Paddlefish 2023-2024 by Mount Marty University

PADDLEFISH

a student literary and art journal

Editor Jim Reese

Associate Editor Jamie Sullivan

Review Editor Katherine Blankenau

Copy Editor Jamie Sullivan, Katherine Blankenau

Arts Editor David Kahle

Editorial Assistant Kendra Horsley

Cover Art Kendra Horsley

Self-Sewn Phoenix

Book Design & Layout Joanna Thomas

Advisory Board

S. Cynthia Binder

Katherine Blankenau

S. Marielle Frigge

Jamie Sullivan

All poems and prose are used with permission of the authors, and they retain all rights to their work published herein.

Except for brief quotations in reviews and books, no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.

The views expressed in Paddlefish are not necessarily those of Mount Marty University.

Paddlefish

Snagging good literature one line at a time.

PADDLEFISH 2023-2024

a student literary and art journal

56 Alexis Gosch

• “The Dining Table”

Carl Massa

• “Age 1-Age 20” 63 Carl Massa

• “Railroad Sunset”

Ava Wolfe

• “Little Fish”

Conner Hochstein

• “An Aviary of my Own” 67 Grace Holys

• “First is the Worst” 70 Eve Zephier

• “Black vs White”

72 Conner Hochstein

• “Paint” 78 Almu Pérez Lо́pez

• “The Girl in the Mirror” (poem and pic)

80 Madelyn Heckenlaible

• “Acting on a Whim”

Elizabeth Main

• ““How to be an Actor: A step by step guide” 82 Conor Michaud

• “Under Armor Sweatshirt”

Bede Art Gallery: MMU Student Art

• “I’m Hooked” Footsteps in the Dark

David Phillips et al. Rick Rubin Reflection Collection

Antonio Manzini

• “Tutti i particolari in cronaca”

Grace Holys

• Hooked on the Big Terrible Thing

Christa Lotz

• The Anthropocene Reviewed

James Terry Sonny’s Blues Importance in Today’s Society

One Shell at a Time Liam Vidas

Mount Rushmore: South Dakotas Great Disappointment by Rory Huntley

Contributors

By Jim Reese

Kahle Studio Picture

Panic Attack

by Grace Holys

Inhale, Exhale. Is the stove off, the cords unplugged, the door locked?

Slowly starting, nagging, itching like a spider crawling in my skull. Inhale, Exhale.

Faster now, flashing thoughts. What if the house is burning down?

The spider crawls down my spine.

What if I lose my home?

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Hands going numb, eyes squeezing shut, fists clenched so tight my fingers go white.

What if I forgot?

Tears start flowing, flowing, flowing, flowing. What if it’s my fault?

Every thought, mushed together. It’s my fault.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. My fault.

Winner of the 2023-2024 Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. InBREATHE.

Focus, one word, one thought. BREATHE.

It’s inked upon my ribs, seared into my skin, for times like this. BREATHE.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Slower now, tears subside. Inhale, Exhale.

The spider slinks away, taking with it the tingling, numbing, white-clenched hands. Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe.

Box of Fears

by Christian Mickelson

Winner 2023-2024

Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Prose

“Well, boys, do I have something you will love,” Ray announced feverishly like he hadn’t just texted us this exact statement before coming over. I look over at him, sitting on Knox’s desk chair, and chuckle. At 6’4” with curly blonde locks and deep, blue ocean eyes, he was every girl’s fantasy and one of my best friends. Ray tended to get overcome with zeal when he believed he found the next big thrill for our trio to try. I’m not necessarily a thrill-seeker, but I didn’t mind taking part in Ray’s passions as he hasn’t had much since losing his mother in a car accident last summer. His father took up drinking shortly after and, well, hasn’t really been much of a father. So, Ray comes to me and Knox for his source of approval.

“Are you going to show us what you have, or are you going to keep being a tease?” Knox asks with anticipation. My other best friend is 6 feet tall with short brown hair. He has a perfect smile, probably because his family can afford braces, and he is always the most positive of our group. Knox is what I would call a coaster—always going with the flow, which is easy to do when you’re not worrying about how your next meal will get on the table. His father is a proud neurosurgeon, meaning Knox has never had much concern for money. He encourages Ray’s thrill-seeking tendencies because, as he would put it, “Nothing is exciting about never having to worry.” Hilarious that the kid with enough money to feed two families is going to bitch about having a boring life.

“I present to you the box of fears,” Ray transmits ominously while pulling out a small wooden box with bouquets of tulips carved into the sides. The corners have worn intensely, and the latch is nearly falling off.

“Why and where did you get a box that looks about 100 years old? Did you come up with the name?” I ask sarcastically.

“I got it from the new novelty shop downtown. The guy, a bit odd, called it a Phobos box. He said it was used in ancient Rome or something along those lines for warriors to conquer their fears,” Ray says.

“How exactly does this Phobos box work? It sounds like you got ripped off, Ray,” Knox replies.

I may not be rich like Knox or adventurous like Ray, but I am smart enough to know that some old, musty box that reeks like the uncleaned floorboards of my grandmother’s house will in no way help me conquer a fear.

“I promise you I did not. This guy who sold it to me may have been weird and a tad creepy, but he wasn’t a hack. I got a sneak peek at the shop. All you have to do is open the lid and stare into the box. It will show you your greatest fear and won’t let you go until you conquer it,” Ray explained. His smile was more expansive than ever. Of course, if this thing really does work, Ray will be the one to love it. What could he fear? He is built like a brute and has always been the one to kick whoever’s ass was giving Knox or me any trouble. In reality, it was mostly me. I had a hard time fitting in. I am an only child and just have my mother to take care of me since my dad left before I could meet him. School was hell until I met Knox and Ray.

“What did you see when you tried it?” I ask.

“I was a passenger in a car, one that I could not stop. It kept speeding up no matter what I tried. I knew I was going to crash. I took control of the wheel and started driving myself. It ended as soon as I felt confident. It was incredible; why do you think I was able to drive here to Knox’s in the first place?”

It hadn’t even dawned on me that Ray had driven. Ever since the accident with his mother, he refused to get in, much less drive a car. Maybe this thing was worth giving a shot. Sitting on the soft white carpet of Knox’s room, watching the absolute thrill in Ray’s eyes, I knew I had to give it a chance.

“Okay… I’ll give it a shot,” I announce.

“What do you think you will see? Maybe something to do with the nightmares you used to have?” Knox asks.

“I highly doubt it. Those were so long ago.” I reject Knox’s idea, but it still lingers in my mind. The nightmares were a reason school was tough for me. I was viewed as a freak because when I was younger, I would have dreams that left me paralyzed. I felt constantly uneasy and scared of everything. Eventually, I had to get psychological treatment, which, of course, got out into the warm and welcoming place that is known as school. Now, I am not sure what I fear.

“How about we get this show on the road, sunshine,” Ray says playfully.

While I feel the box is some stupid prank, I can’t help but feel my muscles stiffen as I go to open it. It feels like an electric current holds every muscle and bone in place. I manage to unlatch the box. I slowly lift

the lid, and a white light engulfs my vision. I can’t hear or see anything except white.

Suddenly, I come to. I sit up, and I am in my aunt’s living room. I gather myself and take a seat on the woven pink couch. I sit, confused as to how this room could be scary to me in any way. Unless I fear long, shaggy carpets that need cleaning, old wooden box set TV stands, slightly off-colored wallpaper, or The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. Suddenly, I hear a hiss from across the room and see Ruffles, the old mangey cat I can’t stand. It is grey and merely a few years old, but it looks like tomorrow it will pay the grim reaper a visit for a warm cup of milk and maybe a chat about the weather.

However, I don’t fear this cat, not at all. Maybe I fear the fact that it makes the house smell like cat piss, but not the animal itself. I can’t shake the feeling that this is the thing I am supposed to overcome, though.

Suddenly, I snap out of the vision and awaken back on the floor of Knox’s room. The box latched shut and sitting on the ground before me.

“What did you see?!” Ray and Knox stammer at the same time, scarily in unison.

“I saw my aunt’s damn cat,” I say frustratingly.

“You fear a cat? That is sad, but I would not put it past you,” Ray says.

I flip him a quick bird and ask, “Where did you get this box? There is obviously something wrong with it.”

“I told you, the new novelty shop downtown. I can drive you if you want. Since I overcame an actual fear and all.” Ray boasts.

Lovely, Ray’s head is larger than life at this point.

“Let me give it a go first before we lose our minds,” Knox says. He snatches the box away from me and opens it quicker than I thought possible. A white flash of light beans his face, and his eyes roll backward.

“Is that what I looked like?!” I ask concerned. The sight of Knox looking like he came out of the Conjuring universe leaves me highly uneasy.

“Yeah, but it’s fine. I looked that way as well. You only are under for a couple of minutes. Time operates much slower than when you’re under the influence of the box. At least that’s how the guy from the shop presented it.”

“Did you get his name?” I ask.

“His name tag read ‘Azazel,’ why?” The name sends shivers down my spine, but I am unsure why.

“Because I plan to have a chat with him if this box works for Knox. I want to conquer a fear. I am sick of always being the weakest link in the group,” I exclaim.

“Someone’s got to do it,” Ray says, shrugging his shoulders. As much as I love him, he is a real pain in the ass.

Suddenly, Knox comes to. He is out of breath, but a broad grin forms on his face.

“What did you see?!” Ray asks.

“I fell to my death while skydiving over the blue hole in Belize. It was insatiable,” Knox replies.

“What fear could you conquer from that? Did you finally realize that you’re a dumbass who can’t figure out how to operate a parachute?” Ray teases.

“No, I just don’t fear dying a boring death anymore. That is exactly how I want to go out. I don’t want to be some dead-beat office worker or surgeon like my father. I want to enjoy my time here. I want to be extraordinary and die extraordinary,” Knox explains.

“Oh, trust me, you are plenty out of the ordinary,” I add. My blood begins to boil because although Knox had a ridiculous fear, he still conquered it. What did I get? I didn’t even get to shoot the cat. It is apparent Ray knows what is going through my mind because he offers to drive me downtown to meet this Azazel.

…

I storm inside and am instantly hit with a feeling that I should not have entered the store. The store is lined with aisles of old-looking antiques, animal furs, and other ritualistic-looking items. I notice a freezer section in the back corner that houses various meats. I have no clue what kind of store this is supposed to be or why it even exists. The dimly lit store and its walls are littered with various animal mounts, but none I recognize. Some have three horns, others have four eyes, and one even has a jaw that hinges open into three parts. I notice the eyes of all the mounts seem to follow the storekeeper as he treks throughout the store. I shake off the feelings of uneasiness and turn to talk to who I can only assume is Azazel. Before I can even walk over, he is in my face, standing mere inches away from me. He is dressed in a full suit. All black except for a red tie. His jet-black hair is greased back like an Italian mobster, and he twists the strands of his Dali mustache. Before I can speak, I am entranced by his eyes. They are a deep black like his hair, almost devoid of color. They seem to pull me out of existence like a black hole. I do my best to ignore his interstellar eyes that have me in a cold sweat.

“What is wrong with this box? You told my buddy it would allow me to conquer a fear. That appeared to be the case for my friends. However, I saw my aunt’s cat and woke up. How is that a fear?” I question him.

“Many people fear cats. There is nothing wrong with admitting this is a fear of yours, or was, as it seems you’ve conquered it,” Azazel says in a low, gruff voice. It is the exact voice you would want to read an audiobook, but coming from him, it just seems to make my skin crawl.

“I was never scared of cats. I want to conquer a real fear! If I can’t, I will be even more of a laughingstock in my friend group. Please, you have to help me,” I beg. I hate being within five feet of this guy, but I need this win for myself.

“How do you know the box ever let you go?” He asks.

“What?” The question paralyzes me. He quickly touches my forehead with two fingers, and I awaken on the floor of Knox’s room.

“What did you see?! How was it?!” Knox and Ray both ask.

I can’t even muster words. My lips shake, but I don’t know what to say. I stare blankly at my friend’s faces, hoping and praying they are real.

“That good huh? I have to try this.” Knox takes the box from before me and falls into a trance.

I stand up without addressing my friends and leave. I walk the mile and a half home. I need to feel the ground beneath my feet. I need to look up in the sky and feel the moon and stars’ light. It is just around 11:30 pm when I make it home. My mom is already sleeping, but she was thoughtful enough to leave pizza rolls on the counter for me. I cannot find an appetite, so I continue to my room. My blinds are open, which I usually wouldn’t mind, but tonight, I need to feel closed off from the outside world. Pulling the blinds down, I see something skitter across the street. My heart falls into my stomach.

“Is that Ruffles?” I rhetorically ask myself. The cat sits in the middle of the street and seems to stare at me. I stand there for five minutes, frozen in place. Maybe I do fear this damn cat. I don’t move an inch until I hear something scratch my door. I immediately turn as the door I thought I had shut and locked squeaks open. I hurry, slam the door, and forcefully shoulder my dresser in front of it. When I turn to the window, the cat is gone. I sprint and yank the blinds closed. My heart is pounding and begging to be let out of my chest as I get into bed fully clothed and stare at the ceiling. Every muscle, bone, ligament, and nerve in my body feels strained. I grip my bed sheets and anxiously pull the cotton material between my fingers, desperately trying to feel grounded.

This Azazel couldn’t exist. I must’ve been under the influence of the box when Ray told me about him and even when I met him. Even the thought of him makes me feel frightened to my core. This train of thinking calms me somewhat, but the experience was so vivid and surreal. I lay awake all night, listening to the sound of the ticking grandfather clock my mother insisted we needed. Didn’t you know a house is incomplete unless it has an obscenely large and outdated clock used in every horror cliché known to man?

…

The following day of school seems to be more challenging. I am affected by my experiences with the box. Maybe I conquered a fear after all. But what? As much as I hate thinking about that damned box, it is the only thing on my mind. I talk to Knox in the cafeteria, where he explains what he saw using the box. It was the exact same thing he told me he saw during my vision. Whatever my vision was. I’m not even sure I know at this point.

I continue to try to flush any worries or thoughts about what might’ve happened. I sit down for 3rd-period algebra. Math has always been a strong suit of mine, so I take a deep breath and devote all my brain power to class. Perhaps it will ease my mind. I pull out a red college-ruled notebook and a black pen. I refuse to use anything else, even though Mrs. Harrigan insists I use a pencil to correct my work. I start to feel like myself again, like everything will be just fine.

Then I feel it. I feel them. Beating down on the back of my head. I can’t explain how I know, but I know. My stomach drops, and I feel as if I could vomit on the desk in front of me. Slowly, I start to turn towards the windows. I ease my head and gradually begin to make him out. Even from several hundred feet away, the depths of those empty eyes lock on to mine, and my head begins to throb as my ears ring. Standing on the other side of the street is the man in his black suit and red tie. Every fiber of my being feels pierced by the wickedness that fumes off him like dry ice. I look around the class, and it seems everyone’s eyes are on me now. Their emotionless blank stares make me feel isolated. I flick my head back to the window. Azazel is now only inches from the glass. He lifts his hand to a wave, and I notice his long, sharpened fingernails. He scratches down the glass and smiles morbidly.

With my heart on fire and sweat beading down every inch of my body, only one thought hits my head. “How do you know the box ever let you go?”

How Benedictine Values have Shaped Me and My Future

by Betsy Crumly

2024 Spirit of Benedict Award Winner

Mount Marty University—a tiny, Catholic campus on the riverside bluffs of South Dakota. Close enough to home that I can visit when I miss it, but far enough away to be my new home for four years. When I enrolled at MMU, I was finishing my senior year of high school locked down in my bedroom during a pandemic. I had just assumed this was the next step, something to check off the to-do list to get me one step closer to starting my career—plus I heard they had a pretty good nursing program. That was about all I knew. All of the things I mentioned above were true, but I was not prepared for how much more than that I would experience at MMU.

I was raised Catholic my whole life—a cradle Catholic, if you will. Arriving at Mount Marty, I assumed it would be a similar experience, but I quickly found the beauty in the niche characteristics of Benedictine Catholicism. From day one, I saw that the MMU core values, two of which are direct Benedictine hallmarks, were not just something displayed on the outside of the Welcome Center. Hospitality, Community, Lifelong Learning, and Awareness of God are alive on this campus and they run deep in the blood of all those that I have encountered here. Though I could speak on all ten of the hallmarks of a benedictine education, the following are the few that have touched me the most and that I know I will carry with me after I leave this place.

Love of Christ and Neighbor

“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart’. This is the greatest commandment. The second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’” (Matthew 22: 30-34).

The love of Christ is evident on this campus. Conversations regularly end with “Well, God bless you,” classes, meetings, and events begin with prayer, and, of course, we are connected to the Sacred Heart Monastery where the sisters’ faith and routines are integrated into campus. It is not uncommon to find yourself in the middle of a deep theological conversation over lunch, or sharing the graces, or ‘God Moments’ as we call them, that God has shown you that day with Sr. Rosemarie in her office.

In his rule, Benedict urges us to share love freely with all whom we encounter. (RB 4: 1-2) I can say whole-heartedly that this was apparent throughout my time here. I was surrounded by people who celebrated my successes and mourned my losses. Whether it was a peer, a professor, or a campus ministry leader, I knew that I could knock on a door with teary eyes and be welcomed in with a warm embrace.

This is an attribute that I will miss dearly, and one that I hope I can provide for others as I move on from MMU. I will strive to offer Christ’s love to all those that I encounter—whether that be at work, home, the grocery store, or to a stranger on the street.

Discipline

“Whoever heeds discipline shows the way to life, but whoever ignores correction leads others astray” (Proverbs 10:17).

It is safe to say that my time on MMU’s campus was busy. My day was usually scheduled from sunrise to sunset, and then some. And, let’s be honest, any time that wasn’t officially scheduled was taken advantage of for a nap. As a freshman this seemed daunting, but I quickly learned the value of a planner and the importance of discipline.

I thrived on being busy and participating in my passions; but these would not have been possible without the discipline that I learned here. Discipline drove me to avoid procrastinating; if I had a free hour, it would be used to complete my homework so that I could spend the rest of the night in rehearsal.

I also found the value of discipline outside of school/work. I found it just as vital to schedule time for self-care—whether that means completing homework so that you can spend the evening with friends, or as you can probably guess, taking that nap. I learned not to see these activities as a waste of time; they make life worth living. Going to walk the path by the lake with your best friend, in my opinion, is more productive than any assignment that needs to be turned in that week. This is not to say that you should be all play and no work—this is where we must find that Benedictine balance that is so often talked about here. Discipline is a practice that I will continue to value and incorporate into my life and career as I move forward.

Humility

“God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble” (James 4:6).

Living life humbly is a beautiful opportunity. When we face the fact that we are but one piece of God’s creation on this Earth set here for whatever purpose he gives, we see the world through a new lens. A perspective that proves that the individual is not the priority, but our role in his plan is. We cannot accomplish much by fighting to be the center

of attention or proving ourselves better than one another; when we see ourselves as one piece of a whole is when life truly begins.

In my time at Mount Marty, I have also come to believe that learning begins when we have the humility to admit that there is something that we don’t know. If we lower ourselves to the fact that we can never know everything, this only leaves opportunity for knowledge to be gained. A popular quote by Michael Legrand sums this up better than I can articulate; it reads as follows: “The more I live, the more I learn. The more I learn, the more I realize, the less I know.” When this mind-set is embraced, a new world can be unlocked for you; your daily life becomes full of opportunity. As I embark on new adventures outside of these walls, I wish to lead a humble life.

Community

“Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud but be willing to associate even with people of lowest position” (Romans 12:16).

I will be forever grateful for the communities that I have built here at MMU. This place fosters a sense of belonging and companionship, and in a world where it is so easy to become an outcast, this is invaluable. Thanks to opportunities I have had in organizations like MMU theater and Catholic leadership, I will always strive to welcome anyone who walks through the door and provide them a sense of belonging, no matter the situation. Whether that be something as small as eating lunch with someone who is sitting alone at work, or being the shoulder to cry on when someone is feeling alone, I hope to offer companionship to all that I encounter and provide the same sense of community that I have experienced at MMU.

As I move on from Mount Marty and leave the riverside bluffs and evening lake walks in the rearview mirror, I leave a piece of my heart here, but I know that these Benedictine attributes are ones that I will cherish. I pray that myself, and everyone I have encountered during my time here, centers their life around these hallmarks. I will forever be grateful to God that I ended up at the tiny Catholic campus that I was just checking off my to-do list.

Works Cited

Chittister, Joan D., and Benedict. The Rule of Benedict. St. Pauls, 1992.

Holy Bible. Revised Standard Version, Catholic Ed. DCE NCCCUSA. 1971.

“Top 10 Quotes by Michel Legrand: A-Z Quotes.” AZQuotes.com. Accessed 10 Mar. 2024.

RESPONSE LETTER TO MMU STUDENTS

by J. Ryan Stradal

First of all, thanks to everyone who attended my talks at MMU in April, wrote letters, and asked questions. I hope my replies are of some use! It was a pleasure to meet everyone – and special thanks to Christa Lotz for the introduction.

Rileigh asked: When you were first starting, was there ever a time when you wanted to give up?

Absolutely. Especially with the manuscript that became my first published novel, Kitchens of the Great Midwest. I first thought of the idea for that book in 2009 and didn’t start writing it until 2013. There were a lot of false starts, a lot of moments where I sat down and didn’t feel ready. Consequently, I took writing classes, and began exhaustively reading books in the genre I wanted to write (which was contemporary literary fiction). Both the writing classes and the reading helped with my confidence, but something more personal helped with the motivation. My mom, an aspiring novelist herself, passed away before she could even begin work on her novel. I felt a drive to honor her legacy, by writing work she’d have enjoyed, and also by getting to this work as soon as possible. My friend, the writer Cecil Castellucci, told me that “no one is going to have this career for you,” and while that’s perhaps broadly true across the arts, it rang true for me just when I needed to hear it. Even on days where I have a hard time motivating myself, I think of my mom and the writing of hers that the world will never see, and I get to work.

Owen asked: What are some ways for people to get over the hump of losing somebody close to you?

To put it simply, realize that you’re not alone, and reach out for community. I’ve done that both by connecting with people who’ve endured similar losses, and also by writing through my grieving process, telling my story, and communicating to my readers that they’re not alone in their grief. I’ve also taken cues from people in my life and honored my departed loved ones

by doing some small, special recognition of them on their birthday and death day—either by doing something we’d have loved to do together, or by doing something that makes me think of them and reflect on their continued presence in my life.

Emiliana asked: How did you separate yourself from your memories in order to jot them down without overthinking it and wondering if you shared too much? Or is it okay to share too much? Is it okay for my writing to make me feel more vulnerable?

Yes, absolutely! I’d argue that regardless of genre, your vulnerability is an incredible asset. Writing from your own experience is how your readers will relate to you and feel less alone and vulnerable themselves. Readers rely on writers to communicate truths about life that they can understand, so if you’re honest about yours, they will resonate, and you’ll have readers thanking you for doing so.

As a fiction writer, I take on the task of expressing myself and my vulnerabilities through characters who seem nothing like me, and I enjoy it. I can combine different people of my life into one character, or loosely base a character on a person, without anyone saying that they were misrepresented. Since the material is presumed to be fictional, novels and short stories give the writer plausible deniability. I’ve found that when writing something based on an actual situation or person, the truth is often more of an anchor than a shield, and it’s subjective, in any case. Fiction frees you up to devise a more satisfying ending, explore deeper themes, and still tell a story that’s equal to memoir or nonfiction in its impact on the reader.

Ize asked: Are you nervous publishing your works?

Yes, all the time, even three published novels into my career. It’s incredibly nerve-wracking working on a manuscript for years, putting so much of my life and experiences into it, and releasing it into the world for public consumption. I write novels because I have stories I want to share, and I’m eager for people to read them, but at the same time I feel wracked with the same influenzas of self-doubt that plague most writers. In the months before a new book comes out I usually have to start writing another one, just to distract myself from thoughts like nobody is going to understand this book or nobody is going to buy it. If you’re on to the next one already, it’s easier.

Athena asked: Why do you save writing the beginning of a novel for last?

Mostly because I’ll spend way too much time on the beginning, editing and re-editing it, otherwise – only to have to change it all later once I figure out where I’m going. If I know my destination ahead of time, plotting the course is easier, and the opening becomes procedural and far less precious. Usually, I think of an ending, and then start far away from that ending, in a place that would make this ending seem highly improbable.

Alexis asked: Do the pages that get cut during editing get utilized somewhere else?

I’ve cut hundreds of pages from my last two books between first draft and publication, and it’s pretty unusual if I ever go back to them. Sometimes I’ll be writing and think, didn’t I already say this, better, somewhere else, and recall that I have – and it’s in the outtakes folder. That said, it’s not uncommon for me to cannibalize a few sentences or paragraphs from a chapter I’ve discarded, but it’s extremely unlikely that those rejected chapters, in their condition, will ever find their way into a future published book.

Katie asked: What is your best advice for taking your next step when you are unsure of what you want?

When I’m in these situations, personally or creatively, I start saying yes to everything, to the extent that’s it’s financially feasible. I get out of the house and try something I’ve never done before. Maybe it’s what I’m looking for, maybe not, but either way I’ve expanded my consciousness and input beyond the fog of uncertainty I’m in. As an adjunct to this—for any time in my life when I have time energy but nowhere to put them—I implore anyone unsure of their purpose or direction to volunteer, preferably beyond one’s perceived comfort zone. You’ll meet good people, you’ll be helping others, and it’s likely you’ll be exposed to facets of life you won’t soon forget. And maybe, if you set aside thinking about what you’ll get out of it, you may be surprised with connections and opportunities that will lead to clarity and resolve.

I Fear

by David Phillips

I fear death and what comes after death.

I fear the unknown, needles, alcohol, and what it may do to me.

I fear abandonment, love being lost, and loving too much. I fear body bags, what’s in them, and how I know the body. I fear spiders, bugs, what’s out there, and what they want from us.

I fear depression, anxiety, and that I’ll hate myself.

I fear letting life pass me by, not finding the one, and not starting a family.

I fear burying my family.

I fear the future, the past, and the present.

I fear finishing a rhyme.

I fear that I won’t see the sunrise again or get out of this damn town. I fear sickness and war, I fear hunger and strife.

I fear failure, and God forbid history repeating itself.

I fear that all of my work will ultimately amount to nothing.

I fear that I’ll outlive the rest and be alone.

I fear death. I’m only human after all. Memento mori.

Running in Hokas

Jordyn Fischer

I was the first pair: light blue and orange, Clifton Hokas. I was placed on the display next to all my friends. I watched all the customers. I was jealous of my friends who left in a box.

I wanted a home, but no one was picking me. Suddenly, I saw her walk in, a distance runner, the definition of being an athlete. We made eye contact, we were meant to be together.

Built for endurance. Step by step, mile after mile, down the city streets, all types of weather. Cold or hot, windy or icy, rainy or muddy, we were road runners and 7th place medalist

in the 10k at Conference.

One day, I was overworked and developed an injury. We slowly recovered but then I was replaced with someone new. My running days are over but for my girl remember her name because it’s only the beginning.

I was the second pair: Bondi 8’s, white with light yellow soles. Built for easy runs on the treadmill and speed. Consisting of early mornings, no sleeping in I’m tired sore but that’s excuses. We want it then we must earn it.

I was the third pair: grey with orange wording.

Built for long recovery runs in the sunrises.

I’ve experienced happy and ugly moments collecting blood, sweat, and tears.

Through it all, we accomplished a half marathon. I remember the feeling, a dream come true, almost indescribable, unreal.

Past my mileage limit ready for retirement. The time has come to say goodbye.

I’m the fourth pair: bright orange.

Built for new and unknown competitions. Only a month remaining before our trip together. We’re confident

and determined.

Ready to work hard, run, and achieve our goals.

We’re champions in the making, that deserve the recognition.

I am the fifth pair: Clifton 9’s, light pink. Built for extra support and cushioning.

We have one week left, the countdown continues.

I’m nervous, excited, and prepared to make an appearance for the CIM.

Start to finish 26.2 miles together

We’re Jordyn’s Hoka obsession and collection.

We’ve always been proud to run the distance and become successful!

Life Blog

by Ally Whitmire

Feb 3

I am so uncomfortable in my own body. No matter what I wear I seem to be uncomfortable. Sleeping is challenging. No matter how many pillows and positions I try nothing works. My scar still throbs which brings me back to shame. I wanted nothing more than a natural birth but ended up with surgery. I look down. Who am I anymore? I can hardly recognize myself in the mirror. My body has been completely taken over by someone else and has changed in a blink of an eye. I am watching my body truly change from a “girl” to a “woman.”

Feb 24

The morning started off so good. Lynlee is the best in the morning, her happiest since she just slept all night. So, mornings are always my favorite as our little family just lays around giggling. Well, Lynlee started making her poop face which we knew she was building a big one up. She starts pushing and we can for sure hear it. Truthfully it didn’t sound like it was that big of one; she has had much louder gas that results in the blowouts. Since I thought it was just an average poop, I let her sit for maybe five minutes just making sure she got it all out. A few minutes later I picked her up to change her and saw poop all over the blanket and her back. Major blowout. I laid her down on a mat to change her and tried my best to not get poop all over. I had her clothes in a little pile that were covered in poop and the diaper laying on a trash bag. The diaper was not fully closed and considering there was poop all over I was just going to put it in a small bag. Well, before I could, Dain comes running in, jumping stomach down on the bed not realizing he had just landed in an open diaper full of poop. He had poop all over the front of his shirt. I started dying laughing. My cheeks hurt so bad. I gave Lynlee a high five and told her good job. Then Dain took his shirt off laughed, and said, “Well that just means you have more laundry to do…”

Feb 28

Lynlee was on one today. Nothing I could do would get her to stop fussing. She never cries super hard to where we can’t get her to stop but she just moans and is, like, fussy. She seems almost uninterested in anything and is bored. We literally tried everything; Dain got his harmonica out, I tried dancing, Dain tried his duck calls, nothing was working; she wanted no

toy, no passy. Then finally we were accidentally messing with the lights, and the disco light turned on. She instantly stopped and was mesmerized. She laid on the ground, looking up at the lights for a good 30 minutes, completely and utterly focused on them and nothing else. New best hack. Turn on the disco lights.

March 1

Last night I woke up every hour because Lynlee did. Could not tell you what she wanted. Her eyes were just wide awake. I sat with her thinking of everything I ate and drank that day. Since I breastfeed anytime she is fussy or off routine I must think back to what I ate because that is in her milk that day. I came to the conclusion that maybe we were wide awake because of my energy drink I chugged at 4p.m. that night. Now who knows how much caffeine really gets into your milk, but I like to say that this was the source of her actions. Anyways as I laid up with her all night, I look over at Dain who is passed out. I simply do not understand how he can sleep so hard and doesn’t wake up to her cries. I get so mad at him that he sleeps all through the night but in reality, I am the one who can feed her and I really just feel like even if he went to get her and stuff I wouldn’t want to miss out so I would end up getting up anyway. I don’t know; motherhood is weird.

March 10

Today was a great day. Lynlee is literally the funniest thing ever somedays. I actually birthed a little monkey. She is a monkey in the best ways. I think monkeys are adorable, so it is a compliment to her. Dain brought home a stuffed animal monkey just because we started calling her monkey. Now I gave him shit, like, she won’t even look in the direction of it because she could care less about any other stuffed animal we have shown her. Well, I was wrong. This damn monkey is what got her to laugh for the first time. I do not understand why she thinks it’s so funny, but I guess babies always have their little obsessions with certain things and hers is this.

March 15

Today is the first day I actually thought I couldn’t do this anymore. I had Lynlee towards the end of fall semester so her newborn phase was easier as I had winter break for school so I could just focus on her. Then school rolled back around for spring semester and it was a breeze at first. It was actually really exciting, and I loved it. I was finally feeling like myself and going into social environments was something I needed more than I thought I did. Lynlee was pretty calm and chill as a newborn, so everything was a breeze. Not to mention at the beginning of semester you never have many assignments. Now everything has changed. Lynlee is four months old and requires a lot of attention. She does not stay entertained easily and constantly wants someone talking to her or a new toy. It is impossible to get work done. Me and Dain have to take turns trying to get school stuff done because if we both try Lynlee somehow knows and is wanting extra attention. Literally something always comes up causing one of us to stop

whatever work we were trying to get done. It takes so much for me to get stressed out and I am slowly drowning and becoming overwhelmed. I cut myself some slack realizing not many 21-year-olds are working, going to college, playing a sport, have a baby, and planning a wedding at the same time. All I can do is take deep breaths, live in the moment, and hope tomorrow goes smoother.

March 17

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! Couple of big things happened today. For starters we were going out tonight for one of the first nights and leaving Lynlee with a babysitter. Before we went downtown Dain’s mom had her red ribbon cutting for her new real estate company opening; so we went to Fordyce for her grand opening party. Now the worst part of having a new baby and going in public is how much the baby gets passed around and everyone telling you their parenting tips. I do not want to take tips from a random “Karen,” thanks though. As we were getting ready to take a family picture a lady asked if I was that cute baby boy’s mom. I hate correcting people that she is a girl so most the time I just let it go as it is not a big deal. I replied to the lady, “Yes I am.” She asked me what his name was, and I said oh, it’s Lynlee she is a girl. She got snappy with me asking why I didn’t correct her sooner and then told me to start putting her in pink clothes and bows to clarify she is a girl. Now it is not what she said to me but the tone she used was so snotty. I replied, “Ya probably, but I like the neutrals a lot. I think it’s cute, and it works for both genders.” I just hate everyone’s input on what you put your baby in or how you do things. Again, it is the tone that comes with these older generation parents. Then it got worse. This older lady sat down next to me while eating some food. She was asking how old I was and how old Lynlee was, trying to get the story of us. When she found out I wasn’t married the look on her face made me want to slap her. I saw the judgement in her eyes, and she told me, “It is sad when this happens. Well, it is a good thing God forgives sins and you are engaged to the father, right?” I literally wanted to rip her head off. I don’t know what it is about these small-town older ladies, but they are so old school. Don’t get me wrong; old school is fine but there is a fine line between rude and being old fashioned. What bugs me most about small towns is how nosey and in your business people are. Mind your own business is what I need to start saying, but I never have the balls. March 30

Maybe I am judgmental, but one of my biggest icks of mothers is when they don’t even try breastfeeding. I understand it is not for everyone but how do you not even try it? Yes, it is a chore; it is hard but so worth it. You get a bond with your baby that is unlike any other in the world. You truly become their source of food and they are dependent on you. To me nursing is how they know you are their mother and their closest bond to someone. Don’t get me wrong—fathers are great, but the bond of a mother and baby is just different. My favorite moments when she was born were learning how to feed her. Just having something that only I can do for my

baby makes me feel so much more special. One thing that triggers me is when people tell me she is too tiny and that I must not be feeding her enough. They tell me maybe it is time to switch to formula and up her ounces. Excuse me no; I know when my baby is hungry, she will let me know, trust me. My body was made to feed this baby so no I do not need other supplements for her when what I am providing is the best she can get. When adults who aren’t even mothers yet tell me when and how often I should be feeding her, man…

April 1

Today was April fools’ day. It is funny last year I remember thinking there was a slim chance I could be pregnant but laughed it off thinking, “well do not take it today. It is April Fool’s Day.” Well joke was on me because three days later I was. I remember the night we told Dain’s parents. It was maybe April 5th, and surprisingly we told them right away. It just seemed we needed to share it with someone, and they were there. But when we told them his mom looked at us and said, “This isn’t some late April fool’s joke is it?” I was laughing, “I wish.” Wow has this year flown by. This year we did play a joke. We set Lynlee on the couch and placed a little frame by her. Inside the frame I photoshopped an ultrasound photo and typed “Big sister” on it. We sent it to his family, they did not fall for it even for a second. But hey it was worth a try.

April 4

I woke up this morning and went on snapchat. There it was. Memories from one year ago today, all my positive pregnancy tests and pictures of me crying. I can still remember the day, all my emotions, my tears, the nerves. My palms were sweating, and butterflies swarmed my stomach as I sat there waiting those two minutes for the test to load. It is like that feeling you get before a big game or as you walk into a classroom to take a big test, just antsy and nervous. Two minutes went by, and it was time to flip it over. I did not really hesitate much, thinking it would obviously be negative and I was just being overly dramatic waiting for my period to come. Finally, I picked it up ready to see the one blue line for negative. I was utterly speechless when this test actually had the two blue cross lines. Tears instantly filled my eyes, though I couldn’t tell if they were happy or sad. I truly did not know what to feel. My whole life I had seen myself with lots of kids and at a young age. But at this age no, this was too soon. I could already feel the disappointment from my family, coaches, the judgment from peers and teachers. At the same time, I would be having a baby, my own little baby; my heart was exploding with joy and love. The most complex feelings I have ever experienced were in this moment. It will always be a day I will remember.

3 Questions for Nebraska Poet Laureate

by Matt Mason

1. What is Poetry?

I love Bill Kloefkorn’s definition that “Poetry is an attitude looking for something solid to sit on.” That is, poetry is something we feel in our body, that we find the right details and examples to put into words so that someone else can both understand it intellectually and also feel in their body. Ideally, a poem doesn’t just tell someone else that the poet “feels sad”; a poem nudges a reader or listener to feel the poet’s particular form of sadness, be that weepy or mopey or tinged with anger. I want a poem to transmit actual feeling, and anyone who’s tried to write a note expressing their love for someone knows how hard this can be to get the words precisely right, to get across that exact, individual feeling rather than some vague mush.

2. What makes a poem a good poem? Is it dependent on structure, rhythm and grammar, or is it how an audience perceives it?

Okay, this has a many-faceted answer. I guess the best kind of poem (as a writer) is one that I feel electric about as I’m writing—that ideas are hitting right, that I’m surprising myself with ideas or insights—and that, when I look at it a week later continues to ring like a bell to me; it captures the feeling and voice I first felt and takes me back to it like a time capsule, and THEN gets picked up by an editor at a literary magazine AND gets a loud response at a reading. That’s the home run of poems, I guess.

But all I want is a single, a poem with that first bit where ideas are hitting right and I’m surprising myself some as I write it and look at it. All the rest is a bonus as what I’m writing for is usually personal, to figure something out or to just find the right words for a feeling I have inside me.

And a good poem (as a reader) is one that makes me feel something that the author wants me to feel, where they found the right words and the right structure to physically take me into someone else’s experience. I think that’s maybe the best thing about poetry, when it helps me understand things about other people and about the world, when it opens

my eyes. And, yes, structure, rhythm and grammar are all part of this, but I judge it less intellectually and more emotionally (I mean, not ALL emotionally, let’s call it a 40/60 split!).

3. My question to you is, how do you just let go? I’m not a creative writer by all means, but I’d like to think I am a creative thinker. When I write, I attempt to do so with structure and overthinking thoughts.

For me, letting go takes practice. I’ve found that if I start with an idea and just run with it, exhaust my thoughts on it by writing everything down and following the trail it digs (instead of trying to force it in a set direction), I get the results which surprise me the most and seem the most true. So, for me, it helps to start with one small thing, maybe two, not a grander idea yet.

And this first draft? It’ll be flawed. THAT is when I let myself overthink and tinker. I’m not a great creative writer; those first drafts tend to be just okay. But I AM a great creative editor. I let myself play with what I first put down and work to change and improve it.

Something in the Air by Matt Mason

The sky is gravel roading the tires or the wings, you are not an on-edge flyer but, today, each pothole-ish bump, each swivel, and you have to concentrate on how bored the stewardess looks to tell yourself to calm, tune in to the drone of businessman conversation unhiccupped by the lurch, the sway, but your face still twitches, hands grip into armrest, notebook, your daughter turned nine yesterday, wife forty the day before, all beauty and joy on the earth several horizons behind you and, Jesus, you’ve lived long enough and all, but, Jehovah, what is it in the air or the machinery that does that, and, Buddha, what the Hell was that; and you don’t understand the science of a building with wings heaved through the atmosphere, the logic is lost on what you comprehend of gravitational force who could never make a paper airplane stay up more than three rollercoaster seconds of twist and twist and smack.

And the woman seated next to you, you haven’t spoken, but you’re pretty sure she’s been stealing looks

at this poem and is a little freaked out. There is no physics here, you realize, this is only faith, baby, you’re asked to accept this Superman of sausage casing as a thing that is plausible under the laws of nature, told to accept whatever miracle, not because it makes a wisp of sense but because it just keeps happening, so, hey, accept this water to wine, this Lazarus who, sure, he got up, the lepers, fine, no prob, this thing will make it to Phoenix, these waves in your stomach are not about the end, the plummet, the supernova of every brain cell, skin cell, bone, blood, squizzled pop of spine making up this you, so let it be written, so let it be done, amen.

We Miss The Cathedrals

by Matt Mason

of our better days, we who sit in Honda Civics, in apartment houses, in coffee shops or office jobs, our earth grey, our water filtered, our air conditioned.

Remember Yosemite?

Yellowstone, Glacier, Joshua Tree, Wind Cave, Blue Ridge, Smoky Mountain, Zion, Bryce, Grand Canyon, Carlsbad, Niobrara?

You who have climbed to the top of the falls, stood startled at the sight of droppings on the hiking path which were clearly a cougar’s, you who have rolled down dunes of white sand, who have looked over the edge into the earth itself, been reminded by the very trees of your smallness, of your majesty:

you haven’t been in years.

You seat yourself in a small chapel where they sing sadly and bow to small crosses hung on brown walls. You almost forget what it’s like to share a bagel with Christ on mountain ridges, say goodnight to God’s face and then zip your tent shut, the sounds of Creation outside: cicada, bullfrog, the million string-bowing insects, the gruff crunches and shambles you stay still for, eyes trying to somehow see past canvas and lack of light, these

hymns of your universe, the call of God’s small voice. You have not been to church for so long. That is why, these last three mornings, you’ve woken in your house, looked out your window and seen deer standing on your lawn. They have come for you, to call you back. Listen to them before God sends bears.

Letter to MMU

by Kent Meyers

Hello Mount Marty Students,

Thank you for your letters. I appreciated the thoughtful attention you paid to the things I said. I can’t respond to all your comments, but I hope that by answering a few of your questions I can clarify the ideas I developed. One question in particular interested me for the way it went right to the center of creative effort. I’ll summarize it like this: Is it really possible for creativity to take place only in the work itself? How could Michelangelo not have any vision of his finished sculpture before he started sculpting? Korczak Ziolkowski, after all, had an idea of what the Crazy Horse Memorial would look like before he began blasting Crazy Horse Mountain.

It’s a really insightful question. I didn’t intend to give the impression that all of creativity takes place within the physical work of creating. In many famous artists’ studios we have found sketchbooks filled with drawings that are precursors to finished work, and the novel I just finished began before I started writing with an idea about a man catching a fish-child. Imagination and forethought are certainly important aspects of creativity, but if we think of them as all of creativity we inhibit ourselves.

Another student mentioned that she has never thought of herself as creative because she has never conceptualized—like the Michelangelo of our myths does—a full and finished creative product. That is exactly how the myth traps us. When we limit creativity to conceptualization (or imagination) only, it’s easy to convince ourselves we’re not creative. As a result, we won’t even begin the work. This means that, if you’re like me, with creative impulses that function more powerfully through the physical act of working than they do through the mental act of imagination, you will shut yourself away from your most powerful creative abilities. You may never even know you have them. I wanted you to see that many people, myself included, begin not with some perfected “angel in the marble” but with sometimes dumb and unworkable ideas—such as the ludicrous notion of a farmer catching a human child when he goes fishing. I hope I demonstrated that my act of working on this idea—making it material, beginning to write it—allowed the connections and insights that turned it into something much greater and which I hadn’t foreseen.

If you understand that creativity doesn’t begin and end with imagination but is a constant and ongoing force throughout the work, you’ll be far more likely to engage with that work even when you’re uncertain of its value. This responds to another student’s question: How do you know if something is worth working on? I don’t—except by working on it. But one of the great values of creative work is the work itself. We live in a culture that is focused on product, on having and owning. Creative work allows us to flip that and understand that we can also value process and doing. Choosing how to use our time is one of the great powers we have as human beings. Even if I work for five years—as I’ve done—on a novel that “fails” as a product and never gets published, the time I spent writing it—which was time full of discovery and insight and learning and improving as a writer—was still better and more richly used than it would have been if I had, say, spent all those hours watching TikTok videos.

Creativity ranges through all elements of our lives. We can cook creatively, play games creatively, build relationships co-creatively, do our jobs creatively, start businesses creatively, volunteer creatively. In any of these endeavors, if we think we’re uncreative, we won’t begin. And if we think we have to know the end result of our work beforehand, we also won’t begin. If instead we see ourselves as discovering and learning and creating as we go and see the work of these activities itself as worthwhile, we wrest control of our lives away from people who would use them, and we give ourselves the opportunity to make them richer and better, both to ourselves and others.

Kent Meyers, 2023

Letter to MMU Students

by John Price

Dear Friends,

It was a pleasure and privilege to visit with you at Mount Marty in September. Thank you (and Jim Reese) for inviting me.

Your letters included so many astute comments and questions about creative nonfiction writing, and I’ll do my best to respond to them. I’ll start with Rory’s question about what first drew me to the genre. As we discussed, I didn’t particularly enjoy writing or writing classes during high school. It was hard for me to sit still and concentrate on anything very long, which the writing process requires. What I did enjoy, however, was good storytelling—whether while reading my beloved Marvel comic books or listening to grandparents talk about their experiences. These stories instilled in me (though I didn’t fully appreciate it then) the belief that every life is an adventure, filled with meaning and surprises and possibility. And that, through the telling, can connect with and even change others.

During most of my undergraduate years, I was studying the sciences. It wasn’t until I took a humanities course called “Quest for Human Destiny” that I began to understand the true power of the written word. One book in particular, Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz (1958), revealed how autobiographical writing can be an essential form of witness, one intended to make a positive difference in the world. As in a lifesaving—civilization saving—difference. Levi’s book also demonstrated how the world’s atrocities made the daily, seemingly ordinary experiences even more important, especially the many small ways we recognize one another’s humanity—something the Nazis tried to exterminate inside Levi and many others.

This course inspired me to take more humanities courses, including a few creative writing courses, but as Rory also mentioned, I still didn’t really consider nonfiction to be “creative.” So, my first ventures were in fiction, thinking that was the primary realm of the imagination and the only pathway to future literary glory (movie deal). But to be honest, my fiction wasn’t very good and even more importantly, I didn’t find writing it very satisfying. It wasn’t saying what I wanted it to say in the way I wanted to say it. I kind of abandoned any notions of becoming a writer and returned to my dream of becoming a doctor.

Then I took a creative nonfiction writing class, though the term didn’t really exist back then. It was called Advanced Writing and for the first time, I was invited to write artfully about my own experiences. This was terrifying, because as a kid from small-town Iowa, I didn’t think I’d had any experiences worth writing about. I had forgotten the lessons Primo Levi’s book had taught me about the vital meaning of daily existence. Desperate for a topic, I decided to write about my job working as a nursing assistant at the university children’s hospital, a job I had taken to bolster my resume for medical schools. I wrote about working the night shift and about one particular patient, a boy who would likely not live out the year. Writing about that evening conjured up a lot of intense emotions, memories, and questions—including those related to my infant brother’s death when I was seven. That surprised me, as did the sense of catharsis as I finally put into words what I had felt in secret about that loss and about the patients I cared for. In short, writing that essay convinced me that medicine was not the only healing art. Writing could do that work as well, for the author and the reader.

I won’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say I eventually committed to studying and writing creative nonfiction in graduate school at the University of Iowa. At the time, the term creative nonfiction was fairly new and controversial. A lot of that centered on the role of truth and facts—something David asked about in his letter. That is still an important issue. In fact, I’d say it is one of the defining features of the genre. As we discussed during my visit (thank you Kendra for mentioning it in your letter), I define creative nonfiction as fact-based literature that uses creative writing techniques. In terms of technique, it is not that different from fiction and poetry. What is different are these ethical issues. What you write in a work of creative nonfiction can have a direct impact on you and others—real people, not characters. That’s part of its power and its peril. When publishing, it is important to consider the treatment of known facts—how much do you leave out or leave in, which facts do you foreground or background, etc. Your decisions can also support or undermine the authenticity of your story.

That said, creative nonfiction is not historical scholarship or journalism. It is about the subjective mind at work, exploring and interpreting lived experience and memory. In that context, “truth” can include imagination and conjecture and dream and desire because those, too, are particular to who we are as individuals. For me, it is all about how those subjective truths are treated in the work. One way to do so is to preface a statement or section with “the way I remember it is…” or “perhaps this happened” or “the way I wish it had happened was…”. Or by simply designating your work as “memoir,” a genre in which what is remembered or not remembered or misremembered can be just as revealing as the facts—especially when those facts are beyond recovery. See for instance Maxine Hong Kingston’s essay, “No Name Woman” (lots of “perhapsing” there). In the end, no one can tell you what the rules are for the treatment of fact in your creative nonfiction. It is an ethical

decision like any other, with its own real-life consequences.

I do worry, however, that not having access to all the truth can dissuade us from telling any of the truth. That silence can be even more damaging. Especially when the literature is personal witness intended to address historic wrongs. What gives Primo Levi’s writing about the Holocaust so much power is that he actually lived it. Same with Frederick Douglass’s account of slavery or my friend Sue William Silverman’s writing about being sexually abused by her father when she was a child. Those who wish to suppress such stories will often search for small inaccuracies (“That couldn’t have happened on a Tuesday!”) in order to dismiss the larger, disarming truth of their witness. Or they’ll say, “Why not just write it as fiction?” Why? Because the author doesn’t want it read as fiction. They want it understood as their lived experience. Hard truths spoken by fictional characters are easier to ignore. The same is true for personal articulations of joy and love and pleasure—they can be just as essential in confronting hate and oppression.

But the motivations for writing creative nonfiction are as varied as the genre itself. It can simply be the desire to follow your curiosity about a subject or to explore the mystery of certain experiences and feelings or to retain an account of your life for future generations. With each stage of life—each day, really—there are new things to experience and explore and learn and think about. Some of them are positive, some not, but they are always meaningful. Jordyn asked about how I stay motivated to write, and pursuing that meaning is, in part, the answer. But it also has a lot to do with what Ally and others mentioned in their letters to me: the desire to connect with others. To alleviate loneliness, the readers’ and mine. To be helpful. To, as one of you beautifully put it, “strike a chord in the soul.” Sometimes, those connections are beyond our knowledge, until you receive a letter or email telling you how much someone related to your story—or not. Either way, it’s a new connection, one that would not have existed in the world without having written down a few words about your “ordinary” life.

Then there is the power of writing, of all art really, to create community. It could be that your work becomes part of a larger public discussion. Or it is chosen for an “all city read” or for a book group or even a therapy group where it might do that healing work mentioned earlier. Or discussed around a family dinner table. Or maybe it’s assigned in a classroom, becoming the occasion for those students and teachers to discuss a range of related issues and experiences. That’s why visiting your class was so meaningful to me. It was an incredible privilege to be able to share some of my writing with you, but also to hear about your own, and to discuss why writing and art matter—to us and to society. For an hour or so, we were part of a new community, one defined not by physical boundaries, but by a shared appreciation for the written word. Given what’s going on in the world right now (and always) that’s a kind of miracle and one that gives me a lot of hope.

Thank you again for giving me the opportunity to share some of my thoughts about creative nonfiction writing—I hope they are helpful. May you all have a wonderful end of semester and please, please, please keep writing!

With affection, John T. Price, 2023

P.S. Carl, you asked a great question about voice, and I’m afraid there is not enough room to address it adequately. It is one of the most important and difficult aspects of writing creative nonfiction, because so much depends on creating that personal presence on the page (or persona). I will only say that every writer has a multitude of voices to choose from when crafting a piece, and one of the positive results of workshopping and receiving feedback is discovering a particular “range” of voices that is distinctly your own. You often don’t know what that is until after many attempts, but it does reveal itself. There are also a couple of new books on the subject out there. I would recommend Sonya Huber’s book on voice. Hope that helps!

Haikus

by Terry Lafferty

Each haiku below is based on some portion of The Rule of St. Benedict (RB). The RB is used to teach us how to be good humans in a world with other humans. There are 73 chapters in the RB and there are some real gems to reflect upon. Here are some I composed based on specific verses in the RB. Enjoy some words of encouragement. Dr. T

Listen to children. God can reveal a good way through the younger ones.

RB 3:3

Never turn away when somebody needs your love, he may be Jesus.

RB 4:26

There must be moderation. More is not better.

RB 11:2

St. Ben says monks should be free each morning to read... sign me up for that!

RB 48:14

Eat Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner®

by Terry Lafferty

Let me tell you a true story. When I was about one and a half years old, my mother took Francis and Patty, my older brother and sister, and me to the Philadelphia Zoo. Philadelphia’s zoo has an area set aside for a children’s petting zoo. You might think: how lovely. But, no! While we were there, we found ourselves up close and personal with some farm animals, which were a new experience for those of us who lived in the inner city and who would not ordinarily have met such beasts. We had a dog and a cat at home. We had an aunt who raised ducks. We had seen sheep and pigs and were happy learning about them. We were familiar with pigeons and squirrels. But cows? This was the first one we had met.

I may not clearly recall this event, but a picture tells a thousand words. I was minding my own business and this giant monstrosity of a bovine approached me, obviously intent upon a nice human snack. I was traumatized for life. A cow tried to eat me. Look at Francis and Patty staring aghast at her. Look at the face of that baby (me)! Do I look happy? I suppose that my mother thought this was the sweetest thing and so she snapped a photo of the event to memorialize it forever. I, however, use it as my first evidence against the docility of the bovine class as vegans, but, rather, that they are actually carnivorous baby-human-eating monsters. The experience has remained with me. Ever since that day I steer clear of fields of cows. I watch from a super safe distance. I see them licking their lips and watching me from afar. I am so scarred psychologically that I have vowed to get even.

So now, every time I get an opportunity, I eat cow. It’s my small way of ensuring the safety of baby humans the world over, by eating beef every chance that I get.

Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner® is a registered trademark of the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association.

My Regrets to Miss California

by David Phillips

God I miss you Miss California. Why won’t you come back?

You were the sun to my moon, The light in my life, The wind in my sail, and now you left me all alone, trapped in my walls yet again. Damn you, Miss California. Damn you for making me fall for you. Damn you for allowing our love to take over our lives. Damn you for everything you’ve done and the fact that I’m not one of them.

I swore I’d never fall in love, but then you showed up and I became an addict. Are you proud of yourself, Miss California? We had something special and you threw it away, but I can’t for the life of me stop loving you. You were there when I needed you most.

I love you, Miss California.

I love the way your black hair flowed down your back. I love the way you looked when you smiled. I loved your attitude.

You were the one in that mind-numbing school that made me feel wanted, made me feel needed. You tore down my walls like they were cardboard

and you did it with a smile on your damn face.

I hate that I still love you after all this time. I wish we could’ve done more.

I wish we could’ve stayed together. I wish you didn’t move to freaking California. I wish I didn’t tag you out at third. I wish you were here. Even if you wouldn’t stay in this crappy town, I want you here with me.

I love you, I hate it.

Damn you for making me feel this way.

Through My Eyes

by Almu Pérez López

The Dining Table

by Alexis Gosch

When I was younger, not able to understand bits and pieces of the world, my family hauled home a simple dining room table. I watched, over the course of years, how it brought my family closer together. When you imagine a dining table, you think of it as a place to put food and a place to eat and relax. Food is the main thing a table should hold, an easy thing to carry. To me, it held much more than just food. It held many memories of my life that I will never forget.

My favorite food that the table held was my grandmother’s homemade casserole she brought over for Thanksgiving. By the time anyone in my family tried to reach the casserole before me, I piled it all on my plate before they could. An infamous meal, something I adored so greatly was spaghetti. A quick meal prepared by my dad, accompanied by delicious frozen garlic bread.

Most nights, I witnessed my dad and sister battling it out over her complicated math homework. It was something she always found herself struggling with. Some nights, I walked in to see tears streaming down my sister’s face while my dad was frustrated that she could not solve simple multiplication.

The table that stayed with me for most of my life provided me with the memories that will not be forgotten. Some moments included my family laughing at a joke my sister said or my dad complimenting the meatloaf my mom made. Having dinner most nights at the table brought my family closer than ever before. Looking back at all the memories the simple table brought made me wonder how a stationary object could serve such an important factor in my life.

“Age

1-Age 20”

by Carl Massa

Age: 1

The quilt that my grandmother made for me when I was born. Every family member gets one for significant events: for marriage, graduation, and birth everyone gets a quilt.

Age: 3

Age: 2

This was one of my favorite stuffed animals from when I was really little, named Dixie. I’d like to pass it on to my children someday.

This is a blanket that I kept with me wherever I went when I was young. I left it at a hotel in Watertown once and my mom had to get them to mail it back to us because, “I wouldn’t sleep without it.”

Age: 4

Heavily used now, these wooden toys were bought by my parents when we went to visit my cousin in Seattle.

Age: 6

Age: 5

Legos that my brother and I spent dozens of hours playing with when we were younger. Soap operas couldn’t hold a candle to our drama-filled Lego adventures.

Thanksgiving decorations I made that my mom kept from when I was in first grade with the wonderful Beth Merkel as my teacher.

Age: 7

My grandmother’s piano, which sits in my house, is where I learned to play and fell in love with music.

Age: 8

Nerf guns that lead to massive nerf wars against my brother. Once my mother got caught in the crossfire and took a dart to the face; wars stopped for a while after that.

Age: 10

Age: 9

These Harry Potter books I started reading in fourth grade are probably the main reason I enjoy reading, and they have helped me become the writer I am.

Red Ryder BB guns shooting pop and beer cans were a staple at the Massa family house for many years. It’s where I learned to use a gun and became a great marksman.

Age 11:

A football card of a kid who would grow to care about the game more than anything else in his life, except for his faith and his family.

Age: 12

A fantastic rifle bull elk, that was given the nickname “Tank” for his large stature, that told of a blossoming love for hunting, and foretold of a great feat that lay in the near future.

Age: 14

My high school letterman, which was worn constantly, was decorated with my letters for band and choir that I earned freshman year.

Age: 13

This is the drumset where I spent many hours dedicating myself to the craft of musicianship and discovered that my parents’ generation had some of the best music ever created.

Age: 15

The Vikings jersey that I was wearing when I watched Case Keenum take the snap with the odds stacked against him, only to see the Minneapolis Miracle happen right before my eyes.

Age: 16

By taking down the largest recorded archery bull elk in the Black Hills I gained a small amount of fame and notoriety in the archery hunting community, and a solidified fixation with archery hunting.

Age: 18

My last time winning a game of football that I played in. I was awarded the team MVP along with my fellow middle linebacker. I will never forget all the work I put into that game and this picture collage is a testament to my hard work.

Age: 17

Imagine losing your brother to college and getting a puppy at the same time. I grew up taking care of Scout and I have spent thousands of hours with her by my side.

Age: 19

A ring of rare Fairburn agates I’ve found, with my family and on my own, near Oelrichs, SD over the course of last year.

Age: 20

My 2019 Subaru outback is a trusty companion in all of the adventures that I take; whether accidental or planned it has my back no matter where I am.

Railroad Sunset by Carl Massa

Railroad Sunset by Edward Hopper is a painting that I have seen many times, yet only last week I learned who Hopper was. The way that I’ve seen Railroad Sunset, it’s never been exactly the same. The position of the clouds, the chemicals in the atmosphere, and the position of the Earth all contribute to that.

I live on a farm a handful of miles North of Edgemont, South Dakota. Every evening the sun sets just over the train tracks at the end of my driveway. My view is comparatively less green than the scene Hopper paints us. Yet it still consists of rolling short grass hills that become spotted with some sort of tree. For my sunset, Ponderosa Pines dot the hills to the north, and groupings of sagebrush tower above the mixed-grass wasteland. The grass is dead; that’s where my lack of green comes from. There aren’t quite rolling hills at my home; it’s more a situation of bluffs and a slow rise into the heart of the Black Hills.

The railroad at the end of my driveway is most often filled with long forgotten train cars. For the last several years it has been full of automobile transportation cars. Before that it had coal cars from the mines near Gillette, Wyoming. Currently it is occupied by nothing, which is probably more inconvenient than helpful. With the train cars there it gave us a nice shield from the highway, and if anyone needed directions to the house you could just tell them to turn at the first gap in the train cars. Although now that they are gone I can see the plains and the bluffs in the distance. It also allows me to see the sunset. The colors of red, blue, and purple glaze the evening sky like something out of an Edward Hopper painting.

But seriously, I can never get enough of the way that the sky looks in the evening. It always draws me in and makes me think about the day that went by. The heliocentric contemplation adds depth to the constant thoughts that run through my head. Usually I think about how I wasted the day away doing things that lack any sort of meaning, or how I wish I could look at the sunset with someone who cares about me or someone I love. In the end my thoughts come and go, and I am called back to the same ol’ place: grateful that I am here on this earth and able to look up at the heavens or, at least, a painting of them.

Little Fish

by Ava Wolfe

I can’t remember the first time I stepped foot into cold water, but my parents constantly remind me of my nickname as a young girl, little fish. Most girls grow up being called princess or darling. Little fish is interesting but true. It's almost as if I have lake water in my veins and gills in replacement of my respiratory system. People often feel at home while surrounded by family or their favorite stuffed animal. Home to me is basking in glacier-fed lakes. Sun rays kissing my face on a scorching summer day, combined with hours in the water. I will never pass up the opportunity to feel a chilled rush and have it flood through my body as I'm enclosed by frigid liquid. To this day, the second I step foot in a lake every worry or stress on my conscience is washed away. My mind is peaceful. I never feel more relaxed. Nothing could take away from the serenity I achieve after I have found true joy in my happy place.

If I had the time, I would spend every spare second in the water swimming for hours on end rather than wasting time on land doing bootless errands. Though the lake is where I feel the happiest, I can’t plan my life around going daily. Plus, the water in South Dakota is inadequate and unsatisfactory compared to at home in Alberta’s Rockies. I have to find some other way of achieving reverence and the absence of noise in my mind, like if New York City suddenly muted, standing still. As a college student athlete that is easier said than done. Alternatively, I listen to water instead. Its movement and sound remind me of home and takes me back to times where I could let my mind go blank and forget about the drama that comes with being a juvenile teenage girl.

The rain is my way of escaping. The pattern and beat of every drop is freeing. Rain has no limitations, it is in charge of its own course, I envy rain. Rain has no stress, no sports, no school, no abrupt dramatic deadends. Rain takes things as it goes and seems to let go of what it's holding in without any hesitation. Rain trickles and drips, running and cleansing the world of imperfections. It has that same effect on my perception; when I take time to listen, I think less. Focusing on each dewy drop, my mind is peaceful. I never feel more relaxed. Each drop falls and glides, the moisture helps things grow and develop. Creating beautiful, delicate, and

dense forests full of a variety of living cells and bustling organisms. Oh how I love rain, and its examples. Rain never holds back, there is no room for timidness from fear of judgment. It freely falls and there is no avoiding its dank touch unless under some kind of shelter. But still present is its sound. Tapping… sprinkling… drip drops… pitter patter. Still present is the aroma. Tree sap… freshly cut grass… mulch, all combined to leave a sweet taste of nature's essence and earthliness.

Similar to rain, my life is engulfed with so much turmoil that I feel like I can’t climb my way back and recover or evaporate to higher ground. I don’t always get a quick reset like the aftermath of a thunderstorm, where the feelings suddenly come to a screeching halt and the world moves on as is. In the end, I can’t focus on the many things that rain has, that I will never have, or else I could slump down and transform into a self no one wants to see. Rain has a dark side too; flooding and destruction comes from too much. Too much of anything is bad, and it's not the rain's fault. Rain is just simply doing what rain does best. Rain must drop. After all, rain is free. Sometimes the little fish needs to “just keep swimming” through and against the current of life, its setbacks and its waves, to achieve a peaceful mind and be relaxed once again. Realize that rain has no limitations, rain has no stress, and rain never holds back. The temporary trickle ends with a symbol of God's gift, rainbows.

An Aviary of My Own

by Conner Hochstein

For someone who isn’t an ornithologist I have a lot of birds. I don’t think Audubon would be jealous of my collection, but it’s still something I hold in my heart. The old hen in the coop that doesn’t lay eggs, the owlery with the great horned watching over the hatchling barn owl that is too young to fly, and the yard with the boastful peacock preening with the lovely mountain quail. Even with my fondness for these, my collection has never felt complete. No bird in this confined space has played my heartstrings the way I need. None have really filled the emptiness I feel in my soul past comfort and entertainment.

A number of years ago I tried filling this empty space in my aviary with futile effort. At first I picked out a gorgeous scarlet macaw to live in my own abode. Unfortunately, the repeated phrases and destruction to my space forced me to bring her back to the breeder. Then I tried with the trumpeter swan I found in a nearby pond. She was perfect until her true self was uncaged. I couldn’t hold onto a bird that plucked the feathers of the others as well as the hair on my own head, so I left her back at the pond as she was before. Finally, I filled this space again with a raven that passed by my window every other day. She wasn’t the most affectionate of birds, but I enjoyed her company anyway since she was clever and kind. One day she just flew away, and even though she comes back to visit she doesn’t stay for as long as I’d ever like.

Maybe there isn’t supposed to be a bird put in captivity to fill my own desire. Would the others agree? Do I wish they wouldn’t? Would I release my birds even if they asked me to with their screeches? Or would I lock them in their prisons to be ogled at by my own eyes.

No, no.

I don’t think of them as prisoners so I wouldn’t think they do either. How would the hen scratch her grains or the peacock shelter himself from the snow? Who would feed the great horn and let the quail rest on their lap after a day of happy hunting?

Perhaps the hole is from my own loneliness and no bird can fix it. Having only birds to keep one company isn’t anyone’s first choice I suppose. These questions, I can’t really answer I guess. In time maybe. Until then I will keep searching for that partner I crave so much. So that the cavern in my soul can be filled.

First is the Worst

by Grace Holys

June 7th, 2018 was arguably the hardest day of my life. It was one of the hottest days of the year, the sun shining so brightly it would melt a popsicle in two seconds flat. To any other kid in the small town of Falls City, Nebraska, it was just another, albeit hot, day. For me, however, it was monumental. It was the day I left my hometown forever, and one of the hardest parts of moving is the very first day.

The first thing I remember was my mother trying to distract me, sending my best friend and I to the pool as a way to get us out of the house. We went for most of the morning and the early part of the afternoon, getting sunburnt faces and wrinkled hands in the process. This only made it harder later, when I came home smelling of chlorine and sunscreen to find my entire life gone, packed in boxes and thrown into a van. The living room, once full of colorful photos and comfy couches, was now barren and hollow. I stood in the empty shell of the house I had called home for five years, my hair still dripping pool water down the sides of my head, and suddenly my hair was not the only thing dampening my cheeks. Up until that point, moving did not seem real to me. To be honest, I can’t even remember packing up the boxes before we moved, though I know we must have been getting ready for weeks. It seemed like a big joke, like I would walk in the front door and everything would be back to normal. My parents would say “ha-ha, we got you!” and we would laugh and move on. There was no way my parents would decide to move our family three hours across the state of Nebraska just as I was about to start my freshman year of high school. It just did not seem real… until I entered my front door. It hit me like a truck, seeing my home empty of everything I had ever known. Tears poured down my cheeks, mixing with pool water and dripping off my chin. Of course, the hard part had not even begun; I still had to say goodbye.

Saying farewell to my childhood home flew by much quicker than I had imagined. I walked through the desolate halls of my home, still able to picture where everything used to be. It is crazy how fast a home can become just a house, how quickly the present can become the past. I made my way up the stairs, still able to see the pictures on the walls, just

hanging on the edge of my vision. I wandered through the upstairs hallway into my old room, where I promptly broke down again. It was like entering an alternate universe. That room was once filled with the physical things that made me who I was. Medals from school and sports no longer hung on the bedposts, nor did photos cover the wall in the haphazard style of a distracted 14-year-old. The bed, once covered in heaps of blankets and millions of pillows, was gone. The closet door was cracked open, devoid of the bright-colored sweaters and vibrant T-shirts that had once hung there. It felt as though it was not just my things that were packed away, but me as well.

I collapsed on the floor beside my best friend, both of us weeping as we realized this was it, this was the end. I wrote a little note on the inside of my closet wall, a message for the next lucky family to reside in what I still saw as my home. It felt important to me then, to leave something physical behind along with my memories. I made my way, slowly but surely, back down the stairs, through the hallways, and down the front porch. It was there that I said goodbye to my other half. This was not the last time I would see her, and for years to come, we would go back and forth and remain best friends. It was, however, the end of an era. We would no longer be able to ride bikes through the cobblestone streets every other day or wander over to the other’s house on a whim. There would be no more random sleepovers or impromptu movie nights. It was the end of a childlike and spontaneous friendship. We held each other close and choked out our final farewells. Then, tears still leaking from my eyes, I climbed into the car.

The whole ride there was a steady transition between quiet despair and screaming tantrums. About halfway through the three-hour journey was where it hit me. Not only was I giving up my past, but it seemed I was giving up my future as well. I would never get to learn to drive in the parking lot of the high school, never even get to attend it. I would never get to wear the orange and black cap and gown, never get to cross the stage of the old Prichard Hall and accept my diploma. Those late nights spent driving through the country roads would never happen, dreams of running track and cross country for my hometown would never be fulfilled. My future, as well as my past, had disappeared in the blink of an eye. The long hours of depressing thoughts and horrible realizations took their toll on me and eventually I cried myself to sleep.

I woke up to crunching gravel as we turned into the driveway of my new house. It was the place I was supposed to call home, even though I had only visited there once or twice before. It was painted white like my old home, but the similarities ended there. I went from two stories to one story, a huge backyard to one of dismal proportions. My room, which used to reside on the second floor and had three huge picture windows, now

was in the basement. It hurt to remember, and all I could do was compare the old with the new. I climbed out of the car and sullenly followed my mother through the front door, where I was greeted by the rest of my family. We stood together in one big ring and looked at the house that was to be our home. We linked hands, each of us feeling as though we lost a piece of ourselves… but at least we had each other.

To sum it up, moving is hard. The years that followed that fateful day were full of anxiety and sadness as well, but they were also full of hope and fond memories. I made amazing friends and eventually learned to enjoy going to a new and bigger school. That house actually became my home. The first day, however, was the hardest of my life. It was the hardest because of the unknown. I did not know what this change had in store for me, and that was the worst feeling. Things may have gotten better, and I may be happy now, but I had to push through that initial shock and despair to reach where I am today. As they say, first is the worst, and when it comes to moving, it really is.

Black vs White

by Eve Zephier

Everyone thinks that it’s just black vs white when racism is brought up, but what about the other people of color? The thing that isn’t talked about enough is racism or cruelty towards Native Americans, especially in the Midwest. We talk about the Trail of Tears, battles that happened, Columbus, or Sacagawea. That’s all we get as Indigenous people, but the awful things that happened to us are covered up.

People bring up President Lincoln and how he’s such a hero for freeing the slaves, but I only agree to a certain extent. To the Native people, he is a murderer. I think he was a great man for freeing the slaves and that was definitely a huge part of history, but hardly anybody knows about what he did to us. “The Dakota War of 1862 was a short conflict between the Dakota people of Minnesota and settlers” (cla.umn. edu), lasting only five weeks. It was viewed as “one of the genocidal efforts to forcibly remove the Native Americans from Minnesota” (cla. umn.edu). After the Dakota War of 1862 trials were being held. “The defendants were not allowed legal representation and the trials were brief, some of them only lasted five minutes or less” (cla.umn.edu). President Lincoln personally reviewed the convictions of the Dakota men. Lincoln commuted all but thirty-nine sentences and decided that only the Dakota involved in civilian deaths should be executed. On December 26, 1862, thirty-eight Dakota men were hanged in Mankato, Minnesota. This event is still “the single largest execution in American history” (cla.umn.edu).

In 2005 the first Dakota 38 + 2 memorial ride was held. The thirtyeight of course stands for the men that were hanged and the plus two stands for the other two that were hanged in 1863. Riders hop on their horses and make the trek from Lower Brule, SD to Mankato, MN every year. Our people do this to remember and honor those who we lost. What about all of the children we lost? Yes, all of the children that were forced to give up their culture in favor of American norms. Nobody knows about that either.

Our people are searching for our missing children from boarding schools they were forced to go to. The U.S. government created an education program for Native American children in the 19th century. They were removed from their parents, sometimes violently, and were forced to give up their cultural ways. The children were forced to cut

their long traditional hair, replace their names, couldn’t visit home, and were forbidden from speaking their language. These boarding schools were often run by the government or Christian missionaries. The white people running the schools inflicted “emotional and physical abuse on our children,” many of whom died. (BIA.gov).

A lot of Native American children and teenagers today experience cruelty from white people. I’m not saying adults don’t, it’s just more common for the younger generation. I know from experience in basketball a lot of people would make fun of me or other Native kids from different schools because of what race they were. The Midwest is pretty racist when it comes to Native Americans. They like to call us “Prairie N******”, make fun of our culture, or make fun of the boys who have traditional long hair. My brother and many other boys were bullied into shaving their heads and getting rid of their long hair. That’s why, nowadays, a lot of Native boys don’t have long hair. It’s part of the American norms we were forced into a long time ago.

Discussions on racism often overlook the experiences that Native Americans have gone through. The events discussed, like the Dakota 38+2 and the trauma from boarding schools, still affect us Native people today. It’s not just black vs white, it’s people vs people and the cruelty toward people of color. We need to be better and do better, as we are surrounded by so many different races.

Works Cited

“US-Dakota War of 1862.” University of Minnesota, College of Liberal Arts Holocaust and Genocide Studies, https://cla.umn.edu/chgs/holocaustgenocide-education/resource-guides/us-dakota-war-1862

“Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative.” U.S. Department of the Interior Indian Affairs, https://www.bia.gov/service/federal-indianboarding-school-initiative

Paint

by Conner Hochstein

He couldn’t believe how the blood stained the floor. Who knew a punch could do something like that? He didn’t think he’d thrown it that hard, but she wasn’t moving.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…,” James Pikan was mumbling under his breath while looking at the ghastly scene on the floor in front of him. She was just lying there, not moving. His hits never did this, and she’d never just laid there. He crouched down on the kitchen floor to see a little closer. His blue jeans, covering his knees, met the floor as his white t-shirt slung over his shoulders, hugging his chest. The hand that struck her now touched her neck. There was no pulse.

Terror, Regret, Anger, Sadness, Frustration.

Every emotion a man could feel flowed through his heart, with the exception of joy. He couldn’t process this, not now and not ever. This was his wife on the floor. The woman he had grown to love and then hate. The mind of the newly anointed killer raced.

“...I’m sorry…I’m…sorry…” His pleas fell on deaf ears that were no longer listening. Ears that had listened to his rambling and belittling for two long years before, now didn’t heed any attention. James knew deep down what he had done was wrong even before, but he didn’t care. Selfishness was a drug that had killed his soul, even if it wasn’t the one that killed his marriage and led to the death of his wife. He never thought about the fall of the man that once cared and loved all into the killer he was now. The only thing he could do was rationalize.

“You made me do this…you brought me here.” James started to sob, but those crocodile tears couldn’t fix his guilt. Rationalizing his actions was his only escape. Was his wife voicing her concerns over his addictions

to the substances in the nightstand and under the sink her mistake? James could only hope. Guilt screamed louder than she ever could have, bouncing around in his brain, as he sat next to the corpse that was his wife. Her small figure in the yellow shorts and gray crop-top had become stained with the red pooling, growing on the floor. After the crying had stopped, James stood up off the floor.

“What do I do?” James’s mind had finally come back to its senses. The body on the floor meant more than just sadness. What happens if someone sees this? What happens when they find out she’s missing? The solutions weren’t coming. He couldn’t think. He just needed to focus on something else for a little while to clear his mind. What to think, what to think. His eyes scoured the room for some kind of distraction. Finally, he looked straight to his left at the wall. God, he hated the walls. Why red? Who decided red would be the color to paint it? The fights about the walls with the couple were constant…no, No, NO... Why did every thought go back to her? The body on the floor just looked away as if it was mocking him. He couldn’t take it. He had to deal with it. After fifteen minutes he thought he finally developed a plan. He had it all thought out in three steps:

Step 1: Call his boss - Travis Moriah, James’s boss, knows how to talk to people. If I tell him, my wife left me and just took off, he’ll believe me. If the cops come, I’ve got an alibi and a story.

Step 2: Remove the body- The best way to get rid of the body would just be putting her into a few black bags or a bed sheet. Whether I cut her up or encase her, she needs to be hidden. After I put her in the truck, I’ll dump her off at the burn hole with the cows behind Travis’s place, the feedlot.

Step 3: Move houses- After I dump her and talk to Travis, I need to start looking for a new place. I couldn’t live in this place with all the memories and the guilt. Hell, maybe I’ll even try to get clean. It’s caused enough issues already.

Ring…Ring…Ring.

“Hello, this is Travis!”

“Hey Travis, it’s James…I’m upset and there’s a lot of stuff I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Okay sure?” Travis’s confusion really isn’t unfounded. Even James’s “perfect” plan didn’t account for the tense relationship with his boss. He really didn’t have any closer friends, but that didn’t make it less awkward.

“I came home, and I found a note saying Mallory took off and isn’t coming back.”

“Jesus…I’m sorry; that’s awful. Are you good right now?” The concern in Travis’s voice became apparent in his response.

“I think I’m fine, I just don’t know what to do right now. It just blindsided me, and I don’t really know anyone around here.” As James finished his words he slightly trailed off but only slightly. The mind on the other side of the line had to collect itself, something his own hadn’t been able to completely do in a long time.

“My brother had something similar to this happen a few years back. I know how hard this can be…do you need someone to take you out somewhere? I know Frank wanted to get his mind off of it even for just a little bit.” The fact Travis was still on the line surprised him, much less the proposition he had just received. Somehow it made him more uneasy, as if he wasn’t already in a panicked state.

“No, you don’t have to do that; I’ll be all right.”

“I’m not gonna let you sit there and be alone after something like that. I’ve seen what happened with Frank, and I’ve seen how off you’ve been for the last while. Even if we don’t go out you should have someone there.” Travis was really pushing to come; this wasn’t in the handbook and would be a disaster. Like some arsonist trying to crawl out of a burning house, he wanted out of this nightmare he’d created.

“How about tomorrow or something, just not now. All right?” The panic in his voice had escalated to something even Travis could hear.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes just… you’ll thank me later okay. I’ll see you then.”

Click… Silence.

The man’s mind was in shock. His plan hadn’t just backfired, it had completely one-eightied on him. Twenty minutes? How the hell could he fix this in twenty minutes. The plan was shot and his chances of getting out of this completely fine were as well. Any rational thought was gone; panic was the only emotion he could muster. The guilt had turned into fear. Whether it be from the heavens or from the law didn’t seem to matter to him. His heart raced in his chest as his head was spinning. What to do, what to do. The buzz in his hand jolted him back to reality. The light that touched his skin was like the moonlight outside glowed upon his windows and siding. The message from Travis on the phone said he was on his way.

There wasn’t time to think of a better option; he had to move. The phone slid from his hand to his pocket as he exited the kitchen. His flight led him through the dining room to the stairs that led to the master bedroom. The carpet met his socks as he ascended, the stairs creaked under his weight. The pictures on the walls that he passed showed the scenes of lost love, the wedding day, their trip to Phoenix, pictures with the in-laws

even corroborated the past. All the eyes, even if in his own mind, seemed so judgmental as he passed, as if they knew who was lying on the floor in the kitchen. Once he was at the top of the stairs, he entered the doorway to the right. The master bedroom, on most nights just Mallory’s room, was on the smaller side. She had picked most things in here like the color of the walls, the sheets, what hung on the wall, even her own small vanity near the window in the left corner of the room. The only one of these items that mattered was the bed sheet James made quick work of. The speed the sheets came off the bed was damn near a party trick with the lack of movement from the pile of blankets above. His hands trembled as his anxiety really took hold. He flew back down the stairs, with sheets in hand, as fast as he had come up. The white sheet followed him like a cape as he came back to the spot of his own life’s demise. No tears were shed this time as he moved her body. Continuing his lack of reverence toward his spouse, he dragged her into the sheet he had brought down. He did make some effort to not look at the eyes of the woman on the floor. Seeing the dull void of what was once a deep blue ocean was the last thing he wanted on his mind for eternity. After wrapping her in the linen he used his belt to keep the cotton coffin together as he carried her outside.

James had only had to deal with the dead weight of a deceased calf before this moment, but it didn’t cross his mind. The hand not being used to keep the deceased on his shoulder opened the crime scene to the moonlight outside. He made his way off the wooden porch to his Ford Ranger on the gravel outside. The body hit the pickup bed hard when he tossed her in. It was evident at this point the sheets wouldn’t soak up the blood as well as he thought. The white cotton had turned beet red around her face and was beginning to drip into the truck bed. The quick journey back inside only showed more issues to be accounted for.

“Shit, I should have used gloves.” It was too late to change now but the blood that had pooled on the floor wasn’t making that fact any better. James was never the smartest man, but was throwing the white shower mat from the bathroom downstairs on it much of an improvement? For him it was good enough. As he pulled his phone out and that familiar light strew across his sweat soaked face the news just kept getting worse. He only had ten minutes left; there wasn’t time to make it any better. Before he ran from the place he called home, he grabbed another blanket from the bedroom, and threw it over the corpse in the back to try and conceal it even if only slightly better. After this he hopped in the driver’s side and threw up gravel and dust as he tore out of the property. Luckily enough for him Travis wouldn’t meet him on the road as he always went on the way through town to reach him when he did come on occasion. The trek James would need to make was all gravel and dust which was fine by him even if it was five or so minutes longer. After eight minutes the phone calls

started. James decided to just power his phone off after the first three.

“He’s gonna know.” That was all he could think about while he followed the road that was cutting through shelter belts and fields. How long would it take before the cops were called, should he even put her in the burn hole? The fear and anxiety had the greatest grip on him that he had ever experienced. His own body was fighting him as he struggled to keep his mind straight, his neck muscles were doing nothing but strangling him as every pore screamed in anguish from the guilt pent up inside. He needed an escape; think of anything, ANYTHING else. He’d driven this road many times, and there wasn’t much to distract him until he rolled past a house on one of the corners. His memory jolted him back to when he got the pickup; it was a nice summer day; he and Mallory drove out to buy it from Mr. Starks who used to help out every once in a while, at the feedlot. It always caught his eye as he drove by since its red exterior seemed to have extra shine compared to other vehicles of its age. That red…that red. Mallory always liked red, just like the walls. Those stupid walls; why were they red, why did she like red so damn much? It’s a stupid color.

Every thought he tried chasing in his mind ran right back to the woman in the pickup bed. After the agonizing battle in the pickup was nearing a close, he was at the feedlot. Pulling off to the left side of the road, his tires made their final stop next to the burn pit. It wasn’t a spot to write home about; in all honesty it was just a hole in the ground behind one of the many buildings on the property. The collision with the ground as he moved out of the Ranger made James’s knees ache. His lower limbs had turned into jelly. As he made his way to the pit, he was hopeful of the small bit of closure disposing of his unmoving companion. His heart sank when he made it to the edge.

Empty.

The pit was completely empty except for a few bones. Hiding the body to burn couldn’t be covered up by the scent of burnt hide or buried by bovine bones as he’d assumed. His knees gave out as he now knelt at the edge of the burial abyss he had passed by many times over his employment here. Travis’s menial chore of burning those rejected from the living was haunting for James. He was being punished by God in his troubled mind. He wasn’t religious but no other explanation served him any heed at the moment. God’s damnation was on him. The stars in the sky were like spotlights singling out the sultry sinner who was solemnly knelt on the grass.

Hiding the body wasn’t an option anymore. The solutions had failed much like any attempt he could have made to fix his life up until now. Nothing anyone but him could do would have changed the past that led

to this nightmare of a present. He gathered his will as best as he could to be able to drag his shaking, exasperating, and sore body back to the pickup. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide; the only option left was to fight in his dreary thoughts. Under the seat he always stashed the revolver his dad had given him. As his hands searched under the seat his eyes never attempted to stray to the back of the truck even if he couldn’t see under the seat. His hands finally met the rough, black case that lay under the seat. As the two front latches snapped open his eyes scanned the metal barrel and its wooden handle. He only stowed enough shells for a full load as he left the case with revolver in hand. When he started walking he didn’t have a destination in mind. He only managed to get to the building that was standing before the burn pit when he again fell to his knees. He decided maybe he should rest for a while.

“It’s so cold.”

Running around with his head chopped off, he hadn’t even realized how cold it was. The cool breeze ran across his chest back to the pit as he laid back propped against its wooden walls. The cold sensation of the metal against his hand was almost forgotten until it slipped into his lap. Maybe the last option wasn’t to fight; he knew he didn’t have the energy or will now. His mocha-colored eyes were glossed over as his hands did their own busy work. The gathering of shells in his pocket only lost one member as it was loaded into the cylinder. The hammer clicked as the barrel kissed the underside of his jaw. The past played like a flip book as his life flashed through his mind. All the anger, pain, sadness, angst, guilt, anxiety, love, happiness, and pain seemed unending until the trigger moved with his finger. The future disappeared in an instant even though the past and present couldn’t.

When the cops arrived on the property an hour later, there wasn’t much that they had to piece together. All they found was a Ford Ranger, two corpses, and a shed wall painted red.

The Girl in the Mirror

by Almu Pérez López

Will she be enough now?

She is happy.

She loves herself, at least on even days.

She does not stare at herself in the mirror anymore, at least not for hours. She finds comfort with the way she looks, and even the way others look at her.

She used to always look in the mirror with fear that her reflection changed for worse but hoping it changed for better.

The girl in the mirror did not exist, at least not in reality. The girl in the mirror was just an invention created by her own imagination and fears, trying to fit impossible standards.

She did not really care for those standards, at least not at the beginning.

Her mom’s words were enough. Enough where she felt loved, enough where she felt cared for, enough where she felt important, enough where she felt, you know, enough.

When did mommy’s words stop mattering? When did her words seem less important than the words of people that she did not care for at all?

The girl in the mirror hardly ever has something nice to say.

But good news is, the girl in the mirror is starting to disappear, although, she sometimes decides to pay an unexpected visit.

If the weight on the scale was going up or down did not really matter anymore. Now the weight that mattered is the weight on the bar and the weight on the dumbbells.

Is mommy the one that does not really love our body? She doesn’t understand that muscles make me feel loved, cared for, important and enough. All those things her words and actions tried to make me feel, at some point, stopped working, and heavy plates succeeded.

I finally stare at the girl in the mirror with tears in my eyes, knowing I won.

Acting on a Whim

by Madelyn Heckenlaible

Who knew acting on a whim would end up with me acting, singing, and dancing on stage two and a half months later? When I first saw the title Urinetown the Musical, I made fun of it and wondered what in the world the creators were thinking. My roommate was auditioning for the show and coaxed me into auditioning with her. I guess I got swept up with positive peer pressure and the promise of how much fun it would be. Auditions went well and the next thing I knew I was cast as Tiny Tom, a character I did not say one single line for in auditions. Although the part was originally supposed to be a guy, our director said he was willing to cast a girl and make that part a tomboy. The description of the character was a tall poor person who doesn’t pick up well on social situations and functions as comedic relief. I somehow got perfectly typecast with me barely talking to the director. I guess it shows that I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I watched a performance of this musical on YouTube after I was already cast in the play to see what I was getting myself into. The musical made fun of itself and both capitalism and socialism. On top of that, the music and punch lines were top-notch. This started my deep dive into Urinetown for the next two and a half months. Being in a musical and being a junior nursing student left me with hardly any free time. Though it was hard at times, I would not take back the time I spent preparing for show weekends for the world. I had a great time making new friends and strengthening relationships with the people I knew before this experience. Many people who know me personally said they were so impressed that I never broke character. Maddy got lost in Tiny Tom, and they just saw Tiny Tom. I find this hilarious since I honestly didn’t have to do much acting for this character. Tiny Tom is basically me when I don’t care who I am around and can just be goofy. To nail the not-so-bright look of the character I stopped masking my autism and then I was perfect! A complete natural. I am proud of myself for taking a chance on something that was at first out of my comfort zone. This musical is probably the best impulsive decision I have made or will ever make in my life.

How to be an Actor: A Step-by-Step Guide

by Elizabeth Main

Step one, audition.

Spend hours at a time Googling the top ten best songs of all time, and conclude that you’d rather die than hear “Defying Gravity” one more time. Even if that means you don’t get the part.

Step two, wait.

Wait until your fingers are bloodied by your incessant picking and your stomach is somewhere between your throat and the floor. Check your phone like your mother used to do every time your father left the house because her codependency had latched its talons into her soul. And don’t forget to breathe when you get a part, any part.

Step three, rehearse.

Until every line is sewed into the wrinkles on your brow and stuck to the inside of your skull next to that one memory of your father you can’t help but remember, the smell of blood ingrained. No matter how hard you try to forget.

Step four, perform.

Forget everything your high school speech coach ever told you about eye contact and not talking with your hands. Forget the sound of laughter after stuttering through your entire presentation in eighth grade. Forget the humiliation of being seen. Instead, speak. Speak because you will be heard. Speak because what you have to say was meant to be heard.

Step five, smile.

This is where the performance actually starts. Listen to the audience applaud as you stand there next to many more qualified individuals and pray that, through your smile, they can’t see that fear is grasping onto the inside of your pupils and reminding you that nobody here is clapping for you. Pin your lips to the edges of your face and curl them just enough to look believable. Don’t let them see that your knees are shaking like your brother’s were when he tried to tell dad that he had had enough whiskey. Stand as if you’re not ashamed of the head that’s attached to your shoulders and act.

Under Armour Sweatshirt

by Conor Michaud

I remember being a kid in middle school, putting on an outfit, walking out into public, and being incredibly embarrassed because my mother was right when she said that what I was wearing was ridiculous. Looking back on it now I realize even more than I did then how obnoxious I looked. Do I wish I changed my outfit back then? Oh heavens no, because I thought I was THAT guy walking around the neighborhood. The iconic look that we all remember is the high socks going up to my knees, the long shorts down to my knees, the neon-colored shirts, and the big Under Armour logo sweatshirts. I would pick these outfits out in my room, with the mirror in my bedroom as the judge of whether or not I looked good. I would say to myself, “I look like a million bucks!” Then I would walk downstairs to my mom, and she would say, “It looks…great!” She said this with a small pause and a taste of sarcasm that I was way too young to pick up and recognize. I didn’t care, I felt comfortable in my house, in my room, staring at myself in the mirror and reminding myself that I knew what style was, telling myself that no one could change my mind about how good I looked.

I would then hop onto my purple bike from the Goodwill, feeling the cold air against my long socks and shorts combo, and walk into the gas station with my head high, thinking that everyone was whispering to each other, “Wow he looks good wearing that outfit.” I would be looking at the candy aisle, with a way-to-big soda in my right hand, trying to find what the best candy would be to double team my sugar levels with while watching my favorite Fortnite video on YouTube. Then my worst nightmare would happen; the older high school student or students would walk into the gas station, minding their own business just hoping that they had twenty bucks in their bank account to partially fill up their tank on pump four. To me, they were only looking at me and my “ridiculous” outfit that I thought I looked so good in. My mother was right; my outfit was “... great.” It made me feel like I was the dumbest person in the world who doesn’t know how to dress and just wants to make a fool of himself. Even the typical Midwest eye contact would send me and my thoughts on the fastest downward spiral. I would quickly pick my candy, not caring about

what it was or how well it went with my soda, and walk to the back of the store until the high school students would exit. I would then quickly pay for my things and briskly bike home in the cold air and walk into the front door and onto the couch where I could enjoy my extra-large soda and candy in peace, judgment-free about what I was wearing, what soda or candy I picked, or even what show I wanted to watch.

That’s where I felt comfortable, like myself, and could be whatever I wanted without judgment or even a care in the world. I still get like this too, even to this day, but instead of scary high school kids, it’s upperclassmen at school who think that I have a good shoe collection or adults who see me in a professional setting thinking I look properly dressed for the occasion. I think I look like a thousand bucks in my comfortable setting, but the second I get out in the public setting my confidence falls to the floor and shatters. Something as small as getting dressed in the morning, picking out which shoes to go with the t-shirt that I’m wearing or the way that the baggy sweatpants shouldn’t be paired with a tight sweatshirt. I wish I could say that I don’t care, but at the same time, I care so much about what other people think, even though in reality only a small percentage of people even pay attention to me. Every time I step out of my dorm room and see somebody, the first thing that I think of is, “Do they think my outfit looks good?” or “Do they think that this shirt matches the pair of shorts that I have on?”

I have a love-hate relationship with attention, but I feel like that’s the truth with many people in today’s day and age. From the type of shoes you wear, to how you wear your makeup, to the model of phone you have, people seem to be so worried about what others think. It ruins the opportunity to be yourself and create a space of creativity and your brand. Having the ability to forget what people think of you or even whether people care about you allows the person to truly unlock their true self and personality. I think being able to walk out in public with the same amount of confidence as you can in your private space can be the biggest selfrelease of all time. From the clothes you wear, the music you listen to, or even as small as the way you walk, it’s who you are and how you go about yourself, not how people look at you and what they think of you. At the end of the day, it’s YOU living your life, not you living your life for the likes of others. If someone dislikes something you do or wear, that’s their opinion of your life, but remind yourself, are they living your life for you? From long socks and shorts to the newest model of phone in your hand, it’s your life, so live it with the confidence of that kid with the long socks and the neon shorts with that big ole Under Armour sweatshirt on in his room, looking at his mirror, living his life.

Bede Art Gallery Mount Marty University Student Artwork

La Douleur Exquise

Aurora Huntley

Untitled

Zach Hebda

Mount Zion Thor Sundstrom

Horses

Presli White

Operator

Josh Croce

Butterfly in Hand

Brooklyn Williams

Table

Trevor Fitzgerald

Wood Duck

Alex Tennant

Bad Night

Keaton List

Pickle

Angelina Phothisarn

Colosseo Busiano

Luca Pereira de Mello

Colors

Gavin Brison

Sailboat

Samantha Noble

Finding Her Path

Mia Zohner

Butterfly

Andrea Sucha

Untitled Alyssa Stephens

Untitled Katelyn Chytka

Untitled Savannah Chouinard

Untitled Emiliana Garza

Untitled Zelie Sorensen

Untitled

Cristobal Gonzalez

Medusa

Luca Pereira de Mello

Untitled Vianney Mtambala

Untitled Griffen Wieneke

Untitled Luca Pereira de Mello

Untitled Olivia Valdez

Untitled Katelyn Chytka

Untitled Erika Langloss

Untitled Levi Langloss

Untitled Griffen Wieneke

Untitled Erika Langloss

Untitled Davin Quail

Untitled Nathaniel Kropuenske

Untitled Shyanna Reich

Untitled Clayton Byer

Untitled Trevor Fitzgerald

Untitled Madison Kovar

Untitled Abbigail Schmidt

Rory Huntley

Untitled Shyanna Reich

Untitled Brianna Elen

To Look Within

The Road

Jessie Nelson

Rory Huntly

Untitled Bree Elisa

Untitled Taya Pawlowski

Untitled Luca Pereira de Mello

Untitled Taylor Hinojosa

Untitled Taya Pawlowski

Untitled Brielle Bussinger

Untitled Josey Waarlstrom

Untitled Emma Blomme

Untitled Makayla Graunke

Untitled Brady Klassen

Book Reviews

I’m Hooked on Footsteps in the Dark

by David Phillips

I’m hooked on Footsteps in the Dark, here’s why. Footsteps in the Dark, by host, Dr. Chad Zimmerman, is about the murder of Tammy Haas in 1993 in Yankton, South Dakota. You can find this six-episode podcast on YouTube.

Tammy Haas resided in Yankton, South Dakota for her whole life. She graduated from high school there and looked to have a bright future ahead of her. At nineteen years of age she went to a homecoming party at a house near Crofton, Nebraska with her boyfriend at the time, Erick Stukel. Later that night, Tammy left that house with her boyfriend. Some say she left willingly, some say it was unwilling, some even say she was pushed out the window. No matter how she left, what mattered was that days later a golfer found her in a ravine next to the Crofton Golf Course. Autopsy reports state that she died due to a broken neck. There were also some scrapes on her body, believed to be from the killer dragging her body across the street. Her boyfriend was charged with second degree murder but found not guilty. The case went cold where it remains to this day.

For a not-too-popular YouTube podcast, it’s actually very high quality. It goes into detail about Tammy Haas, her background, people in her life, and the case as a whole. Everyone I’ve talked to who listened to the podcast said that it was fantastic and highly recommended that I specifically check it out. I’m not normally someone who listens to podcasts, I lose interest quite quickly, but this one specifically held my interest all the way through the six-episode run. It’s a wonderful podcast, and I’d highly recommend checking it out, especially if you’re from the area like I am.

I’m hooked because this case feels personal. It happened in my town, she was found next to the golf course where I’ve gone running, and I’ve been in the house where that party took place. It’s my best friend’s dad’s house. It’s a house that looks to be in the middle of nowhere. There’s a large dirt driveway, there’s one or two barns around the house, the interior has a small kitchen, living room, an upstairs bedroom, I remember it almost exactly. In 2013, my friends were there and home alone when suddenly a large group of people went onto the property and started looking in the windows. My friend had to call their mom who had

to call the police to get the crowd to go home. You see why I’m hooked now, don’t you? If you were in my position and had been in that house during your childhood, not knowing about the things that started in there, wouldn’t you be hooked as well?

Rick Rubin Reflection Collection

by David Phillips, et al.

Have you ever been told that you weren’t creative? If yes and you believed it, you are lying to yourself. Everybody is capable of creativity. Whether they can write a book or perform magic in front of a small group of students, everybody has at least one creative bone in their body. Those who doubt themselves, however, are likely looking for a push in the right direction whether they realize it or not. If you are one of these people looking for a push, might I recommend Rick Rubin’s book?

Rick Rubin is one of the greatest minds in the world today. With his book, The Creative Act: A Way of Being, he was able to inspire seven young, creative writers via chapters overflowing with information while each no longer than a newspaper article. The book, as a whole, is a masterclass of creativity and will teach you everything you need to know about creative writing, no matter what field you go into. Whether you plan to be an author, a director, or a musician, you will come out of this book better than you were when you went in.

People might think of writing as work, and that may be true for some. Journalists have to work on reporting and writing a story in order to make it suitable for a newspaper, and authors need to work on writing a captivating story and editing it through Hell and back to make it suitable for fans. We tell ourselves that writing is tiring, but Rubin urges us to take the time to play with our work. When you were a child, there was no such thing as work. Deadlines didn’t exist and there was no stress. Your office was your backyard, and your quota was whatever your mind could manifest in an afternoon. As children, we didn’t focus on the quality of the story being told, we just played until we got bored and then played something else. Rubin asks us to take the time to let our inner child outside for an afternoon and do whatever they deem necessary. If you let your spirit run wild while writing, your work will benefit massively. “Take your art seriously without going about it in a serious way” Rick writes. While we play, though, Rubin reminds us that the only thing that matters is the work itself. What we tell ourselves doesn’t really matter at all, only what we are able to do. Your work is going to be an unorganized mess at first, but there’s always a pattern to follow in chaos.

When writing, everybody starts at the same place: the first draft. Nobody will be perfect on their first go around or even the second, but there’s always something special about a first draft. The first draft is the foundation on which your final draft will be built. If something clicks right away, don’t get rid of it. This holds doubly true if you’re critiquing somebody else’s first draft. You don’t want to take the soul out of the draft. “When it comes to critiquing an early iteration of work, it is important to keep hold of the extraordinary magic: Rubin says, ‘this should be protected above all else.’ It’s really easy to jump toward judgment but be wary of jumping too quickly. Certain works will have an extraordinary magic. If you sense it, keep it safe” (Kendra Horsley).

Often that magic, that soul, is a way of showing people who you are. “You will be at your best if you can define your true self, but that isn’t a simple, straightforward task. We, as humans, are made up of various aspects and each aspect plays an important role in determining who we are as individuals. Each event we experience enters and is transformed into an array of feelings, thoughts, and sensations. Rubin tells us, ‘In a prism, a single beam of light enters and is broken into an array of colors.’ Don’t forget that it’s okay to change forms because every form of self remains true. As long as you are being yourself, you don’t need to know why something is right or true” (Horsley).

My friend, and track teammate, Jordyn Fischer puts it best; “Writing is a way of being yourself. It’s being able to take your inner feelings and just let them flow onto the page. In order to be able to do this you need to know inspiration and expectation. Inspiration can strike at any moment. It is energizing, but not something to rely on. If you are lucky enough to find it, take full advantage straight away. It’s harder to rekindle inspiration than to find it outright. Inspiration is hard to come by, and sometimes we just need to turn away for a while. Often inspiration strikes when we’re just doing mundane tasks.”

A great writer is an opportunist. An opportunistic writer will take a step back from their work and get distracted doing something else entirely. “Many people find distraction to be a form of procrastination, but in reality, it can be a strategy in service of the work. Distracting your brain is often what you may need to get it to work” (Aurora Huntley). Distractions such as music, chores, or other work often keep the conscious mind busy so that the rest of your mind is free to wander about and find inspiration.

“This inspiration, this creativity, can also be found in dreams. When we sleep, we may have crazy dreams that can translate into crazy ideas. If you pay attention throughout the day maybe these dreams can become even stronger, and you will have the opportunity to create something truly remarkable” (Ally Whitmire).

“Expectations are heavy to the point where we can be crushed under them. The best way to overcome the weight of expectation is to move forward. You won’t know when you’ll reach your destination or even if you’ll reach your intended goal, but often wherever you do end up will prove to be more interesting. We will move forward into darkness. If nothing we attempt yields progress, we turn to our will and belief. If we try ten experiments and fail them all, we can choose to believe that we are failures and question our abilities. In truth, however, failure doesn’t exist” (Fischer). Every step, even the missteps, inch us closer to the light at the end of the tunnel.

Even still, it can be scary to take those steps because it could lead us off the paths we are so used to taking. “Our routines keep us safe and in check, but they allow us to get too comfortable on occasion. We fear what we don’t expect, but it’s impossible to plan for everything. Something, whether bad or good, will happen and it will catch you off guard. If you close yourself off from the unpredictability, you simply won’t know. By not practicing openness, you are limiting yourself and what others have to offer you. You will never know what different perspectives can bring for your work, hobbies, relationships, or life. We question who we are without our beliefs, but the answer we can’t seem to find is that we just are. We are vessels meant to experience life with an open mind and an open heart. We should have a natural curiosity for life, others, and ourselves. If we wish to make art, it is necessary to pay attention to the outside world and allow anything you encounter in your life to come through” (Calli Davis).

“The knowledge that anybody can create art without limitations is the greatest advantage any writer can have. Being creative is just grownups playing freely, much like when they were young and seeing the world through their imaginative eyes for the first time. When you unshackle yourself from the rigidness and just let yourself be free to pursue your own path, it becomes much simpler and easier to enjoy the creative process. Being an artist is more about who you are than how much money you own, how many people know your name, or how many objects you can print your face onto. It is a way of being that enables you to express a little bit of your inner world and access your own creative potential. In order to connect with the beauty around you, you must be creative. You will feel better when you exercise and create art. Art will allow you to think more clearly and feel much more stimulated. You break boundaries by working together with others to create art, whether it be through painting, music, playing, or writing” (Emiliana Garza).

We tell ourselves that being creative is hard because we simply don’t know where to start, that’s why Rick Rubin wants to push us in the right direction. The Creative Act: A Way of Being is a fantastic book that will tell you everything you need to know about how to be creative; the

rest is up to you. It’s your job to let your inner child play for an afternoon. It’s your job to discover what you tell yourself. It’s up to you to protect the magic of the first draft and to never let it slip out of your fingers. You have to be able to define your true self as you write. You have to be able to find inspiration in the world while moving forward with the weight of expectation on your shoulders. You need to allow yourself to be open to the unpredictability that comes with creativity. It is up to you to make art.

“Tutti i particolari in cronaca”

by Antonio Manzini

At the center of Tutti i particolari in cronaca is the dilemma of the balance between law and justice: if the former does not find the right solution, what are we willing to do to repair our wounds? Get ready to meet Carlo Cappai: Archivist of the Court of Bologna, former policeman. He lives alone in the house of his parents, who are now dead. He does not just live alone, he is a lonely man, completely tied up. He is the first main character in Antonio Manzini’s new book. Cappai spends most of his time at his workplace, the archive, where he knows every corner, every folder, every process, and every story. Some of these folders shout out to Cappai. These are cases where justice was not actually done by the court, and the guilty were acquitted of “abandonment.”

Get ready to meet Walter Marchetti, a reporter whose career fell from sports, where he was particularly good—to news, where he was unbelievably bad. He is the second main character. The newspaper believes he is covering two murders that occurred within a brief period of time. After initial awkwardness and misdirection, Marchetti begins to feel that there is something strange about these deaths. He is convinced that there is a connection, but he still does not know how he is right.

I just recently started this book, but it got me hooked. It might seem cheesy, but I feel that I can relate quite a lot, as I am a campus safety officer. Sometimes I am stuck in situations I would prefer not to be in and just try to avoid and not see the problem. Often it happens that friends or people I know, here at Mount Marty, do some things that they should not. Sometimes it just feels weird to have this sense of power, and I do not always want it. In general, I dislike punishing people for unimportant things. I think this book will help me find that inner balance between hard decisions and verdicts taken straight from the book of rules. Antonio Mansini got me interested in the story and reality of this issue, and I’m enjoying the story unfolding.

Hooked by the Big Terrible Thing

by Grace Holys

I am a very avid reader. I have been diving into books for as long as I can remember and have read more than I can count. This means that when I say a book is amazing, I truly and utterly mean it. Mathew Perry’s memoir, Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing, is by far one of the very best books I have ever read. It made me laugh, cry, and truly look into myself and question what is important to me, and what should be. If you read one book this year, read this one. I am hooked, utterly and completely, and here’s why.

Perry takes readers through his life, starting with the early years and hopping around to the present day. He discusses his childhood, his acting career, his many relationships, and his incredibly difficult battle with drugs and alcohol. He is open, honest, and sincere about every detail of his life, and he encourages strength and perseverance above all else. He most often discusses his hope for the future and does all of this through humor and lightness. He gives insights on the workings of being an actor, how he became one, and how being an actor shaped his life. He dives into drugs and alcohol in a way I have never seen and is brutally and hilariously honest. Not only are his stories enrapturing, but his ability to tell them is just as so.

As I am a Friends lover, I knew of his talent involving acting. However, I was astounded by his ability to write, as it felt like he was in the room talking about his life directly to me. His ability to capture his thoughts in words is amazing, and just the writing skill alone, from a nonwriter, is fantastic. He talks about very serious subjects in a way that had me laughing at one page and physically crying at the next. He doesn’t leave anything out and is almost honest to a fault (such as when he described his constant colostomy bag overflow). He included pictures, of course, but even without that I could picture the story in my head as if I was watching a movie on the big screen. He is a very real, inspiring writer, and I advise reading his words as soon as possible.

While he does discuss his life and career, he spends the largest portion of this novel describing his war with drugs and alcohol. I have read many books about this topic, many memoirs in fact, but he takes it to an entirely new level. He discusses how he recovers, time after time after time, only to relapse in one night, at one weak moment. He delves

into the gory details, describing the ins and outs of rehabilitation centers, several emergency trips to the hospital, and even the founding of his men’s sober home called “Perry’s House,” which ran until 2015. There was one instance in particular, which he labels rock bottom, that struck me especially. He describes being in a rehabilitation center, and just giving up. He had no alcohol, no drugs, and in this case, no cigarettes. The loss of the cigarettes is what did him in, and he proceeded to bang his head into the wall so many times he was rushed to the hospital. It takes courage to not only make it through these kinds of situations, but to then turn around and write about it is something I don’t even think I could do.

In all, if you read any book this year, read this one. It was deep, funny, and incredibly powerful. Perry writes as if telling a story in front of a fire, and it was amazing to see into the nitty-gritty of his life. Perry describes throughout the book the way he wants to be remembered. He even states “When I die, it would be nice if Friends were listed far behind the things I did to help other people. I know it won’t happen, but it would be nice.” This is impressive, considering Friends was his big claim to fame. Ironically, and unfortunately, Mathew Perry has passed on, but I think he would be thrilled to know his book about his own messed-up life is helping other people in the way he always tried to when he was alive. I stand by the memoir with my whole heart, and I hope that it touches people’s hearts in the way it has touched mine.

The Anthropocene Reviewed: A Review

by Christa Lotz

“We all know how loving ends. But I want to fall in love with the world anyway, to let it crack me open. I want to feel what there is to feel while I am here.”

This quote from the introduction of The Anthropocene Reviewed gives perfect insight into what this book is about. We are all so beautifully wrapped up in the human experience that we barely have a choice to let it affect us or not. The Anthropocene Reviewed reflects that it started as an orchestration of essays defining John Green’s interpretation of the human experience. After each essay, he gives that particular aspect of humanity a rating on a scale of one to five stars. The essays range from things he likes, things he does not like, his struggles with mental illness, and topics such as pandemics, music, love, suffering, and hope. One essay will have the specificity of the rise and fall of Piggly Wiggly grocery stores—which he gives 2.5 stars—to the expansive topic of our capacity for wonder (3.5 stars). He gracefully describes how the deeply personal aspect of being human—although individual to each person—is so intrinsically wrapped up in our mutual existence. Whether we like it or not, we are truly all in this together.

When John Green sits down to write a book, I do not think he is attempting to inspire the next generation of readers and writers, I think he simply writes what he likes to talk about. Reading this book at the beginning of my time in college—after not being in school for multiple years—had a significant impact on the way I read and write essays. What once felt like a chore that just had to get done, turned into a new opportunity to learn about what the writer finds most important. The fortyfour essays that John Green wrote give insight into the things that he finds the utmost significance in, including his love of Diet Dr Pepper, which he gave 4 stars. My enjoyment of writing increased exponentially when I realized that it did not have to be for just a grade. It could encapsulate all the things I found essential to the universe.

Green does not give the five-star rating out liberally. His first of the book does not occur until almost halfway through in an essay about sunsets, which he describes as, “Breath-givingly beautiful.” This particular essay

discusses the internal conflict that he feels in appreciating the beauty of the world despite so much suffering surrounding us. In a world where the internet gives us the ability to be so interconnected, it is a good reminder to not lose our vulnerability and wonder for the good that we can identify. Another five-star status is the essay on the song “Auld Lang Syne.” He talks about Amy, his friend, and her life and death, and how she handled her cancer diagnosis in a way that showed the inextinguishable hope she shared for the world. He ends the essay with, “We live in hope—that life will get better, and most importantly that it will go on, that love will survive even though we will not.” Humans are not infinite, but that doesn’t matter, because love is.

This brilliant collection of essays in The Anthropocene Reviewed gives an appreciation for human experience in such a personal and cognizant way that it feels like John Green is a friend having a conversation with you instead of reading a book. His ability to convey his emotions through writing while delicately handling the hard conversations about life is a big inspiration to the way I write.

I give The Anthropocene Reviewed five stars.

The Importance of “Sonny’s Blues” in Today’s Society

by James Terry

James Baldwin, an incredibly gifted and progressive author who was decades ahead of his time, strongly suggested in his 1957 short story, “Sonny’s Blues,” that the best way for us to develop as a society would be to listen to and talk to those who are close to us in order to express and accept our internal pain. This is a message which seems relatively new in today’s society because only recently have we started to learn the significance of sharing our issues rather than bottling them up. “Sonny’s Blues” is a short story about two brothers who have two very different methods of coping with emotional anguish. The story is told from the point of view of the older brother, who refuses to acknowledge his suffering and instead prefers to completely ignore it, whereas the younger brother, Sonny, uses alternate methods to deal with his torment, such as drugs and making music.

“Sonny’s Blues” is a story that wasn’t just relevant when it was written, and it isn’t just relevant today but will be relevant throughout all of humanity. It is a timeless story that emphasizes the themes of redemption and enlightenment, and although they are two largely religious concepts, they are two main characteristics of a so-called “perfect” society regardless of its religious beliefs. The audience is shown that these two themes are the keys to happiness because as soon as the two brothers start to communicate, the narrator becomes enlightened whilst his brother becomes redeemed. This is proven by the shining and trembling cup on top of the piano. This provides an extra religious theme because, in the Bible, a cup of trembling is associated with pain and suffering. The portrayal of suffering in this moment implies that pain may not always be negative and can provide an individual the opportunity to grow. We see this as Sonny takes a sip from the trembling cup, which is glowing, signifying hope, before continuing to play the piano and connecting with his audience which signifies its importance in helping an individual accept pain and move on.

Personally, I believe that the world has always been a slightly pessimistic place, but since the expansion of social media this has increased even further. Our society is far too negative and quick to blame

and hate. “Sonny’s Blues” emphasizes that this isn’t the true route to happiness and instead, the best way in which we can all face/accept pain and develop into better people is by talking and listening to those who are close to us.

An incredibly clever technique which James Baldwin uses to show the reader how they can change their culture’s coping methods is by portraying both brothers as different chapters of our society. This personification of the world is extremely effective because the reader thinks they are empathizing with an individual when, in reality they are reflecting on society as a whole. From my point of view, the narrator is symbolic of what our culture has been in the past and what it will continue to be if it remains unchanged. Both the narrator and our society use an old-fashioned technique which is to ignore pain and sorrow as much as possible. On the other hand, Sonny is presented as being slightly better at accepting his feelings since he is successfully able to express his emotions through music; however, he also temporarily struggles from an out-of-control heroin addiction. I believe that Sonny is meant to represent the transitioning period when our society is changing from a struggling culture into a marginally healthier one.

Another way in which the brothers represent moments in time is by their careers. The narrator, who uses more dated methods, has the millennia-old profession of teaching, whereas Sonny, who uses the more modern coping techniques, is a promising young musician hoping to break into the scene. Once Sonny is able to overcome his drug addiction and both brothers decide to listen and talk to each other about their feelings, we see a world where Sonny is able to express himself without drugs, and the narrator finally learns to confront and accept the death of his parents and daughter.

In the final analysis of Baldwin’s short story, we can conclude that “Sonny’s Blues” is important in today’s culture because it explains to the reader that we need to face pain in order to help ourselves and others move on and gives us examples, in Sonny and the narrator, of how these techniques may lead to an increased sense of acceptance and peace in society. Although this piece was written 66 years ago, Baldwin’s story remains relevant because if today’s society follows in these brothers’ footsteps, we could move on from the old-fashioned and unhealthy strategies that many of us currently use and start to live in a healthier and more accepting world.

One Shell at a Time

by Liam Vidas

The book I chose to write about for my book review is called Of Time and Turtles, by Sy Montgomery with illustration by Matt Patterson. The book hooked me by the cover first, with a depiction of a southern painted turtle, which happens to be my favorite animal. Growing up on a pond, I quickly found an interest in this shelled creature. Behind my house sits a large pond and behind that sits a very busy main road. I quickly discovered that there were lots of turtles being hit trying to cross the road. Many of these turtles were females that were looking for nesting sites. In the mornings and evenings, I would walk along the road looking for turtles, so they wouldn’t get hit by any cars. I would sometimes find turtles completely dead or just injured, and I would have to take them and end their misery. I eventually started buying them online and breeding them. I enjoyed watching them grow. I had all sorts of different species. These were captive-bred turtles, and I made sure to not release them into the wild because it could screw up the ecosystem.

That’s why this book was such a big hook. It tells the story of two ladies who live in a suburban house in Massachusetts and take care of sick and injured turtles. Sy Montgomery and Matt Patterson join them as volunteers. They’re known as the Turtle Rescue League, and their motto is “Never give up on a turtle.” One of the first turtles they met in the book was a red footed tortoise, by the name of Pizza Man. I had a red-footed tortoise of my own named Gerald, and when they were describing his slow moving but curious personality I could totally relate. They talked about how valuable turtles are on the black market and how even though the turtles are injured or sick they still hold a high price. This really grabbed my attention because when I would tell people how much I was selling and buying turtles for they couldn’t believe how expensive it was. I bought turtles one time from a guy in Pennsylvania who is now in jail for selling endangered wild caught turtles, so when they talked of the black market for turtles it hit close to home.

The author, Sy Montgomery, is an internationally bestselling writer, and she has done lots of amazing things like swimming with pink dolphins, electric eels, and piranhas. She also cage dived with great white sharks

and worked in a pit crawling with 18,000 snakes in Canada which makes her not the typical writer. The illustrator, Matt Patterson, dedicates all his artwork back into the conservation of turtles, and some of his paintings can be seen in museums.

Throughout the book they get to work with some spectacular organizations and people. It’s a dream job of mine, and just reading about it was so fascinating. For example, they describe a snapping turtle that was hit by a car, they named him Fire Chief. Sy did physical therapy with Fire Chief to get his legs working again, and now he lives in a pond that Matt built for him. They’re so patient and dedicate so much time to each turtle, although they’re not able to name all the turtles that they work with because they aren’t really pets. They still could tell you everything about each turtle’s backstory and how they ended up where they were. This book hooked me super easily because it’s something that I have been passionate about, and the authors have done so many extraordinary things, which made it very interesting.

Mount Rushmore: South Dakota’s Great Disappointment

by Rory Huntley

Mount Rushmore is a famous landmark here in South Dakota, which gets roughly two million visits every year. All the tales I heard about Mount Rushmore as a child made me think it was a grand sight to behold. That it was one of the country’s most memorable monuments. When I visited the mountain in person, however, I realized those tales had been false. Peering up at Mount Rushmore was not a moment of amazement, or one where I admired the genius of human ingenuity. It was a moment of “Oh, is that it?”

Yes, it is a monumental and historical sculpture I should respect, but I don’t feel I should have to respect it at all. I didn’t visit to commemorate the dead, I visited to see a sight. I came for the art. And all art, no matter on what scale, deserves criticism. And criticize it, I shall. I’ll address two criteria: One, a clear view. After all, it’s difficult to judge art without a good view of it. Two, the work’s ability to hold one’s attention. With that in mind, I visited Mount Rushmore around 2019 at Custer State Park. Unfortunately, the view was not as impressive as I had hoped. Not only is the mountain farther away than depicted in many state park photos, the sculpture itself was much smaller than I had expected, even from far away. Furthermore, its physical presence doesn’t provide any observation one wouldn’t see in photos. I genuinely could have just settled for a photo, rather than bothering to visit the real thing. A better view could have made all the difference, and it simply did not meet the criteria. I thought maybe it was my own childhood naivety and imagination that led to my disappointment. To my surprise, however, my three brothers (and even my father) who went to the park with me felt the same way. The five-hour drive to Rapid City and down to Custer State park was not worth the five minutes I spent looking at it, before quickly becoming bored. We all decided we had seen everything, and it was time to go. In all, we must’ve been at the park for about 15 minutes. We spent more time wandering around the gift shop than we did looking at the monument. In other words, it did not hold our attention.

Would I visit Mount Rushmore again? No, I would not. And no,

I would not recommend anyone else go and see it. But sure, you should go ahead and visit to stifle your own curiosity anyway. It’s South Dakota’s key point of interest. You might as well go once, even if it’s not interesting enough to go back a second time. My best advice is this: when you do visit, don’t expect a perfect, grand view, and don’t be disappointed when it isn’t as impressive as you had hoped.

Contributors

Betsy Crumly, from Page, NE, is a 2024 graduate of the MMU nursing program. She works at the Omaha Children’s Hospital as a float RN, but she still holds a special place in her heart for writing and the arts. She spent her four years at Mount Marty on stage and fostering a love for her career.

Jordyn Fischer is a junior at Mount Marty University. Her hometown is Beresford, South Dakota, but she eventually moved to Wakonda, South Dakota. Jordyn is a distance runner on the cross-country and track team. She is currently an exercise science major with a minor in English writing. This is the second year her work has been published. In her free time, she enjoys playing volleyball with her twin sister and spending time with family and friends.

Alexis Gosch is a freshman at Mount Marty University, and she is majoring in exercise science. Gosch is a member of the cross country and track team. A resident of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, she loves to travel and to be outdoors. This is her first publication in Paddlefish.

Madelyn Heckenlaible is a junior nursing student at Mount Marty University and is from Menno, SD. She is involved in MMU’s choir and theater. Madelyn also enjoys drawing, writing, singing, playing piano, and all things creative.

Conner Hochstein is a sophomore majoring in elementary education and special education. He is involved in theatre and choir. In his free time, you will find him fishing, hanging out with friends, or visiting family.

Grace Holys is a sophomore at Mount Marty University. She is from the town of Columbus, Nebraska. Grace is pursuing a major in nursing and a minor in English writing. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, reading, and spending time with friends and family.

Kendra Horsley is a senior at Mount Marty University. She is triple majoring in psychology, human services, and English writing. Kendra is also a member of the Mount Marty volleyball team. She loves being an aunt to her sweet nephews, Isaiah and DeAndre. Kendra has a deep passion for her faith, art, and writing, and she hopes to use these passions to help others.

Rory Huntley is a sophomore English writing major at Mount Marty.

Terry Lafferty is a professor of theology at MMU. She appreciates the opportunity to be creative and the encouragement she receives from Dr. Reese to contribute to this publication.

Almu Pérez Lо́pez is a junior majoring in pre-vet and a minor in biology and is from Madrid, Spain. She is part of the MMU volleyball team. Almu found her place in the gym, where she feels safe, where she feels powerful.

Christa Lotz is a sophomore nursing student at Mount Marty University also pursuing a minor in writing. She is involved in the Student Government Association on campus and in her free time she enjoys running and hiking around the Yankton trails.

Elizabeth Main is a freshman at Mount Marty and is studying psychology and human services with a minor in English writing. She’s been an active advocate for mental health here on campus and will continue to do so throughout her stay here at The Mount. When she’s not in classes you can usually find her in Marian Auditorium taking an active, or actor, role in some of our theater productions.

Carl Massa, a junior at Mount Marty University, is from Edgemont, South Dakota. He is majoring in biology (pre-health) and minoring in English writing. Massa is a long sprints runner for the track team and sings bass in the Chamber Choir. He is an avid Minnesota Vikings fan, an accomplished outdoorsman, a big rockhound, and spends his summers fighting wildland fires.

Matt Mason is the Nebraska State Poet and has run poetry workshops in Botswana, Romania, Nepal, and Belarus for the U.S. State Department. His poetry has appeared in The New York Times, and Matt has received a Pushcart Prize as well as fellowships from the Academy of American Poets and the Nebraska Arts Council. His work can be found in Rattle, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, and in hundreds of other publications. Mason’s 5th book, Rock Stars, was published by Button Poetry in 2023. Find more at: https://matt.midverse.com/

Luca Pereira de Mello is a senior at Mount Marty University and is from Roma, Italia. Luca is a varsity soccer player on the MMU Lancers, majoring with a business degree. He is a proud Italian citizen with Brazilian and Filipino roots, who loves traveling and sleeping.

Kent Meyers is the author of a memoir, three novels, and a collection of short stories. Two of his novels were included on The New York Times list of Notable Books. He has won two Minnesota Book Awards, the High Plains Book Award, the Society of Midland Authors Book Award, and the South Dakota Humanities’ “One Book South Dakota” Award.

Conor Michaud is a freshman from Omaha, Nebraska at Mount Marty University. He graduated from Millard North High School. He is on the baseball team and is a business major with a minor in accounting and psychology. His hobbies include listening to music, hanging out with friends, and traveling and experiencing new things.

Christian Mickelson is a junior majoring in English and secondary education. After graduating from Mount Marty University, he plans to continue his education in pursuit of his master’s degree in creative writing. He is a member of Men’s Basketball and the Education Club at Mount Marty. He plans to write his first novel this summer and apply to grad schools. He enjoys writing poetry and fiction above all else. Christian is incredibly thankful to the English and Educational staff at Mount Marty for their continued support and dedication to his growth.

David Phillips is a senior at Mount Marty University. He is an English major and an art minor and is running on the Cross Country and Track team. He comes from a small town called Crofton, Nebraska. He is a fan of video games, music, pro wrestling, and spending time with the people he cares about. All his life, he’s wanted to tell people stories.

John T. Price is the author of four books of nonfiction, including Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships and, most recently, All is Leaf: Essays and Transformations. He is also editor of the nature writing anthology, The Tallgrass Prairie Reader. A recipient of a prose fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, his work has appeared in numerous journals, magazines, newspapers, and anthologies. He is the Regents/Foundation Distinguished Professor at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, where he directs the English Department’s Creative Nonfiction Writing Program. He lives with his family in the Loess Hills of western Iowa.

J. Ryan Stradal is the author of The New York Times bestseller Kitchens of the Great Midwest, which won the Midwest Booksellers Choice Award and the American Booksellers Association Indie’s Choice Award for Adult Debut Book of the Year. His second novel, the national bestseller The Lager Queen of Minnesota, won the WILLA Literary Award and was a finalist for the Heartland Booksellers Award. His newest novel is the instant national bestseller Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club, which was also a finalist for the Heartland Booksellers Award. His shorter writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Granta, The Rumpus, and The Guardian, among other places. Born and raised in Minnesota, he now lives with his family in California. For more information about J. Ryan Stradal visit: https://www. jryanstradal.com/

James Terry is a junior at Mount Marty University who is majoring in exercise science. After being raised in Nottingham (United Kingdom), he now plays in center midfield for the Lancer soccer team. James has just finished his first year at MMU after transferring from Crowder College in Neosho, Missouri.

Liam Vidas is a senior majoring in criminal justice. He runs cross country and track for MMU.

Ally Whitmire graduated with an English and writing degree and enjoys creating all works of art. She enjoys traveling and plans to document the rest of her life either on paper or camera.

Ava Wolfe is a freshman at Mount Marty University, from Lethbridge, Alberta. She is majoring in radiology technology and is hoping to specialize in sonography. In her free time at home in Canada, she enjoys snowmobiling and spending quality time with her pet polar bear Garf.

Eve Zephier is a freshman at Mount Marty University, and this is her first publication in Paddlefish. She is also a member on the Women’s basketball team and majors in radiology in hopes of being a part of the medical field. She is from Wagner, SD and enjoys spending time with her friends and family.

Paddlefish

Snagging good literature one line at a time.

Paddlefish 2023-2024

PADDLEFISH

a student literary and art journal

Paddlefish

PADDLEFISH 2023-2024

a student literary and art journal

Table of Contents

Panic Attack

Box of Fears

How Benedictine Values have Shaped Me and My Future

Love of Christ and Neighbor

Discipline

Humility

RESPONSE LETTER TO MMU STUDENTS

I Fear

Running in Hokas

Jordyn Fischer

Life Blog

March 17

3 Questions for Nebraska Poet Laureate

Something in the Air by Matt Mason

We Miss The Cathedrals

Letter to MMU

Hello Mount Marty Students,

Letter to MMU Students

Haikus

Eat Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner®

My Regrets to Miss California

Through My Eyes

The Dining Table

1-Age 20”

Railroad Sunset by Carl Massa

Little Fish

An Aviary of My Own

First is the Worst

Black vs White

Paint

The Girl in the Mirror

Acting on a Whim

How to be an Actor: A Step-by-Step Guide

Under Armour Sweatshirt

Bede Art Gallery Mount Marty University Student Artwork

Book Reviews

I’m Hooked on Footsteps in the Dark

Rick Rubin Reflection Collection

“Tutti i particolari in cronaca”

Hooked by the Big Terrible Thing

The Anthropocene Reviewed: A Review

The Importance of “Sonny’s Blues” in Today’s Society

One Shell at a Time

Mount Rushmore: South Dakota’s Great Disappointment

Contributors