2020: Kiosk Vol. 82 by Kiosk

“Nothing bad ever happens to a writer.” Unknown, quoted by Stephen Coyne

On the Cover REAListic Painting by Anna Uehling photography

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The 2020 issue of Kiosk is dedicated to Dr. Stephen Coyne. As an English professor, Steve taught exactly 2001 students. He spent nearly 30 years serving as the faculty advisor of Kiosk, and this year’s publication truly felt his absence. Steve also served as the faculty advisor during the first year of The Morningside Review. Within the 2020 Kiosk are pieces written by Steve, a testament to his skill as a creative writer. He is also the recipient of the 2020 Bruce Forbes Faculty of the Year Award, as presented by ODK. As he leaves to embark on his newest journey, Steve leaves behind a legacy felt across campus. We thank you for your many years of service at Morningside College.

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,$''$-*"+-(."'/$"$#%'(-* EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSITANT EDITORS VISUAL EDITORS

Marianna Pizzini Ally Hecht, Evelyn Williams, Leah Erdmann, Kailyn Robert Abby Koch, Courtney Klocke, Elizabeth Obermeier

FICTION

NON-FICTION

Associate Editor

Evelyn Williams

Leah Erdmann

Board Members

Kassidy Hart Dana Pearson Kit Stallmann Taylor Van Vliet POETRY Associate Editor

Kailyn Robert Board Members

Jemar Lee Collin Adank Sofia Marrufo Elizabeth Roop

Nick Loya Taylor Van Vliet Jack Shaver COPY EDITORS

Kailyn Robert DIGITAL EDITORS Associate Editor

Ally Hecht

Board Members

Ben Hieb

ART

FACULTY ADVISORS

Associate Editors

Leslie Werden Jeff Gordon

Courtney Klocke Abby Koch Elizabeth Obermeier

!0(1'"(1-"21#3$* Susan V. Meyers has lived and taught in Chile, Costa Rica, and Mexico. She earned an MFA from the University of Minnesota and a PhD from the University of Arizona, and she currently directs the Creative Writing Program at Seattle University. Her novel Failing the Trapeze won the Nilsen Award for a First Novel and the Fiction Attic Press Award for a First Novel. Other work has recently appeared in Creative Nonfiction, Per Contra, Calyx, Dogwood, and The Minnesota Review, and it has thrice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Shea Hartmann, an art judge, has her B.A. in Studio Art and English from Morningside College. She currently works for Goosmann Law Firm, but in her free time, she loves to create art. She creates art to answer the big questions that may not actually have answers. Painting is an extension of herself.

Kent McCuddin, an art judge, has developed national integrated communication strategies, managed a brand identity program through a global expansion and his creative work has won several awards and appeared on five continents in multiple languages.

2020 has proved to be a year of intense change. Though we are only a quarter of a way through the first year of this new decade, there are so many changes happening around us. In reality, change is a constant characteristic of life, but that often does not make it easier. This was prevalent while reading this year’s submissions to Kiosk. One of those changes happened to be a total rearrangement of Kiosk faculty. Professor John Kolbo, affectionately referred to as just Kolbo and Morningside’s graphic design guru, took a leave of absence in October 2019 due to his health. In addition, Professor Stephen Coyne retired in December 2019 after being the advisor to Kiosk for nearly 30 years. In all honesty, and though we had been planning for his departure, we felt his absence profoundly in the early part of the semester. Leslie Werden, thankfully, took up the reins from Coyne, and Shelby Prindaville and Jeff Gordon worked to find art editors to finish our staff. Even so, these changes rocked my world. To add to the chaos, the world underwent (as is currently still managing) a global pandemic that caused the United States, Italy, and many other countries to enforce social distancing and self-quarantine recommendations. Though technology proved to be a necessity, one which our schools would have been forced to close completely without, remotely creating a magazine was tough. Wrapped up all together, these changes are what produced this year’s Kiosk. The selected authors’ works present the many different emotions that change elicits. Discussion of death, family, and everyday situations permeated submissions. As I was reading, and realizing this constant overarching theme, I grew hopeful that each and every one of the stories would show growth caused by change. Thus, the theme of reality’s effects and aftermath grew stronger. Even our cover, entitled “REAListic Painting,” shows the scars inflicted by reality. Reality is what we are faced with every day; its aftermath is what we, as writers and artists, portray. Volume 82 of Kiosk is affectionately dedicated to Coyne, as his departure was deeply felt. I am sure Kiosk will continue to be successful even with his absence, but his influence is left within this perfect binding. Thank you for your dedication to your students, your co-workers, and your craft, Dr. Coyne. My unending thanks is also offered to Tatum Skaff, Leslie Werden, Jeff Gordon, Shelby Prindaville, Abby Koch, Courtney Klocke, and Elizabeth Obermeier, as they

created the most resilient staff I could have asked for. My associate editors, Leah Erdmann, Evelyn Williams, and Kailyn Robert, made my job seamless and smooth with their reader’s reports and never-ending support. Ally Hecht, Senior Digital Editor for the second year, and Ben Heib, Associate Digital Editor, helped continue our online presence with new video elements and the promise of a magazine in the midst of a global crisis. Kiosk exists today because of everything they have done. Finally, thank you to President Reynders and Morningside College for your continued support. I truly hope that Kiosk 2020 provides you, our readers, authors, and artists, with a newfound strength in numbers. Reality tends to push us harder than we think possible, but this publication proves to stand that we exist in strength.

Marianna Pizzini

If there was an accurate description of what it was like working on Kiosk 2020, it would be the feeling of a rollercoaster that never lets you catch your breath. From beginning to end, us art editors have felt every new challenge as a sharp turn or a loop da loop. All of us on the art team this year gained from these unexpected turns, both as designers and as people. Every step this year wouldn’t have been successfully taken without the help of Elizabeth Obermeier and Jeff Gordon, our interim faculty advisor. Elizabeth has been a tremendous help with every step and a fabulous intern. Jeff’s wisdom, willingness to tackle the challenge with us, and learning about the publication really helped us get through our Kiosk rollercoaster. Both Courtney and I can’t say thank you enough to both Elizabeth and Jeff with all they have done to help make this publication happen. Much like 2020 year so far, there were a lot of challenges. It was an honor for all of us on the design team to take on this challenging year of Kiosk, but we are so incredibly proud of the end result. From all of us on the Kiosk art team, we are proud to present the 2020 Kiosk. Abby Koch, Courtney Klocke, Elizabeth Obermeier

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StePhen coyne

REAListic Painting

anna uehling

Cover

Eye Cracked Up

tracie tuttle

Karlie reagan

Death in Bloom

MaKaelyn glienKe

Floral Beauty

rachel SteinKaMP

Madelynn StoFFle

Ole and Lena

anna uehling

Repeatedly, Eventually,

tani ruSSell

tyler nordStroM

Geo Wall 2

leSley valerio chaiez

Arriving

Brandon BoeSch

Basalt Cliffs of Vik

grace ruSSMann

Raining Reflection

JeSSie eighMy

StePhanie diviS

California Views

iandra eStuPinian

Anticipation

leSley valerio chairez

greg guelcher

Shanghai Sunset

Mitchel Keller

Cul-de-sacs and Wedding riley cuSter

KaSSidy hart

Spanish Hourly Hotel

Mitchel Keller

Guests

JaSon latta

Clear Blue

JeSSica PleuSS

The Orwellian Truth

aBBy Koch

StePhanie diviS

The Golden Falls

grace ruSSMann

Once In a Lifetime

toryn Kelly

taylor van vliet

You Need Action

aBBy Koch

Ancestral Knowledge

tani ruSSell

A Phoenix, by Any Other Name, Would Still Combust Poetry

alexi Malatare

Sometimes

Between Seasons

MeliSSa gillete

Two Haikus

KaSSidy hart

StePhanie diviS

Legacy

Poetry

Fool’s Gold

Fiction

Yellow Cottage Sing Praise

Poetry

A Letter to My Son Flying

nonFiction

Poetry

Mr. Smith Goes to Hell

Fiction

A Leader with No Compass Safe Harbor in the Night Coming Right Up

Poetry Poetry

Poetry

Chips, Cheese, and Poor Choices

Poetry

No More, Ever

Fiction

nonFiction

A Passing By

Poetry

Karlie reagan

A Caged Bird

Fiction

KaSSidy hart

Madelynn StoFFle

StePhanie diviS

Merel KooiJ

‘click’

Poetry

Celebrate

Poetry

The man who handed me his water nonFiction The Conversion of 1967

Poetry

StePhen coyne

Destiny

Splattered Blues

tracie tuttle

Dreaming of Vintage

deyvn reilly

Lenny the Lion

courtney KlocKe

Oregon a Couple

angela chen

The Roundhouse Story

elizaBeth oBerMeier 24

Botanist

rachel SteinKaMP

The Milwaukee Road

elizaBeth oBerMeier 24

Deer Jump

iandra eStuPinian

Eclectic Antique

devyn reilly

Camelflage

ShelBy Prindaville

Koi Fish

angela chen

Batu Caves

JeSSica PleuSS

Balancing Act

ShelBy Prindaville

Change the Dial

aBBy Koch

Hold Tight

JeSSica PleuSS

Overlooking the Land

MeliSSa gillete

Blue

rae clinKenBeard

Dinosaur

elizaBeth oBerMeier 54

Touch of Spring

rachel SteinKaMP

Deep Sea

eliSe o’reagan

It’s Not All Black & White rae clinKenBeard

Train Street

Mitchel Keller

Somebody Stole My Car

JeSSie eighMy

Just a Garlic

tracie tuttle

Spooky Szn

riley cuSter

Borderline

MaKaelyn glienKe

Bark. Lock and Key.

riley cuSter

Symmetry in Milk

anna uehling

Tooth.

Radio

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Poetry

Eric Knell

All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no art names or special considerations for any piece. Editorial staff are eligible for contest placement but not for prize money. 10

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Karlie Reagan

Stephen Coyne

When my father, who never took me out, asked where we should go to have a talk man-to-man about important stuff, I suggested Osco’s. On school days I ate lunch there, where lovely Brenda knew my order by heart: a dog with catsup and onions. Fries. A Coke. Her smile, her cherry lips—she was drenched in light from the big windows. I ate, dreaming, with my junior-high friends, future lives where we might find girls like Brenda. But on that night with Dad, a hairy cook wiped Formica under fluorescent lights, and the big windows reflected us in a booth, where my father told me, before the food came, that he was dying. I saw the reflection of me unable to close my ears. I saw my father blink and I realized then how drunk he was. I couldn’t touch the food, couldn’t listen. I made him drive us home, weaving through the darkened streets, where I felt lost though I knew every block by heart. It took five years for him to die, and years after that the restaurant burned down. I found my Brenda, though, and we have a family. Still, at dinner, sometimes, death takes the seat across from me.

DEATH IN BLOOM by Makaelyn Glienke photography 12

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The cool wind is biting at his nose when he finally decides to call it quits. Sitting on concrete steps in the middle of December only has its charms so long as a cigarette is involved, and his has burned to the filter some minutes ago, singeing part of his finger on its way. It’s a nasty one, he thinks as he makes his way to the elevator inside his apartment building, she’s going to tear into him when she finds out. He knows it won’t help, but he sucks on the tender skin just to take some heat out of it, and because it’s better than doing nothing about it. Their apartment door is unlocked when he reaches it, meaning his girlfriend is already home, probably sitting up at the kitchen table wondering where he’s been, waiting like a crouched tiger to interrogate him about the burn on his finger and the smell clinging to his denim jacket. “You’re back,” She says when he finally forces himself inside. She’s exactly where he expected, sitting at their kitchen table, one of those ones that can slide to fit more people, a gift (read: handme-down) from her parents. “And you smell like smoke.” He stifles a sigh while toeing his shoes off. This is a practiced conversation; in the months they’ve been together, he’s stopped expecting how was work or I missed you today. It’s nothing short of exhausting, discovering that his idea of relationships has fallen pitifully short. “Ah,” He admits. “Yeah, had one outside.” “You’re still on this?” She pushes, putting her phone down flat on the table and looking at him fully. “You know what cigarettes can do?” “I know what cigarettes can do.” He submits; if he didn’t know from all the pamphlets and informational videos, he’d know from her shoving those truths in his face until forgetting them would be all but impossible. “Yet you keep doing it.” She says with a sigh. For now, it sounds like a surrender. “I’ll get you more patches when I go to the store tomorrow.” He doesn’t tell her he doesn’t want them; doesn’t tell her the patches make him nauseous, or that when he uses the patches, he doesn’t eat for days.

He doesn’t tell her that smoking is harder to stop than she thinks and that every time he does, the first assault he undertakes is his own. His own shame and guilt of being unable to quit make hers look pathetic. Some days, he wonders if that’s why he’s doing this to himself. He knows this relationship is a poor excuse…but sometimes she’ll say It’s nothing short of exhausting, something to him that discovering that his ideas of sounds so much like relationships has fallen pitifully his own self-conscious short. that he’s comforted for a minute. He wonders how messed up he has to be, to cherish barrages like this. “Thank you,” He says, coming to the table and pressing a kiss to her temple. She nods and grabs his hand, pressing on the burn she doesn’t yet know is there. Some days, their routine of loving each other isn’t so bad. But on days like today, their checkedbox romance hurts even more than the blister on his hand.

OLE AND LENA by Anna Uehling photography KIOSK20

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Madelynn Stoffle To reach your destination travel exactly twenty-two point eight miles northeast of Pineard. You will see a rusting road sign that reads Woodsworth. There will be a path with large hexagonal stones covered in green moss. Count out loud each step you take until seventy-two is reached. Now stop. Pull out the lock of your mother’s hair. It is very important that you keep it in your left hand the rest of the journey. Here you will wait until the moon peaks through the tallest treetop. Before you take your next step, place a strand of your mother’s hair on the seventy-second stone. You may continue. Do not forget to count out loud your steps. GEO WALL 2 by Lesley Valerio Chairez photography

Tyler Nordstrom When they are satisfied with the number only then will the cottage be revealed. The moss stones will take you all the way to your required destination. If they have deemed you fit, you will see an old yellow two-story cottage with a thatched roof. The door will be ajar, the handle an iron circle. At the base of the door place the remainder of your mother’s hair. Do not forget the rules: Don’t resist their song. Don’t fight it. Don’t run. Now you may enter. We swore on it with red and now we are both dead Come join the Woodsworth Sisters. Where we died is where you’ll lie, Let’s make the pact we’ll help your act, Come join the Woodsworth Sisters. In front of the fire grab what you desire, Hidden within our music box can stop all clocks, Come join the Woodsworth Sisters. Take the pin prick your skin, Now let the red drip we’ll take a sip, Come join the Woodsworth Sisters. Now as one you have succumbed, The few the brave lay in our grave, Now you’ve joined the Woodsworth Sisters.

I am walking along the Cliffs of Moher. The grass is a radiant green, and gently carpets my weary feet. I am entirely alone, and it is good. But that’s not quite right. I am standing in the midst of wonderful creation which means I am standing in the presence of a mighty Creator. He is the only friend I need. The cliffs stretch their long arms out to the mighty sea. The waves beat against the cliffs and the sound is like applause for its sweet, holy, wonderful, terrible Maker. I close my eyes and breathe in the salt that delicately seasons the air and listen to the rushing water and faint cries of puffins who make their minute homes in the crags of the cliffs. Not one single puffin will fall to the depths of the water apart from its Maker. And I know that He values me even more than many puffins. I wish to join nature in its praise but I am no singer and so, He provides me with a piano. I sit at the bench and stare at the keys as familiar as the blemishes of my person.

It in

I play a nocturne. It is not Chopin, but John Field. is only fitting that I bathe this green country the music of one of its natives. The piece ends, but the waves and the puffins sing on as they will until He returns.

BASALT CLIFFS OF VIK by Grace Russmann photography KIOSK20

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Brandon Boesch We went hiking this morning in the Loess Hills. They were formed many years ago. Glaciers once covered the plains, and these glaciers dug deep into the ground, milling bedrock into fine dust. Later, when the glaciers had retreated, this dust was carried by rain into streams, and by streams into the Missouri River. When the Missouri River would flood, it would carry this sediment with it. And when the flood waters retreated, this sediment would dry and would be picked up and deposited by the wind. The Loess Hills are the result of these wind deposits. They are beautiful and mountain-like (or at least as mountain-like as we can CALIFORNIA VIEWS hope to get here on the Great by Iandra Estupinian Plains). photography

Stephanie Divis like pens and paperclips. But right now, thirty-three weeks is the difference between you and a mere thought of you; between your presence and a simple hope in our hearts. Thirty-three weeks is nothing compared to the tens of thousands of years in which the glaciers ground down the bedrock and the river distributed its silt and the winds formed the dust into hills. But for you it is literally everything, the whole of your existence.

Methamphetamine high. Flying down Highway 9. Sirens. Spike sticks. Halt.

From the perspectives of glaciers and rivers and hills, our lives are infinitesimally short. They are tiny, miniscule, and small—like the dust swept by the wind. But from our own perspectives, our lives are nothing other than everything—all we have ever been and all we could ever be. Our lives are neither short nor long. We live for the length that we will live. (After all, what elsecould we do?) So, when, inevitably, thirty-three weeks comes to pass as if it were nothing, remember that it was once all you had. Open your eyes and see the hills. Thirty-three weeks was once all that you were and someday it shall be all that you have left. True: you will never be able to watch glaciers till the earth nor listen as the winds whistle hills into existence. Your life is far too short for that. Such grandeur lies beyond our ken.

As your mom and I walked with our dog (and you, in utero) through these hills today, I thought a lot about time. You are now thirty-three weeks along. It is strange to think that this is all that you are because there will be times in your life where the passing of thirty-three weeks does not make you feel any older, wiser, or stronger. There will be times when days slip through your hands unnoticed, lost 16

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But there is a different grandeur which you will see, and it, too, involves dust. It is that we live as dust come to life, sung into existence by love. The grandeur we get to see is our own growing, seeing, learning, hoping, singing, loving, sacrificing. Such you shall witness in yourself. And even grander still: in others. SHANGHAI SUNSET by Mitchel Keller photography

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.-8"*.%'/"3($*"'("/$,, Greg Guelcher “Mr. Smith, welcome to Hell! My name’s Beelzebub, and it’s my great pleasure to check you in personally. I believe your room is ready. It’s over in the Shangri La suite. Here’s the key, as well as a coupon for a free drink and one hour’s complimentary service at our famed brothel. Designed by the architect I.M. Pei, it features some of the most gorgeous women – or handsome men, if you prefer – in Hell. I strongly suggest you check it out soon. But what’s the matter, sir? You don’t seem quite yourself.” Smith didn’t know where to begin; he felt so disoriented. His attention strayed to a garishly lit neon sign above the reception desk. WELCOME TO HELL it cheerily proclaimed, much at odds with the apparent circumstances. Stranger still, off in the distance he could glimpse what appeared to be a raucous party. Couples were dancing with wild abandon, limbs pumping to the music, a live DJ urging them on. Smith thought he heard Cameo’s “Word Up,” a personal favorite. “Well,” sputtered Smith, as he tried to come to grips with this new reality, “obviously I’m dead, that’s certainly not optimal … and I’m in Hell! I had rather hoped to land in Heaven one day,” he muttered, his voice trailing off into confused silence. “Ah, yes. The Heaven paradox,” sighed Beelzebub. “No, you came to the right place. Hell really needs a better publicist. I mean, all that talk about ‘an eternity of fire and brimstone’ is just baseless propaganda pushed by that overbearing jerk Yahweh. Don’t get me wrong, we do have some of that torture stuff way in the back for the truly hardcore cases. You know, your unredeemable mass murderers like Adolf Hitler or Pol Pot, but that’s not our bread and butter, as it were. No, most of humanity ends up here in Hell, simply because so few get by without some sin in their lives. Heaven’s entry requirements are way too de18

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manding, and for what? You sit around all day lost in thought. Really, Hell’s the place to be. It’s fun and excitement 24/7!” Smith had to admit this version of Hell seemed quite the opposite of what he’d been taught in Catechism classes so many years ago. Perhaps it was worth giving it a try, not least for the fact that he didn’t appear to have much choice in the matter. “Ok,” he said, “let’s do it!” “Very wise,” remarked Beelzebub. “Just one last detail to take care of: your new occupation. You see, although the food and lodging are free, Hell functions as a commune. Everyone pitches in to help keep the party going, as it were. Since we’re a little shorthanded poolside right now, why don’t we just assign you to hand out towels for the time being. Towel boy. Easy job, with lots of perks. Sound good?” Smith bristled. “I’m not sure I care for that. I’ll have you know I was a top corporate lawyer in New York City before I landed here. Got my degree from Yale Law School, in fact, and I’ve published extensively on tort reform. Towel boy seems rather beneath me, wouldn’t you agree?” Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously? You should realize we’re already up to our eyeballs here in ‘top corporate lawyers.’ And what need does Hell have for a top corporate lawyer, anyway? Who are we going to sue? Fallen Angels, Inc.? Nope, towel boy it is!” “I’m sorry, Beelzebub, but that’s unacceptable. I’m way too overqualified for such a mundane task. I’ll wait here until something better suited to my many talents opens up, thank you very much.” “You misunderstand me, Sir. Hell is not a democracy. I’m in charge, and I say it’s towel boy or bust!” Beelzebub looked long and hard at Smith, who stubbornly refused to take the hint.

“Not possible,” Smith exclaimed, with as much wounded pride as he could muster. Had Smith not already been dead, Beelzebub’s look at that moment would have done the trick. “Mr. Smith,” he said in a soft yet commanding voice, “I’m sorry you feel that way. Here I’ve offered you a warm welcome and an eternity of pleasures, and yet you repay my kindness by prattling on about yourself. I regret having to do this to you, but off you go then!” And with that Smith suddenly found himself standing before a much more somber sign, one lacking the bright assertiveness of neon or color of any kind; it read simply, “Heaven.” Behind a barrier a handsome young man in a

long flowing robe slowly ran his finger down a list of names. “Ah yes,” the young man said, apparently finding what he was looking for, “Mr. Smith, isn’t it? My name’s St. Peter, welcome to the Gates of Heaven.” “Thank Go… I mean, great! I just had the strangest dream ... But never mind, I see I’m in the right place now.” Smith beamed with joy. “Yes, well, we’ve got your cushion ready. Plant yourself right between Gandhi and St. Francis of Assisi over there. Jesus himself is leading today’s session.” Smith glanced in the direction St. Peter indicated. A cavernous room SPANISH HOURLY HOTEL disclosed a couple by Mitchel Keller photography

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!",$!#$-"6%'/")("&(.7!** Kassidy Hart dozen individuals seated on the floor, legs crossed, hands folded neatly on laps, eyes closed, apparently deep in concentration. Seat cushions vastly outnumbered people. Elevator music played imperceptibly in the background. “Awfully quiet, isn’t it? Is everyone else off doing something more interesting?” Smith mused aloud. “What do you mean?” St. Peter replied. “That is everyone. Heaven is a VERY exclusive place. We only admit the best of the best of the best, you know … or those rare oddballs who get kicked upstairs after upsetting that smarmy Beelzebub’s sensibilities. You’re not one of the latter Mr. Smith, welcome to Hell! by any chance, are you?” inquired St. Peter with a worrisome edge to his voice. This time Smith was paying attention. “Oh, definitely that ‘best of the best’ thing.” “Great! Then join right in. Enjoy the meditation, sir!” St. Peter turned back to his record book. “Um, sorry to interrupt your work, but I do have a question. What do we do after meditation? I mean, there are other activities, right? Personally, I favor more active pastimes, like jogging or hiking.” “Other activities? No, here in Heaven we consider meditation the highest calling. You’re in for a blessed eternity of quiet contemplation. Enjoy!” St. Peter once again bent over his book, clearly indicating that the interview was over. But Smith, having been a lawyer in life, was anything if not persistent (and obtuse). “Seriously, there must be something else to do. Doesn’t anybody ever get bored doing the same thing day in and day out?” St. Peter suddenly slammed shut the book with a deafening thud. “This is Heaven. As I stated before, WE MEDITATE. Nothing more, 20

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nothing less. Our goal is to maintain the purity of spirit that got us here in the first place. ‘Fun’ feeds the ego, which leads to temptations. However, if you really want something different, that can be arranged.” St. Peter smiled at Smith, but not in a friendly way. He snapped his fingers. “Mr. Smith, welcome to Hell!” boomed the now-familiar voice of Beelzebub. “Interested in that drink right about now, perhaps?” “Yes, please,” Smith responded weakly. “And could you please point me in the direction of the pool? I think I’d better start folding some towels before the other guests start complaining.”

Where are you God? I think as I watch the tears roll down my camper’s face. God, are you even listening? I ask, as I too, feel my own tears escape down my cheeks. God, I trusted you! This place celebrated for the presence of the Lord, the feeling “strong and inviting” only offers me deafening coldness and doubt. As I hug my camper tight, I know they will leave tomorrow and return to a room without a bed, a kitchen without food, and a home without a family. I no longer believe in Your miracles I whimper as I sit alone trying to think of a way I can fix all my camper’s problems as the caring camp counselor I was carefully hired to be. Their lives were supposed to be changed for the better! I don’t know what’s worse having a fear that You just might not care or truly believing You are non-existent after all.

CLEAR BLUE by Jessica Pleuss photography

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Jason Latta Rains cause my waters to rise. Crushing tidal pressure as the waves of all my little responsibilities coalesce, putting me at the intersection of their collisions. The email I never sent, the paper I could be drafting, the reading to do, the friend I haven’t called, this I haven’t done, that I haven’t done, I didn’t do, I pushed off, I failedStop. I remind myself to breathe.

So, I stride away, I go into the night filled with no disturbances, except for the crickets I scare silent. I tread with an even tempo, to force my breath to follow, and to make it slow I put some stretch into my gait. Focusing my pace distracts my preoccupation. My castle against the waves, as I go to a place from which I can gaze.

YOU NEED ACTIONS SOMETIMES by Abby Koch graphic design

I survey the sky: a sea of smooth, uninterrupted clouds, a cool breeze to force away the boiling heat within. I relish the silence and the emptiness. The lack of presences producing a lack of pressures. Draining the ocean within of the excess rain water. Slowly returning to the lake it usually is, my lake, a lake as smooth as the sky which has given me harbor.

SPLATTERED BLUES THE GOLDEN FALLS by Grace Russmann

by Tracie Tuttle painting

photography

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Koi Fish by Wanying (Angela) Chen watercolor THE ROUNDHOUSE STORY by Elizabeth Obermeier graphic design

LENNY THE LION by Courtney Klocke mixed media

ECLECTIC ANTIQUE by Devyn Reilly THE MILWAUKEE ROAD

mixed media

by Elizabeth Obermeier photography 24

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BLUE by Rae Clinkenbeard photography

BALANCING ACT by Shelby Prindaville acrylic on pastelbord

HOLD TIGHT by Jessica Pleuss photography

TOUCH OF SPRING by Rachel Steinkamp photography KIOSK20

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Stephanie Divis Sure thing, I say. Let me get these plates cleared, and I’ll grab your check. “No, we don’t want our plates cleared. We want our check, now. We’ve got a bridge game waiting.” You bettcha, coming right up, I say. As I rush through the restaurant, the mingling smells of food nauseate me and so do those old biddies, who I’m sure will only leave me the “token” dollar tip that is so popular with their age group. The hostess dashes by and tells me I just got another table. Damn. This is turning into a shit show. On my way to drop off biddies’ check table twelve says, Um, hey, can we get some extra ranch?” Sure thing, I say. Coming right up. Let me drop off this check and I’ll be right back. I tell the biddies thank you and apologize for the wait. They cut me off mid-sentence. Shake it off. Next table. Hi my name’s Jane, I say with a smile in my voice. Welcome to Sam’s Bar and Grill. Can I start you off with something to drink, something from the bar, an appetizer? Okey dokey then, four waters, one no lemon, one light ice, coming right up. OMG, another water only table as I smile sweetly and say I’ll be right back with those. “We’re ready to order now too. We’re kind of in a hurry. We’ve got a movie time to make.” And, of course, they all special order. No cheese. Extra sauce. Lightly seasoned. You bettcha. The kitchen’s going to love this. As I’m walking, quickly, with my eyes diverted down, and my mind on table twelve’s extra ranch, 28

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Taylor Van Vliet I hear a whiny, “Excuse me, miss. Our server, Trent, seems to have disappeared. Can you check on our order? We’ve been waiting half an hour.” Sure thing, let me grab my table’s drinks and I’ll be glad to. Not glad, I want to scream Well, this is definitely a shit show, again. Trent’s probably in the bathroom vaping, again. And it looks like the kitchen is crashing, again. Half hour tickIT’S NOT ALL BLACK & WHITE et times. Seriously? by Rae Clinkenbeard

“Where the hell is table photography twenty-four’s food?” I hiss at the cooks. They look at me with that stupid-ass duh look. “Um, the food, um, kinda got overcooked. We’re working on it.” Well, that’s Trent’s problem. I inch open the men’s room door and whisper hiss, “Trent?” No answer. A customer approaches and gives me a “what the …?” look. As I turn with the tray of waters, the extra ranch, and a forced smile on my face, I see the side exit and mutter, “Yep. What the … I’m out.” But, no, I continue on. The thought of the hundred dollar tennis shoes my teen wants for his birthday niggles at my brain, so it’s back to the coming right ups, the sure things, the glad tos, the okey dokies, and the you bettchas.

We sat at a picnic table, overlooking the mucky, gray water of Holmes Lake, the nachos sitting ominously in between us. In the sticky August sun, the sour cream melted and swirled with the disturbingly yellow cheese sauce. Slowly, the diced tomatoes and hamburger chunks slid down the soggy chips to the bottom of the cardboard boat. Our spirits, much like the tortilla chips, drooped. A pit of processed cheese and regret settled at the bottom of my stomach. Four plates of nachos in an afternoon was at least three too many. We were just sitting on the couch one early summer day when Tara posed the question, “If we did a food tour, what food would it be?” According to Instagram, a set of sisters from our high school had visited every coffee shop in Lincoln, and Tara was inspired. “Chicken strips?” I suggested, “Or maybe breadsticks?” We contemplated for a moment. “What about nachos?” Yes. Nachos. We broke into hysterical laughter, naming all our favorite nacho locations. I thought we were still speaking in hypotheticals, but Tara had latched on to the idea. “Okay, but actually though,” she pleaded, “We have to do this.” Our mom, a witness to this conversation, thought we had lost our minds, but Tara was already adding Nacho Tour to the 2018 Summer List, sealing our fate. Any activity that gets added to the List must be completed. Those are the rules. Besides, this was definitely not the first time, nor would it be the last, that a joke had evolved into reality. A nacho tour would just be another bullet point on our lengthy list of dumbassery. Other top moments would eventually include getting matching tattoos inspired by The Office, making homemade burritos with frozen chicken nuggets, and baking a cake from scratch for our parents’ anniversary, only to accidentally create physics-defying

frosting that melted faster when placed in the refrigerator. We were no strangers to using irony as a means to justify stupidity. The days of summer were passing quickly, and Nacho Tour was still on the List. With more effort than either of us had ever put into a school assignment, we found a date neither of us were working and began choosing nacho establishments. To truly gain a perspective on Lincoln’s nacho scene, restaurants of all vibes and price points needed to be included. We decided that Granite City, with its cloth napkin wrapped silverware, would be our fine dining experience, and Brewsky’s, a local We were no strangers to using sports bar, would irony as a means to justify be our blue-collar stupidity. plate. No nacho experience would be complete without a visit to the fast food empire, Taco Bell. Lastly, we decided to top off our nacho-filled afternoon with cinnamon chips from Amigos. Through allthis planning, I don’t think either of us considered how ill we would feel after it was over. Friday, August 10th, 2018, we set out on our adventure. First stop; Granite City. We laughed nervously as we rolled into the parking lot in Pascal, our 2002 Honda Accord, named for its dark green peeling paint and overall lizard-like appearance. “Just two?” the hostess asked as we entered the lobby. “Yes,” we answered in unison. She led us to a high top, placing two menus and two sets of silverware on the table as we sat on the studlined leather chairs. As it was only 11:30, the lunch rush was only just beginning. The quiet hum of patrons’ conversations was broken only by the cutlery clattering against the ceramic plates and the glasses clanking behind the bar. Most of the other diners were business men and women, clad in pristinely ironed button-down KIOSK20

shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to avoid any mishaps. In our shorts, Goodwill T-shirts, and worn Birkenstocks, we were misfits. Soon after we were seated, our waiter approached the table. “Hi ladies, my name is Taylor and I’ll be your server today. What can I get for you?” Tara asked for a Dr. Pepper, and I a glass of water. He was just about to turn around and head towards the kitchen when I stopped him. “Actually, we’re ready to order our food. We’d just like to share a plate of the Idaho nachos.” For just a moment, his customer STOLE MY CAR RADIO service smile cracked, and annoyby Jessie Eighmy ance flickered across Taylor’s face. photography

“Just the nachos? Would you like any other appetizers or entrees?” “Nope, just the nachos. Thanks,” we said, handing back the unopened menus. “Of course, I’ll have those out in just a moment,” he sighed. I’m sure he rolled his eyes as he walked past the glass partition behind us. If only he had known his role in our antics. We waited anxiously for his return. Finally, he came back carrying a large white dish piled with the cheesy, and apparently controversial, carbs. A foundation of waffle fries, instead of tortilla chips, supported the pile of toppings. Cheese and bacon crumbles had settled into the cracks and fissures of the crispy potatoes, and specks of green onion added life

to the otherwise warm-toned dish. We posted a photo of the fry-based nachos to Tara’s Instagram story, where we were documenting all of Nacho Tour, only to receive near immediate criticism from one of our friends. “Those aren’t nachos. Those are cheese fries,” our friend replied. We, however, as advocates for nacho diversity, argued that the cheese topping and the shape of the waffle fry, which mimics the traditional flat tortilla chip, verified this dish’s status as a nacho. Besides, who benefits from creating such rigid labels and categories for our meals? In the end, snack xenophobia only limits us. Ignoring the exclusion, Tara and I devoured every last bit. Perhaps the controversy made these nachos even more enjoyable; each delicious bite of fry and cheese confirmed our belief that this dish was the ideal way to begin this tour. Though we left Granite City feeling optimistic, having conquered our first plate, our stomachs were not as pleased. In the parking lot, the Nebraska sun created a steamy haze across the black asphalt. “I don’t know if this is a problem, but I already feel like garbage,” I complained. Tara agreed, “Yeah, this quantity of dairy in this heat is not looking cute.” Still, we were only ¼ complete with Nacho Tour, and we were raised to persevere through all trials. So we climbed into Pascal and journeyed to our next destination, Brewsky’s. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by the “Seat Yourself” sign, and we made ourselves comfortable at a table with cracked vinyl chairs. In the suspiciously dark lighting, the flashing TV images reflected off the laminate, wood-patterned table top. This time, we faced much less judgement from the waitress when we asked for just an order of the chicken nachos. Still, we were not prepared for the monstrosity that would soon arrive at our table. The waitress set in front of us an enormous pile of chips, the toppings

buried under zig-zagged stripes of sour cream. This sour cream, which we first thought to be a blessing, would soon become our biggest enemy. At first, we enthusiastically consumed the perimeter of the nachos, a blissful blend of gooey cheese and crispy chip. The tomatoes and chicken added a well appreciated, lively flair to the richness. Soon, however, we reached the inner layers, and our excitement waned. In the core of the chip stack, the dairy-drenched chips, much like us, were overwhelmed by the weight of toppings. Each bite was sadder and soggier than the last; it was almost too overwhelming to endure. Almost. “Why can’t I stop eating these?” Tara asked, a chip sagging in her hand, “they are so good, but I feel like I’m going to die.” I looked down at my plate, the cheese starting to congeal, “Dying while eating nachos. Sounds about right for us.” Regret followed us outside. Recovering, we sat in the painfully sweltering vehicle. “You want to go to Target?” I suggested. Relief passed over Tara’s face. “Yes, please.” As we had countless times before, we sought sanctuary in the red bullseye. Still in the spirit of the tour, Tara purchased a pair of piñata patterned socks. We lingered at Target as long as we could, but we still had two more stops. Next up, Taco Bell. We pulled up to the drive thru kiosk, and I squinted at the aggressively bright menu board. A voice crackled through the speaker, “Hi, welcome to Taco Bell. What can I get for you today?” I whispered over to Tara in the passenger seat, “Which do we want, the Nachos Bellgrande or the Nachos Supreme?” “Whatever is cheaper. It’s all going to be bad.” KIOSK20

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!"7/($)%:9"04"!)4"('/$-")!.$9"6(1,#"*'%,,"&(.01*' Alexi Malatare I turned back to the speaker. “Just one order of the Nachos Supreme, please.” At the window, he handed us a concerningly greasy paper bag, and we took Nacho #3

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to the park nearby. Nothing felt more pitiful than eating nachos under the fluorescent Taco Bell lobby lighting at 3pm. Even we had our limits. The Nachos Supreme were supremely disappointing. Everything was so soaked in sour cream we were forced to use the plastic utensils they so generously included in the bag. I could only handle a few bites before my stomach began protesting. Setting down her fork, Tara looked over at two squirrels chasing each other up a tree trunk. “Do you think they want some?” she asked. “Absolutely not.” The squirrels ran away on cue, and we laid the leftovers to rest in the park dumpster and got in the car. As we approached Amigos, our

by Makaelyn Glienke photography

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final nacho stop, we knew the finish line was in sight. I ordered two bags of Crispos, and we settled under the shade of an umbrella covered table. These cinnamon-sugar dusted tortilla chips were a sweet relief from all the dairy. As we munched on the chips, we posted on the Instagram story four truths we learned during Nacho Tour. 1. Sour cream is nasty. 2. The middle of the nacho is the best and the worst. 3. Fries as the base of the nacho is controversial. 4. Most importantly, don’t let your jokes become reality, because you end up thirty dollars down with a good story but a sick stomach. Ultimately, however, we did not really listen to our own advice. While we both now have mild cases of nachophobia, and the sight of sour cream still makes me shudder, “jokes becoming reality” is still the key to our branding. If Nacho Tour proved anything, it’s that all activities, even drowning your digestive system with dairy, can be justified with irony and dumbassery, especially by two sisters who will never turn down an opportunity for a snack.

My mother is a phoenix. In the time preceding her divorce she was slowly desecrating. Pieces of her loving personality would flake off and expose her inner anger. She became the type of woman who could break someone with well-timed words, and the person she chose to break was me, as it is hard to see someone younger and successful when you yourself are stuck. A loveless marriage, a lifeless existence, and a hatred of one&#39;s self chipping away what’s left of a good heart. I was 14 when my mother told everyone who would listen that I was going to fail at everything I would try to do in life. Nonchalantly smoking a cigarette on our porch as she dropped my heart, along with her cigarette butt, into the trash. The full fall to ash took about four years after she took her anger out on me that day. My father took flight, never to return. He saw the opportunity to soar to a place that would warm his heart. Three years following his departure, my mother continued to wither away. She starved, smoked, and folded herself away to nothing. The smoldering remains of what used to be. From the ash she continues to pick off the good from those who love her, building up to a slow rebirth. I can feel myself grow cold as she kindles her rebirth. I feel that it is a never-ending cycle.

SYMMETRY IN MILK by Anna Uehling photography

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Kassidy Hart 1965

Customer glaring, I did not hear his order. Just nod and smile.

EYE CRACKED UP by Tracie Tuttle intaglio print

“Stop bleeding,” he says, as if the pain is my fault. His love holds the knife.

FLORAL BEAUTY by Rachel Steinkamp photography

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The children are swinging on the backporch glider. For once, not bickering “he won’t stop looking at me” or whining “she’s being mean to my Johnny West.” Through the screen door, refrains of Itsy-Bitsy Spider drift in. Looking out the window while I’m whipping instant chocolate pudding into creamy peaks, I find my thoughts going back to when I was younger when my mother made me “real” pudding. I still remember the recipe and, of course, the top layer of the skin that formed because she never covered it with Saran Wrap while it cooled. I use the instant, though, because it’s a busy mother’s best friend. The children prefer the homemade pudding my mother makes them, serving it warm with cold milk, but, oh well; instant is quicker. I wish there was an instant Yorkshire pudding and roast beef. Earlier this week, Jim requested that for dinner. If I had time, he said. He really has no concept of what it takes to run a household with two children. Yorkshire pudding. Don’t know why he can’t just be happy with crockpot roast and potatoes. But his mother made Yorkshire Pudding and oven roast for them every Sunday. I say a silent prayer that she passed before I met Jim. I can’t even live up to her memory; I can’t imagine living up to her if she were still here. Pulling myself back to present time, I scoop the pudding into bowls and deliver their afternoon snack. They sing their praises. “We love chocolate pudding. We love swinging, swinging. We love singing, singing. We love mommy, mommy.” I tell them I love them too and turn around, eyeballing the line-dried clothes with a sigh. Today has been one battle after another. I had to call the plumber because Julie decided to flush an apple core. Jimmy can’t leave Julie’s Barbies alone; he says his Johnny West needs a wife. Julie won’t stop criticizing Johnny West, though, because he

doesn’t have a white horse, so of course, Barbie won’t marry Johnny. Jimmy’s been whining all morning about wanting a white horse for Johnny West, even though his birthday has just passed. “Itsy bitsy spider goes up the waterspout. Down comes the rain …”. I hear a giggle from my daughter and then my son screams, “Mommy!” I glance back at them and see a blob of chocolate that looks like a large leach on my son’s cheek. I gasp and then shriek, “Why, why would you do that? Go, Get. To your rooms. They try to argue with me, but I just yell louder, “Get. Just get. I’ve had enough of you two. AND no more pudding for you, Julie. Ever.” Julie burst into tears, wailing, “I know you love Jimmy more than me.” Jimmy just stomps into the house, wiping pudding off his cheek and licking it off his wrist. I am more than frustrated, but keep my mouth sealed. I will not go there with her again. Always whining that I love Jimmy more. Damn kids. Those damn kids. I should have never been a mother. I didn’t sign up for this crap when I made that decision. I just wanted a sweet baby to cuddle. Not these whining, fighting, never happy little terrors. I follow them into the house, ignoring their reasoning why they should not be sent to their rooms. “Go. Still no sounds from the Just get. You’ll stay in children’s bedroom. there until your father gets home.” This, of course, brings on another round of wails and tears, but I march them to their rooms and tell them to just shut up for once. Back in the kitchen, I look at the lunch and snack dishes. I look out at the laundry hanging on the line. I sigh and open the underthe-sink cabinet door, reaching around the cleaning supplies, and pull out the bottle of KIOSK20

vodka, take a pull, and another, and a third. Thank God for liquor. I go to my room and get a blanket and pillow, come back out, turn on the TV loud, and lie down on the couch. The drone of General Hospital helps drown out the sniveling coming from REPEATEDLY, EVENTUALLY, ARRIVING the bedrooms. My eyes by Tani Russell start getting heavy; the

inside of his left arm. He says this helped him, and all the sailors, safely find their way home. Then in my dream, Mama is singing the sentimental journey song, “I’ll be waiting up for heaven. Counting every mile of railroad track -- that moves me back,” but I know she is really singing for Daddy, who is gone in heaven. Mama continues singing, “Jonah in the whale,

images on TV are blurry; I’m so tired. In my dream I’m back in 1949, and I’m seven years old. My dad just home from fighting in the big war. I’m in my nightgown, cuddling with him after my apple and peanut butter snack. I lay my head on the right side of his chest where the bird with my name is forever inked, and I pat the bird on the left side where my mama’s name laid claim to her bird. He says they are the swallow birds that kept him safe on his big ship. I kiss the star on the

Noah in the ark. What did they do just when everything looked so dark? Man, they said ‘We’d better accentuate the positive. Eliminate the negative. And latch on to the affirmative.’” I wake with a start, confused. The person and time are wrong. Mama didn’t sing the positive song. Auntie did. My mind comes to the present with the TV blaring: Mr. Whipple the supermarket manager scolding me to not squeeze the Charmin. I hear no sounds from the children’s bedroom. I swing my legs off

Cyanotype prints, watercolor, on canvas

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the couch, my feet connecting with the shag carpet, go to stand up, and then my face is in the carpet. I touch my rug burned cheekbone, shake my head, and push myself into a sitting position. Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon singing the “Action” song on the TV brought me fully alert; this meant it was 4:30 or so. Damn, I napped for an hour and a half. Still, no sounds from the children’s bedroom. I pull myself up and shuffle down the hall, head pounding, heart racing, thoughts zipping. What if they’re gone? I couldn’t live with myself if something happened. What if they got kidnapped? Like Charles Lindbergh’s little Charles Jr. who was taken from his crib: the story my mom always scared me with when she wanted me to stick close to her in the store. What will I tell Jim? I should not have drunk that vodka. They just had made me so mad. The kitchen phone rings, but I ignore it and open my daughter’s door. I feel a punch in my gut. She’s not in here. I rush to my son’s room; they’re not there either. The phone had stopped ringing but now started trilling again, drilling into my sore head and cheek, making my eyes hurt. With clenched teeth, I rush to the phone. “Hel … hello?’ “Do you know where your kids are?” I just about drop the phone but realize it’s my mother’s voice. “I’ve been calling you on and off. For over an hour. The kids came up here, wanting pudding. Said you was sleeping.” I hear the sounds of her favorite show, Match Game, so I know what’s coming next and mouth the words as she says them. “I ain’t got no time for this right now.” She goes on to tell me how tired she is from work and how she just needs to sit, relax, and watch her show. How she didn’t want to make the kids homemade pudding, but since she didn’t have any boxed pudding, and I spoiled those kids rotten, she had to so they

would shut their mouths and let her watch her show. “So? Why didn’t you answer? You drinkin’ again? I thought you going getting the cure would stop that.” I thought back to the month I spent in rehab and shudder. “No! Of course, I’m not.” I take a peek at my cheek in the mirror by the back door, wondering how I’ll explain the slight rug burn to Jim. “I can’t believe those kids. I can’t, just can’t, believe they’d sneak out of here and go ask you for pudding when they were grounded to their rooms because-” “I don’t want to hear it. I’m sending them home now. You better not be drinking again. You know he said he’d leave you if you did.” I stand there with the sound of the empty phone line droning in my ear. I place the phone receiver in its base. I’ve got about three minutes until the kids get here. I open the under-the-sink cabinet door, reaching around the cleaning supplies, and pull out the bottle of vodka, take a pull, and another, and a third. Thank God for liquor. I won’t take a fourth, though, so I can keep my wits about me. I look at the clock. 5:00. Jim won’t be home for another hour. I take another pull of the bottle, hiding it under the sink again, and go back to lie down on the couch, telling the kids they can watch TV until their Daddy comes home.

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Karlie Reagan The bus buzzes lightly with noise and chatter, the sun shining hotly through the window, and the AC too cold on our faces. We wait patiently for the rest of the party to return. It has been a long day for me, sitting in the heat. I have watched him cautiously, knowing that a second too long would suggest something other than the interest I had. Blue-eyed and gentle, I pictured him walking on the bus and pushing by me. “Hello,” I would say. “You looked good out there today.” And I could feel the blush on my cheeks, my nose, even just thinking of speaking to him. “Thanks,” He’d answer and then, oh, that smile. That smile of joy and straight teeth, caused by me. Caused by me talking to him, by his seeing me. Anxiously I wait, ignoring the loudness of the bus, thoughts buzzing like angry bees while he and the others slowly climb aboard, tall and confident. I’m going to do it this time,

Kassidy Hart I tell myself. All you have to do is smile and say hello. And the girls beside me are smiling in anticipation for they know, too, how badly I’ve wanted this. They know any second, as he comes closer and closer, that I will fall or rise to the occasion at hand. And he’s here now, sweetly in front of me and the plan surges forward like a wave in my chest. The words are flipping at the tip of my mouth: Hello, great job, hello, hello. But just when they’re about to spill forth, my throat is blocked by a knot of what-ifs. What if he doesn’t like me? What if things go wrong? The blush burns angrily instead of prettily as he keeps walking by me. The girls wilt with disappointment and I hang my head. He’s sitting in the back row and now, my chance is gone.

The moment I turned eighteen, I dropped out of high school and bought a dirt brown 1990 Chevrolet Chevy Van. This wasn’t exactly the life path my foster family dreamed up for me, but we all knew it was better than ending up in jail. They helped me fix up the van: taking out the back row of bus-like seats, adding a mattress that was firm

RAINING REFLECTION by Jessie Eighmy photography

ANTICIPATION by Lesley Valerio Chairez

and not covered with stains, putting in carpet that didn’t smell like puke, and replacing the dinosaur of an engine with one that could get me farther than the corner store. On top of all that, they also gave me some spending money for food and gas. I had only moved in with them a few

photography

months ago but they seemed to want to support me. I liked them. This was rare and unlike the fifteen other families I had been with throughout the last twelve years of being in the system. Physically, I didn’t fit into their picture- perfect family. My long, curly blonde hair and light tan skin contradicted their black, pin-straight locks and deep blue eyes. Despite this, they made me feel safe when they were around. They accepted me, broken, and never expected me to just be better. I knew they were aware that I was a flightrisk. I’ve heard them talk about my need to find my own way in this world and leave my traumatic past behind. So, I knew they wouldn’t fight me on leaving. I always looked forward to getting out New York, but as the day neared, I began to feel a bit of regret. I cared for this family. If they would’ve asked me to stay, I would have in a heartbeat. But they didn’t ask. And I didn’t mention it because that wasn’t where I belonged. KIOSK20

Once the van was ready, I said my goodbyes. Once I was gone, I couldn’t look back or else I was scared I’d feel something more than pain for this town. I wasn’t quite sure of where I’d end up, but my heart was pulling me toward Florida for now. I had to see my sister. We were so close when we were young, protecting each other through everything, but she left for college three years ago and I hadn’t seen her since. I began driving, making short stops to see the cities that were barely out of arms reach as I grew up. I saw the large, stainless steel skyscrapers of the Big Apple that I thought only existed in movies. I walked the East Coast’s rocky beaches that sat beside freezing cold waters. I ate out of food trucks that smelled like taco grease and beer. In only two short weeks, I was knocking on the door of a bright yellow apartment building. “Chris! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed as she ran out, barefoot, to embrace me in a giant bear hug. “I had to come see you. See the place that you seem to love so much.” Her skin was a dark olive pigment, making me believe she lived in the sun. Her hair was like milk chocolate with bright blue and pink highlights that were revealed only when she swung her head back and forth. Her curls were abundant and convinced me I remember yearning to break out, she was meant to run away, to escape. for island life, which confused me a lot because as long as I could remember, her hair was pin straight. She just looked happy. “Oh, ha, well. Here it is,” She continued. “Not much, but it’ll suffice. The school has really helped me, finding me a great externship that pays great and comes with housing. They must like Marine Biology majors... Enough about me. Sweet ride you got, little brother!” Brittney threw on her shoes and ushered me towards the bright, sunny campus. She was 40

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excited to give me an exclusive tour, pointing out every building that held at least one of her classes. We finally we made it to the school’s nature conservation center, which was built halfway over the ocean. This was the building she spent most of her time in, the reason she was in love with what she studied. We sat on a small wooden bench that faced the building and she began sharing with me some of her favorite memories of rescuing animals. After she ran out of stories, we sat in silence. When the silence became deafening, Brittney suggested we go to small diner that was right down the street. On the way I tried to get her to talk about everything else that has happened these last three years. She easily fell for it when I acted interested in her love life, unnecessarily describing this basketball player she was head over heels for. Inevitably though, the conversation came to a lull and she brought up my plans. “For what?” I ask, chomping down on the last bite of my gluten-free, dairy-free, lowcarb, no sugar vegetarian pizza with tofu (I would have much rather preferred a piece of greasy, Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza.) “For… life, I guess.” “Well, I don’t really know. I don’t want to waste my time in school though.” “So, you’re just gonna ride around in that van?” “I mean, yeah, that’s what I was thinking for now, I guess.” She scoffed under her breath then grinned. “What’s so funny?” “Nothing, I just always knew you wanted to see the world. It’s the classic tale of the caged bird becoming free, flying away.” I remained quiet, thinking back to the dog cage I spent so many nights sleeping in as a child. It was a punishment style my step-father embraced and my mother was too frightened to fight against it. I remember yearning to break

out, to run away, to escape. To just keep running, never looking back. Finally breaking the silence, Brittney told me she had to get back home to finish a research paper. I asked for good places to park my van and she said she could buy me an extra parking permit so I could stay in Florida at her campus until I figured out where I was going next. It took me a while to leave Florida. My whole point of leaving New York was to experience the world, of seeing the Golden Gate Bridge and the vast golden cornfields I read about in textbooks. Maybe, one day, I’d get to see the romantic Eiffel Tour and eat authentic Italian pasta. But, in this moment, I just couldn’t find the strength to leave my sister, my blood. I loved her and felt protected by her, even if I only actually saw her three times a week. After six months, she asked to meet me back at the vegetarian pizza place. “Chris, I know it’s hard, but you need to go.” “Woah. Good morning to you, too.” “I’m sorry, but there’s no easy way around it.” “You want me to leave?” “I just think you need to get out. Go out into the world. Find an adventure. Look for the unlikely. Start moving, at least. Because as long as you stay here, you’re stuck.” She was right. Like always. But I didn’t know where I would go. Over the next week, I started thinking about it, looking up routes to drive. Then, I got a call. “Uh…hello?” I answer the phone nervously, my palms sweaty and shaking. “Is this Christopher Lundgren?” “Yes, that’s me.” “Mr. Lundgren, this is Colleen from Binghamton Rehabilitation and Care Center. You have no idea how hard it was to find your contact information. Your mother checked herself out about a week ago but didn’t leave a number that we could use to touch base with her. We were wondering if you had heard from her?” “Oh, uh, no I haven’t heard from her.”

I didn’t know what else to say. After all these years, and everything she put me and Brittney through, I didn’t think I wanted to see her, let alone hear from her. Did she even have anything worth saying? “Alright. We knew it was a long shot, but it doesn’t hurt to try.” “Do you know where she went?” “I couldn’t disclose that information even if I did, but I can tell you who picked her up, if you care to know.” “Yes, please.” A rustling of papers. “It looks like… a man named Justin L. signed her driver consent forms. There’s no last name.” “That’s okay, thank you.” Justin L. Also known as Justin Lundgren. My father. Oh my god. The phone call ended, and my head was spinning. My dad picked up my mom from rehab. Out of nowhere. He knew she was in rehab all this time. He had to have known Brittney and I were in foster care all these years. This was way too much information for one call. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t even sure if my parents were alive, and come to find out they’re together. I did a quick search on Google to see if I could find out where he lived. I needed answers and I couldn’t wait. Maybe this was the unlikely adventure that I needed. North Carolina. That’s all I could find out. It would be back tracking, and so broad I might not be able to find them, but I had to try. It didn’t take me long to get to the state, but I didn’t know which city he and my mother would be in, so I started on the far West side and began asking around. I’d stay in the cities for a few days, to make sure I checked every business at least twice before leaving to go to KIOSK20

the next one. “Do you know a man named Justin Lundgren?” “Has a man named Justin Lundgren came through here recently?” I easily began losing hope through this tedious process. I had a fake I.D. I had purchased a year or two back when one of my friends convinced me I looked old enough to pass for twenty-one. So, I figured I’d put it to use and began bar-hopping. First, it was just to ask about my parents, but then it was to ease my nerves. I drank beers, shots of vodka, whiskey, rum, and more. Anything to forget that my parents didn’t want me. Not now. Not ever. The night I was in Durham, I was shit-faced and felt more alone than ever. I met a guy who said he was going back to his apartment to smoke, inviting me to tag along. I didn’t think I’d find my dad tonight, so I CUL-DE-SACS AND WEDDING GUESTS by Riley Custer monotype

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said fuck it and ended up at this random guy’s house. I knew I wasn’t in my element, especially because all these people around me were strangers. But they all seemed to be having a good time, no one worried about anything. After what felt like a few hours, I tapped on a girl’s shoulder to ask her for the day and

the time. She looked down at her phone. “August twenty-second, two thirty a.m.” “No way it’s August twenty-second.” “Yeah huh. Look,” she said, showing me her phone. “Oh shit, dude, it’s my birthday,” I said squinting and turning away from the brightly lit screen. “Well, in that case, bottoms up!” she said, proceeding to shotgun a whole Budlight. I grabbed my keys out and started to make my way to the door. It felt like I was trapped in one of those games where the pathway just keeps getting longer and longer. I could barely see straight, holding onto random people as I made my way to the door. The guy who invited me must’ve caught me trying to escape because the next thing I knew everyone was gone, and I was lying on a couch with my coat and shoes on. My keys were nowhere in site. I woke up to a large crash. Barely being able to open my eyes, the sun peered through the shattered tinted window. I started to sit up but was stopped by a gun in my face. A man with a ski mask made intense eye contact on me. “Give me your wallet!” My head was pounding. I was panicking, patting for my wallet. Where did I last have it? “Hurry up, you piece of shit!” “I can’t… I… don’t know where…” A door swung open. I’m not sure who it was, or what happened after that, because I heard a blaring gunshot, and everything went pitch black. It’s quite ironic, actually. Dying only a few hours into my nineteenth birthday while I was on my way to find my parents together and sober. I never thought in a million years I would live to see my nineteenth birthday or the day that my family seemed even a little bit put together. I waited so long for this all to happen, for pieces to fall into place, and now I didn’t

get to see it all happen for myself. I didn’t get to experience the happiness. It only makes sense, I guess. Birds stuck in cages don’t get to just freely fly out into the great abyss to find adventure waiting for them. The great abyss is shit. There’s eventually a stopping point where the atmosphere changes and birds can no longer obtain oxygen. Not even the world wants caged birds to fly free and happy.

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Madelynn Stoffle

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nothing numb insomniac cold tired foggy ‘click’ Fury. Fuming. Fighting. Punching. Smacking. Scratching. Screaming. Cursing. ‘click’ My sobs echo with each painful recollection. I choke my wicked throat, I pinch and twist, and pull reenacting their pain ‘click’ no, no please tell me It didn’t no, please no It happened again I tried so hard not to let it happen but I can tell. It’s in the way they carefully smile, softly whisper, and their fearful touches, and cautious eyes Everything a haze It begins before I notice, Somedays are better many are worse. I feel as though I am a flickering light bright and beautiful one second, but then

Stephanie Divis drowning despair but the worst is the anger My head in a frenzy I fight it I try to keep it inside No matter what it boils over. I lose complete control. I scream and scream trying to shake myself awake but alas nothing works. Nothing stops it The cycle repeats and repeats. On days like today the good shines through regardless. I feel good and I am happy truly happy and ‘click’

Daddy! I’m a dad! “It’s a Boy” cigars. Drinks flow. DUI.

ONCE IN A LIFETIME by Toryn Kelly oil on canvas paper

THE ORWELLIAN TRUTH by Abby Koch mixed media

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'/$".!)"6/("/!)#$#".$"/%*"6!'$Merel Kooij I eagerly looked out the window while the wheels of the plane were ready to kiss the ground and celebrate another safe flight around the world. I felt ready. Ready to leave the plane and thereby enter one of the most interesting countries on earth. My first step in India was confident and full of curiosity. I started this journey with my eyes wide open and without any mental carefulness. Before I could consciously realize, India had already swallowed me up like a pill. My trip through India began in Delhi, the second most populated city in the world. With my head still full of western thoughts and concerns, I wandered through the streets of this overwhelming city. The more steps I took, the more sweat rolled down my body, I felt as if my brain was putting every part of me in perspective. What are my little luxury issues in life worth if people here do not even know if they will be able to feed their children? India overstimulated all my senses. It was not only the 104 degrees with the sun covered in grey clouds, the highest humidity and the very intruding smell that hit me, but there was also no way to escape reality. Covering my ears did not stop the continuous horn sound vehicles made while trying to plow through the unorganized traffic. Pinching my nose shut did not help me to ignore the smell of stench from garbage and urine, mixed with strong aromas of spices and incense. And most importantly closing my eyes did not help me forget the images burned onto my retinas. It felt as if I had entered a new world Most vividly I remember a little boy sitting in the middle of the street. He was naked, thinned and all alone. He tried to keep his head up to show he was still full of hope, but he failed miserably. What affected me most was the way traffic went around this little boy as if it was their usual business to deal with. 46

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And maybe that was what I realized that day; it is their everyday business. Although India is developing really fast, it is still one of the poorest countries where a majority of the people have no future other than finding a meal for tomorrow. This was not my idea of exploring the world; this was a slap in the face. I wondered if there was a bright side in this country where the sun did not seem to shine. My whole life I had been able to take basic needs such as food and shelter for granted which enabled me to experience and to develop myself spiritually. However, the little boy I saw in the middle of the street will never be able to do so as long as his only priority is providing these basic needs. This realization made me question whether it is a western privilege that enables me to try to achieve a state of happiness. When travelling this Eastern world, I already had learned the hard way that entering an Indian city unprepared would affect me and my western-raised mind drastically. Now this time I protected myself against being swallowed up once again by reading The Lonely Planet, a travel guide that provides information about the city and its culture, in advance. I got off the train much more careful than before and I was ready to close my eyes if needed. I had arrived in one of the oldest cities in the world and the religious capital of India, Varanasi. If life is a journey and every step taken represents a lesson, my journey started as soon as I got off the train. The destination of this journey was the holy Ganges. To get closer to this river, I walked through narrow alleys full of people, all dressed in orange and walking in the same direction. Even though the maximum capacity of people fitting in these small streets was well exceeded, no one pushed one another or tried to walk faster than what the average pace was. The little boy on his mother’s hand, the young beautiful woman all by herself, the

old man and the woman who missed a leg were all constantly adjusting to each other’s pace. I saw how during this journey, made by a population of united people, terms such as old, poor, rich, weak and wise were made meaningless by the color orange. It felt as if I had entered another world, a place where energy was released by solidarity rather than the individual approach of life in the hectic, big streets of the cities. A place where I had faith that happiness can be found. Being a part of this crowd made me feel even smaller than the little streets I was in. Overwhelmed, but still full of self-esteem, I peacefully walked on. Suddenly, I was brought back to reality by six men screaming while finding their fastest way possible through the crowd. While they passed me, their eyes revealed a mix of emotions. These men were determined, powerful, and angry. On their shoulders they carried a body covered in an orange dress and decorated with flowers. Without even questioning the situation I walked on until I eventually reached the most religious spot for Hindi, which also happened to be the most contaminated river in the world. From a distance the Ganges did not seem anything more than brown water contrasted by people wearing orange washing themselves. To get to the river I had to walk down steps, also called ghats, to reach the waterfront. The people I shared this journey with consisted of Hindi who were walking to the ghats to wash themselves in the holy river as their everyday ritual. When the old lady in front of me arrived at the ghats, I re-

alized it was too late to turn around. Each step I took brought me closer to what is the source of hope for so many people. A river that consistently allows and reminds people to have faith in their lives. To keep dedicating their minds to this higher power and to never lose their faith no matter what situation they find themselves.

ANCESTRAL KNOWLEDGE by Tani Russell I realized that happiness does encaustic, oil paint, metal, on wood not discriminate; it can be achieved everywhere and by everyone who is willing to have faith. Once I reached the waterfront the smell of smoke intruded on my sense of smell. All the admiration and unicity I had felt before sank to the bottom of the river when I saw the fires. I caught the eyes of someone I had seen before, eyes that expressed determination and power. It was one of the six men who earlier passed me by on my way to the river. The man was washing the body covered in orange cloths KIOSK20

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'/$"&()<$-*%()"(+">?@A Stephen Coyne and decorated with flowers. Behind him on the riverfront lay four similar bodies which were ready to be thrown into one of the fires as soon as they dried up. I do not know how long I stood there watching the bodies feeding the fires. It was as if I was not really there; I did not feel the warm tears rolling down my face and I did not feel the smoke I breathed in. As I became one with my absurd surroundings, I started witnessing rather than I was BETWEEN SEASONS consciously thinking. The only thing by Melissa Gillette I was aware of was my presence in mixed media that moment. This place where the death was so real made me experience how pure it feels to be alive. Suddenly I understood why this river is the hope of so many people: this river is the symbol of life. The Ganges does not exclude, yet it offers people a lifelong guarantee of being embraced by its warm water. Water that consists of everything living people decide to wash off and eventually of what they leave behind when it is time for their minds to escape their bodies. After I left the ghats to settle 48

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down in one of the narrow aisles, I leaned on a stall that sold bottles of water. The man who owned the stall touched my shoulder to get my attention. Long hair was growing out of his eyebrows, his lips looked cracked and his clothes hung widely around his body. Suspiciously, I looked at him wondering what he wanted from me. However, the man did not want anything. On the contrary, he showed me what happiness is when he handed me a free bottle of his water. As I tasted the water several thoughts flashed through my mind. My first image was one of the dehydrated boy, laying on the street, begging with all of his ability to get some water. In the background I could still hear the people splashing the holy water of their river. This man, who does not have anything more than a stall to sell water, was able to give me something so valuable without wanting anything in return. This small act of kindness taught me more in five seconds than what others wish to learn in years. Happiness is achieved when you are not scared to believe. The Hindi who are not scared to put their faith in a river and are not scared to believe in following their everyday ritual. The man who trusts the fire to be the best place for his loved one who has passed away. As well as the man who gave me the water bottle because he believed it was the right thing to do. Those people know what the true value of happiness is really about. Believing in something without being scared to lose what you have, that is what will make you happy in life.

When my sole came loose on a street in New York and began slapping the sidewalk like Bozo, Clarabelle, Chaplin, my flat-topped friends stood off. We had ditched school, piled into the Chevy, and driven across Jersey to NYC for the day. But now they were gone, drifting up the sidewalk while I fished in trash cans along the curb until I caught shiny wire from a dead bouquet and wound it around to bind my sad sole. I tried to catch my friends again, but I was a boy limping along like a bum, and I lost them in the press of St. Mark’s Place, where I hobbled, weird in my wired shoe, and no one asked me for change, and no prostitutes wanted a date. It was if I had dropped through some grate in the world. That’s when a long-hair sitting on the sidewalk gave me the victory sign. “Hey silver-shoe,” he cooed, “that is completely cool.”

DREAMING OF VINTAGE by Devyn Reilly mixed media collage

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BOTANIST by Rachel Steinkamp photography

OREGON A COUPLE by Wanying (Angela) Chen photography

DEER JUMP by Iandra Estupinian photography 50

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CAMELFLAGE by Shelby Prindaville acrylic on brasswood panel

BATU CAVES by Jessica Pleuss photography

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CHANGE THE DIAL by Abby Koch graphic design

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OVERLOOKING THE LAND by Melissa Gillete photography

DEEP SEA by Elise O’Regan graphite

DINOSAUR by Elizabeth Obermeier graphic design

TRAIN STREET 54

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by Mitchel Keller photography

JUST A GARLIC by Tracie Tuttle oil painting

SPOOKY SZN by Riley Custer intaglio print

Bark. Locke and Key. Tooth by Riley Custer mixed media

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#$*'%)4 Eric Knell

Two distant souls weary from the dance take their seats to watch dreams brush by as a sea of coupled hearts teeming with passion swells between them both longing, both hoping, both praying for that one moment when the sea will divide and unite their lonely eyes as they take the floor to embrace one another granting His wish.

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“We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.” Toni Morrison

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,%'$-!'1-$ Brandon Boesch is assistant professor of philosophy at Morningside who studies philosophy of science and ethics. He also enjoys playing piano, running, and being with his wife and son.

Jason Latta, a Computer Science senior, is intrigued by language. When I had the opportunity to take a poetry class last semester, I got the chance to try something new and fun.

Iandra Estupinian is from Santa Ana, California and currently a junior. She’s majoring in Corporate Communication with minors in Photography and Advertising and she’s a movie fanatic!

Jessica Pleuss is an Associate Professor at Morningside. When she isn’t busy teaching, you can usually find her trying to keep up with her kids, and taking some photos in the process.

Stephen Coyne taught American literature and creative writing at Morningside College for thirty years. He is past faculty adviser for Kiosk and proud to be included in its pages.

Alexi Malatare, to write drunk and edit sober, was the best advice she could have ever gotten as a scared freshman. Thank you Dr. Coyne.

Melissa Gillette is a junior studying Elementary Art Education and Studio Art. She enjoys music, art, writing, hiking, rock climbing, archery, knife throwing, and hanging out with friends.

Shelby Prindaville is the Art Department Head and Associate Professor of Art at Morningside College.

Stephanie Divis has been a writing consultant at Morningside since 2006, but these pieces would not have been birthed without Steve Coyne and my peers in Creative Writing Fall 2019.

Tyler Nordstrom is an alumni of Morningside College, and is honored to be published in the Kiosk for what is now the third time.

Makaelyn Glienke is a senior double majoring in Advertising and Photography. Her photography career began by taking sports photos, but now she has ventured into doing more fashion and portrait photography.

Dr. Greg Guelcher has taught at Morningside since Fall 1996. Always the rebel, Greg tries to be creative and imaginative despite laboring in a discipline (history) that discourages such behavior.

Karlie Reagan is a sophomore at Morningside. She is currently majoring in History and Political Science with an English minor. Her favorite show is Rick and Morty.

Mitchel T. Keller holds a B.S. in mathematics from North Dakota State University and a Ph.D. in mathematics from the Georgia Institute of Technology. He has been an Assistant Professor of Mathematics at Morningside since 2018.

Kassidy Hart is a sophomore majoring in Secondary English Education and minoring in Journalism. She loves writing and hopes to inspire her future students!

Madelynn Stoffle uses poetry as her favorite outlet and it has always been her strongest area in writing. She normally works with horror or emotionally eliciting concepts: such as love or mental health.

Merel Kooij is a freshman from Rockanje, the Netherlands. Her majors are biology and chemistry. Next to her passion for soccer and tennis, she loves reading and writing.

Taylor Van Vliet is a junior English Education major from Lincoln, Nebraska. She is a member of the Morningside Wind Ensemble, and she enjoys reading, painting, and spending time with her sisters.

Rae Clinkenbeard is a senior double major in Arts Administration and Photography with a minor in Advertising. She enjoys photographing nature and her goal is to have her own photography business.

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Courtney Klocke, a junior from Dedham, IA, studying Graphic Design and Advertising with a minor in Business. She enjoys being outside, especially to kayak and ski.

Abby Koch is a junior from Sioux City, Iowa. She’s studying Graphic Design and Mass Communication and she hopes to get an amazing job after college. If not, she’s decided to raise alpacas or become a professional spoonman. Whatever really floats her goat.

!-' Wanying Chen, all her friends call her Angela. She’s am a Chinese girl also a senior studying Animation and Video Game development at Morningside College. She loves art, photography, and skateboarding.

Toryn Kelly double majors in Secondary Special Education and Art Education while also producing artwork on a commission basis from her art business Facebook page, Toryn Does Art.

Riley Custer is senior Biology and Studio Art student at Morningside College. When she’s not in the studio, she loves spending time with her cat, drinking coffee, or hiking.

Jessie Eighmy is from Glidden, Iowa. She’s a Freshman on the X-Path, currently exploring Psychology and Nursing.

Elise O’Regan was born here in Iowa and she is a sophomore doubling in Art Administration and Mass Communication. She plans to become an editor after graduation and will continue to create art!

Elizabeth Obermeier, a sophomore, from Indianola, Iowa. She’s double majoring in Graphic Design and Business Administration with a minor in Marketing.

Devyn Reilly, from Fountain, Colorado, is a freshman majoring in Graphic Design and minoring in Business Administration. She’s always loved art because for her it is the best way to express herself.

Tani Russell is a Senior year double major in Religious Studies and Studio Art. She explores photography, photographic alternative processes, encaustic, and various sculpture mediums.

Grace Russmann is from Avoca, Iowa. She is a junior majoring in Advertising with a minor in Business.

Rachel Steinkamp is from Arcadia, Iowa. She is a freshman studying Photography and Graphic Design. She has always loved art and expressing emotions through her work.

Tracie Tuttle is a senior majoring in Studio Art and minoring in Graphic Design and Journalism. She is involved with editing the Collegian Reporter and Art Club.

Anna Uehling is a junior at Morningside College. She is a double major in Graphic Design and Marketing with a Photography minor. She loves nature, fishing, and her cats.

Lesley Valerio Chairez is a senior Art Education major. KIOSK20

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!0(1'"'/$";%(*; “Subject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed.” This quotation first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the predecessor of the Kiosk. In the early years of Morningside, student’s satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, students and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and poems, which had undergone a screening process; only pieces of “sufficient literary merit” made it to readings, recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor. That fall, South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine, and so on December 7, 1938, Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping chapel to go an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during chapel. Over the next several years, students were motivated to submit their work and have their words read and their voice heard. The group published sixteen issues until Manuscript disappeared in 1952. The magazine resumed publication under the name Perspectives in 1955. Students changed the name to Kiosk in 1971 and have continued publications nearly every year since. Advisors over the years have included Donald Stefanson, Carole VanWyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge, Jason Murray, Stephen Coyne and, currently, Leslie Werden. 82 Years of the Kiosk

While the Kiosk has included cover art in many of its publications, the format of the magazine was revamped in 2006 to include student and alumni-created art of various media. Art advisor John Kolbo, and interim art advisors Jeff Gordon and Shelby Prindaville, have assisted student editors in allowing these artistic peices to take a more central role in the magazine. With the continued support of President John Reyenders and the Morningside community, this publication continues to grow and evolve. Since 2006, the Kiosk has won multiple awards from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and Associated Collegiate Press, including a Silver Medalist Award, three Silver Crown Awards, nine Gold Medalist Awards and a Gold Crown Award. Submissions are accepted in the spring semester of each academic year. Literary work is then reviewed by the editorial boards, and recommendations are forwarded to the head editor, who then forwards accepted pieces for judging. Art work is selected by a panel of student judges who represent Morningside’s various art majors. A panel of area artists then selects the award winners. Those interested in working for and/or submitting to to the magazine may contact Professor Leslie Werden by email at werden@morningside.edu. The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni.

1938

1956

1971

2006

First literary magazine on campus.

Name changed to Perspectives.

Name changed, again, to Kiosk.

Format change introduced more artwork.

2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007