sauer/Atrium Magazine) As a beaming Florida sun reheats a chilly winter morning, the reptiles at Gatorland Orlando sunbathe throughout the park. Savannah Boan, their platinum blonde leader, struts down the elevated boardwalks in gator skin boots, summoning them as an owner would a puppy.

Pine Island relies on one roadway for connection to Florida’s mainland. But when that lone tether is severed, residents are left stranded. A wooden plank bridge once connected Little Pine Island and Big Pine Island, stretching from one edge of land to the next. A part of the sole roadway from the island to peninsular Florida, the bridge served the community from 1927 up to its retirement in 1978.

Glampers find their escape in a pocket of luxury hidden in a forest Regina Broughton rides her horse, Remington Steele, while Jeff Broughton trails beside her on an electric bicycle in Bronson, Fla., Saturday, Feb. 21, 2026. (Lily Hartzema/Atrium Magazine) The breeze in February is cool enough that the Floridian wilderness feels inviting instead of punishing. For the Broughtons, it’s worth traveling over 500 miles to reach.

Inside the vision of the man they call the Hummus Guy Albert Bensaduan holds up a shirt he created as part of his merchandise line in Coral Gables, Fla., Sunday, Feb. 8, 2026. (Riana Morales/Atrium Magazine) By 10 a.m., a line is already winding through Merrick Park’s pale stone floors and sun-washed walls. Palm leaves shift gently above the hum of conversation. Less than a dozen people stand just beyond an assembled booth about 10 feet long.

Daniel Figueredo shows off the cross-section of a Sanguich Cuban sandwich in Coral Gables, Fla., Sunday, Feb. 15, 2026. (Delia Rose Sauer/Atrium Magazine) This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2026 magazine, which released April 2026. The assembly line of latex-gloved hands crammed into the small kitchen is efficient. On one end, hot oil crackles. Pale croquetas, breaded and ready to be browned, descend inside a metal basket, triggering an explosion of glistening bubbles.

Dylan looks out the window in the main office of the Etoniah Creek State Forest in Florahome, Fla., Friday, Sept. 26, 2025. After graduating from the University of Florida, he found freedom in managing the forest. “I just hug trees all day,” Dylan says. (Alissa Gary/Atrium Magazine) This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2026 magazine, which released April 2026. On a clear September morning, Dylan Fay steps out of his truck and onto a thicket of wild flora.

Linda Kranert shakes a turtle shell rattle part of one of the museum’s exhibits of Native American history in Chattahoochee, Fla., Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2025. (Delia Rose Sauer/Atrium Magazine) This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2026 magazine, which released April 2026. Linda Kranert remembers the gentle sound of critters scurrying off in unseen directions as she stood within the mossed-over threshold of a building all but reclaimed by nature.

This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2026 magazine, which released April 2026. “Did you spill any secrets when you got your wisdom teeth out?” I hit send before hiding my phone between my textbook and my laptop. I’m 16, sitting on the kitchen counter and staring at my AP Chemistry homework. My mother lies in her bedroom a few feet away. I can’t focus; I’m getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow. “I can’t remember, why?” my friend replies.

Hollow Echoes and Southern Magnolia May 15, 2026 | poems by Catalina Martinez-Wittinghan illustrations by Priscilla Oliveira design by Emma Grace Henne This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2026 magazine, which released April 2026. Catalina Martinez-Wittinghan

Staff Sgt. Luther E. Smith Jr. sent letters to his mother in Jacksonville, Fla., dated Aug. 16, 1944. (Pristine Thai/Atrium Magazine) This story is from Atrium’s Spring 2026 magazine, which released April 2026. In March 1942, Luther Edward Smith Jr. packed his bags, said goodbye to his parents and shipped off to join the war. The United States entered World War II three months earlier, and the teenage Jacksonville native figured he’d be drafted.