2021: Kiosk Vol. 83 by Kiosk

ON THE COVER

NEEDLES HIGHWAY Abby Hauser photography “This photo of Needles Highway was taken on a vacation going through the Black Hills. I chose black and white because of the contrast between the rocks and sky.”

Scan to visit the Kiosk online at wordpress.morningside.edu/kiosk/

“Look, ruminate, emulate, and then create.” - John Kolbo

JOHN KOLBO A DEDICATION

The 2021 issue of the Kiosk is dedicated to John Kolbo, who passed away in November of 2020 after a six-year battle with cancer. John was a Morningside alumn, who graduated in 1977 and majored in both art and music. He would go on to work in the graphic design area. John came back to the dear ol’ maroon in 1999, this time to step into the role as an educator. For his twenty years as a professor, John mentored numerous graphic designers for the real world and cracked many puns. John was passionate about the process of assembling the Kiosk. He was the faculty Kiosk on the challenge of putting together the Kiosk. With every step, John was there to teach the process to his art editors and often commented, “Think about how awesome it is going to look when you show this bad boy to future employers!” John made a habit of pulling all-nighters, even when he was battling cancer, to make sure the Kiosk Despite all this, John was always excited to announce that the Kiosk print. John was a positive force and a light for the Kiosk. Thank you, John, for all the years dedicated to your students, to Morningside, and to the Kiosk. As you always told your students after an exhibit, Good show.

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE VOLUME 83

STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSOCIATE EDITORS DIGITAL EDITOR ART DIRECTOR

FICTION

Kassidy Hart Evelyn Williams, Leah Estupinian & Madeline Keating Rachel Steinkamp Grace Russmann

NONFICTION

POETRY

Associate Editor

Board Members

Leah Estupinian

Evelyn Williams

Board Members

Julianna Baker Nancy Coronel Kennedy Skinner

Kaelin Armstrong Jordan Epp Alex Inskeep

Kalynn Manker Marisa Natoli Payton Sauerbrei

VISUAL ART

COPY EDITORS

ASSOCIATE ART DIRECTORS

Leandra Estupinian Kennedy Skinner Evelyn Williams

Gracie Eli Megan Kyhl Lex Wurth

Associate Editor

Madeline Keating Board Members

Iandra Estupinian Haylie Folsom Kyle Gunderson Grace Russmann

FACULTY ADVISORS

Brendan Todt Leslie Werden

ABOUT OUR JUDGES Thom Caraway (Literature Judge) is a poet, printer, and professor, who lives in Spokane, Washington. He teaches creative writing, editing, and literature at Whitworth University, where he is also the editor of Rock & Sling, a journal of witness. He is a founder of the Spokane Print & Publishing Center, an educational print shop. His Lacks, from Korrektiv Press. Terri Parish McGaffin (Art Judge) is Professor Emerita, retired. She taught studio art and writing courses at Morningside starting in 1990. She served as chair of the art department from 2013 to 2019. She has worked in the collections of the Sioux City Art Center, Morningside College and the University of South Dakota, as well as many private collections. Her paintings are currently on view at the Sioux City Conservatory of Music.

Claire May-Patterson (Art Judge) is a Sioux City native who graduated from Morningside College in 2016 photography, and playing outside with her family.

LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS KASSIDY HART EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

When I think as Time, the idea that art can capture time stands out. Time is such an important part of our existence. This year’s publication of Morningside’s art and literary the idea that focusing pieces and the creative process can result in something to remember. As we began the process of the 2021 publication of the Kiosk, I wanted to focus on ways to create something perfect opportunity to look at the process of creating the all the way to choosing the small details of the actual

the talent of Morningside students through the chosen living, breathing piece of art itself. This art will live on and through. My biggest hope for the Kiosk publication of 2021 is that it successfully ignites, for future editors, a motivation to represents their Morningside classes through involvement of a variety of majors and talents. I’d like to extend a personal thank you to our advisors, a chance. I’d also like to thank my associate editors - Evelyn Williams, Leah Estupinian and Madeline Keating - for their commitment to stepping up to lead their boards through the selection process while completing miscellaneous tasks. in continuing the online presence of the Kiosk as well as creating a more interactive experience. We appreciate the thirteen board members for their valuable comments and reviews. One of the most important accolades belongs to my art director - Grace Russmann - who led her team of assistant art directors - Lex Wurth, Megan Khyl, and Gracie not least, the Kiosk would like to thank Morningside and all of the supportive community members and leaders who

have made this publication possible. All of us here at the Kiosk are excited to share with you close as a reminder of 2021, a year of changes and a year that must be remembered.

GRACE RUSSMANN ART DIRECTOR

2021 Kiosk gave me so much enjoyment. Kassidy and I were given the green light early on to be able to make this publication whatever we wanted it to be, with the major decisions being ours to make. As art director, I wanted this year’s Kiosk to take on a style of its own while still paying homage to the styles of previous years. It was fun and interesting to work with a blank slate and be able to give the 2021 Kiosk a personality all of its own. The ripped paper textures and bold sketchy lines throughout are meant to give the feeling of an old, worn, ugliness and frustrations that can come when writing literature or creating art. I am sure that all of the authors and artists featured in this year’s Kiosk will agree that not try. Drafts are marked with red ink, and numerous sheets of paper are torn out of notebooks and thrown into the garbage before the right words lock into place. Hands cramp from holding the pencil too long in order to get the right shapes, and eyes strain from looking at the computer imagination. The struggle that we go through to create is what makes art and literature so beautiful. The Kiosk has always been a showcase of the best work from Morningsiders, and no words could describe how elated I am at how Volume 83 has turned out. My only hope is that you enjoy it as much as Kassidy and I enjoyed putting it all together.

CONTENTS LITERATURE !"

Earth Song

Poetry

MARISA NATOLI

A Day in My Dreams

Fiction

MARISA NATOLI

Reminder

Poetry

RILEY SLECHTA

To Big Sis

Poetry

EVELYN WILLIAMS

Lucky Noodle

Poetry

EVELYN WILLIAMS

In a Different Room

nonFiction

EVELYN WILLIAMS

1930

Poetry

LEX WURTH

Aphrodite

Poetry

RILEY SLECHTA

A Morning with You

Poetry

MARISA NATOLI

Making Waves

nonFiction

JAMES SPICER

I Know You Can’t Remember So I’ll Tell You

Poetry

PAYTON SAUERBREI

Losing You

Poetry

RILEY SLECHTA

Not His Job

Poetry

ASHLEY DUNCAN

Demands

Poetry

JOSHUA MILLER JR.

Eventually There’s Death and Love

Poetry

EVA GEIBEN

Oblitus

Fiction

JULIANNA BAKER

Mom

Fiction

EVELYN WILLIAMS

Because You’re Home

Poetry

EVA GEIBEN

Alaska

Poetry

ASHLEY DUNCAN

The Wolf

Poetry

LEX WURTH

The Perspective of the Beholder

Poetry

FAITH LASKIE

Space Needed

Fiction

ASHLEY DUNCAN

Churchgoers

Poetry

JOSHUA MILLER JR.

Two Hours North

Poetry

MARISA NATOLI

Two Faces

Fiction

MEGAN KYHL

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ART needles highway

ABBY HAUSER

COVER

FrecKled girl

LAUREN HEDLUND

aorta

MADISSEN STEVENS

agua

NANCY CORONEL

Vessel

ABBY HAUSER

ice weather we’re haVing RAE BARTO

entangled

DEVYN REILLY

winter wonderland

DEVYN REILLY

ducKies

ANNA UEHLING

reaching out

RACHEL STEINKAMP

Post Malone

CALEB ROGGENBUCK

galaxy girl

GRACIE ELI

the weeKnd

CALEB ROGGENBUCK

laKe Quinault lodge

ABBY HAUSER

balance

BRIANNA MEALS

one wheel

STERLING STECKER

Zen garden

BRIANNA MEALS

sanitation

IANDRA ESTUPINIAN

geraldine

LEX WURTH

eVening harVest

RAE BARTO

the Power oF a sMile

GIUSEPPE DEL RIO BROGGI

october

LEANDRA ESTUPINIAN

suMMer storM

HAYLIE FOLSOM

arbol

NANCY CORONEL

ding

RACHEL STEINKAMP

night liFe

MADELINE KEATING

DR. MITCH KELLER

MELISSA GILLETTE

PerFection isn’t PerFect

ayasoFya hurreM sultan haMaM

one daM

STERLING STECKER

Mood lighting

MELISSA GILLETTE

Mountain’s teardroP

FAUSTINO BARROSO

the big gaMe

ABBY KOCH

the illustrated hand

RAE BARTO

watchFul

MADELINE KEATING

reFlectiVe still liFe

CALISSA HANSON

laughing in color

ANNA UEHLING

autuMn trail

DR. MITCH KELLER

liFe aFter death

HAYLIE FOLSOM

bugging out

RAE BARTO

Potted Feline

GRACE ELI

Pollen in honeycoMb

JOHN ANDERSON

sidestePPing crustaceans

CHRIS PEREZ

in a chaMeleon twist

CHRIS PEREZ

inVerted

MADELINE KEATING

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Poetry !"

Earth Song Marisa Natoli air that the birds, too, have sung in. The sun burning passionate fury in the sky, drops rays like honey down the length of my neck. The spirit within me yelped, as I felt the grass beneath me tickle my skin. The stars that, too, beamed over the scalp of a newborn baby. its sweet sap trickled down my throat. The sap that the ants, too, have set their feelers upon, lusting over the harvest’s welcoming notes. Earth, carrying this heavy weight upon her back, guides all inquisitive creatures through the dark and quiet atmosphere. Has she not grown tired? For all that is and was, folds over into one grand essence, birthing within her womb.

agua Nancy Coronel photography “This photo was taken in Forks, Washington, as I was hiking up to see the waterfall in Bogachiel Rain Forest River. I came across this spot because I was following this little bird. This is what I think about when I need to escape.”

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Fiction

A Day in My Dreams Marisa Natoli I may not want to be awake, but the best day begins before the sun has risen. The quiet darkness of early morning wraps her hands around my tired face, and sun. The barista hands me my serotonin with a smile in her eyes, even in this early hour. I drive along the coast; the sun is making her arrival on the east. Ahead of me, the West Maui mountains hold their arms up at me and wave, “over here!” Just as they are cascaded upon by a looming pink hue. To my right, waves roll onto the shoreline glimmering in a glassy tune. In my yoga studio, I am welcomed by the swirling scent of palo santo and essential oils. The yoga teacher curls her hands around a morning mug and gives me a maternal smile. I set my mat down and gently begin rolling out my neck, my body yawns. I feel the stagnant energy from my stillness in sleep releasing from the grooves of my body. But the gentle music reminds me of where I am, and the world outside the front drags her mallet along the edge of the crystal bowls, sending waves of a deep hum to caress my Savasana. My practice comes to a close and I stand to gather my belongings, changing the pace of the morning. My car awaits me, collecting the heat of the festering day ahead. The steering wheel has become hot to the touch, but I wrap my hands around it and begin driving toward the valley. Ahead of me, the opening between the two mountains smiles. I think back to how many times I have done this drive, beside me bow down to my arrival. I park my car and cross the road to the small opening in the shrubbery. Only a short distance down a steep hill to my favorite boulder in the stream. The water. One toe in, then two, the water is cold but its blue and emerald glow allures me. Half my body becomes consumed by the brisk awakening, I embrace it with a deep breath and submerge. The power of its coursing pulls my hair away from my head and with one exhale, I imagine all that no longer serves me falling away with of earth herself. My hands reach up to the boulder stationed beside me and I hoist caresses my face with gentle kisses and for a brief moment, it feels as though I am exactly where I want to be, and the world is simply quiet.

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VESSEL Abby Hauser photography

“This photo was taken on a Photo Club trip to New York City. I found the design of the building very unique.”

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Poetry

Reminder Riley Slechta I shattered a plate today, I cleaned up as best I could, Searching for the porcelain shards. I did not want to break the plate. It seemed to shatter on its own. I was just trying to wash it, going through the inventory Of the dishes, somehow dirtied again. I know no matter how much I search, A sharp shard in my foot, As if the plate does not want me to forget.

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Poetry

To Big Sis Evelyn Williams You’re the pioneer for us, our front runner. the one that gets new rules put in place from fresh parents. I am the closer, I am stuck, never to be let go; I cause tears. Which is worse? and create my own. At the end, I am the one convincing our parents that I’ll come back. I’m not leaving forever. The baby of the family can never grow up. I get things that you don’t because I am perpetually stuck in the state of infancy. I am the last of us girls that “leaves the nest.” The guilt trips for moving on are endless. We are all grown up, but I am the one to hold mom up as she cries on my cheeks, holding me too tight, saying sorry for things she doesn’t need to be sorry for. Her hurt is shown to me only because you have started your own life. but I can’t tell you that, can I? I love you, but I need you to understand that being the baby of the family is the job of an adult.

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Poetry

The Lucky Noodle Evelyn Williams My grandma sat at the dining table twisting her hands and grinding her shoulders, kneading her homemade chicken and noodles. I watched in awe: like a pancake, then her hands rolled the dough like a swiss roll. She took a knife and cut noodles, until she piled the “worms” high on the table. Grandma pulled us into a circle, grasping our hands, and spoke to Jesus. I took heaping amounts of mashed potatoes and corn and smothered the plate with noodles. I swallowed each bite with a spectacular smile, until one petrifying moment I discovered something powdery and not quite gooey hidden like a stowaway. A clump of noodles had stuck together and formed a mega-noodle, a mangled octopus of uncooked dough. I started gagging, but my sister said to me, “You gotta eat it, it’s the lucky noodle, it’s only lucky if you eat it.” I cautiously scooped the noodle back onto my spoon. ***** It’s been a couple of years since I had this opportunity. I admit that eating your lucky noodle made me feel like the most special person in your eyes. Even though I know you winced every time, I searched and successfully found one in the pot. I don’t remember what I said to you the last time I saw you. I don’t know if it was goodbye, I love you, or look what I found. But if I had just a moment where I felt you close by, I’d say, Thank you.

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nonFiction

In a Different Room Evelyn Williams lamp in the living room. I park, grab my bag, and make my way to the door. Like I suspect, only my dad is home. I walk in saying, “Hellloooo.” I hear the recliner chair go to a sitting position with a clunk and see my dad half jog toward me with a smile as the TV drones on. “Heyy baby, good to see ya!” We hug as I tell him it’s good to see him too. “Where’s Mom?” I ask. “Gotchya,” I say. I look around the house while he starts to sit down at the dining room table. He puts his reading glasses on and looks down at the mail while I put my shoes by the door. “How was the drive?” he asks. “Uh, not too bad. Icy around Des Moines, but not bad.” “Well good, good,” he says. younger and my two sisters and I were still living in the house, the fridge is bare, with cottage cheese, apples, lots of jams room. “You know when Mom will be home?” I ask. clothes,” he said. “Ya,” he said. It is quiet in the house, so I go upstairs to unpack my clothes. When I hear the clunk of the recliner relaxing again, I head down to watch TV with my dad. I don’t want to watch American Pickers for the one hundredth time, but I have absolutely no desire to do homework, so I go and sit on the couch and scroll through Instagram. By 10:40 my dad is at 12. The next morning, I wake to the smell of bacon. When I get to the kitchen there’s no one in sight, the bacon is cold, sitting on a paper plate. Dad must be working today. I was hoping that I could hang out with Mom and Dad today, but Dad seems always to have work to do. I nuke the bacon in the microwave and make some toast. Afterwards, I walk into Mom and Dad’s room. The door squeaks as I open it, but I try to stay quiet as I slide into the bed next to Mom. I put my I must have been too loud because she starts stretching her body, slowly unrolling from her blankets. “Well good morning, sweet baby,” Mom says. “Morning,” I say. “How are you?” she asks. “Good.” “Dad here?” “No, his truck is gone,” I say. Later in the evening, my dad walks into the house. Mom and I are watching TV as she folds the laundry piled high in the living room. He sits down in the dining room, slowly opening envelopes, reading each one, placing the important ones in a stack separate from the others destined for the trash. Once he is done, he makes his way into the living room, clunking the recliner back. “Honey, can I have the remote?” he asks me. I learned pretty quickly when I was younger just to give him the remote. Don’t question it. Don’t argue that you are in the middle of a show. Just give him the remote. Then you don’t have to hear a lecture on how he’s worked all day while you did nothing. It’s just easier that way. Mom sighs and goes to the kitchen, giving up on the laundry and beginning the dishes. I go back to looking at my phone. I remember when I was in elementary school my parents were closer. My two sisters, my parents, and I would all get

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would play tag with me. Sometimes my mom and dad would even play with us. I remember one time my dad was playing tag with us girls. He was “it” and we all ran for our lives, easily climbing the jungle gym out of his reach. At one point, he had me trapped in the corner where the only escape was the monkey bars behind him. He tagged me and I table. I ran over and stopped in front, grinning like I had an evil plan. Dad signaled to me, pointing towards Mom and whispering, “Tag Mom!” Well, Mom became “it,” and I don’t remember how the game ended, but I can tell you that my sisters were always fast enough to evade being “it” somehow. When we did, Dad always said he had work to do. Sometimes he would meet us in town for breakfast afterward, but together and more time was spent in quiet company in front of the TV. I started to notice that when Mom did come home from work, Dad rarely said anything. He would look at the TV and eventually would ask what was for supper. I’ve seen him make food; I know he can cook, but he started to put that duty on Mom. And when Mom would be at the dining table, Dad would take a break from the TV to sit down and talk. Mom would hardly glance at him, only responding minimally so she could eat her supper and read the newspaper. That’s what she is doing right now. Dinner tonight is a fend-for-yourself situation. Mom gravitates towards cereal and Dad grumbles and moans until he settles on cottage cheese and Lays chips. It’s Saturday evening. I’m leaving for school again tomorrow morning. I decide to sit beside Mom for a little bit. She doesn’t say much. There must be something of interest happening that she wants to know about from the newspaper. I get up from the seat and head towards the stairs to my bedroom. “Welp, I’m gonna go to bed,” I say. That breaks her focus, and she looks at me. “Already? Ok, good night. I love you.” And she takes a bite of Cheerios. “Good night, Dad,” I say into the other room. “Good night, Kiddo,” he replies. As I drive back to school, I can’t help but feel pebbles in my chest beginning to stack up. My mind goes down the rabbit hole, a trap that lies there every time I leave my parent’s house. I want to know if my parents still love each other. Do they ever smile at each other? Now that all three of their kids are out of the house, has it become more apparent to them that they have changed? I try to imagine when they both are actually home, if they sit in the living room and talk to each other, or if it is how I see it when I’m home: complete separation. Maybe it’s that idea I’ve heard so much about, that when you become a parent, your love that was once for your

Even as a college kid, I know that yes, work can be stressful, but if you cut out your partner, then that stress piles on like a load of laundry. I want to believe that my parents still love each other, or at least have a chance to love each other again. If it is truly impossible, then what hope is there for me when I have kids with my future partner? Will I be sitting room?

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gallery

ENTANGLED Devyn Reilly photography

“Entangled was taken when I was hiking at Garden of the Gods. A tree had fallen over and its roots were exposed, creating a tangled effect.”

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DUCKIES Anna Uehling photography

“This photo was taken on a small Nebraska farm where these ducks live a luxurious lifestyle, taking baths and eating all the duck food they want.”

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gallery POST MALONE Caleb Roggenbuck Taco Bell® wrappers, paper, sequins, paints “I love Taco Bell and Post Malone. I collected various wrappers and packaging materials to make a three-foot tall Post Malone. This was really fun to create as I listened to his music and ate cheesy gordita crunches the whole time. This piece also got 150,000 views on TikTok.”

THE WEEKND

Caleb Roggenbuck McDonald’sTM wrappers, paper, sequins, paints “After success from my Post Malone piece, I decided to make another collage. The Weeknd is my absolute favorite singer. I traveled to McDonald’s to get the materials I needed. The Weeknd also stands three feet tall and was inspired by his hit song ‘Blinding Lights.’”

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BALANCE

Brianna Meals plastic spoons, acrylic paint, and gorilla glue “The lines were inspired by learning how to balance the different activities and classes during my first year of college.”

ZEN GARDEN Brianna Meals paper clay, acrylic paint, rocks, and gorilla glue “I wanted to create a piece that would give the viewer a sense of peacefulness obtained from walking through a zen garden.”

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Poetry

1930 Lex Wurth Lifting her skirt, underwear to boys for a quarter. Spent it on a popsicle for her kid brother. She muddied her dresses and ate peanuts out of barrels. Swinging on a wooden plank that was strung to an oak tree. Chasing a pack of boys, she swung her belted books at the one who blacked her brother’s eye.

GERALDINE Lex Wurth ink, fingerprints “This piece is a part of a series of works where I create portraits of my grandparents and ancestors out of fingerprints.”

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Poetry

Aphrodite

Riley Slechta Cut like the Gods, he graces her, body of Venus, soft and round. Dancing, tangled, like seaweed in the tide. brush burnt skin, baked by the sky – she worships his body as an altar. He holds her, their love trembling between them. Whispering so only she knows, You are my Aphrodite.

THE POWER OF A SMILE Giuseppe Del Rio Broggi illustrated with pen, digitized with Illustrator “I wanted to capture Marilyn Monroe’s smile and transmit the power it had. This illustration makes reference to one of the most famous photographs of her in the white dress, with her very known flirtatious smile.”

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Poetry

A Morning with You Marisa Natoli In the morning I rose, The sun blooming in my chest. He lay gripping the length of my ribcage. In my dreams, whales sang Beneath the sea of my hair. His hand rested, Tangled in my tempest curls. He peeled me from the bed, And waddled us into darkness. Just as my feet touched the cool morning sand, The clothes fell away, amid morning light. Over my shoulder, he stood. Devouring the sight Of my shivering body. The pink water swirled around me, And he smiled like the crescent moon ashore. I wanted a whale to eat me, So it wouldn’t be up to me to leave. But instead, I left the water dripping, To find his arms, One last time.

ARBOL Nancy Coronel photography

“This photo was taken in Forks, Washington. The beach was gloomy and cloudy. Ruby Beach is known for reddish sand, large logs of wood, and the rock island.” 28

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nonFiction

Making Waves James Spicer was already writing my next set. Coach Bryan Farris turned around to give me a thumbs up, a gesture I returned while also sucking down breaths. He made his way over to my lane and began to describe how the next set is a severely reduced version of a distance set that Olympic gold medalist Katie Ledecky does regularly. As I look past him and begin to dread the pseudo-Olympic set he’s written on the board, I also take a second to think about why he’s done it. Bryan is a coach who always expects great things from his swimmers and isn’t afraid to couldn’t help but wonder about him. This was a coach who knew all about my swimming career from start to present day, but I knew very little about his, and I wanted to get to know the man who convinced me to attend Morningside. In Lexington, Kentucky, 1967, Bryan Farris was a tall, thin kid who couldn’t help but shiver during swim lessons in the WYCA pool. His aunt and uncle, who were lifeguards, had convinced his mother that it would be an excellent idea for him to receive swim lessons. Slowly the chill went away, and a spark began to grow inside Bryan over the next few years. In 9th grade, Bryan moved to La Crosse, Wisconsin, and attended a high school that had no pool. Bryan was not going to be held out of the water for long. He and his parents sat in the plush to do so. The administrators relented, saying that if they could put together a team, Bryan could go to state using the name of their high school. Bryan and his parents spent much of the next few weeks asking around These three swimmers showed Bryan the three out of four kinds of swimmers that existed within the sport. There was his teammate who seemed to glide through the La Crosse YMCA’s water with ease, always popping all the talent and none of the drive” and irritated Bryan when he’d miss or sit out during a large part of their practices. The second is the type of swimmer who always seems to be in a battle with the water and always loses. Only able to do freestyle and backstroke because they couldn’t go very long without breathing. Finally, there was This 10th grade team would slowly grow as Bryan continued on in high school, but it was with these three that when Bryan had narrowed his college choices down to two. It was between The University of Alabama and The he’d received over the course of his senior year, he was going to swim for one of these two teams. The University of Alabama coach told Bryan over the phone that he could walk on to the Swim Team if he wanted, but there wouldn’t be any scholarship money for him athletically. Bryan felt scorned by the crimson college and wanted to be rewarded for his talent. Then there was Iowa. memorabilia and plaques and trophies. The current coach looked at the blonde high schooler in front of him and saw talent. Coach Patton saw someone that he believed could make an impact on his team, and he wanted Bryan Farris to help make an even bigger impact. Bryan thought that he could’ve easily mistaken the man in front of him as a car salesman rather than a coach. This man could’ve “sold ice cream to an Eskimo” if he tried hard enough. It was enough, though. By the end of the meeting, Bryan was sold on the school and was going to be a Hawkeye. was a coach who pushed Bryan not only in the pool but also in his thinking. Draper inspired Bryan and his philosophies on hard work and also with the way he wrote his workouts. Draper kept a notebook with his sets and would mark down things in a particular way. 5.9 meant 5,900 yards, and this is a habit that Bryan has maintained during his time coaching (much to the dismay of new swimmers who attempt to read the notes from his Rick and Morty pocket journal). Throughout his time at Iowa, Bryan would grow as a swimmer and grow to love his teammates like family,

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some of whom he’s still in contact with today. One of Bryan’s teammates, Graeme Brewer, actually scored a would experience what it truly meant to have a college experience, from placing bets on whether a distance that was being scolded because they’d snuck around an Indianapolis town and urinated on all the doorknobs of the state legislature building. It wasn’t all fun and games, however. Farris found his resolve tested during his sophomore year’s climax. After a strong start during his freshman year, he began to think of himself as a “hotshot swimmer” and it came back to bite him. During the end of his sophomore swim season, he found himself placing 8th in the 100-yard for himself, he had to make a choice. He could be just another swimmer on the team or step up and become something. Having already decided on attending Iowa over Alabama because he wanted to be rewarded for his work and dedication, the decision was already made. He chose to rededicate himself to the sport and rebuild during his junior year. Big things were coming his way. Stepping up onto the block, senior captain swimmer Bryan Farris was going head to head against his teammate Tom Williams in the 100 freestyle at Big 10’s. This was one of the biggest meets of the year and

NIGHT LIFE Madeline Keating photography “This photograph represents myself growing as an artist and trying out different visual media to get different perspectives of the subjects I’m capturing.”

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to one another’s success. Neither one wanted to back down, and it was this relentless power struggle that made they had completed three-fourths of the race, they were still side by side in the water. During the last length, it was as if time slowed down. They both took a breath, making eye contact. “It’s you or me buddy,” these were his last breath of the race. Arm over arm, legs kicking as fast as they could go, Bryan dug deep and fought go to the Olympic Trials. Unfortunately, Trials were not everything he’d dreamed of. The meet itself could only be described as, came and went without any joy. This meet would serve as a starting point for Bryan and his philosophy as a coach. If there was no fun while swimming, there’s no point in doing it. After graduating from college, one thing was clear for Bryan Farris: he wasn’t done with swimming yet. Before going on to receive his master’s degree, Bryan found himself assistant coaching for the Iowa City Swim Club. Now he was on the other side of the sport, and he liked what he was doing. He would go on to get his master’s in secondary education from the University of South Dakota, and while he was there, he would begin making waves. Under his guidance, Yankton and Vermillion would combine their two small teams into one out as coach at the Y and then transitioned to a high school coach. This team started with 75 swimmers and has When asked if Bryan could grow their team at the rate that they wanted, he did not channel his former Iowa swim recruiter. Instead of telling them that he could do precisely what they wanted, he was honest. He told them that what they were asking of a brand-new swim team was unreasonable and didn’t try to sell them something he couldn’t provide. This approach worked, but not until later. Bryan was passed over for the position not once, not twice, but three times. During this time Bryan was teaching high school at Sioux City East and Bishop Heelan and also coaching high school and age group swim teams. Then in 2012 Bryan was hired. He now worked under Athletic Director Tim Jager, a man he still holds in high regard. He credits Jager with his desire for fairness and recognition that every sport should be honored and funded here at Morningside.

for All-American and Academic All-American swimmers that he’s coached. On the corkboard behind him are pinned-up notes and a map that has pins all over a map of the United States. Across from me behind his big wooden desk sits my current swim coach in his usual attire. Bryan has three very distinct ways of dressing, and The most memorable of his shirts is not one with the Morningside logo, nor is it the Green Bay Packer jersey, but rather it’s one from the TV show Rick and Morty. The maroon shirt has a picture of Morty from the show and a long quote about getting “your shit together.” He sits back and smiles, thinking before he answers me. worked.” He knew what his swimmers wanted, and he wanted to give them the same fun experience he had in college. “The budget is always a struggle. Sometimes we don’t get the recruits we should. I wish scholarships were more structured; we are losing out on kids because we aren’t able to provide the money that they feel they deserved.” He smiles and shakes his head before continuing. “Mostly nothing to complain about, though. We are an excellent school.” when I was being recruited for the team. There’s a shine in Bryan’s eye whenever he talks about her. She was his

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who made such an impact on Bryan, as well as other head coaches, that when he passed everyone who knew

some sort of sports cap on his head. Bryan has made it clear that he’s proud of all of his teams and what they’ve accomplished. He strives to make sure that each swimmer is a champion not only in the water but also in the classroom. He boasts that both the men’s and women’s teams are Academic All-American and are doing far more than just meeting a 2.0 GPA he was expecting. “Never let expectations hold back what you’re able to do.” “I’ve heard you mention giving all your swimmers the ‘Morningside Experience.’ Can you explain what it is you’re selling?” “It’s unique to each swimmer. Making sure each swimmer is in a position to do things that interest them. It’s Coaching and athletics are two sides of the same coin. Working hard to make sure that you and your athlete strive to be the best that they can possibly be can be a monumental task. Morningside coach Bryan Farris still has top 10 times at the University of Iowa, and yet speaks with just as much pride describing them as he does when talking about the success of the swimmers he’s coached. His successes and their successes are forever linked. “Going forward I want to grow the team, make our current swimmers faster, and get more on the team. And, of course, to have fun.” It has been just over three years now since I started swimming for Coach Farris here at Morningside. I am constantly reassured time and again by the way he coaches and interacts with my teammates and me that I could not have chosen a better college or coach to swim for. It’s hard to believe that until I came here on my recruiting trip my senior year of high school, I swore I’d never touch the pool again after I graduated. It was Bryan who changed my mind with the way he not only made me feel wanted, but also he convinced me that I could come here and truly make a positive impact on the team. He was right, in all of the best ways. I’m proud relationships I’ve built with my teammates as both a swimmer and as a captain, none of which would have been possible without Bryan. I think that when the time comes next year, the hardest part of my college swimming career won’t have been getting in the water at 5:30 every morning, it will be getting out of the water one last time and saying thank you to the coach who’s done so much for me.

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PERFECTION ISN’T PERFECT Melissa Gillette photography “Perfection Isn’t Perfect depicts the Rocky Mountain range in Estes Park. The main focus is the mountain range and trees, both as they are and their reflections. Life is messy; sometimes there are rocks and logs in the water. Nature isn’t perfect, so why do you need to be?”

ONE DAM Sterling Stecker photography “We were awakened by a strange man shaking our tent, and yelling at us. ‘You need to pay or you can deal with the sheriff’s pistol.’”

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Poetry

I Know You Can’t Remember So I’ll Tell You Payton Sauerbrei you looked so peaceful. The rest of us were staring at a ghost. I wanted to pick the pieces of grass out of your long blonde hair that dad had begged you to cut for football season, but I couldn’t get to you. You looked like you were sleeping, deeply as usual, but your pale chest sat so still when it should have been heaving. The kindest heart I’ve ever known stopped out of nowhere. Dad was overwhelmed with a sense of responsibility. He always pushed you to work the hardest. I’m glad you’ve never had to see them like that. Maybe the shock I felt in my heart matched the shock they put into yours.

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Poetry

Losing You Riley Slechta

I watched you walk across the street, meeting a car with no lights on. You stood by the window and naivety held me in her arms. You stopped holding my hand, too busy lighting cigarettes, and trembling so violently, I wonder if I will ever feel them steady again. The third time you went to rehab, your mother’s eyes said it wouldn’t be enough. Despite the tremors, and scabs scarring your face, you were still mine.

MOUNTAIN’S TEARDROP Faustino Barroso photography

I wish my love was enough to save you, because when you told me you loved me, that we were meant to be together, I couldn’t tell you yes. I wanted to shake you and yell, “I can’t watch you die, not when you’re the one doing it.”

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Poetry

Not His Job Ashley Duncan Some days the cemetery seems empty. full of families. Funeral after funeral. Day after day. This place becomes a house, Every waking minute patients wonder, if the next time they see their loved ones, will they be covered in dirt? A new person comes into the morgue at least once a day. Car crash, suicide, old age, or simply just to work. The saddest ones that come in are the babies, who never got to grow old. Nurses grieve, for the loss of the young ones who never made it home.

THE ILLUSTRATED HAND Rae Barto photography

The ones who were once parents, are no more. Their last look was without the machines. The medicines failed. But the parents believe they failed. The undertaker is now the caretaker that is not his job.

“This picture was taken in photography class last semester and put through filters to make it look like an old horror novel illustration.”

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REFLECTIVE STILL LIFE Calissa Hanson oil painting

“This piece was only the second time I’ve used oil paint. I have always admired the ability to create reflections but also found it intimidating. This still life was a chance for me to expand my comfort zone and create a painting I love.”

Poetry

Demands Joshua Miller Jr. Intercede on my behalf Answer my prayers Help me Allow me to accomplish this one goal Give me what I want When I want it Hinder my enemies Assist my friends Hear my pleas Oh, enslaved master Do as I please KIOSK2021

gallery LAUGHING IN COLOR Anna Uehling photography

“Simply put, I wanted to photograph what being happy means to me. When I think of happiness, I think of laughter and bright colors. I tried to capture a moment of this, and hopefully it will bring happiness to those who see it.”

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AUTUMN TRAIL Dr. Mitchell Keller photography

“I loved the way the light was falling along this trail at Stone State Park. The trail makes me want to walk into the image and explore.”

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Poetry

Eventually There’s Death and Love Eva Geiben Why would you even try? There is no denying their fate. You might as well just leave them to me, Where they’re safe and protected, Where they’re who they are and who they can be. You might as well Just leave them to me, Where they have something they never had: A future. Where they have to go eventually. I know. But I need them as much as they need me. Love, it’s time and we both know it. The pain and the crying, All the stupid choices,

I know. But I’m what makes them human. It’s obvious why you want to save them. I understand it, Love. You’re doing what you learned to do. But imagine: All your hard work, All the time and passion you put In saving them. It is all for nothing. Because in the end, You can’t save everyone from me. I’ll get them eventually. I know.

All the desperation, Love, you have to accept it eventually.

LIFE AFTER DEATH Haylie Folsom paint and ink

“I aimed to show the intricate connection between life and death by juxtaposing the deer and plants with a cemetery, and the bright colors with the black ink.”

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Fiction

Oblitus Julianna Baker The dock squeaked and swayed as Beretta stepped onto it. The wood was chipped and splintered and sounded like it could just barely hold her weight. She looked out at the sea; it was aquamarine, bright in a way that she had not seen in any other body of water. The top of the water was foggy. Not a hint of what was under the surface peeked through, but Beretta knew that under the fogged water the sea dropped thousands of feet. Beretta took a deep breath. The smell of salt was absent and it made her uneasy. She had to get across, to the the dock, to where steps descended into the water. Exploring was in Beretta’s blood. She was a sailor through and through, and in her life, she had sailed across every ocean and sea. But while she had heard stories of the Oblitus Sea and the Island of Antillia right at its center, she had never been stupid or desperate enough to dare attempt to journey through it. She wished she wasn’t that desperate now. and the next. As she moved, she felt no resistance like she thought she would. She walked, unable to see her own feet, until just her head breached the surface. She turned and looked back, to the rickety dock and toward the town where she knew Alfred lay in the medical ward’s bed. She looked down at the water; it did not shift or sway, even with her own movements. It stayed eerily still. She felt sick to her stomach, for this was not a regular body of water. She tried not to think about what it could hold and instead took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and took the last few steps, submerging herself completely. Eyes closed, Beretta moved blindly forward and down the steps. She moved easily through the water, like it wasn’t other side. Though the mist blocked sight of the world above, the light went straight through it. The water around her was it did not sting. It was like breathing in a dense fog. She allowed herself a moment to get used to the feeling, and then began her descent down the stairs. ***** The stairs creaked and groaned with every step Beretta took. She did not know how long she had been walking. Four hours? Five? Still, she did not let herself stop. Alfred did not have long. Did not have the hours or days this journey was said to take. the clearer it became. The groaning of the stairs seemed only to grow with each step, but she could not stop, not when she was so close. Another hour and a half went by before Beretta turned and could see the last set of stairs and the sand at the bottom. The stairs groaned louder as she came closer, until she paused on the last step. When she looked up, the the stair, her boots sinking a few inches into the sand. The stairs moaned behind her. Beretta rushed back a few steps as she watched the stairs fall apart, turning into No turning back. water. She turned to the large expanse now laid out before her. The sands stretched far out of her sight. There was the tiredness in her limbs and walked forward.

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only imperfections in the sand’s smooth surface. The only sign she had traveled anywhere at all. ***** Beretta’s body ached, how long had she been walking? Hours? Days? She had no way to know what time it was, or how long she had been walking. There was no sun or moon, day or night. She never stopped moving. Never opened her pack to grab food or water. Never had need to draw her sword. There was nothing but her in the waters. There was no time. Was it too late? Was Alfred already gone? One step after another she walked, feet sinking deep into the sand. She had to reach Antillia, the island in the middle of the Oblitus Sea. There would be a cure there, a wish, a guarantee that Alfred would be okay. She had to save Alfred. Kind Alfred, who had traveled the world with her. Blue eyes, stubbly chin, brown hair, and Tantivy, and sail the world all over again. ***** closer and her jaw almost dropped. She relaxed and ran towards the man. Rupert kept walking. He did not look her way, or show any indication that he had heard her. She walked up to him. “Rupert?” He had not aged a day since she last saw him. The same amount of white hair, no new wrinkles on his face. Same shoes and leather jacket. He walked past her, mumbling under his breath, “…glory…glory…glory.” She caught up to him. He did not look at her. He kept walking. She stopped and watched him go until his footprints were the only thing left behind. His prints were so light, she had to look closely to see them at all. That was Rupert, but he was long gone. She took a deep breath and started walking again. She had to get to Antillia, where she could wish for a cure. She had to save Alfred. She would see his blue eyes, stubbly chin, brown hair, and tan skin. He would wake up and they would be happy. ***** directly in her path. As she got closer, what it was became clear. A body. It was not broken and bloodied, it was A sword like she had never seen. Its boots were pointed and buckled in a style no one wore. She wondered how long it had been there. Ten years? Fifty? One hundred? She shook her head and kept walking. There would be a cure in Antillia. Alfred, blues eyes, brown hair, and tan skin would be okay. ***** How long had it been? Had a day passed? A week? She hadn’t needed to open her pack to get food or water yet, so it couldn’t have been that long. She hadn’t taken a break. The pain in her legs and lungs were constant now. She could not stop, had no time for a break. She moved at a steady rate. Antillia had the cure for Alfred. ***** “Antillia. Cure. Alfred. Antillia. Cure. Alfred.” 42

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She walked. Her legs moved on their own. She had become numb to the pain. She had to keep moving forward. “Antillia. Cure. Alfred. Antillia. Cure. Alfred.” Who was Antillia? Was she important? ***** “Cure. Alfred. Cure. Alfred.” Her legs kept moving. Where was she going? She had to keep going. Why? ***** “Alfred… Alfred… Alfred…” Who was Alfred? ***** Her legs stopped moving. There was no reason to keep going. She was sore. It was time for a break. She lay down in the sand, not a dent in it for miles.

BUGGING OUT Rae Barto photography

“This image was created by mixing the fluid from glow sticks with water inside a vase. The bug was just a happy accident.” KIOSK2021

gallery

POTTED FELINE Gracie Eli digital illustration “This digital illustration was designed in Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop. The story behind this piece stems from my own cat experience. Sparkles loves nothing more than to ruin items around the house.”

POLLEN IN HONEYCOMB John Anderson digital illustration “Pollen in Honeycomb Pattern is a digital media piece done with Adobe Illustrator for Professor Prindaville’s Graphic Design art class. The colors and pattern mimic the way honeybees store pollen in honeycombs near the brood-nest, where they raise their young.”

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SIDESTEPPING CRUSTACEAN Chris Perez digital illustration “This piece was for a project for my graphic design class. A classmate said one of my sketches looked like a crab so I went from there.”

IN A CHAMELEON TWIST Chris Perez digital illustration “This piece was for a project for my graphic design class. My mom told me to do a chameleon so I did it in a tesselation pattern.”

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Fiction

Mom Evelyn Williams “There’s nothing to be afraid of, come with me. Here.” I hold out my open hand to my little girl who looks up at me with wide brown eyes that display fear and worry. She hesitates before taking my hand as we walk up to the small brick building that holds the dull title in blue letters saying, “Miller Funeral Home.” I twist the wedding ring on my hand around and around, thinking what it would be like if my husband were I hold her at arm’s length and look her over. She is wearing a pink shirt with a sparkly crown on the front with ‘Mommy’s princess’ written underneath and a purple tutu to match her pink and purple sparkle shoes that have fake gems spotted randomly around. She looks so much like me when I was little, with the same brown eyes, soft creamcolored skin, and brown, thick curly hair. myself slowing down even more. I’ve been to plenty of funerals, but I never prepared myself for this one. I clench

INVERTED Madeline Keating studio art “Throughout my pieces, I try to make the subject the main focus and have it stand out, so the details of the subject can be seen throughout the piece. This piece is something that is up to the viewers’ perceptions of the subject.”

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are set in straight, tidy rows with the main entrance forming a lane straight to the focus of the room: the casket holding my mother. I can see from twenty feet away the top of her face and her folded hands on her stomach. Daya starts to pull back, forcing me to stop and break my focus from the casket. “Hey, sweet girl. Are you getting nervous?” She hugs my leg, her head burrowed into my thigh and her empty hand gripping the end of my plain maroon dress. I bend over and start to try to calm her by running my hand in a continuous circle on her back. “It’s ok to be scared. I’m scared too.” “You are?” she murmurs, audible only for me to hear. “Yeah, I am, but the only way to get rid of fear is to face it.” At this, she peeks up at me. Then, with determination, she says, “Ok.” I kiss her on the forehead then stand up again and face forward. We make our way to the casket, but as I draw closer, my own fear grows from the bottom of my stomach and sinks down to my feet, forcing me on Mom’s plain red dress, her favorite dress. She has on modest makeup – though she vowed never to wear makeup when she was alive – that doesn’t hide her wrinkles. Her faded, pink lips are in a smooth, straight line that hints towards neither a frown nor a smile. I examine her veiny hands, folded neatly in a way only of the dead, right hand over the left, gripping but not too tightly to show any signs of unnatural tenseness, placed intentionally on the upper part of the stomach to display comfort. hand to lie on top of hers. The room is increasingly hot, even with the ceiling fan whirring behind me. I keep my hand there, willing myself to accept that she is gone. Her hands are cold, not like she just came from the cooler, but more like she just came inside from a chilly day. She is dead and the casket is shaking slightly because of my quivering hand. I move my eyes to her face again, seeing the wrinkles by her closed eyes that show she smiled too often, and it reminds me of all the times we laughed and cried together. I remember when I was little, maybe around the same age Daya is now, I was playing on the local playground. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but to my eyes it was a kingdom that I ruled. I slid down the tube slide a hundred times and I begged my mom, who was sitting on the bench nearby, to come do underdogs with me. I would sit on the swing, and as my mom pushed me from behind to swing higher and higher, I would shriek with delight. When I gained enough momentum she would say, “Ok, are you ready?” I would scream, “Yeah!” with a big smile taking up my whole face. We would count, "1… 2… 3!" and then, in unison, yell, “Underdoogggg!” as my mom would push and would plop down on the wood chips in front of me, sitting cross-legged, watching me swing back and forth until I eventually slowed down to a calmer swinging rhythm. One time I ran on up the stairs of the playset, turned a sharp corner, and bolted straight for the monkey feel myself slipping as gravity started to pull me down. I lost my sweaty grip on the only thing that would save me from the imaginary lava below. I was able to let out only a small squeak as I smacked onto the woodchips and the air went out of my lungs. I laid there in pure shock, staring up at the monkey bars that betrayed me, until my mom stooped over me, running her hands around my face and my body, asking if I was ok. She knelt down and pulled me into her, wrapping her arms around me tight, and at that moment I broke into tears. I wrapped my short arms around her neck as she stood and then continued to wrap my legs around her. She held me close and swayed back and forth for a long time until my tears had stopped spilling. When I was only hiccupping, she pulled me away from her chest so she could look at me. She stared into my face, looking all around like she was trying to remember every detail. Her eyes were concerned but warm. I looked into her eyes as she smiled slightly and kissed me on the forehead. “Come on sweet girl, let’s go home.” At that, I fell back into her chest and she turned to head for home. She carried me all the way home. It was not until I was older that I started to really appreciate how much

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mother now more than I ever have, but it’s too late to tell her that now. daughter. She looks clearly frightened, so I bend down and say, “Do you want to see Grandma? She looks very pretty.” She doesn’t say anything, so I pick her up and place her on my right hip. She wraps her left arm around my neck and holds her right hand close to herself. She whispers, “Is Grandma sleeping?” on, “No, Grandma is on her way to Heaven.” Daya perks up. “Heaven is where angels live!” I smile. “That’s right, Daya, and Grandma is gonna be an angel now. She’s gonna watch over you.” She smiles and tucks her head under mine, in the crook of my neck. I take one last glance at mom and then head for a chair in the front row. People begin to show up; some I know, most I don’t. All of them approach me and give their focus on Daya coloring in the chair beside me.

made sure to milk every note until everyone was either tired or irritated. Mr. Miller, the funeral home director, comes and gently places his right hand on my left shoulder. I turn my head and look up to him. He says, “Tonight went very well. I will see you tomorrow for the burial?” I nod and turn my head back to the casket. Standing up, I grip Daya so she is still snuggled in my arms. I leave the funeral home ready for sleep before I must wake and face the pain of letting go. I drive home to the house I grew up in and the house in which I am now raising Daya. Pulling in my driveway, I see the playground just down the street, lit by a single lamppost that illuminated the bench and the edge of the wood chips. Maybe I’ll take Daya there tomorrow. Raising my eyes to the rearview mirror, I see Daya still asleep. For a moment I stare back at her and see her not moving and I panic, thinking she’s not breathing. I whip my head around and place my hand on her leg. She’s warm. I shake her leg and speak softly, telling her to wake up. I release a breath when I see her eyes crack open. I let my grip on her leg go wheel and close my eyes, trying to blacken my mind and let everything fall to the back of my brain where it can be forgotten. Light tapping noises sound on my window. It's beginning to sprinkle. I get out of the car, unbuckle Daya out of her car seat, and carry her into the house, up the stairs, and into her room. light. Sparkles from her art projects and presents I have given her dance in the form of a swaying ballet in the yellow light. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above shine happiness. It seems to me a jumbled mess in the morning light, but I have come to fully appreciate its calming beauty in the night. Daya has fallen back asleep and is curled into a ball on her bed. I unlace her pink and purple sparkly shoes, place them under her bed, and cover her with a blanket. I look at her already dreaming and I climb on to the bed with her and curl her into my arms. I lie there with my little girl, growing calmer by the minute. Before I fall asleep, I wonder how long it will be before Daya has to say goodbye to me. Will she be middle-aged with her own child? Will she be a teenager? Will I be able to see her grow up to be a beautiful woman? Only one thing is for sure. For right now, in this moment, I can hold her in my arms and smell her sweet shampooed hair as she breathes easy, without a care in the world. She is all I need. Tomorrow, I will take her to the playground. I will watch my daughter swing high as my mother did me. I whisper softly, “I love you Daya Veria, with all my heart.”

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FRECKLED GIRL Lauren Hedlund studio art

“If I could make a new me, who would I be? But, I am me. And I am happy to be me, because God made me and gave me my best feature, freckles.”

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AORTA Madissen Stevens polymer clay, wood, acrylic “I have a fascination with gore and horror so I thoroughly enjoyed creating this work and plan to continue my newfound enjoyment of sculpting.”

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Poetry

Because You’re Home Eva Geiben Is it really worth living if you have no oceans to drown in, dark skies to sleep under, mountains to fall from, or graves to sleep in? Is it really worth living, if you’re not dying?

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Poetry

Alaska Ashley Duncan I still remember it. That day, your mom called. She was sobbing. My mom, driving. The police searching. You though, you were in pain. You were too far from help. They found you and brought you home. But, it wasn’t really you. It wasn’t either, but your You lie next to grandpa. I miss you. I should come visit.

ICE WEATHER WE’RE HAVING

You are so close yet, so far.

Rae Barto photography “This picture was taken through some iced-over tree branches after the ice storm at the beginning of the winter.”

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WINTER WONDERLAND Devyn Reilly photography “Winter Wonderland was taken at Garden of the Gods Park. As I was leaving, I saw this beautiful overlook and decided it was the perfect scene.”

Poetry

The Wolf Lex Wurth Born barefoot and bloody, a wild wolf of a woman. Howling, bidding the moon to touch her. She hungers who’s ever tried to tame the beast out of a woman. For any man who’s beaten the mud out of their claws and braided their wild into pink ribbons.

Her tongue waters for the marrow of men, who have tied down their bitches. Of men who have of hungry women. She craves the salt of a sweaty brow cowering beneath her. She shows her teeth, clenched for every man a wolf ’s potential.

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Poetry

The Perspective of the Beholder Faith Laskie Too Cautious every time she walks past people. Too Scared Because she needs escorts to and from night classes. Too Quiet Because she thinks she has nothing worth sharing. Too Loud Because she gets so full of thoughts and words in her head. Too Ugly Because she is marred with surgical and bullet wound scars. Too Emotional Because that loud sound or phrase took her back to that moment . Too Determined Because she knows nothing, not even a bullet can stop her. Too Hopeful Because she has gone through trauma and pain. Too Religious Because God is who keeps her calm here and loved. Too Thankful Because she couldn’t have done it without her community, family, and friends. Too Beautiful Because she knows that beauty lies within.

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REACHING OUT Rachel Steinkamp photography

“I took this photograph in Ames, Iowa, at an antique store and greenhouse. I loved the unique vibe that this place gave and wanted to capture it in my piece.”

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Fiction

Space Needed Ashley Duncan A loud pounding thundered throughout the room, startling the king awake. He sat up and grumbled as he squinted toward the giant doors. “What in the hell…” lighting up his disheveled face and making him cover his eyes. “Sorry to wake you sir, but it is urgent.” Four guards stood outside his door, two holding torches. “What do you want?” “It’s Amethyst. We lost her, again.” “Again?” The king’s eyes opened, fully awake now, knowing that his daughter was probably not within the walls of the castle. “This is the third time this goddamn week!” The king hurried back to his bed, grabbing his robe and slipping on his slippers. The king turned back towards the doors and headed out, making the soldiers part a path for him. “Gather the rest of the guards and maids and send out a search party,” the king glanced behind him, “and you

***** Amethyst slung her bag over her shoulder as she scrambled up a tree, her nightgown getting caught on branches, ripping here and there. At one point, it snagged on a larger branch and she yanked it so hard a piece of her nightgown She stared at it and shrugged. “I wasn’t a fan of this nightgown anyways.”

Amethyst carefully pulled her telescope from the bag and extended it to its full length. She peered into the bright sky and smiled at the large object smiling back. The moon was everything to her and she wanted to know everything about it.

She put the telescope back up to her eye and sighed at the sight of the moon. The mix of the surface’s colors brought joy to her; the way the light greys and dark greys blended.

dimmer, or sometimes not even there. The clouds tended to cover the moon some nights, leaving her to see the stars only. Amethyst wondered where the moon went. For a few hours, she sat there, carefully studying every aspect of the moon and sky. The next day, she would take what she drew and go to the local scientist and librarian, to see if they knew anything about the moon. She always bombarded those two with questions and they always gave her the same answers, but yet she would return. After studying the moon for so long, Amethyst put her things away and just lay against the tree, staring up at the sky. 56

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GALAXY GIRL Gracie Eli digital illustration

“This digital illustration was designed in Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop. It was an attempt at composing a larger project. However, I was surprised with how it turned out and made the decision to have it stand alone.”

While she relaxed, watching the moon, her eyes began to grow heavy and her head wilted. Before she knew it, didn’t sleep long before shouts and the clanging of metal woke her. would be in big trouble. She grabbed her bag and began climbing down the tree, scraping her arms and legs in the process. The light that had led her up the tree had disappeared.

thud, the branches and leaves cracking and crunching underneath her, along with the items in her bag. “Did you hear that?” the middle voice shouted to the other voices. “Sounded like something fell!” “Could be her!” The metal clanging got louder and Amethyst knew they were running. She had a chance to get up and run away, but her body hurt from the short fall and she was too sad to move, knowing she had broken her telescope. So, she The empty sky. The sky is empty? Wasn’t the moon just there? Amethyst tilted her head from the ground and stared; the moon couldn’t just disappear like that. The stars still littered the sky, but where the moon once was, there was nothing. Slowly she sat up. I didn’t sleep that long. It’s still dark out. Where did it go? Before she could process her thoughts, the clanging metal was upon her, and three men stood above her,

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breathing heavily. “Why are you out here, princess?” The one in the middle slipped his arms under hers and stood her up, still trying to through her hair, picking out leaves. “Not funny. Your father is pissed.” “Of course, he is. You had to go and tell him.” Amethyst turned to face the three and dramatically quoted, “‘I went missing’, idiot.” “Well, what if something happened to you? You could have been kidnapped.” The one to the right tried to take her Amethyst gripped her bag. She readjusted her bag and shouldered between the three, heading back towards the castle. When she didn’t hear the metal of their armor moving, she shouted over her shoulder. “Are you going to escort me back or just stand there?” Metal clinked and clanged as the three jogged to catch up with her. The walk back to the castle seemed like it took forever, as if it were almost never-ending. The guards would try to talk to Amethyst, but she wasn’t in the mood. Her telescope was broken, her father was going to yell at her, and the moon was missing. On the other side of the doors was her father, pacing the room. When he heard the door open, his head perked up, glaring at Amethyst. “Where have you been! I had the whole castle out looking for you!” “I don’t see why. These idiots always know where I am,” Amethyst mumbled as she walked past her father, heading to her room. The king glanced at the three soldiers, who shifted awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. “And you, miss, you stop moving right now!” But Amethyst kept going, climbing the stairs up to her room. “No, I’m good. You’re just going to yell at me.” “I’m not going to yell at you. I just want to know where you were!” “You’re yelling at me right now!” “No, I’m just trying to talk to you, but you keep walking away.” The king stopped and stared at Amethyst as she pushed open the door to her room. “You’re so stubborn, just like your mother. She would always do what she wanted and it got her killed.” soldiers.” Amethyst turned and saw her father’s face turn red. “A jester that can’t even come looking for his daughter. “Your mother caused us issues. Her going alone to do things is what got her killed.” “Well at least she tried to protect our city! Something you won’t do, but you’ll protect me by keeping me locked in my room. I’d rather be like mom any day over you!” Tears welled up in Amethyst’s eyes as she slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned against it, letting tears slide down her cheeks. First her mother and now the moon; the two things she loved the most left her and she was all alone again.

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LAKE QUINAULT LODGE Abby Hauser photography

“This photo of the Lake Quinault Lodge was taken on a Photo Club trip. The lodge was built in the 1920s and captures the beauty I wanted to remember.”

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gallery ONE WHEEL Sterling Stecker photography “Pictures are used to help us remember, but what will I think of this photo later in life? I hope I can look at this photo and remember all of the good times that I had with my friends, hanging out and trying different tricks.”

SANITATION Iandra Estupinian photography “This photo is based on a series about the impact COVID-19 had on children, taking them out of schools and having them follow strict guidelines, which goes against their ‘wild nature.’”

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Poetry

Churchgoers Joshua Miller Jr. We sit and listen in rigid pews in plain churches To the words of a man learned in the ways of the soul He dictates his view of the biblical reading In his many garments of green and white Advising us how to better ourselves and our siblings in Christ With many blessings and ancient phrases we meander our way through old traditions of another age Kneeling, standing, Seating, singing As instructed Praying as our thoughts wander to the farthest thing from holy notions We take and eat the very God we worship Then we leave

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Poetry

Two Hours North Marisa Natoli I look ahead and see black cows trudging, I wish I could put a sweater on them. All the scenery beside me turns into a grey-blue. Beside the loud green sign stuck into the icy grass: “Moody County.”

“Ice forms before the bridge.” I pick at the side of my nail. Now it’s Al Green, Whipping me with melancholy notes, Then I look down, blood.

“I’m just tired.” I assure myself as a knot settles in my throat. One deep breath, then two, Turn the music up, no, down. The cows are cold, Thirty minutes away, there is more snow on the ground.

“I’m so tired of bein’ alone.” He chants to me as if he were in the passenger seat, With a cigarette out the window. “I’m so tired of on-my-own.” And I wonder if the cows are cold.

I’ll feel better tomorrow, Five hours until I can sleep. A yellow sign yells,

“This picture of a farmer harvesting his crops in Sergeant Bluff was put through filters to give it the appearance of a painting.”

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EVENING HARVEST Rae Barto photography

gallery

OCTOBER Leandra Estupinian photography

“October is a photograph of an entrance to a corn maze, taken during a full moon.”

SUMMER STORM Haylie Folsom painting “Summer Storm was inspired by a drive through western Kansas, a place which many people would consider to be very boring. In this piece, I aim to show the viewer the beauty and color in the mundane.”

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Fiction

Two Faces Megan Kyhl I was in line at the grocery store when I saw one of the greatest acts of kindness I have come across in my life. A young family was checking out their groceries and the cashier took their money and counted it. Her face softened and then she looked at the young mother. “I’m sorry ma’am but you are twenty dollars short.” The old woman standing in between me and the family at the register saw what was happening. While the mother searched her wallet for any spare change she had, the old woman behind her reached into her purse for something. family. “Please, take this. I know how hard it is to raise a family nowadays.” The young mother was grateful and tried to come up with a way to repay her. The old woman placed her hand on the mother’s shoulder. “Hon, you don’t worry about a thing. Take your babies and get on home now. God bless you.” The old woman didn’t take even two seconds to think before she took out the money to cover the rest of the expenses. I thought to myself, see, the world is still good and has generous people like this old woman. The young mother went on her way with her cart full of groceries, and the old woman moved forward to the register. The cashier felt so touched, just like the rest of us who had witnessed the encounter. “Ma’am, I would just like to say it was so kind of you to step in and pay the rest of the mother’s groceries.” The old woman’s face contorted into a sick grin. “You wanna know a secret, hon?” A look of confusion spread across the cashier’s face. Without her saying anything the old woman continued. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if she couldn’t pay for it. I just wanted her to get going so you could scan my groceries. I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to.” I could tell the cashier was surprised by what she said. Hell, so was I. The cashier mustered up a fake laugh and small smile, and mumbled. “Oh, yeah.” The cashier scanned the old woman’s items in silence, still shocked by what had just come out of the old hag’s mouth. When she read the total amount for the woman’s groceries, the old woman had the nerve to surprise us all again. “Oh, and I have enough money for this purchase.” She winked.

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DING Rachel Steinkamp photography “I took this photograph in Ames, Iowa, at an antique store and greenhouse. I loved the texture of the bells and the way they showed movement.”

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gallery

AYASOFYA HURREM SULTAN HAMAM Dr. Mitch Keller photography “Travel’s power comes from allowing us to explore new cultures. This scene from Istanbul stands out for its distinctive architecture.”

MOOD LIGHTING Melissa Gillette photography “A cannon facing a grate with a chucara, an atacador, and a hooked poker on the wall beside. Rather than having a harsh bright light that might depict danger or urgency, there is a soft warm glow. This piece is calm and inviting.”

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THE BIG GAME Abby Koch photography “This was the first game of the season for the Morningside Mustang football team, despite the challenges of COVID playing a factor. A small moment of normalcy that was big for our community. A moment that needed to be captured.”

WATCHFUL Madeline Keating color pencil on black paper substrate “In this piece, I tried to get slightly out of my comfort zone, using a black background to my advantage and helping both the color and the subject pop.”

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“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” - nathaniel hawthorne

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!"#$%&#'%$ JULIANNA BAKER is a freshman from Wasilla, AK, majoring in English. At Morningside, she is involved in Cantabile. While she has always loved to write, it was not until high school that she really began to focus on her writing. She now has written multiple pieces, is happy to say that this is ASHLEY DUNCAN is a junior from Carnarvon, IA, majoring in mass communication and minoring in photojournalism. At Morningside, she is a part of AOII, MAC, and KMSC. She was pushed to believe in herself and submit to the Kiosk. EVA GEIBEN double majoring in business and psychology. She is on Morningside’s women’s soccer team. She started writing novels and poetry when she was 6 years old and still uses writing to express her emotions. MEGAN KYHL is a sophomore from Slater, IA, majoring in graphic design. She is one of the assistant art directors for the Kiosk. She is excited that one of her works of writing will be published in the Kiosk she has been published in something. FAITH LASKIE is a sophomore from Le Mars, IA, double majoring in elementary and special education. At Morningside, she is involved in ISEA, ODK, ALD, APO, theatre, and choir. She does not have a lot of professional or school experience with poetry but has always been interested in creating her own work. JOSHUA MILLER JR. is a sophomore from Lincoln, NE, double majoring in biology and English and minoring in chemistry. At Morningside, he is part of the football team, PPHC, and ODK. Miller had never written poetry until last semester and was initially intimidated. However, he soon found a haven in religious poetry. He is honored to be published alongside great writers.

MARISA NATOLI is a junior from Maui, Hawaii, majoring in English. She is grateful for any opportunity she gets to share her creativity with others. Language arts has been a special part of her life. Although at times writing is a therapeutic internal unraveling, she truly enjoys creating work that feels ready to be shared with the world and hopes that her readers have a spiritual experience when reading her work. PAYTON SAUERBREI is a freshman from Worthington, MN, majoring in English education. At Morningisde, she was on the poetry reading board for the Kiosk. She gained a love of reading from her parents which developed into a love of writing. She hopes through teaching she can help instill this passion for reading and writing in others. RILEY SLECHTA is a senior from Sioux City, IA, majoring in history. At Morningside, she is a part of Phi Alpha Theta and the history department’s mentoring program. Slechta has always enjoyed writing in her free time, but her love and passion was reignited last fall. Slechta hopes to continue writing after graduation and combining it with her love of history. JAMES SPICER is a junior from Rock Springs, WY, majoring in computer science. He is on Morningside’s men’s swim time here at Morningside, he has been surrounded by to improve upon his writing skills and truly allow “Making Waves” to convey what an impact Coach Farris had on him. EVELYN WILLIAMS is a senior from Danville, IA, double majoring in English and religious studies. At Morningside, she is a part of Sigma Tau Delta, Theta Alpha Kappa, Cantabile, and the Kiosk. She has always had an immense joy for writing and reading and plans to keep doing it for years to come. Williams recently found the hidden gem she has enough room on her bookshelves! LEX WURTH is a junior from San Antonio, TX, majoring in graphic design. She is on Morningside’s women’s swim team, part of the FIWD board, and is an assistant art director for the Kiosk. She has been writing before she knew how to spell, and poetry is her favorite form of creative writing. In high school, Wurth participated in many literary events.

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JOHN ANDERSON is a junior from Sioux City, IA, majoring in applied computer science.

RAE BARTO history.

FAUSTINO BARROSO is a junior from Santa Ana, CA, majoring in applied agriculture and food studies. At Morningside, he is a part of Camerata.

NANCY CORONEL is a senior from Santa Ana, CA, majoring in social behavioral sciences with an emphsais in law and society. At Morningside, she is a part of photography club.

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GIUSEPPE DEL RIO BROGGI is a junior from Lima, Peru, triple majoring in business, marketing, and graphic design. At Morningside, he is a part of business honors, CEO, ISA, art club, and MSAA. GRACIE ELI is a second-year junior from Sioux City, IA, majoring in graphic design and minoring in business administration. She is an assistant art director for the Kiosk.

IANDRA ESTUPINIAN is a senior from Santa Ana, CA, majoring in coporate communications with minors in advertising and photography. At Morningside, she is president of photography club and the promotions and public service director for KMSC. LEANDRA ESTUPINIAN is a senior from Santa Ana, CA, double majoring in biology and English with an emphasis in literature. At Morningside, she is a part of MAC, photo Kiosk. HAYLIE FOLSOM is a junior from Atchison, KS, double majoring in counseling psychology with a minor in studio art. At Morningside, she is on the women’s swim team, KMSC, Active Minds, art club, and was on the Kiosk visual art board. MELISSA GILLETTE is a senior from Sioux City, IA, majoring and studio art. At Morningside, she is involved in CEO, TIES, SEA, UPA, Anime club, photography club, and the president of art club. CALISSA HANSON is a senior from Sioux City, IA, majoring in computer science. At Morningside, she is a member of the choir. ABBY HAUSER is a senior from Lake View, IA, majoring in business administration. She is a part of Morningside’s photography club.

LAUREN HEDLUND is a freshman from Albion, NE, majoring in art education. She is a part of Morningside’s women’s basketball team, art club, and photography club. MADELINE KEATING is a junior from Overland Park, KS, double majoring in history and studio art and minoring in English. At Morningside, she is on the women’s swim team and is the visual art editor for the Kiosk.

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DR. MITCH KELLER is an assistant professor of mathematics from Halliday, ND. His hobbies include baking, photography, and travelling. ABBY KOCH is a senior from Sioux City, IA, majoring in graphic design and mass communication. At Morningside, she is a part of The Collegian Reporter, KMSC, ODK, Palmer committee, FIWD committee, sports information, and campus ministries. BRIANNA MEALS s a sophomore from Sioux City, IA, Nursing Assistant, was on the dean’s list and participated in the Eppley Gallery Art Show. CHRIS PEREZ is a freshman from Santa Ana, CA, majoring in graphic design and criminal justice.

DEVYN REILLY is a sophomore from Fountain, CO, majoring in graphic design.

CALEB ROGGENBUCK is a freshman from Sioux Falls, SD, majoring in art education. At Morningside, he is on the cross country and track team.

STERLING STECKER is a senior from Forest City, IA, majoring in computer science. At Morningside, he is a part of Rocket Club, MAC, student government, and Active Minds.

RACHEL STEINKAMP is a sophomore from Arcadia, IA, majoring in photography and graphic design and minoring in advertising. At Morningside, she is a part of cheerleading, ALD, and is the digital design editor for the Kiosk. MADISSEN STEVENS is a freshman from Fremont, NE, double majoring in studio art and business administration. At Morningside, she is a part of band, CEO, and art club. ANNA UEHLING is a senior from Nicollet, MN, double majoring in graphic design and marketing and minoring in photography. At Morningside, she is the vice president of MSAA.

ABOUT THE KIOSK “Subject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed.” of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the predecessor of the Kiosk. In the early years of Morningside,

was revamped in 2006 to include student and alumni-created art of various media. Art advisor

in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary

and Shelby Prindaville, assisted student editors in allowing these artistic pieces to take a more central 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. With the continued support of President John Reynders and the Morningside community, this publication continues to grow and evolve. In 2021, with three brand-new faculty advisors, the Kiosk

of the Manuscript Club. In March 1938, students and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and poems which had undergone a screening process; That fall, South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping chapel to go to an ice cream parlor. 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 voices heard. The group published sixteen issues until Manuscript disappeared in 1952. 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 and Brendan Todt. While the Kiosk has included cover art in many

that focused on student production. Submissions are accepted in the spring semester of each academic year. Literary and art work is then reviewed by the editorial boards and recommendations are forwarded to the editor-inchief, who selects pieces for judging. Winners are objectively chosen by judges with no art names or Those interested in working for and/or 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.

83 Years of the Kiosk

1938

1956

1971

2006

2020

First literary magazine on campus.

Name changed to Perspectives.

Name changed again, to Kiosk.

Format changed to introduce more artwork.

Cover format changed.

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RECENT AWARDS 2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007