Waldorf Literary Review, Vol. 10, 2017-18 by Waldorf University

Featured In this issue:

Waldorf Literary Review Volume 10, 2017

Waldorf Literary Review Waldorff University | Volume 10

Produced annually, Waldorf Literary Review endeavors to further the intellectual and artistic conversation at Waldorf University by providing a public venue for the strongest, most vital creative work submitted by students, faculty, staff, alumni, and other members of Waldorf University and Forest City communities. Waldorf Literary Review is edited, designed, and produced by Waldorf University students in CWR 490: Literary Editing. It is printed by ColorFx in Boyden, Iowa. The magazine is made possible by the generosity and support of Waldorf University and its associates. Thanks to all our contributors; we appreciate the opportunity to showcase your talents. Thanks also to the high school seniors and juniors who contributed poetry and prose for our fourth annual Top of Iowa Conference Creative Writing Contest. The top winners are selected annually by the staff of the Review.

Waldorf Literary Review Volume 10, 2017

Editorial Team

General submissions are welcome during the fall and spring semester, particularly November and January. You can email submissions to waldorliteraryreview@gmail. com. Here are a few criteria to keep in mind:

Kailee Ward

Associate Poetry/Prose Editor

Jeremy Navarro

Associate Poetry/Prose Editor

Jaci Olson

Associate Poetry/Prose Editor

Prose: Whether stories are fictional or real, we like strong character development and a plot with rising tension. We are drawn to reflective essays as well—especially when they circle an intriguing topic, seeing it from multiple angles. Good literary fiction or nonfiction tends to illuminate an important human experience and to offer a perspective that is not predictable.

Sydney Sell

Associate Poetry/Prose Editor

Poetry: We like to be affected emotionally. This often occurs because of vivid, evocative imagery. Since poetry is about musicality as well, the language needs to have patterns and sound effects that contribute to a desired tone. A poem should be pleasing to the ear but not sing-songy. A poem should also be inventive in point of view, language, or form. Art: With regard to skill, we look for a pleasing composition—that is, lines, shapes, and patterns that engage the eye. We look for a skillful use of color and texture, too, applied in a way that suits the subject. Photos are especially good for capturing reality in surprising ways, taken from unexpected angles or relying on unusual scale and proportion. And three dimensional art should offer a sense of space and tactile attraction, which is why we look for shapes that have volume and texture plus a distinctive style. All art, though, should convey something that causes us to marvel or to resonate with recognition. For more information about the magazine or contest, please contact Professor Tim Bascom at tim.bascom@waldorf.edu.

Design Team Nick Heimerman

Design Editor

Faculty Advisor Professor Tim Bascom

Table of Contents Megan Haugen Sam Morrison Abbie Wells Mandi Wright Diana Humble Isabelle Rothbauer

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Megan Haugen Ann Rosenblatt

8 Entitled to Me Cottage I’m A Myth gas stations Dead, but not Gone Among the daisies and forget-her-nots Boxes In the Stars (When I think About You)

Poetry Mandi Wright Ruth Worrell Donnica Keeling Marcus Lopez Saheed Olaosebikan Matthew Scott Harris Jon Happel Sam Morrison Jaci Olson Jeremy Navarro Nic Ray Marla Britton-Johnson Ryan Clark Kaytlin Workman Joy M. Newcom

8 9 10 12 13 14 16 18

20 A Regular Day Hused Great Grandfather Tick, Tock. Banks in Wilmington, DE My Faith Bumper Boo Boo Moments Robert Johnson’s Blues Things I Cherish The Morning Hunt Fixed The Walk The Homesteaders Buffalo Hide Painting So I Go Back When I Broke My Hand

20 21 22 23 24 24 25 26 28 29 30 30 31 32 33 34 35

Awards in Art & Photography

Cassie Ruud MacKenzie Droessler Haley Mokelstad Ryan Fischer

36 37 38 39

Rust SunDogs Soft Pastel - Night Sky Once New is Now Old

Black & White Photography

Zabdiel Flores Carlos Carlos Ruiz Maggie Kretzmann Erisha Menon MacKenzie Droessler Zabdiel Flores Carlos Zabdiel Flores Carlos Erisha Menon

40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

Girl in Chihuahua St. Louis Alley Duluth Incline Ring Train in Chihuahua Elevated Train in Chicago Ripples of Nature

Awards in Prose Isabelle Rothbauer Myriah Hacker Ellie Peters Brena Hamilton Courtney Lewis

48 Becoming the Lobster: The Shells We Live In To Sleep Under Fire The Red Scarf Spring 1779 The Not So Happy Birthday

Fiction Prose Mandi Wright Diana Humble Cathleen Chittenden Bascom Diana Humble

48 57 63 67 75

81 Cigarette Manifesto Just Paying the Bills Of Green Stuff Woven Rachel Kriese’s Murder

81 84 92 109

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Awards in Poetry

Nick Heimerman Kenolson Collin Andrew May

Adventure Is Out There Misjudged Foongus Amoung Us Low Poly Pokemon Adventure

NonFiction Prose Barbara Johnson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Kaytlin Workman

100

Photography

100 101 102 103

Carlos Ruiz DeAnn Hanna Darian Walsh DeAnn Hanna Erisha Menon Cassie Ruud

104 Scrabble A Collage of Memories White Walls

Drawings and Paintings

104 108

Julienne Friday Isabelle Rothbauer Tina Somchit

114 Luke Zacharias

Maggie Kretzmann Andrew May Brain Shariffi Ryan Fischer Haley Mokelstad Barbara Johnson

Sunday Doodles R2D2 Cruisin’ SuperMom The Beauty in Death Harvest Father

Featured Author Jeremy Navarro

114 115 116 117 118 119

120 Success Story of Creative Nonfiction

120

Contributors

123 Cash Register Fall at Pilot Knob Italian Life Sphinx Moth Last Moments of a Butterfly Landscape Bark Area Show 45 Box Thorpe Park Baby Pink Earrings and Bracelet Blue Letters Trees

123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134

135

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Digital Art

Cottage

1st Place Salveson Poetry Prize Megan Haugen

2nd Place Salveson Poetry Prize Sam Morrison

He was my friend.

My blessed cottage is far away

Nice only to me.

from the life of city buzz.

He felt more entitled

The old brown thornvine

To my body than me.

weaves its branches on the drain pipe

I was fifteen, and

and my wine ages in the cellar.

Twenty was he.

An old book of stories sits on the table,

He felt more entitled

fabled tales come to life under the gas lamp.

To my body than me.

From the den I hear the kettle squeal,

He enacted entitlement

see that old quilt, nailed to the wall.

On every skin cell.

Children laugh in the distance

He took advantage of my body.

amongst the tan hay stacks.

AWARDS IN POETRY

Entitled to Me

He used it well. I kept it quiet And did not tell a soul. My dad would be violent Mom would say “I told you so.” It took me a long time To focus on me Because He felt more entitled To my body than me.

“This poem impresses in every respect. From its concrete form to the courage of taking on an important but difficult subject, and more. It doesn’t sensationalize or make the material maudlin. Rather, the restrained tone and simple, clear lines reflect a maturity and control in the writing, and make the poem’s impact stronger. The brevity gives each word an emphasis that holds us hard. Less is much more here. It’s not only subject and voice that makes this poem succeed. The repetition, the rhythm and the return use of the title phrase in the final two lines haunt us, stay with us just as it stays with the speaker of the poem. That’s how it should be. This is not a poem we should walk away from easily.”

“A compressed, economic but vivid picture, with exact details that make this a real place. And those details make it an inviting place, just the sort of refuge we want from the “city buzz.” It has a nice sound overall, with good use of assonance and near-rhyme.”

Dana Yost, Poetry Judge, Author of Grace, The Right Place, and 1940

AWARDS IN POETRY

3rd Place Salveson Poetry Prize Abbie Wells

I’m a myth. I’m a legend. They say I’m not real But who are they To tell me how I feel? I’m depressed. I’m waiting. I’m just not there yet. But why must everything Be all about hormones and sex? Celibacy is brave. Abstinence is key. But will somebody listen When I scream that’s not me. I’m not choosing to withhold. I’m not choosing to wait. I’m not saving my virtue And I’m not blooming late. Yes I find people attractive And yes they’re very kind, But is it so hard to believe That sex is not on my mind? I think back to when I was young, Impressionable still, And my best friend asked me, “So do you think you will?” I thought to myself What a strange question to ask. I mean I hadn’t really thought about it So I was taken aback. I was full of indifference. Sex wasn’t really on my list. The wheels started to turn. Was there something I had missed? Why didn’t I want to? Where did I go wrong? And if this was me, then Where did I belong? I pushed it aside; Pushed it far to the back. I didn’t want to think about All my life could lack.

But things like this Have a way of coming back around And once you think they’re quiet, They make a tiny sound. You try to silence it Until it seems to scream And you finally stop to ask, Okay. What does this mean? And in this way life is funny Because when you don’t know what to do, Suddenly a sign appears And it screams, “Hey! This is you.” You open your eyes And see what’s ahead. You finally crack a smile Because some light has been shed. Yes. Yes that’s me. That’s how I’ve always felt. And look at these people. They’ve lived and they’ve dealt With these kinds of feelings Their whole life too. It’s not strange or unnatural. It’s real and true. And it has a name, This thing that left me lost Falling and reaching Trying at any cost To find a reason For being this way When all along I never realized That this feeling was okay. I don’t need to long. I don’t need to yearn. “I kept coming back to this one, unsure what I don’t need to feel to think at some times, but riveted by its energy. When it’s read out loud, there is a This passion or this burn. sort of Seuss-like rhythm and rhyme (and I don’t feel a hunger. Seuss’ social defiance). I’m not sure if it’s a I don’t feel a thirst. protest or satire, but it doesn’t necessarily I don’t feel like I’m bubbling matter – it works either way. Fresh, energetic Or ready to burst voice, good pace. The series of questions, the I don’t need to feel this series of lines starting “I don’t,” give this a Longing or this drive. music that is compelling – an intense pulse.” It is merely something that I don’t need to survive. Dana Yost, Poetry Judge, Author of Grace, The

AWARDS IN POETRY

I’m A Myth

Right Place, and 1940

gas stations

Dead, but not Gone

Honorable Mention Salveson Poetry Prize Mandi Wright

Honorable Mention Salveson Poetry Prize Diana Humble

I see it—

I see his ghost

The tea we used to enjoy.

every day.

I open the cooler door and Think

I see him in lazy smiles

How disgusting it actually is,

In shaggy blond hair

So sweet

In silhouettes dancing through tall grass

Like you were.

In phantom motorcycles blazing down the highway

I don’t like the taste anymore—

In animals lying dead on the side of the road. Forgotten.

Eagerly grab it

Whenever I see him I’m captivated,

Anyway.

Back in his gravity—

AWARDS IN POETRY

I sigh and

Even if for a moment Because when the stranger’s grin doesn’t have the same chipped tooth When his hair reflects back without golden luster When I can’t see myself in the other silhouette When the engine’s grunt has no familiar edge When I realize that fallen motorcycles can’t resurrect And their riders can’t either As much as I would give anything for it— I remember that I’m just seeing ghosts And for now, that’s enough. I won’t seek him out, But he’ll seek me— He always has.

Among the daisies and forget-her-nots

malleable memory.

Honorable Mention Salveson Poetry Prize Isabelle Rothbauer

And each time he thought of her was like the sun and water to those words gifting them the strength to dig deeper and grow higher until there was little room to think of much else.

I lie in, as my hands absentmindedly

Until they grew so big that the petals

twirl the stems

began to brush against the inside of his skull,

of tiny blue flowers, round and round,

seeds breaking free and spreading until his brain was entirely covered by her flowers.

blows the sweet, soft aromas

And here I lie

of the wet earth past my nostrils,

plucking the petals of a wilted white daisy one-by-one.

it takes me back

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me . . . He loves me not.

AWARDS IN POETRY

as the lazy, warm breeze

to a time when horses pulled carriages

I throw the stem as hard as I can

and coy smiles hid under bonnets

but wind catches the light, delicate thing

and white gloved hands were kissed by sweet

and it lands softly back in my lap, whispering all the insecurities I want to let go.

thin lips and dark, handsome eyes caught whispers of

The flowers have taken their root,

“Forget me not”

and I fear if I dare dig them up,

before blushing and looking away.

they will take chunks of rich soil with them, nothing to plant in now.

And carriage doors closed, reins slapped down,

So instead I pluck their stems and shred their petals

dust flew up,

with kisses and whispers of my own

and all that remained was her hazy

so that, for a day, or a week, if the rain doesn’t come,

delicious words that danced around him

he won’t remember to forget-her-not.

in swirls and echos, plunging their roots deep into his soft

Boxes Honorable Mention Salveson Poetry Prize Megan Haugen

can’t understand words like doggo, and on fleek. Her mind sees the world in numbers, absolutes, and boxes. To her, the world is black and white. There is no room for grey. The window matched her view, with tiny little squares separated neatly. Her eyes look out the window and understand that what she looks

She couldn’t connect with anything. She did not know how to

at is beautiful, or pretty, however, she fails to see how it is beautiful,

connect with the beauty of the world around her, the things this world

or how other people see it as beautiful because her mental definition

contains for her to experience, or the people. on this Earth with whom

of beautiful doesn’t tell her how beauty works. This inability to

this one of a kind person may possibly enjoy this experience. She

understand what makes things beautiful or useful extends to people,

sees the world in absolutes, without failure. In her eyes there is no

and certain things. Watching her life as though through a window. She

abstract thinking, only a solid understanding of how the world around

always liked looking out the window.

her accomplishes business. She goes on with this understanding, but without the ability to make inferences about this world she calls home. window. She was always looking out the window.

AWARDS IN POETRY

She was looking out the window. She was looking out the square People look at her when she tells them about Asperger’s, with the look that people give those with an incurable disease. Giving her a look of almost pity as though saying, “Somebody will be see you as a useful person, but not me because somebody else will.” They also see her as a person who is both snobby and stuck up, or a person with developmental delays which inhibiting the ability to speak and communicate with the world around her. She lives her life in a sort of bubble: unable to living without the interaction every person seeks, but also unable to connect with people on a level from which friendship can be derived. When this girl with a higher functioning form of Autism does chooses to speak she is met with a lack of understanding her vocabulary because she chooses to utilizes language that is mature on a level beyond her peers. She cannot fathom how the people around her can make connections with others, become friends almost instantly, and why she cannot hope to be like the people she witnesses living their lives and walking beside her every day. Her mind doesn’t understand their humor, or the slang that her peers are so good at understanding. She

Each of these, Honorable Mentions like every poem in the excellent contest field, has moments of really good work. Some have highly inventive, creative word play and structure; some dig deeply into serious subjects; some take us to another place or time; some strike with a memorable image or phrase. One of my favorite phrases is the sound of an “engine’s grunt,” from “Dead Not Gone.” Dana Yost, Poetry Judge, Author of Grace, The Right Place, and 1940

In the Stars (When I Think About You) 1st Place Top of Iowa HS Poetry Contest Ann Rosenblatt, Newman Catholic High School

I look up to you just as much as you look up to me. I believe you are smart and beautiful and funny and so worthy of love.

It’s at night when I think about you. Unsaid words shine in the stars of the night,

I will always have your back, no matter what.

knitted through the inky darkness of the sky. I gaze out.

Maybe one day,

And I think back to

when we’re older and wiser, I’ll tell you all this.

the days spent lying out on the summer grass, the chilled water from the sprinkler mixing with the heated glow of the sun,

But for now, I can send out my words to the stars

the days spent in the front seat of my car throwing our hands out

AWARDS IN POETRY

And hope the light catches your eye. of the sunroof and feeling the wind fly in and out of our grasp, the days spent climbing trees so high I thought I could see the world spread out underneath us. From then until now, I’ve always been grateful to have you by my side. You’re the most genuine soul I’ve ever known. And I love the way you laugh like no one else is watching, speak with the fire of passion in your eyes, run through the world, streaking it with a color all your own. You’re growing up now. Life will throw daggers and lead you away from the path. But life is also a journey for you. And I want you to know that

A Regular Day

Hushed

Mandi Wright

Ruth Worrell

Cool Iowan wind weaves through my hair

Perhaps being so quiet was fitting

Balancing my body on a long board

for a plodding afternoon in a library

Trying to clear my mind

an aroma of books

No worries at all

youthful and aged works alike

No worries at all.

periodicals spread across the coffee-stained floor

Sitting underneath a fruit tree

in company of tight-lipped students.

It’s getting cold, but I think I need more

Perhaps the silence was harrowing

No worries at all

as a dreary morning sky

No worries at all.

false beginnings

Trembling hands and blank poetry

on a spring day

Afraid I have nothing interesting to say

discreet disappointment

Even if my eyes understand the universe

for travelers and homebodies as well.

POETRY

Lighting one cigarette after another

No worries at all

No worries at all.

Perhaps making little noise was safe

The mind is a chamber of unknown knowledge to others

since being hushed was all he knew.

I smile at my friends who’ve betrayed me

As fears became inevitably intrusive

Acting oblivious of all malicious acts

and nightmares became reality

No worries at all

he sank back into a world of self-awareness

No worries at all.

engulfed in flames of sensitivity.

Tick, Tock.

Donnica Keeling

Yesterday I sat with you on the screen porch swinging while it rained. Now the spot is empty, your callused hands from hard work no longer there for me to hold on too.

Tick Tock, Tick, Tock. The time goes by horribly slow. People are buzzing, whispering names and things. They know nothing.

I see you in the pool, the vast blue where my sister & I learned to swim. You rescued my sister from that pool. It held all my best memories, even when you left for someplace new.

Tick. The sound brings hums. Tock. The police are yelling at me. Tick. This chair is cold and feels of stone. Tock. I should never have helped him cover it up.

The two dogs who stood at your side, black, like shadows, protecting you as we walked in the gardens of the new home, picking beans and eating them in secret. In your 70’s and still nothing stopped you. You were called many things by many people: son, brother, husband, uncle, father, and grandfather. To me, it was great grandfather, but to anyone else a friend. Helping all you could, painting walls, siding homes, talking to us about our dreams, making us want to be the best while taking pride in all we do. Though time will carry on without you, your spirit will live with us through the stories that you have provided. Each one of us will hold something different that we have shared with you.

POETRY

Great Grandfather

He whispered my name, still stuck in my head. Maybe I should just offer him up? But what will they do when they see he’s dead too? Tick, Tock. No, I’ll just sit here, put on a scared face, and play coy. Tick, Tock. After all, who would think that such a small girl, a tiny little stick, had stabbed and killed those thick and tall men? Crash! The verdict is in. She’s guilty of two, Now murder her too!

Banks in Wilmington, DE

Bumper Boo Boo

Marcus Lopez

Matthew Scott Harris

Like tanks Indestructible and supporting us all

Courtesy of Abby Robin red breast with antic Like baby in an out of control carriage that’s frantic Mama bird unable to worm herself when fender got bent And quite frantic As wheels could not curb predatory hidden tree stump though not gigantic Managed to wreak havoc when wheel Turin shrouded once tree In living color tried to be romantic

Houses of cards Glass house Houses of credit cards Imaginary houses

POETRY

Angelic towers Devilish tactics Beacons of hope Lightning rods of oppression

My Faith Saheed Olaosebikan I am a Muslim not a terrorist I am peaceful not violent My religion preaches love not hate So why are you against my faith? Terrorist and Radicals don’t represent me So don’t hold me accountable for the insane. Because every religion has the same Don’t let your ignorance define me I practice my faith in angst Due to the criticism from every face That makes me feel out of place I am a Muslim not a terrorist

Sans turning a new leaf (s a nada funny) over stepping the limn mitt With clicking n clacking car talk “hi yon day”, which writ Quite a bit of damage though thankfully no animals harmed Yet spouse burst thru the front door in a harried fit Full state jabbering incoherently as if rabid and chomping at the bit POETRY

White collar workers Invading no-collar hoods

From trunk of a once mighty leafy herbaceous botanical aid To shield the ground from mister sun, without green dais Global warming predicted, thus compromising species from blade Inhabitants to those in the expansive seas that end up filleted As they graduate from the school of fish and receive a passing grade To become some culinary delight made From cuisine art, where chefs get handily paid In various types of denominational currency shade Wall eye find this shellfish trade Specifically caused by an auto accident of fate Due to cockiness exhibited from a wife no hot shot nor great Behind the wheel, which opinion of mine she would hate But this poor soul i.e. and a mister mom to boot at this hour late Will foot the bill, though he doth feel quite I rate But refuses to rant and rave, Which raw outburst accomplishes nothing – only a spate Of vitriolic expletives to make a sailor blush their trademark trait so Mepco warranty picked up the tab, and I rented a spanking new vehicle (from Enterprise), then at Hyundai Conicelli Dealers, the mechanics did an awesome bang out job while this common Joe cur of a chap did wait.

Moments Jon Happel

A Moment:

Wind scattering the scent of popcorn and hot dogs.

A clean, crisp room surrounds all, bleached white and sterilized.

Enthusiastic cheers of the crowd, both friend and rival, muted & dull.

Cold wires and tubes wrap around, fusing human to machine.

Feeling smooth wood between rigid fingers.

Tears flow freely from familiar faces, rivers of sapphires.

The resounding crack that never fails to satisfy.

Joy and sadness mix, a medicine that cures too slow.

Cold soda trickling down parched throats as the first of the fireflies

A shudder, a sigh, one last breath. A Moment:

A Moment:

One by one, they are on display,

Sparse drops of sweat struggle against the air-conditioned sanctuary.

Memories blossom, each bursting with life. A small form

Rampant butterflies wheeling and crashing against stomach walls.

Watches with trembling hands, a tear-stained face, a smile.

Wild thoughts racing: ohGodthisisitwhatamIdoingherewego.

Strong arms hold shaking shoulders.

Two sights locking, two hearts beating, two smiles wide and free.

A walk, together, towards a new moment, which isn’t a moment

Two lives becoming one.

At all.

POETRY

light the twilight sky.

A Moment: The office, closing in, crashing down, suffocating. A lined face, weary, with a hint of sorrow behind a commanding stare. Empty words float through empty space. Hollow body, broken skin, heavy thoughts begin to spin. Blankly staring at the pavement wondering, worrying, waiting. A Moment: Warm, afternoon sun that inspires only laziness. Cold, clear water, rolling soundly from the sea Fine grains of earth cover fingers, cover toes. Watching children and grandchildren explore in water and on land. A heart overflowing, waves over the sand.

Robert Johnson’s Blues

Things I Cherish

Sam Morrison

Jaci Olson

Rugged ole crossroads, glazed in southern heat.

Fall: the gradual color change of leaves from green to orange.

God turned away as a train rolled along the cotton field,

Corgi puppies, with their stumpy legs and tiny ears.

locomotive smoke in humid air, ears buzzing

Reading books, diving into a different world, losing myself to time and characters.

as the devil rolls down the beat-up road.

Splurging on a tub of chocolate chip ice cream because I’m young.

Skillful musician, guitar poised and ready,

Fast flowing notes that don’t stop until the conductor does.

the devil’s wide-brimmed hat casts shadows on his smile.

Family, coming home from college, watching T.V. in the sunroom,

Chest convulsions overtake the man as his soul

Twins: sister and lifelong best friends.

is replaced with skill.

And avocados, mashing them with a fork to make guacamole.

He falls on his knees and all seems clear.

Ed Sheeran, his words being my anthem, the soundtrack to my life,

The newborn legend ends his cadence and begins again.

“Oh I’m a mess right now, inside out.”

A gentle wind solidifies the falling dust

Being alone, when needed, with my own thoughts.

over the plain,

And shredding paper, the repetitive mindless action sheet after sheet.

the sun beating down on these crossroad blues.

A burning candle, the scent filling my nostrils with the beach. Writing, finding words to explain what I want to say, a voice that is my own.

POETRY

like old telephone wires, non-observant

The Walk

Jeremy Navarro

Marla Britton-Johnson

The cool morning air lays sparkling crystals upon the leaves. With every breath, a new small cloud forms. The sun, barely cresting the horizon, Creates a small halo over the top of the trees. Rustling in the leaves. Eyes dart towards the sound. Beautiful creatures, entering the frame, Coats darkened by the coming winter months. Slowly, the small herd jumps the fence. Drawn, the tension in the bow rises. Such beauty, these beasts that begin their morning graze. The sudden jolt as the arrow pierces the hide. Collapsing, the deer draws its last few breaths And I give thanks for its life, a respectable kill, Not trophy nor sport, but a way of life

I walked beside her Alone amongst a crowd of people Surrounded by a place of misery Hallowed ground. Nothing holy happened there.

Fixed Nic Ray Shadows escape when darkness comes, Allowing the release of these taxing sums, Creating a weight that is too hard to bear, Affecting the mask he chooses to wear. Shadows escape when darkness arises, Lifting this pain like crane machine prizes. It soon becomes duct tape over a leaking pipe, Easy to erase like the words we type. People are not aware of these things that are hidden; This is the gate I have created, in which you are forbidden.

The barracks that housed her she could name. The moment she was near death she could envision. She had a family once. They were in the ashes that fell to the ground. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. POETRY

POETRY

The Morning Hunt

How could someone still stand in a place with no footing? How could someone still breathe with no fresh air? They say the birds don’t sing there; they can’t. I say people can’t cry there. Tears are not enough. I walked beside her Feeling nothing and everything. She did not hate. How could she not hate? Instead, she forgives. I have no excuses.

The Homesteaders

Buffalo Hide Painting

Ryan Clark

For a man hears people in other parts of the country,

So many years get buried, the buffalo hiding

believes in young songs about the myth of land

in fur that traces the edge of Devil’s Canyon,

and the reach of shutters on your home.

fur holding a frame of 1540 to 1870,

For the mirror is not as young, and the settled land

full of mountain and the Wichita at the center--

went easy--our stepping long-legged into

grass laid into a hut, four of them.

the ocean that the land was, desolate.

A mine to the east, full of glow, is just rocks

For the veins of barbed wire advanced as a swarm

in the traditional style of hidden things

of lines as a fence, as a framing technology.

seen in layers. Sand rubs what it once was,

The opportunity to settle the dust where

and hides there, each grain a yellow sun,

the country no longer existed--inevitably

years of it together in a wrap of skin.

POETRY

and excavated snapshots of history

people run here, to the end of the lawn, for a mark on grass called become. The last part of the Plains caught the light as it set on the home as an act of seizure.

When I Broke My Hand

(For Charles Studnicka II, a.k.a. Unka Do Dah) Kaitlyn Workman

Joy M. Newcom

Every memory of you drifts through the forefront of my mind, haunting me with your presence which the present denies me. My Harley-Davidson t-shirt, a gift for my first birthday; playing educational Sesame Street games in the early computer days; watching as you cheered for my marching band rather than the band that arrived on your bus; my first ride on your motorcycle and mom’s reaction when she found out. What a time it was; before sickness or arguments or life got in the way. It was a time before the novelty of spoiling had been worn and faded by the sands of time. I regret my lack of interest, and that I never told you how much those memories meant. I would give a thousand lifetimes to tell you, in person, what it meant to me . . . but that is impossible. You are now nothing more than a pile of ashes and memories. And so I go back, retracing the twenty-one years of memories spent together, back to the days of fairytales and make-believe, for only within the idealistic confines of imagination can I dream of seeing you again in this life. ----Zippidy do dah, zippidy ay, oh, how the light of your presence brightened my day now gone is the sunshine that showed me the way but I must keep going, rest in peace now I pray.

my right wrist– when I broke it I was writing a book on faith. A book about how my faith or my proportionate lack of it has come to be. When I fell my writing stopped along with my ability to drive or to eat right handed or to exercise on my treadmill as part of my routine. I simply fell out of practice for those daily things when I fell skating on ice. A trip down memory lane more than thirty years long ended with me on all fours. I saw the dislocation. My right hand no longer connected to my body. Not in a functional way. “Do you need help?” several asked until one lifted me. My body guided to the edge. My mind grieving what I once did mindlessly. Gliding across an expanse on a thin, silver edge.

POETRY

So I Go Back

Rust

AWARDS IN ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

2nd Place Salveson Art Prize MacKenzie Droessler

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1st Place Salveson Art Prize Cassie Ruud

SunDogs

“The juxtaposition of bold colors, bold lines and elegant form on a soft background ‘wash’ are effectively balanced to provide a pleasing composition. There’s a sense of time because of the rust on the structure, suggesting great age with great strength over the ages.”

“A powerful punch of an image, evoking a feeling in me of being right there in the scene, perhaps of walking toward one of the buildings to go inside with arms loaded with firewood. I stop, noticing the visual effect of the sun in the atmosphere, in wonderment. The feeling is that of being lifted out of the ordinary requirements of survival to notice the beauty before me.”

Jack Hayes, Art Judge, and professional Painter

Soft Pastel - Night Sky

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Honorable Mention Place Salveson Art Prize Ryan Fischer

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3rd Place Salveson Art Prize Haley Mokelstad

Once New is Now Old

“The soothing colors and familiar subject matter are emotionally evocative of memories I have of camping with loved ones. The slightly asymmetric composition is pleasing, and the soft night colors work together to provide a feeling of the benign night sky pouring into the clearing where my friends and I lie on our backs looking up to observe the meteor shower.”

“An intriguing title announces a challenge to unravel the mystery of the image before us. The simple graphic nature of this piece grabs us and invites us to look closer. The nice texture of the paint (ink?) is evident on closer inspection; I like that its’ painterly strokes are noticeable. This evokes a poster for an underground cause; a symbol for a movement against the empire.”

Jack Hayes, Art Judge, and professional Paitner

Zabdiel Flores Carlos

Carlos Ruiz

PHOTOGRAPHY

St. Louis Alley

PHOTOGRAPHY

Girl in Chihuahua

Incline

Maggie Kretzmann

Erisha Menon

PHOTOGRAPHY

Dultuh

MacKenize Droessler

Zabdiel Flores Carlos

PHOTOGRAPHY

Train in Chihuahua

PHOTOGRAPHY

Ring

Zabdiel Flores Carlos

Erisha Menon

PHOTOGRAPHY

Ripples of Nature

PHOTOGRAPHY

Elevated Train in Chicago

Becoming the Lobster: The Shells We Live In 1st Place Salveson Prose Prize Isabelle Rothbauer

white. The light would be glorious and liberating, and terrible, all at once. When I was a bullet, they used me, loaded me and sent me shooting

warm at all hours of the day, lifting the lid of the cardboard

from the barrel, sending me deep into the flesh and the tissue and the blood, forcing the nest of my new home. Boom. Clink, clink. My casing hit the floor.

box they had placed me in to peek at me with anticipated excitement, waiting for my beak to pierce my shell into a million china pieces,

When I was a nut, they cracked me open and ate me whole.

waiting for me to emerge, furry and slimy, bright-eyed and new.

We wear shells everywhere we go. Sometimes we put ourselves in

They squealed with delight; their little chickadee.

them, sometimes other people do, but we are always the ones to glue

When I was a turtle, they poked me with a stick. “Is she even in

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there?” They wanted to see me, see every wrinkle in my skin, stare into the black pools of my eyes, compare my stumpy legs and tail to the shell I carried on my back, watch my mouth open and close. The prods echoed like alarms in my shell, and unlike fire alarms, told me to stay inside. Eventually, they gave up their efforts, tossed the stick aside, and in their frustration, flipped me with the tip of their shoe to send me tumbling back into the water. “Turtles are boring, anyways.” I didn’t mind; they could not see me in the water, my element of choice. When I was a coconut, I tried to land on their heads before they could shake me from my leaves. Skull met skull before I bounced to a halt in the tall grass. But I didn’t fall for enough to kill, only having the velocity to leave a large goose egg, so that with one hand holding the throbbing bump, the other would scoop me up and examine me in curiosity, stroke my hair, feel bumps of my own. Then they’d shake me, feel the swishing of my sweet juice inside and find themselves determined to taste it on their tongue. First, they’d try a knife. Then, the ground. But they didn’t give up. With the jagged edge of a rock pointing towards the sky, they threw me over and over and over into

the last piece in place, immersing ourselves in silence and darkness, so that we cannot tell if we are staring at the back of our eyelids or the inside of the walls we have so carefully built. We do not forget to soundproof ourselves, so that no matter how loud we scream, the

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hen I was a chicken’s egg, the world incubated me, keeping me

ears we have superglued to the outside of our walls cannot hear; we do not forget to disconnect our voice boxes from our souls, so that the lips we have slapped lopsided onto what we call a face do not remember how to call for help; we do not forget to grab our safety scissors and sever our optic nerve, so that our eyes cannot see; we do not forget to plug our noses, so that we may not smell the bullshit;

“

we do not forget anything, except ourselves.

We do not forget to disconnect our voice boxes from our souls, so that the lips we have slapped lopsided onto what we call a face do not remember how to call for help Thrust into shells. That’s what growing up feels like.

”

But I want to be a lobster, whose discomfort is its motivation to grow, who knows when its shell is too small and that it has to be shed. The process is not easy. It takes days of courage and

its sharp edge, until I split and my rough brown gave way to smooth

vulnerability, pushing itself out of what has been its home for so long. To at last be free, to extend itself to its fullest length and width, and grow a new shell to fit; until it outgrows that one too, and is in need of another.

“When I think of chaos, I think of disarray. Like the universe is all scattered but then — . . . things organize and come into being.” The ellipsis here is not meant to represent a pause when one is reaching for a thought. Rather, it is an unintentional pause meant to represent one abandoning what one wanted to say in search for a

Ironically, a lightning bolt of thought struck me while I was

more appropriate phrase, almost like when someone is about to swear

sitting in my religion class, Myth and the Sacred Experience, about

and they drag out the “Shhhhhh” for as long as it takes them to find

the difference between the shell-like skin I wore for everyone to

the word “Shitake” instead. You see, after “then,” I had wanted to

see, and the being that existed just on the inside of it. It was ironic

say Boom! Like the Big Bang Theory. But in the split second before

because we were reading a Chinese creation myth that day in class. It

I said it, I was confronted by my identity in that college classroom. I

went like this:

was well-known on campus for being a peer minister, someone who had openly pronounced my following of Christ and had opted to be another peer minister, and all sides were people who had come to our

Emperor of the Southern Sea. When they found Hundun, he was

worship nights.

an incomplete being, lacking the seven orifices necessary for sight,

I couldn’t dare to verbalize anything about the Big Bang Theory in

hearing, eating and speech, breathing, smell, reproduction, and

front of these people because by George, God had brought the world

elimination. So, zapping him with thunderbolts, they bored one of

into being, and science was, in such circles, the devil! The near slip

these orifices every day for seven days. Finally, Hundun died in the

that might have betrayed my identity went unnoticed. Woofta.

process. The names Hu and Shu combine to form the word Hu-shu,

But then a thought struck me. Wait a second, Isabelle. You believe

or “lightning”. Thus the work of creation began when lightning

science and religion can co-exist, and science even helps us to prove

pierced chaos. (From Parallel Myths by J. F. Bierlein)

what the Bible and its writers knew to be true but couldn’t yet prove to

After reading it aloud, my teacher opened up a dialogue with us, asking what the metaphoric interpretation of the myth might be. A girl to the right of me said, “Metaphorically, Chaos dies and gives birth to order, thus creation.” “Ah, yes,” our teacher replied, “and when we think of the word ‘chaos’,” writing the word on the board, “what do we think of?” Answers shot out freely. Havoc. Lack of balance or order. Nonfunctional. Scattered. I was already thinking ahead, so I raised my hand and said,

a leader for others on campus. Sitting two rows in front of me was

emperors: Hu, The Emperor of the Northern Sea, and Shu, the

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Once there was only a great chaos, Hundun. There were two

exist, so why the hesitation? In fact, this was the very thing we were learning in class. In everyday terms, the word “myth” is typically used to describe something that is false, but in religion, myth refers to the “ultimate truth” in a metaphorical context, a sacred narrative used to explain how the world works. All religions have myth, which represents a truth that connects to that particular culture or society. Take the Chinese Creation myth I referred to earlier. Seems pretty out there, right? Bierlein goes on to explain that in 1953, Stanley L.

Miller, who had studied under Nobel Prize winning chemist Harold

finds the weak spots in windows, whooshing in to remind them that

Urey, put the Chinese myth to the test:

there was a world outside to be discovered. So that for the first time in a long time, the soft, vulnerable beings underneath their thick and protective shells remembered that they were not the safe, yet numbing

believed to have composed the early atmosphere of the earth, and

house; they were just living in it, and all they needed to do was open

the other to collect gases formed as a result of his experiment. He

the door.

activated the gas with “lightning” in the form of 60,000 volts of electricity. To his surprise, some of the materials that gathered in the second globe included nucleotides, organic components of the amino acids that join together to make DNA, which is the basic building block of all life.

“

So that for the first time in a long time, the soft, vulnerable beings underneath their thick and protective shells remembered that they were not the safe, yet numbing house; they were just living in it, and all they needed to do was open the door.

Say what?! This elementary myth might have some truth to it? As AWARDS IN PROSE

a student in my class went on to explain in his own words, “Myths are placeholders. They help us recognize what we know is there but can’t explain, until science becomes advanced enough to actually prove them.” Unfortunately, I was so caught up in representing Christianity properly that I missed an opportunity to show people that Christianity wasn’t what many thought it was. You know those Christians that would probably sprinkle holy water on you if you ever said that the Bible was myth? That was exactly the kind of person I was exuding when I refrained from even uttering a word about the Big Bang Theory. I was even more frustrated because that wasn’t me! I had believed for awhile that science and religion could co-exist, but it was a truth that had been buried in the recesses of my mind, save for those provocative conversations engaged in late at night in the comforting space of cars. Where was the real me in my everyday? Where was the real me when I was surrounded by people who were wearing shells just as thick as mine who might have so desperately needed to see someone break out of theirs? For someone to say something true, something that found the cracks and gaps in their shells, much like the wind

Psychologist Erik Erikson focused his studies on the ways that

”

culture and society affect the development of our ego, or personal identity. He established eight stages to describe integral parts of personality development in a person’s life and labeled them as one characteristic versus another (trust vs. mistrust, autonomy vs. shame and doubt, etc.) Erikson labeled the fifth stage “Identity vs. Role” Confusion, a stage occurring roughly from the ages of 12 to 18-years-old. Erikson describes this stage as the time of adolescence; a stage after childhood where morality is learned, and the stage before adulthood, where a person will “re-examine his/her identity and try to find out exactly who he or she is.” In this stage, a person is finding independence, and by the end of this stage, there should be “a reintegrated sense of self, of what one wants to do or be . . .” If there is success in this stage, Erikson claims the person will have developed the virtue of fidelity, meaning “being able to commit one’s self to others on the basis of accepting others, even when there may be ideological differences.” If not, identity crisis and role confusion can ensue, wherein individuals are not sure about themselves or their place in society.

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He prepared two glass globes, one of which contained the gases

own. Because it is between that moment of floating and sinking that

society perpetuates the postponement of our identities. For many

we at last find out what we are made of. Because lobsters do not need

reasons, Millennials demand instant gratification and affirmation

floaties to swim.

from the world — perhaps partly as a result of helicopter parents, or

I have only just recently started to “Become the Lobster,” and I

racking up more student debt than any generation before. According

don’t want to look back. Writing is a very therapeutic process for me,

to a 2013 study, only 60% of us have jobs. In short, our generation

and it helps me sift through my emotions, understand what I truly

may be one of the most dependent generations at our age, often times

believe, and have something concrete to look back to, for the times

relying on parents and others for support. We aren’t being pushed

when I lose sight of who I am and what I stand for. My old identities

out of the nest as soon as we enter adulthood, which means that we

float around in the funhouse mirrors of my mind, distorting and

are attempting to use our adolescent morality to help us face the

disguising themselves to look as though they are inflated again.

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adult problems we encounter. That leaves us with a lot of time spent

It’s like sometimes I shrink down to my old size and my old

in limbo, not quite child and not quite adult, wading through the

shell is waiting for me to take up my homage again, back to when

water only to be crashed into repeatedly by waves, knocked down and

I worshipped my insecurities and pleaded for them not to take

disoriented, our childhood floaties not enough to keep us afloat and

advantage of me, though they consumed me. Writing is a declaration

our swimming skills not yet learned.

of truth, the act of taking a hammer, shattering our old shells, and

This in-between time feels much like drowning. Like the hopeless

placing them in a jar on our dresser. There they are reduced to

flailing of your arms as you feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper.

souvenirs; symbolic of who we were before, not to be forgotten, but

Like the panic in your chest as you fight to keep your chin above

stripped them of their power to encase us.

water, hoping for a few more breaths, that if you can stay afloat just a little longer, someone will come to save you. Like the cries that get lost in gurgles, muffled by the water that has flooded your mouth, and your windpipe, and your lungs, suffocating you.

“

Writing is a declaration of truth, the act of taking a hammer, shattering our old shells, and placing them in a jar on our dresser.

”

We greatly underestimate the sea. In all its calmness and harmlessness on shore, it is unforgiving out where our feet no longer

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I believe in the generation of Millennials, being one myself. Today,

touch. Waves do not relent, crashing over us and stinging our eyes,

In discussing identity vs. role confusion, Erik Erickson talks

noses, and throats. But most deadly of all are the currents, wrapping

extensively about fidelity, which according to the dictionary definition

their tails around our ankles and pulling us down before we ever have

means “faithfulness to a person, cause, or belief, demonstrated by

a chance to scream. And with our miniature floaties snuggly secured

continuing loyalty and support.” But the thing about lobsters is that

around our biceps, what hope do we have of learning how to swim

their fidelity is in continual change and progress, which means that

without them?

if their identity at 20 has not changed by 25, they are not growing.

Perhaps a pen will work, or a sharp rock, or a needle. One cannot

Lobsters embrace the new, but before they can do that they must let

simply deflate the vinyl; we must destroy it, so we can’t grab hold of

go of the old, contort their bodies, slide themselves from their shells,

anything when we get scared, when we feel like we can’t float on our

and leave them behind. My story will be about letting go of the old me,

making peace with my past, and leaving my old shells for the bottom

To Sleep Under Fire

of the ocean. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, because if lobsters

2nd Place Salveson Prose Prize Myriah Hacker

were numb to their discomfort, if I was numb to the pain of the past, we would never grow.

he burning down of the old church on Elm sparked the meanest gossip streak Johnson County had seen since the late seventies.

That being said, it was hard, at first blush, to see why. There

was no imminent danger in the fire— the church was completely abandoned and well secluded on a concrete slab, far away from any old trees or buildings that might have spread destruction. The squat brown building also had nearly no historical significance at all. Nobody in town could tell you much about it, except that the last landowner had the church built and then lost it in a downward AWARDS IN PROSE

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financial spiral.It fell into massive disrepair, and there it sat for the next ten or so years, a local bruise.

“

The county was spooked like a shy horse, and all of the old hens would sit in their quilting circles and cluck mindlessly on about the mystery surrounding the old church: no one knew who had burned it down. What really made talk on Tuesday evenings (bingo night down

”

at the Community Center) was the unclear cause of the fire. The county was spooked like a shy horse, and all of the old hens would sit in their quilting circles and cluck mindlessly on about the mystery “Becoming the Lobster: The Shells We Live In” In many ways, “Becoming the Lobster” is a classic essay, offering readers an engaging portrait of the “mind at work” as it wrestles with ideas and the meaning of experience. It is the scope and ambition of that mind, however, as well as the risk-taking form, that really impressed me. Here we have personal life, but also reflection and research on subjects as wide-ranging as Chinese mythology, psychology, and the relation between science and faith. Like the identity of the narrator--like the lobster--this essay presses against the containment of traditional form, seeking its own unique expression. John Price—Prose Judge, Director of the Creative Nonfiction Writing Program at University of Nebraska, Omaha

surrounding the old church: no one knew why it had burned or who had started the fire. Of course, in Johnson County, such an event was an absolute scandal. Town police had ruled out anything accidental and were moving on to theories of bonafide arson. They tried to contain the news, but it leaked almost immediately to the public. “The community

should be aware, but there’s no need for a panic,” they said from the

to the center of the unease, as two decades before, she and her

newspaper racks, their proud, square faces staring blankly out from

husband had had a quiet, simple wedding ceremony inside of that

the black and white page.

same church’s confines. The fact that the physical form of the church

The result, of course, was a county-wide panic.

now foamed with the bubbling black of charred building upset her much more than the destruction of any memory. It represented less

Johnson was the type of place people always came back to so that they could croak, and the occupants lived in a soft stupor as peaceful as death. The threat of fire was an omen to some folk and a clear

safely in a brown wooden box labeled From Our Kitchen in antique

Several letter writing campaigns began and at least a dozen

white lettering. Most of her biggest thoughts stayed there. She wasn’t

voicemails were waiting for the sheriff each morning. Angry phone

the loudest voice among the complainers, nor the strongest, but

calls interrupted his afternoons constantly. The citizens seemingly

wrapped around all her words seemed to be a caution. Someone’s

adamant on not letting the poor man do his job. His long hours were

watching, it murmured under her parting, “Stay safe, everyone.” I’m

keeping him from home, and he made an accidental habit of sleeping

afraid, you should be too, it whispered whenever she confessed her

at the office, stopping at home only to change clothes; no matter

paranoia to one of the neighbors.

how he suffered, he found that not many of the perturbed seniles

Even her teenage son seemed to be catching on to the craze, a

sympathized.

“

They were animals before the storm.

funny worry for a kid his age. He was a real religious type, quiet but good-natured, and very protective of his mother. His closet was full

”

His wife, a frail woman with a strong mental constitution, didn’t

of carefully ironed plaid button-downs and pressed khaki pants, and above his bed (which was always made), was a cross of cherrywood, polished and savory red.

seem to be too distressed. She filled her time with PTA meetings and

The fire, however, seemed to have turned him into a nervous

daytime television and thinking about Catcher in the Rye. Personally,

wreck. His love for his mother was becoming a stubborn obsession.

she thought it would have been best to keep it off the shelves of school

She couldn’t get any place by herself; he constantly hounded her to

libraries. Why did ten year olds need to read about depression and the

stay home.

f-bomb? And that mess with John Lennon just added to her argument,

“Oh, bunny, I know,” she finally snapped one Thursday as she got

she thought. In fact, she thought an awful lot of things, quite often,

ready for bingo. “I know your dad’s not home, and I know you’re just

and she wrote them all down on recipe cards and kept them hidden

trying to be helpful, but you’re the worst guard dog I’ve ever had.” The

between Green Bean Casserole and Grandma June’s Pecan Pie.

boy sat at the kitchen table silently as she scurried around, collecting

Notebooks meant clutter meant mess, and cleanliness was next to

her keys and her purse and all of her bingo essentials. “I just want

godliness, she rationalized. She didn’t tell anyone about them, but it

a night alone, okay? Your dad will be home soon.” The boy’s face

wasn’t because of secrets, she thought. Of course not.

soured. “Well, should be home soon,” she added, and pecked him on

Being the sheriff’s wife, it was unexpected that she was so close

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home of the town. The fire was a featured subject on her cards, all of them tucked

warning to the rest. They were animals before the storm.

affectionate nostalgia and more a constant, comforting feature in the

the forehead before sweeping abruptly out the door.

table, while inside the family van, his mother tossed her purse

enveloped her in his big arms without a word. She used to feel a pang

carelessly into the backseat and started the engine.

of guilt, when she touched him, but his warmth drowned it. Without a

The boy’s mother drove away from the house. She drove past the public middle school, a brick vault from the Cold War era that didn’t

Seven blocks away, her son waited for his father. This night was no different from the others. The clock ticked rhythmically. The

hulking black corpse of the church. She drove past the Community

doorway remained empty. The silence was unbroken. The sun sank

Center, which was completely deserted. She drove until she reached

below the crags and dips of Johnson County, and as the sky became a

a plain, nondescript house surrounded by many more plain,

black so thick one could get lost, the cicadas in the trees shrieked

nondescript houses and still she drove just a little more, turning the

and crooned.

She got out of the car, she walked back around the corner, and she snuck into the back of a home she knew as well as her own. It was at a family reunion that she had connected with her AWARDS IN PROSE

word his hands began fumbling with her zipper.

so much sprawl as it did lean. She drove past Elm Drive and the

corner and parking in a vacant lot.

The boy sat in his kitchen as the clock ticked restlessly. He was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping lately—couldn’t sleep in an empty house. Spread in front of him on the table was a mess of note cards. On the floor was a broken wooden box, screws from the hinge cradled

husband’s brother. He had come to the wedding, of course, and used

by dips in the linoleum, the label “From Our Kitchen” facing the

to swing by every once in a while with his folks around the holiday

ceiling.

until he and his old woman split. He moved back home to Johnson, started hanging around the family more. At the reunion, not long after

The sheriff snored in his office quietly. He slept with his nose pointing at his desk, chin doubled over his collar.

the papers were finalized, the sheriff was called away. Without anyone

The boy tapped out disjointed rhythms on the hardwood surface.

to talk to, his brother and his wife got very drunk, together. One

His mother was in the shower at her brother-in-law’s house,

empty closet later, they found themselves in quite a position. It had been going on for a few years; they didn’t always get to see

washing the mildew smell of the basement out of her hair. She thought about what she would tell her son. He was the only one she

each other, but she made it down when she could and wrote out some

would have to explain herself to. She let the hot water rosy up

of their wilder transgressions when she couldn’t. It gave her a thrill,

her skin.

hiding evidence of her adultery in plain sight. Every time she pulled a yellowed card from her box to bake chocolate something or other, catching a peek of her own cursive would make her flush. He was waiting for her in the basement, head tipped back and denim clad legs sprawled out on the sofa. A tan throw pooled around his shoulders. His snores were cantankerous, much louder than his

his eyes moved behind his lids. Finally, they blinked open and he

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Inside the house, the boy continued to sit silently at the kitchen

She thought about what she would tell her son about his father, about his real father. She let the water rosy up her skin. The boy turned off all of the lights in the house. His closet was full of carefully ironed plaid button downs and pressed khakis. His bed was made. The cherrywood cross was hanging above it. From his back pocket, he fished out a matchbook, gap-toothed

brother’s, she thought. She loved him, though—or at least, parts

from missing matches. He carefully plucked out another, struck it. It

of him. She fell to her knees beside the couch, leaning on her elbows

flared, and he held the tiny flame up to his face, watching. Then he

so her face was next to his, kissing his cheek. His snore stuttered and

dropped it onto the kitchen table. The fire ate up the notecards, licked

the legs of the table, slobbered over the curtains and spat at him. He made his way to the living room by its light and laid down on the couch, his head tipped back and his legs sprawled out. Under his own cleansing fire he finally slept.

The Red Scarf Honorable Mention Salveson Prose Prize Ellie Peters

had just finished closing up the store, everything was counted, and put away, cleaned and my last employee locked the front door as he

left. After zipping up my coat, I put on my stretchy gloves and grabbed my scarf. Taking another look around to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything, I opened the back door and stepped outside. The snow was blowing and I could see my breath, well, until my glasses fogged up anyway. I took them off and cleaned the lens with my coat. Putting them back on allowed me to see my scarf had fallen and was AWARDS IN PROSE

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blown a few feet away from me in the wind. Even after I wiped off my glasses, I couldn’t see very far because of the snow. Okay, okay just take it slow, I thought. Step by step, I walked toward the scarf, which was easy to see since it was red, making it stand out against the white snow. As I inched forward, it seemed farther from me than I had originally thought. Maybe the wind was still moving it. When I stopped to clean my glasses again, I lost track of where my scarf had gone, but I knew if I just kept on moving, I would find it. Then a blur of red whizzed past me and I knew what was happening. It was that dog! There was a dog that was always hanging around the bakery, always getting into our trash cans, always trying to break in. He had gained the title of bandit among me and my staff. I turned around and shuffled in the direction he was heading. It was easier to see through the snow with the help of the street lights. The “To Sleep Under Fire,” like all good stories, includes compelling characters and an engaging plot. But for me, it is the quality of the writing that really makes this stand out. Around every corner there was some dead-on description (“It fell into disrepair, and there it sat for the next ten or so years, a local bruise.”), some fresh detail (“…screws from the hinge cradled by dips in the linoleum….”), some memorable phrase (“She let the hot water rosy up her skin.”). Each paragraph offered up little gifts like this, even as it swept me along with its suspenseful plot.” John Price, Prose Judge, Director of the Creative Nonfiction Writing Program at University of Nebraska, Omaha

dog had stopped on the curb, dangerously close to the busy road. I have him, I thought, moving faster. Upon seeing me, he ran out into the street, and I wish I could have yelled at him to tell him to stop. He seemed oblivious to the honking cars and yelling people, or maybe

he just didn’t care. That just seemed to be the way he was, he never

was too, hopefully. As I hovered over him, I saw what he was doing,

listened to anyone I work with at the bakery, he just ignored everyone.

chewing up my scarf. My beautiful scarf! I could never have another

The bandit turned around in the middle of the road to look at me,

scarf like this, it wasn’t something I bought at a store. The ends were

almost checking to see if I was still following him. Was this a game to

frayed and wet, drenched in drool. My mom made me that scarf, and

him? I reluctantly ran after him, since the lady in the car behind him

this dog, this damn had dog ruined it.

“Hey is that your dog?” She asked. My forefinger and my middle finger clamped down on my thumb

“

His white fur made him almost completely blend into the snow.

to say, “No.” “What?” she stared at me and seemed confused.

the opposite end of the scarf and pulled with all of my strength. He

“You should really keep your dog out of the street.” she

jumped up and turned to look at me, startled, while holding my scarf

I shook my head, shrugged, and ran away out of the street. I could AWARDS IN RPOSE

”

Maybe my gloves were getting in the way of my sign language. continued.

in his mouth. I tugged and then, I noticed that he was tugging as well. While holding on to the end, I grabbed the middle section that was

still see the scarf, weaving its way between the feet of the passersby.

closer to him and pulled harder, tightening my grip. He then cheated,

Rushing past people, signing apologizes for pushing, I hurried after

and wobbled and wobbled his head back and forth until I lost my hold

the red scarf. I became so engrossed in watching it, I didn’t notice I

and with that victory, he dashed off. I followed him, but since we were

had run into someone carrying groceries.

past the buildings on Main Street, the lighting was almost completely

“Sorry!” I said by rubbing my fist on my chest, leaning down and

gone.

scrambling to pick up their groceries while still keeping an eye out for

We had ended up in the town park, which only had lights along

the bandit. After I helped the woman gather her things, she walked

the sidewalks, which was not helping. The blowing snow made it hard

away in a huff.

to see again, but I ventured forwards. I was sprinting at this point, not

“You could’ve at least apologized,” she muttered, loud enough for me to hear.

really caring if I fell anymore. I just had to catch up to that dog and take my scarf back once and for all. He had taken off in a straight line,

That stung, and there was a pain in my heart, but I was on a

and because we were free roaming in the park and no longer on the

mission, so I continued through the herd of people in the direction

sidewalk or in the streets, I could see his paw prints. I followed these

I had last seen the dog and my scarf, being more conscious of where

until I heard a loud cracking noise under my boot. Ice. His tracks

I was going. When I saw a red blur whisk around the corner of a

were still going, but this was the big pond in the middle of the park. I

building, I knew I could still catch up. He had stopped again to wait

took a step back off the ice, and crouched down, and used my hands

for me, and laid down at the end of the alley way. His white fur made

as shields for my glasses from the snow. I squinted, and sure enough,

him almost completely blend into the snow. I walked up behind him

there he was, pulling apart my scarf. Gritting my teeth I rushed back

as quietly as I could, and although the snow was crunching beneath

out onto the ice and ran towards the dog.

my feet, he didn’t seem to notice. Now that I was worn out, maybe he

My cheeks went warm. I got my energy back, and I grabbed

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was honking at him. As I approached, the dog ran away again.

Suddenly, I lost my footing and slipped, face first on the frozen

pond. My glasses fell off and shot across the ice, leaving me almost

Spring 1779

completely blind. I could hear the ice breaking underneath my weight,

Top of Iowa HS Fiction Prize Brena Hamilton, Newman Catholic High School

and I was able to see a red blob a ways away from where I was laying. Aren’t dogs supposed to have amazing hearing? Why isn’t he trying to As I tried to get up, I felt an awful stinging sensation in my leg. I pushed myself up, but just as I was almost all the way up, I plunged back down, forced into the water. Raising my head out of the water, I began moving towards a chunk of ice. I wished that I could say something, anything, to call out for help. I grabbed on to the edge of some ice and tried to pull myself up, but I was waterlogged and much heavier. I tried to think. Waving my arms wouldn’t have done anything in this situation. I didn’t know what

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to do. I couldn’t say anything, I had no voice to say anything, since my hands were preoccupied holding onto the ice. I was slipping and the water was cutting through my jeans, making my legs numb and useless. I was stuck, I couldn’t save myself or the dog. Then I heard him. The dog was barking and whining, and I could hear how afraid he was. He was asking for help. The ice around where he had been was breaking, and my scarf, which was right next to him, fell into the icy water. I mustered what strength I had left and made my arms hold up my torso, and I hunched over the ice while we waited for help. When we were rescued I was given a towel, fresh clothes, and a warm blanket to help warm me up. I sat down on a bench by the dog, who was being dried with a towel, and started to relax. “Ma’am?” one of the officers asked, “Is he your dog?” I glanced down at the bandit, looked back at the officer and nodded. “I’m still not sure whether “The Red Scarf” is fiction or nonfiction--either way, it is wonderful. I admire how it starts out as a seemingly “ordinary” moment in the life of the narrator, and then slowly and subtly builds significance. It does so through carefully placed details, such as “signing apologies” and “mom made me that scarf,” that hint at deeper complexities. The ending is lovely, a quiet moment of acceptance after a frantic--and dangerous-exertion. Well done!” John Price, Prose Judge, Director of the Creative Nonfiction Writing Program at University of Nebraska, Omaha

he large oak door creaked as the man pushed it open. His leather soled boots slapped against the wooden floors as he crossed

from the foyer to the hearth. He dropped the three logs he had been carrying into the dwindling fire, trying to keep the flames alive. “Father? You’ve returned?” The man’s daughter stood at the top of the staircase by the kitchen. It had been a year since her father had left for the war, and seeing him now was like seeing a ghost. She would have run to him but was too shocked to move. “Yes, for a short while. Clara, where is everyone?” The man stood up, realizing that his house was not as it had been when he had left. The servants and slaves were nowhere to be seen, and his

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get off of the ice?

daughter was now seventeen. “Mother and the others are asleep. It is almost midnight. I was just up, reading.” Clara held up the small pamphlet in her hand, the faded ink spelled out the words, Common Sense. “What do you mean, for a short while?” “I will only be able to stay for a day or so. General Washington plans to move the troops again, and we only have a few days to stay here. A celebration for those who stayed alive at Valley Forge.” Clara’s father walked up the stairs to hug his daughter. “It’s great to finally be back in Williamsburg, away from the War and Philadelphia, back in civilization.” “I-It’s great to see you again, father,” Clara stuttered as she hugged her father. He smelt awful and looked worse than he smelt. He had a scruffy looking beard, and through his large coat, Clara could tell that he had lost an unhealthy amount of weight. “I probably should clean up before seeing your mother.” Her father looked at himself, realizing how far his condition had deteriorated.

“I’ll call some slaves to warm a bath.” Clara pushed the door shut and started towards the back of the house, where the two indentured

trace his fingers around the nape of her neck. His left arm was stuck

Clara. She raced back to her father, who had all but passed out on the

in a cast from fighting in the war, but that didn’t stop him from

settee in the living room. “Father, you missed out on so much, and

kissing Clara. “I am absolutely enamored with you, Clarissa Jacobsen.” The

right now.”

young man grinned before kissing her again, his icy blue eyes glowing

“What? Why?” Clara’s father rubbed his eyes and looked at his

in the candlelight.

daughter, confused.

“And I, am enamored with you, Captain Edmund Kingston” Clara

“Trust me. You will have to stay with the servants for a bit. Do not

adjusted the British Captain’s glasses and kissed him back, running

talk. Just trust me.” Clara grabbed her father’s arm and dragged him

her fingers through his light brown hair. She tried not to think about

to the servant’s quarters in the back of the house, practically throwing

her father’s sudden arrival and just sink into Edmund’s embrace,

him into the cold cellar where they slept. “Just be quiet. You must

but couldn’t.

trust me.”

“

“Are you alright?” Edmund stopped and pushed Clara’s hair back, looking into her dark eyes. He might have been on the wrong side, but

The footsteps suddenly had a voice, the voice of a young man.

”

he was generally right in knowing how Clara felt. “I’m fine, just tired is all.” Clara weakly smiled and buried her face into his shoulder, covering her nervousness.

“Who’s there?” The footsteps suddenly had a voice, the voice of a

“Oh, okay.” Edmund looked at her once more. He wasn’t quite

young man. Clara put a finger to her lips and shut the cellar door, just

sure what was bothering her. He reassured himself that, whatever it

in time to see the shock in her father’s eyes. She raced to the hearth

was, she would eventually tell him. “Well, I’m going back to sleep. I’ll

and sat down on the warm bricks just to watch the young man tiptoe

walk you upstairs.”

down the stairs.

“It’s fine, I want to finish reading. Besides, I did just put down

“Only me. I was cold and reading, so I went to gather some logs.

three fresh logs.” Clara kissed Edmund lightly on the cheek and

Did you want to sit with me by the fire?” Clara smiled and pushed the

grabbed a book off of the wide bookshelf. She knelt and picked up

Common Sense pamphlet into the burning logs behind her back. The

the military issue pistol, handing it to Edmund and kissing him once

young man did not notice. He was too busy looking around the room,

more, anxious to return to her father. “Goodnight, Edmund.”

suspiciously. “Is it really only you, Clara? I swore I heard another voice. A man’s voice.” The young man looked pointedly at Clara, his grip on the pistol in his right hand tightening. “No, Edmund, only me.” Clara crossed to the young man, smiling as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Only me,” she

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He smiled lightly and pulled her closer, dropping the pistol to

servants and five slaves slept. Loud footsteps from above stopped

there isn’t a lot of time to explain, but you must come with me,

repeated once more, whispering into his right ear.

“Goodnight, Clara.” He kissed her for what felt like an eternity, then slowly walked up the stairs, glancing back at Clara every few steps. Clara waited until she heard his door shut before slipping down to the slaves’ quarters. “Father? I have returned. You must be quiet though, we have had to quarter a few British soldiers, and your arrival

woke up one of them. I took care of it, but you can’t be caught.” Clara

through the crack in the door. She saw Edmund, sound asleep on the

whispered to her father, who had all but collapsed on the cold stairs

ground, his pistol only a few feet from him. She felt awful lying to

near the servants’ rooms.

him, but the life of her father was far more important than whatever

“Redcoats? In my house? Don’t worry, Clara, Valley Forge taught me enough. These Brits will leave or die.” He stood up and nearly fell over from over exhaustion.

own bath.” Clara commanded the servants, once they were outside the

just please be quiet.” Clara pilled his arm around her shoulder and

room. She knew that she couldn’t tell these slaves either. There was

helped him from the slave quarters to the hearth. “I’ll help you

talk of slaves abandoning their patriot masters to join the British side,

upstairs to the washroom, so you can clean up, and I’ll bring you food,

to earn their freedom. Clara knew she and her family couldn’t survive

too, but you must be quiet, not a single person can know.”

without slaves to work in the field and tend to the more difficult

“Alright. But as soon as I have my strength, these redcoats will

housework. Abolitionists may call slavery a sin, but it was a necessary

die.” Her father’s green eyes darkened and he stood up angrily.

“

one for Clara’s family. Clara waited until the slaves had started down the steps before

The space was small, so they went in single file, the darkness enveloping them. “Follow me. I know the slave staircase well.” Clara held her

”

taking in the water and beef sandwich to her father. She poured the water as quietly and quickly as possible, glancing at her deteriorated father eating. One year had changed a lot, and, if the circumstances had been different, Clara have asked thousands of questions, rather

father’s arm and led him to the secret staircase behind the cupboard

than standing silent as she poured the last bucket of water into

in the kitchen. The space was small, so they went in single file, the

the bath.

darkness enveloping them.

“I’ll gather some fresh clothing.” Clara left the room, allowing her

Clara led the way up to the hallway. The bathroom was two doors

father to properly bathe for the first time in what looked like a year.

from the slave staircase, right past her bedroom and the bedroom that

She went to her father’s bedroom to fetch his clothing, but stopped,

the British officers held. She felt as if every creak in the hallway would

suddenly remembering that his room was where the officers were

awaken all the officers. When they finally made it to the bathroom,

sleeping. The three men who slept in there were generally heavy

Clara let out a breath. Now was the hard part. She nervously tiptoed

sleepers, but the fear of waking any of them was enough to keep Clara

from the bathroom to the servants’ staircase. She raced down and

nervously standing outside the door.

grabbed a bucket for bath water. Clara woke up two servants to gather

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open, cringing at

water for her. She then went to the kitchen and pulled a loaf of bread

every little creak. Finding her father’s old clothes in the mess of the

from the cupboard, carefully cutting two large slices, and placing a

officer’s uniforms was difficult, but Clara grabbed what she thought

thin slab of salted beef in between.

was his and tiptoed out, smiling down at Edmund before nervously

After this, she returned with the servants to the bathroom, she stepped quietly past the officers’ room. Clara paused when she peeked

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everything it will be alright, he will understand. “Hand me the water and return to your beds. I can take care of my

“Father, you can’t kill them, you can hardly walk. Please, please,

relationships she might hope for. Besides, she thought, once I explain

shutting the door and nearly sprinting to the bath. She could’ve sworn that he smiled back.

“Father?” She whispered, breathless. “Have you finished?”

you doing in my room?”

to grab the clothing. From the light in the bathroom, Clara realized that a few of the clothes belonged to the officers, but as she saw her

“What? Umm. I could ask you the same question?” Clara nervously fiddled with the sides of her nightgown.

father’s bony wrist, she knew that even the clothing of the younger men would appear baggy.

“I’m only here to get answers. What are you hiding? I am certain now, I heard a man’s voice downstairs.”

“When you are done,” she said, “just, well, go to the guest room.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.” Clara walked from the door to

It is where mother has been sleeping ever since the officers arrived.

where the young officer was standing, defensively. “What? Were you

We’ll need to explain to her that you’ve returned and come up with

jealous I spoke to a slave?”

a plan.” “Okay.” Her father sounded confused and angry. Clara sat down outside the bathroom and thought about what her mother would say,

“What? No, but that still does not excuse what I saw. Honestly, Clara, what were you doing? Looking through my clothes? What were you looking for?”

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and how they would possibly hide her father in his own home for the

“Honestly?” Clara panicked. She was an awful liar, and couldn’t

next few days. Once she explained everything with her mother, her

stand to lie to Edmund. “I was just looking for some of my father’s

father would have to understand.

things. I know it’s stupid, but I just, I mean, it’s been over a year and-”

He opened the bathroom door, and Clara realized that she had

“Oh.” Edmund paused, looking sadly at Clara. He remembered

been right. Her father fit perfectly in the shirt and breeches of the

when his own father had been murdered in a duel. It had been years,

British officers. Without saying a word, Clara walked her father down

and Edmund still remembered the pain and shock he felt as his

the main staircase to where her mother was sleeping, a small room off

father’s second explained the situation. He knew how much it hurt her

the side of the foyer. She pushed open the door, and quickly shut it

whenever he spoke of the War or the great unknown of whether or not

behind them.

her father was alive.“I know you miss him. I’m certain he will return

“Mother, Father has returned.” She whispered while shaking her mother’s shoulders. “W-what?” Her mother sat up, tired. She lit a candle and gasped. “I’m back.” Her father lent down and hugged her mother. “I’m going to go back upstairs.” Clara slipped out of the room and shut the door. It had been a year, and her mother had missed her

in time, but, given the situation, I think it’s safer, for him to be away, instead of here.”

“

Clara stared at the ground, fighting back tears. She had no idea how she was supposed to keep her father a secret

father, especially with all the problems of housing British officers. She would’ve stayed, but knew that her parents had a lot to talk about,

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“Just shaving.” Her dad stuck his hand out of the cracked door

“Clara.” Edmund was leaning against her bedframe. “What were

”

“I know. I know. I just-,” Clara stared at the ground, fighting back

without their seventeen year old daughter listening. She sprinted up

tears. She had no idea how she was supposed to keep her father a

the stairs, opened her bedroom door, and nearly jumped back when

secret, or how to keep Edmund safe. Her mind started racing, and she

she saw a figure in her room. She lifted up her candle and saw flecks

realized the one thing she could do to keep him with her, away

of light reflecting back at her off of glasses on a tall man, Edmund.

from harm.

“It will be all right.” Edmund said, smoothing out her hair with his right hand. “Once the rebels have stopped, I’m sure the crown won’t punish all of them. Maybe a tax or something will be imposed, but it’s not as if they’d really kill all of them. Besides, there is always time for

The Not So Happy Birthday Top of Iowa HS Nonfiction Contest Courtney Lewis, Osage High School

him to join the right side.” window as I lie in my comfy bed. I look over at my green alarm clock.

the tyrannical British government.

It reads Saturday, September 3, 10:30 A.M. It’s my 18th birthday, I

“Oh.”Unsure of what to say next, he put his right arm around her,

remember, as I groan and roll over to the other side of my warm, soft

fighting back the urge to reveal a secret of his own.“I suppose, if you

bed. I don’t want to get up today. I don’t want to be reminded of what

are alright, I will leave you then. Good night.”

happened three years ago on that day. I roll onto my back staring at

“Good night.” Clara whispered into his shoulder, neither one moving. AWARDS IN PROSE

I wake up to see the sun’s rays shining in through my dirty

betray his country.” Clara knew her father, and how much he hated

my dusty, off-white ceiling fan. I close my tired eyes, hoping to fall back asleep, but my mind takes me back to that day. I stared at the brown casket sitting in front of me. I couldn’t

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“I know you do not know my father, but trust me, he would never

believe I was spending my 15th birthday here of all places. I glanced around the church, wondering about the people sitting in the pews listening to the pastor speak in a monotone voice of what a caring man my Great Uncle Dean was. As he continued on, I snuck a glance to the right at my parents. I could see tears roll down my mom’s cheek. My dad stared straight ahead at the casket with no emotion on his face even though his uncle had just died. He sat there like a stone statue, not looking anywhere else. I glanced down to notice he was holding my mom’s hand. I smiled as I was reminded that my dad wasn’t a stone statue after all. I sat there during the entire funeral with tears in my eyes. Eventually one rolled down my cheek. My mom grabbed my hand with her soft, warm hand. Memories of my Great Uncle and I playing with my Barbie dolls, having a tea party, and playing cards flooded my mind. I could hear him saying, “There’s my little girl!” as I walked into his house. Another tear rolled down my cheek. “Courtney, get up,” I heard a tired voice say. I looked around the church to see everyone getting up from their seats. “Courtney,

get up.” I turned to the sound of the tired voice this time. It was my

my head to see my Aunt Dawn smiling at me. I swallowed my last bite,

mom’s voice. I stood up, suddenly nauseous, grabbed my mom’s hand

mumbled a thanks, and took the card. As she left my grandpa walked

and followed my family to the basement to eat. I wasn’t even hungry.

over to our table. “Happy birthday Courtney.” He said smiling and

I grabbed my stomach, praying that I wasn’t going to puke. As we

holding out another card.

walked to the basement I heard a voice yelling my name: “Courtney!

“Thanks.” I said as I took the card from him.

Courtney!”

“I want you to know Courtney,” he started, “We didn’t mean to put

I turned around to see my Aunt Kim yelling for me.

the funeral on your birthday, but your grandma and I thought it would

“Yeah?” I asked, tears still resting on my face.

be fitting since you’re his ‘little girl’.” “I was.” I said tears starting to form in my eyes. I looked down at

“Happy birthday!” she said, a smile appearing on her face.

my shoes.

“Thanks.” I half whispered as I put a fake smile on my face. I continued walking with my family to the basement, my mom’s warm

hand on my back to comfort me. I looked up at him and gave him a

hand in mine.

“

half smile.

“It sure is one heck of a way to celebrate,” she joked.

”

Nobody around us laughed at her poorly timed joke. We continued walking down the hall to the basement. Every now and then I would hear someone yell happy birthday, and I would mumble a quiet thanks. We finally made it to the carpeted stairs that led to the well-lit basement. I carefully made my way down the basement steps, my

As he walked away I turned to face my family again and set the card on the table. My family stared at me in silence for a moment. Finally, Jordan spoke, “How are you doing this?” I sat there and thought for a moment, “How am I doing this?” I turned to face Jordan and said, “Honestly, I don’t know.” We continued to sit at the table as the silence engulfed us. Nobody said a word. Finally mom and dad decided it was best for us to leave. We told everyone goodbye and walked out the big, wooden front doors of the church.

mom’s hand still in mine. When we reached the basement I took in

When we had finally made it outside, the sun’s bright rays hit my

a deep breath, the smell of pulled pork and cheesy potatoes filling

cold, pale skin. I looked up at the sun with my eyes closed, taking in

my nostrils. I walked over to where the food was with my family in a

the warmth of it. I stood there for what felt like forever, completely

little group. We probably looked like scared freshmen walking in the

paralyzed by everything that was going on. I opened my eyes and

halls on their first day of school. We each grabbed a plate of food and

looked over at my family. They were all standing there staring at me,

walked over to a small round table, each of us taking up a chair, and

waiting for me. When I finally unfroze, we climbed in the car and

started to nibble on our food. Nobody said a word while we ate, we

drove home.

just sat there quietly. As I took my last bite of food I felt a hand on my shoulder and a

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Nobody around us laughed at her poorly timed joke.

“You always will be, Courtney,” my grandpa said as he placed his

The entire drive home was silent. Nobody said a word or made a sound. When we finally got home, I walked directly upstairs to my

woman’s voice say, “I know this isn’t the best time Courtney, but I

room. As I walked down the short hallway, I hoped to see my Great

wanted to tell you happy birthday and give you your card.” I turned

Uncle Dean sitting on my bed when I opened my door.

overwhelmed with sadness as I didn’t see my Great Uncle waiting for

teammates. I walked down the hallway to the locker room anxious for what was to come.

me like I hoped. I walked over to the other side of my bedroom, trying to avoid stepping on the clothes and toys spread all over my floor. It

room, clearly excited for the game. I stopped in front of the door,

reminded me of playing that game with my sister at my Great Uncle’s

taking a deep breath. Relax. Nobody is going to ask where I was today.

house when we were little, where the floor is lava and you have to

I opened the door slowly and walked in with a fake smile plastered

jump from couch to couch to survive. I sat on my bed, looking out

on my face. “Courtney! Where have you been? Were you sick today

the dirty window. I could see my dad doing his afternoon chores, my

Court?” A girl asked.

sister playing with our dog, and mom watching Taylor. How did they

“No.” I responded, my smile slowly fading.

just move on so quickly? I thought to myself. Then again, my Great

“Where you at an appointment?” someone else asked.

Uncle and I were a lot closer than anyone else. We were practically

I grabbed my arm, my anxiety getting worse. I just wanted them to

best friends. My phone buzzed, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was

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I could hear the girls laughing and shouting outside the locker

stop asking. I didn’t want them to know, but I wanted them to stop asking.

reminding me that I had a volleyball game at 5:30 p.m. I looked at the

“No,” I said again.

clock on my phone: 3:00. I needed to get ready now. The bus would

“Then where were you Court?” a girl standing beside me asked.

leave at 4:00.

“I was at a funeral,” I whispered.

I walked around my room looking for my jersey, knee pads, and

Dead silence. I looked around at everyone in there sheepishly. We

everything I needed for my game. I stopped in the middle of my room

all stood there for what felt like an eternity until someone close to me

thinking, Am I going to be able to play? I wasn’t at school at all today.

finally broke the silence: “I don’t think you should get to play. You

Of course I’m going to be able to play today. Coach will understand,

were gone all day while the rest of us were at school.”

right?

I looked down at the floor, unable to speak.

I snapped out of my thoughts and continued to look for my stuff. When I had found everything, I threw everything into my duffle bag

“I think you should, Court. You were at a funeral. Someone you know died,” the girl across from me said.

and walked down the stairs to get in the car to go back to the school. When we had reached the school I jumped out of the front seat,

I managed to give her a small smile as a silent way of saying thanks.

grabbing my bag and water bottle. “See you at the game!” I yelled at my mom, slamming the door shut. I walked up the sidewalk to talk to my coaches. “It’s great to see you Courtney!” Coach Feekes smiled. I smiled back.“Thanks.” I said, “Am I allowed to play today?” “Yes you are.” He said with a slight smile, “Your mom already talked to me and Coach Olson about today.” I frowned, but nodded that I understood and went inside to get changed and see my

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Slowly I opened my white bedroom door, peering inside. I became

“I think it’s a bunch of crap. She shouldn’t get to play,” the girl said again.

“

I took a deep breath and finally gave this girl a piece of my mind

”

I took a deep breath and finally gave this girl a piece of my mind: “Well, it’s already decided. The coaches said I could play tonight and

there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Cigarette Manifesto

I stared the girl in the eyes, now confident. I wasn’t backing down. It was decided. I was going to play tonight even if nobody wanted me to.

Mandi Wright

I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the locker room. I walked past the coaches, still enraged, and got on the bus. When we got to the school, we walked into the smelly locker room to get ready. I opened my bag, grabbed my jersey, and got ready for the

“I

t would suck, to be immortal,” Jess mumbles, watching the people slowly tread home like zombies from a long day of work.

game. When I was satisfied with how my ponytail looked, I walked away

“How so?” I question her, watching as her face fills with distress.

from the small, dirty mirror and back over to my black duffle bag. I sat

“To live forever and see the world slowly and slowly crumble

down on the wooden bench thinking, as everyone else left the smelly locker room to go warm up for the game. I put my head in my hands, trying my hardest not to cry.

before my eyes would be depressing as fuck.” “I don’t understand what you mean.” I replay her words in my head but I still don’t get it. “This world is full of hatred, war, disease, depression, you name it.

said. I ran over to him as fast as my little four-year-old legs would let me. “I just want you to know something Courtney,” he said smiling, “I want you to know that no matter what happens to me when you get older, you and I will always be best friends because you’re my little girl.” I stared into his bright blue eyes and smiled. “Okay. We can be best friends forever!” I yelled. He laughed at what I said. It wasn’t just any laugh. It was his belly laugh which I absolutely loved. I smiled at the memory, lifted my head out of my hands, and stared straight ahead at the mirror. I stared at my reflection. I didn’t look like the little girl with blonde hair running around with the biggest grin on my face anymore. I’d grown up. I was more determined now than ever, thanks to my great uncle. He had made me determined.

we’re all still alive. We’re all selfish.” “The world is a lot larger than you expect.” “The thing is, the human race doesn’t know when to stop. It’s all powered by greed.” “Ok, don’t go all Karl Marx on me,” I chuckle light-heartedly. Jess curls a smile while playing with the soft pack of cigarettes in her hands, “Want one?” She pulls out two cigarettes from the white and silver pack. “Sure,” I nod my head in agreement. This is the first time I’ve ever tried a cigarette, and I’m sure Jess is aware of this. She hands me the lit cigarette, and I carefully grasp it with my thumb and index finger. Jess chuckles at me while spewing thin smoke from her blackened lips, “That’s not how you hold a cigarette.” She shows me her cigarette, held in-between her index and middle finger, before putting it to her lips.

I took a big deep breath and stood up, ready to give my everything.

I try to imitate her actions, but once the smoke enters my mouth

I looked in the mirror one last time as a reminder. I grabbed my green

I feel out of breath and about to vomit. Jess laughs again. I know she

water bottle and walked out the door, my head held high. I was going to

means well.

do this for him.

It’s a spinning orb of resources we carelessly waste, and yet somehow

PROSE

AWARDS IN PROSE

“Courtney come here. Come sit on my lap,” my Great Uncle Dean

“These are mellows, you shouldn’t be coughing! It’s ok. If you’d

like, I can teach you,” she moves her face closer to mine to blow smoke in it.

revolution or something!” I say enthusiastically. “That’s the thing. I don’t want people to know my ideas.” Jess’s

“That’s ok,” I say, trying to wave the smoke away.

usual angst-filled expression turns into a relieved smile. She gets up

“I don’t think cigarettes are my thing anyway,” I rub the embers

off of the bench and stands in front of me, her back facing me.

on the asphalt, creating black streaks before accidentally breaking the

“Why not?” I cluelessly look at my friend. Why is she standing up?

fragile object.

“People are either going to hate you or kill you for telling the

I look over at Jess, whose empty eyes are watching the fast traffic. “The world and humans are like cigarettes. We get this addiction, and

truth.” She looks behind and smiles one last time before running into the street.

we want more and more, so we keep breathing and taking in. Soon we

The last words echo with the car honks and the thumping sound

get to the end of that person or thing, and toss it along the street as if

of her body hitting the innocent vehicle. I want to run out there, but a

we don’t care about its dignity. Then we go to the next one.”

driver has already stopped to assist her. She made this choice anyway.

“Then why do you smoke?”

I pull the slim stick of tobacco from the deceased girl’s pack. It takes

“I like metaphors. I also like cigarettes.” Jess takes a puff from

three attempts to light the damn thing.

her cigarette. “Tobacco is a pretty useless plant anyway, it’s grown for human enjoyment.” “We all have our addictions. It’s not your place to judge mine.”

PROSE

“It could give you cancer or breathing problems,” I retort. “But weren’t you saying earlier how humans are selfish ‘cause we don’t take care of the Earth?” “Your point?” Jess tosses the cigarette onto the sidewalk. “You’re poisoning the air with the harmful chemicals that come from your addiction. You’re pretty much going against everything you’ve just told me a few minutes ago.” “I’m doing humanity a favor. Cigarettes are the least of my worries. And compared to the huge power plants and shit, this is nothing.” She flicks her finished cigarette onto the cement. I don’t know how to understand my friend. She contradicts herself, yet she somehow is able to validate herself. I couldn’t say if she’s intelligent or not, but I know she believes herself. I look at Jess, who’s staring nonchalantly at the speeding traffic. The sun is beginning to paint the sky pink and orange, and there are not as many people out on the streets as before. “You should write your thoughts down some time. I think you’re a lot more intelligent than people see you as. You could start a

Just Paying the Bills

mustard while we were scuffling. It hit my voice modifier, so I assume some of the circuits are fried and they’ll need to be repaired . . .

Diana Humble ALFRED Sir, that’s the third time this week! Are you sure this modifier is STEREOTYPICAL EXAGGERATED COMIC ANNOUNCER GUY

completely necessary . . .

“MEANWHILE IN GOTHAM CITY. A BAND OF THE CONDIMENT KING’S GOONS ARE ROBBING THE LOCAL BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO.

BATMAN

But I mean honestly, what evil does that do? Anyway . . . THE CAPED

ABSOLUTELY ALFRED. How much is the bill? 12 BAJILLION

CRUSADERS, BATMAN AND ROBIN ARE ON THEIR WAY TO

MILLION DOLLARS?! Is that even a real number?

SNUFF OUT THE HEIST.” ALFRED BATMAN

It looks like you’re going to need a day job, sir.

Stop right there, condiment king. ROBIN

3 Hours Later.

PROSE

S.E.C.A.G.: Yeah, you should’ve known we’d KETCH-UP with you sometime— *nerdy laugh*

BATMAN You got me a what?

BATMAN ROBIN! What did I tell you about the puns?

ALFRED A job Master Bruce, at the therapist’s office in town.

S.E.C.A.G. “AFTER THE AUTHORITIES HAVE HAULED CONDIMENT

BATMAN

KING OFF TO JAIL, OUR CAPED CRUSADERS RETURN TO THE

As what? A janitor?

BATCAVE . . . TO FIND A VERY ANGRY BUTTLER.” ALFRED ALFRED

No sir, a therapist. You are more than qualified to do such. As I

Sir, how have you managed to soil your super suit again? What’s

remember well, you do have a PhD in psychology.

that there? BATMAN BATMAN

THAT WAS A CONSEQUENCE OF SENSITIVITY TRAINING!

Oh um . . . that’s mustard. Condiment King hit me with a bolt of

ALFRED Well you still have it. Your first shift is tomorrow at 9AM. Goodnight

SOBBING WOMAN

Master Bruce.

Thank you, Mr. Man. I’ll be back next week for your insight on why porcelain teapots make me scared of zucchini.

BATMAN ALFREEEEEEED I TOLD YOU TO USE MY SUPERHERO NAME.

BATMAN She’s gone. Robin, fix me a drink.

ALFRED Good. Night. Master. Bruce.

ROBIN Uh uh, Bats. I become sidekick slave at 6PM, and by my count

BATMAN

it’s 9:52.

Goodnight Alfred. BATMAN S.E.C.A.G.

Kill me now.

his first day as a therapist with Robin as his secretary. His first client

ROBIN

has just arrived.

Unfortunately for you, I left my batarangs in the cave.

BATMAN

S.E.C.A.G.

Well um, please elaborate on why the color yellow makes you feel sad.

The time is now 4PM.

SOBBING WOMAN

ROBIN

Well it reminds me of my blanket I once had as a baby, and how my

Alrighty Bats . . . this is your last appointment of the day. Maybe if

mother once had to put it in the washer.

you can scare this one off, we’ll be able to go home early. Uh uh! Don’t

PROSE

The Next Morning, at the Midtown Therapy Center. Batman begins

that sound nice? S.E.C.A.G. 45 Minutes Have Passed.

BATMAN Sure does. (evil smile)

SOBBING WOMAN

And that is why the color yellow makes me think of rutabagas and why

ROBIN

rutabagas makes me sad.

Oh! Here she is now. I’ll show myself out.

BATMAN

EMMA

I think this . . . concludes our session.

Um hi, my name’s Emma. It’s, it’s good to meet you.

BATMAN

EMMA

Alrighty Emma, tell Doctor Bats what’s wrong with you.

No, you can’t. You don’t know anything about me. You’re just a guy in a bat suit.

EMMA Oh okay well . . . I guess I’m uncomfortable in my own skin. I mean,

BATMAN

my mom sent me here because she thinks I’m depressed and need to

Well, I’m an insecure guy in a bat suit.

talk about. I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here but — EMMA BATMAN

Honestly, why are you even wearing that anyway?

Alright Emma, let’s cut to the chase. Isn’t depression just a fancy term for “feeling down?”

BATMAN IF YOU WOULD JUST LET ME FINISH. I would be happy to tell you.

EMMA

My close friends and family . . . most of them think I put on the mask

No, I don’t think that’s it at all —

to fight crime and avenge my parents’ deaths. But in all actuality, that’s just one part of it. I created the suit, and built a voice modifier into it, to hide my voice. PROSE

PROSE

BATMAN Here’s my advice for you, STOP BEING SAD. That’s all there is to it. Thank you, have a nice day!

EMMA Your voice? Look, I really don’t appreciate being belittled like this —

EMMA How dare you? I didn’t ask to be like this. Nobody does. I don’t know

BATMAN

how to get out of this rut. The only thing I can do is be open about

When I have the mask on, I sound like this. But when I take it off

what I’m going through. But I doubt you could understand that, you

*RIPS OFF* (voice is incredibly high and squeaky) I sound like this.

heartless, callous . . . EMMA BATMAN

Oh my God.

Wait Emma, I didn’t really mean that — I just wanted you to leave so that I could go home early.

BATMAN

EMMA

Yeah. Just for once I wanted to feel masculine and strong, and the

Well. Congratulations. You’ve succeeded.

only time I can be that is when the mask is on and altering my voice. Believe me, I can understand you, what’s happening to you. You feel

BATMAN

like you’re battling back the overwhelming expectations of the world

I can understand where you’re coming from.

and doing it all alone because you’re imperfect.

ROBIN EMMA

*smirks* I’ll be right back.

Well thanks, I already knew that. BATMAN BATMAN

Great, I’ve set an appointment for next week. But we have one

But what you don’t know is that you’re not alone. Everybody has their

minor problem. *Look into Office Camera* You know my

insecurities and flaws, but that’s what makes us normal. It unifies

secret identity.

us as a race. A race that you and I are both members of. We are the imperfect.

EMMA Oh, oh, I see! You’re going to have to erase my memory! Do you

EMMA

have a special gadget for that too?

Is that supposed to make me feel better? BATMAN

Thanks for the vase Alfred. Oh — and nope. *THWAK* (Robin

No, nothing I say will ever make you feel better, or make you love

hits Emma over the back of the head with the vase, knocking

yourself. That’s your journey. Love yourself Emma. Accept who you

her unconscious) PROSE

PROSE

ROBIN

are. I HAVE A SQUEAKY VOICE AND I LOVE MYSELF. S.E.C.A.G. EMMA

And thus in the days to follow, the caped crusaders fought

Ugh God. I’M DEPRESSED, AND I GUESS I’M SORT OF OKAY.

crime by night and soothed souls by day. As for Emma, she kept returning back to Batman’s office every week, not remembering

BATMAN

a thing from the session before. That is, until Batman took her

Close enough. But I think that brings us to the end of our session.

under his wing as Batgirl. Until next time, my friends.

EMMA Thanks Mr. Bats. You’re certainly different than any therapist I’ve seen before. BATMAN I’ll take that as a compliment. Excuse me. *PULLS MASK BACK ON* (voice returns to normal, gruff state) Robin, could you have Alfred send up that Moroccan vase from the waiting room coffee table?

An excerpt from the novel Of Green Stuff Woven One: Side-Oats Sanctus Cathleen Chittenden Bascom

if not more evident to me in the variety of grasses. Only lately have I been committing their names and distinctive characteristics to heart, the way I once memorized favorite prayers or spiritual teachings. St. Augustine writes that we are only fully human when we’re engaged with the natural world. Some people dive into the vivid layers of fish

A child said “what is the grass?” fetching it to me with full hands…

swimming in the coral reefs. Some people count birds on Christmas,

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green

noting each call and wing and colored breast. For me, it’s the prairie

stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

grasses. This setting is pretty unique. Above my head, the tallest buildings

A scented gift and remembrance designedly dropt,

in Iowa clamber upward in granite and corten-steel. Behind me,

Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see

the squat stone Cathedral, with our bells on the hour and radiant

and remark, and say “Whose?”

windows, sits like an historic anchor. But stretching to each side is

– Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

nearly three acres of tallgrass prairie covering a square city block. The land has seen a number of incarnations: leased to a lumber yard in

Tuesday morning, September, Des Moines, Iowa

the late 1800’s; built up with brick tenements and store-fronts after

My life has always been tangled up with the grasses. My life has

lot in the 1960’s. Faced with dwindling parking profits, and with a

always been tangled up with green American dollars. But only recently

dangerously pot-holed lot, the prairie restoration project was mainly

have they become inextricably twisted together, like the “rats’ nests”

my vision.

my older sisters used to brush out of my auburn childhood locks. And only recently has the ravel involved a lot of people beyond myself.

PROSE

the turn of that century; and finally cleared for the rental parking

Exactly why we have this much land downtown and why we’ve kept it for over a hundred and sixty years— remains a bit hazy to

Holy, holy, holy . . . I sit on a garden bench and my hand cradles

me. In my five years as Dean, no one has given me a precise answer.

a wire-thin stem of Sideoats Grama grass. My right thumb and middle

Complicated legalities, they say. Wishes of the original benefactor,

finger press together around the first small seed – like nature’s rosary.

they respond shrugging their shoulders. That’s all I know.

Holy, holy, holy. The words of the ancient Sanctus (first penned by

When we committed to the prairie restoration, I had the landscape

Isaiah the prophet) form themselves inside me. I mouth the words.

architects, grant-writing, and fund-raising on my plate, so a couple of

As a forty-something woman priest, Dean of an Episcopal Cathedral,

members of the Cathedral’s Board who are attorneys and in real estate

people cut me a lot of slack about talking to God— even outdoors.

looked into the matter. For some odd reason the parking proceeds

Standing behind the marble communion altar inside the church,

had always gone toward the Dean’s salary, which meant a slight pay

interceding for a couple hundred human-beings as we all chant

cut for me to put in the prairie. But if I was comfortable with that, the

together holy, holy, holy, I am often overtaken by life’s mysteries:

group assured me that the garden development was within proper

the lines of each face, the stories behind each pair of eyes. But, as I

parameters. I keep meaning to get into the vault with my assistant

sit, half hidden in tall green strands, the holy mysteries are equally

Merlin to see if we can find out even more about the gift of the land.

But daily duties keep us from ever getting around to it.

flags. But pointing to what?

So yes, St. Aidan’s Cathedral has gone ahead with restoring prairie

In its third year, amidst unprecedented snow and rain, the prairie

on our urban parcel smack in the center of the financial district. With

is soggy but flourishing. However, our graceful, stone Cathedral is

government grants and NGO funds we have peeled off the dilapidated

pulling apart at the seams. The Cathedral coffers are extremely thin.

asphalt and planted instead shoulder high grass and flower species

Young loft-dwellers and hipsters have joined our community, many

that filled Lewis and Clark with awe when they entered Iowa. Plants

intrigued by the prairie project. But simultaneously, our old-money

which now are nearly extinct. Plants we believe are holy.

parishioners are dying, and most of their children have moved to the Coasts. The bearded, tattooed newbies give of their genius and

The Cathedral bells chime the half-hour, winging across the damp

energy, but they haven’t the treasure of the silk-stocking folks South

air like geese. I pray as the sound passes overhead.

of Grand. No liquid assets to repair slate roofs and copper gutters and

Holy,

compromised organ pipes.

Holy. I always find the news of the hour flung from a bell tower allows space to reflect on its coming, its passing — not like my cellphone’s intimate,

“

The community of eccentric, intellectual, sacramental people of faith is as threatened as the disappearing prairie grasses.

PROSE

in-my-face, digital time. The bells sound archaic but comforting amidst the other city sounds of car engines, laughter, and teens cursing on a nearby corner. Merlin pulls his unreliable vintage Mercedes into the spot labeled “Secretary” (we reused earlier signs) near an unmarked arched door in the stone. We have kept some parking of course, but use permeable

Really, I could live with the building problems. But the fraying

”

PROSE

Holy,

stone Cathedral is symbolic of the precariousness inside. That’s what tugs at me. The community of eccentric, intellectual, sacramental people of faith is as threatened as the disappearing prairie grasses. Most people, if asked, don’t know about the Episcopal Church,

brick pavers above porous pipes that capture runoff. Merlin chose

don’t know us as the American, open-minded, offspring of the Church

this spot because he can nip in and out of it from the back of his office

of England. Too measured to evangelize, our open-mindedness may be

to clear his head, avoid a particularly sticky parishioner, or have a

our doom. We are men and women; straight, gay, and transgender; we

smoke. He’d like to order a sign that says “Church Lady” for fun—I

are white, black, African and Asian, though we still don’t worship in

laughed but nixed that idea. He is nearly six-feet but unfolds from

Spanish as much as we should; we are robes-and-incense-high-church

his car with the agility of an actor. He sees me and waves, but doesn’t

or social-justice-broad-church, because most of the evangelical-low-

say anything as he heads into the office the back way. He knows I am

church left when we approved a gay bishop; we are not as wealthy

in my own unique form of Morning Prayer. The kernels of Sideoats

as we used to be; we are interested in how the religions of the world

I pinch, to focus my spirit, are in size and hue like the wheat grown

relate, especially in God’s eyes; and we mainly thrive on the Coasts.

on my grandparents’ farm in Kansas — except they spring forth from

Within Christian circles our devotion to liturgy and our liberalism

ground as well-watered as that was dry. I look down and marvel that

make us suspect. With our liberal friends, our sincere belief in God

each grain hangs off to one side, the same side, like small pointing

and our prayer lives make us suspect. Some of us might choose a

less rarified denomination. But we just can’t shift; not necessarily

a gateway of the Northern Forest. And when the pipes delivered the

proud of it, we’re just too worldly, we’ve been exposed to too much,

bass notes that first Sunday, we felt them more than heard them, like

to be Baptists. So, in a post-modern era when people assume the

the call of a blue whale.

conservative megachurch is Christianity, we are as invisible to the

The problem has been gradual and on-going. But, between

eye as Little Bluestem from a car window, as ephemeral as the Prairie

mountains of snow all winter and unprecedented summer rainfall,

Orchid. Yet it is this expression of faith and this bunch of the faithful

the problem has ballooned. It’s like the headwaters of the Des Moines

to which I have tied my life.

River are seeking refuge inside our Cathedral.

The prairie flourishes and the Church crumbles. Thus, the tangle. Moreover, just yesterday, I had surprise visitors. Thus, the rat’s

“Chasing the leaks and patching has to end!” Truman screamed in Simon’s ear, who re-told it to me with pursed lips, “You’ve got to find

nest.

the money somewhere to truly fix the roof. New slate. New roof. Not patch it! Fix it.”

I had taken only that first delectable sip of my coffee—Tanzanian

So I sit, as I have done too much lately, at my desk in the Dean’s

Peaberry steaming and almost too hot, anticipating a quiet wake-up

office surveying spreadsheets of the Cathedral accounts. In the early

cup—when Simon our accountant came to me apoplectic. Truman, our

days of my priesthood my time was filled with encouraging people in

long-time organist had come to Simon even more apoplectic, due to

their spiritual quests and leading worship. At the Cathedral, worship

recent damage to the organ. Truman displays apoplexy in a big voiced,

remains central but I am increasingly consumed with finances and

red-faced, bombastic style.

building maintenance—exactly why I did not go to law school and

“

enter my father’s insurance firm.

Each cylinder of beautifully polished wood took four men to carry through the halls. Simon’s version is thin and acerbic. Both are desperate, though

PROSE

Monday Morning (Yesterday)

”

The darker side of Your humor? It’s not that funny. I stare at the spreadsheets, weighing possible options. Reduce staff, again. That option is emotionally stressful. My assistant Merlin is safe because he already works for peanuts—I‘ve never asked

St. Aidan’s beloved instrument’s issue has been gradual. For at least

but have assumed he got a golden-handshake from At&T. But our

two years we have been chasing a leak in the roof that is dripping

brilliant choirmaster Samantha, the most lively element in the whole

onto our large wooden organ pipes. These particular pipes are the size

organization, could be at risk. The only other option I see is to send

of mammoth tusks, polished to such a sheen you can see yourself in

out a search party for Truman’s favorite musical benefactor. He’s

them. I vividly remember standing in the parking lot as they arrived

moved to Florida and is now on an exorbitantly expensive yacht

on a long flatbed-truck from Montreal. Watching Truman stomp his

somewhere in the Caribbean. Up till now Truman has always just

boots in the cold and wave the Canooks in with his mittened hands

called him in a pinch. It’s why we have the most expensive organ in

was like watching a kid help Santa land on Christmas. Each cylinder

the region inside an atrophying building. But this kind Mr. Money

of beautifully polished wood took four men to carry through the halls.

Bags has left Iowa, its high taxes, and increasingly liberal ways, maybe

Then they hoisted them all into place, framing the doors just inside

for good. And it has Truman utterly unmoored.

the worship space. Suddenly it was like coming to meet God through

The Bishop appointed me to St. Aidan’s to help heal the community

The woman in red takes the baton, “Perhaps you know about the

after a divisive period. With grace, we have found harmony. But the

new boutique hotel and shops planned for Des Moines? Well, The

budget realities challenge us annually. Maybe they wouldn’t stress

Hotel Savant is very interested in some of your Cathedral’s property.”

me out so much if my own personal finances — most specifically my

I can often find myself fantasizing about a moment like this —

exorbitant student loans — weren’t in a similar tangle. Moreover,

it’s like picturing myself in a film. And yet it seems when I am living

our spreadsheets are a microcosm of Christendom. Tectonic shifts.

the larger than life moments they never feel so glamourous. An

The floor is giving way. Locally, the faith is often vibrant, but the

equivocating mind, rattled emotions, human skin. I am both elated

numbers few. Few numbers of people. Fewer numbers of dollars. I can

and deflated at the news unfolding around me.

practically feel the copper at my temples tarnishing. Then I notice that Merlin is at my elbow. “Two people to see you. SansCorps. Out of Chicago.” Merlin says and hands me two business cards. My administrative assistant’s full, legal name is James Merlinske. But, playing the character of the wizard in an off-Broadway adaptation of T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, Merlin became James’ PROSE

have what we hope you will receive as stellar news.”

“Not the magnificent, historic Church of course,” The man in the lilac tie quickly adds, covering their bases, “but the adjacent piece of land to the north.” I hear a bus belch nearby and I glance out the window behind my desk. Five foot tall Big Bluestem, green shafts edged in peacock, sway. They reach their turkey footed seed heads toward the skyscrapers. The woman hands me an envelope of fine resumé stock embossed

stage-name. In Des Moines everyone knows him as Merlin. I

with SansCorps in gold. It is a letter asking to begin negotiations

personally like his nom de theatre for a different reason: with his

toward purchase. Proposed price? Nearly five million dollars.

salt-and-pepper goatee, hooked nose, and large expressive eyes, he

For the prairie.

PROSE

Faced with these finances, it is hard not to feel like a failure.

reminds me of a merlin bird that dropped down once when I was hiking in the Flint Hills of Kansas. James often lands silently with patient, intent eyes, in my office or beside me as I roam the Cathedral, to offer assistance. “They represent the new hotel development. Were you expecting them?” he asks. Most of his adult life Merlin supported his acting pursuits as an executive assistant at AT&T in New York. He always takes impeccable care of me. “They carry themselves like cash.” “Haven’t a clue,” I tell him, “Bring them back.” Merlin escorts the visitors into my office. A man in a silk tie and a young woman in a red suit firmly shake my hand, and I invite them to have a seat. I learn that they have been to the Mayor’s office to meet with him and the City Planner. The gentleman decides to get to the point, “Dean Brenchley, we

Misjudged

Nick Heimerman

Kenolson Collin

DIGITAL ART

100

Adventure Is Out There

101

102

Foongus Amoung Us

Low Poly Pokemon Adventure

Andrew May

103

Scrabble - A Collage of Memories

white marble-topped table under the light of the chandelier, in the blue-walled, bookcase-lined dining room in San Antonio. We are

Barbara Johnson

comfortably seated on red chair cushions, poised for a challenge, quiet concentration alternating with bits of conversation.

Scrabble tile. It keeps re-surfacing, first retrieved from the

writers, are wordsmiths. But even though they are recognized as

sidewalk and handed to me as if it were a found treasure, and

researchers and have presented their literary work at conferences here

again now, as I am cleaning out the kitchen junk drawer, where it had

and abroad, this evening they are first and foremost family members,

been hidden under paper clips, rubber bands, keys from locks long

ready to spend time together.

ago replaced. Its origin is a mystery; it does not match the tiles in the Scrabble game we now use. Why I hadn’t discarded it is perhaps another mystery.

“

It is a gift to be together since we live so far apart.

PROSE

Uppercase letter “T” printed in black on the natural wood surface of the three-quarter inch tile, followed by a numeral “one” subscript,

What chance do I have to win the game? That is not the point:

indicating point value, the lowest of values, but quite easily used in a

it is the time spent together that has value, not winning. Laughter

word.

shared. Opportunities for insights into their lives as they take

” PROSE

Son-in-law Felix and daughter Julie, both college professors and

time to share anecdotes and memories. Time spent sitting A Scrabble tile brings back memories of my mother in her upstairs

close together. Hearing affirming words: “Nice play.” “Great

apartment in a small town in northern Minnesota, dressed in her

word.” “Worth clever points!” It is a gift to be together since we live

wine-colored pantsuit, ready for a party. She is sitting behind a

so far apart. Surely worth the risk of losing a game. “Yes, please, I

Scrabble board set up on a card table between her two precocious

would love to play Scrabble!”

great granddaughters, eight- and ten-year old Aidan and Claire. It is Gram Eleanor’s 95th birthday. We are ready for her

The family, now grown and scattered, living north and south

celebratory open house for neighbors and friends, but it is early, well

and very far south of here, ten of us in all, had spent the Christmas

before the posted hours of 2-4. Her great granddaughters want to

holidays together in our Forest City, Iowa, home. Mid-morning of

play Scrabble with her. Music to her ears, for she is the Queen of

travel day, Julie and Felix and their six-year old daughter Isabel are

Scrabble, her brain a virtual repository for two-letter words and other

packed and ready to return to sunny San Antonio.

Scrabble strategies. And on that day, her birthday, she won the game with the word ONYX, tripled by its unique placement, scoring 75 points. A perfect birthday gift for a lover of Scrabble.

Julie extends an offer: “We have time to play a game of Scrabble before we head to the airport. Anyone want to play Scrabble?” Isabel is visibly upset and starts to cry. “You can’t play Scrabble in the morning! Games are for the evening.”

“Do you want to play Scrabble?” Of course, I do. We gather around the Scrabble board opened out on the round, grey and

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Children learn much by observation, and sometimes their conclusions are not entirely accurate. But I have to admit that I

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understand Isabel’s response. Over the years as we spend holiday

why I am taking so long. But sometimes my sister asks, “Where did

time together, we tend to do our own thing during the day: sleep

you get that word??

late, nap or read or go for walks, prepare food for the next meal, have

Sometime in the future, when opportunity allows, we will huddle

conversations spontaneously in small groups here and there, or do our

over the Scrabble board again and play side by side. In the meantime,

exercises at our own pace. Then when the evening meal is over, hot

we are connected by Words with Friends. Every time my phone beeps

tea is served in blue mugs, the dishes are cleared, the kitchen cleaned

a reminder, “Your Move with Words with Friends” or “Do you want to

up, and we gather around the dining room table to play games.

see who won?”, I think the same thought: “It is my sister.”

I smile as I think: “You got that right, Isabel.” But for now, I savor one last chance to sit together and play Scrabble with this threesome who we will not see for at least several months. To play would be

“

Sometime in the future, when opportunity allows, we will

huddle over the Scrabble board again and play side by side.

a nice conclusion to our holiday gathering, and prove that Scrabble is a game for all times and all seasons.

Electronic Scrabble would never have piqued the interest of my

”

mother, who was known to have said when she reached her nineties:

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for now. Long distance word games with my sister, who lives 300

“I do not want to learn anything new.” “Yes, I want to play Scrabble,” she would have said. “On a

miles from me, not free to travel because she is now caregiver for her

Scrabble board with wooden tiles, please.” And I have to admit that

husband. I miss holding a handful of wooden tiles pulled out of the

the games are not the same, that nothing quite substitutes for playing

red-trimmed, cloth drawstring bag and arranging them on the wooden

together over the board: equal opportunity for all, no cheating, no

tray in front of me; or sitting next to her; or saying “Is this a word?”

trying out the words on the board ahead of time. But an electronic

On my phone screen, the black letters on yellow squares appear in a

connection is better than no connection, and both provide some

musical rhythm, blop-blop, rearranged when I touch the intersecting

challenge for our brains and some connection to each other. “Yes, I

arrows again and again, with the hope of seeing a hint of a word in

want to play Words with Friends— until I have an opportunity to play

them.

Scrabble again.”

I move the letters from the row at the bottom of the screen upward onto the board with my little finger. “Whee-glock” is the sound each letter makes as it settles into place. “Invalid word” is the message I see over and over as I try to fill the Triple Word spaces with made-up combinations, hoping they might be little-known words. Sometimes they are words and are accepted, the tripling of which sends my score soaring. And if they are not, I just try another combination. And another.

Or maybe even resort to using a Scrabble Word Finder on

the internet. These are desperation measures when I am behind in all six games we are playing. After all, no one is watching, no one knows

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“Words with Friends” on my cell phone has replaced Scrabble

White Walls

A Story by Diana Humble

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I remember the walls were painted starkly white, reflecting the sterile emptiness that permeated the room. I tried in vain to entertain the emotional eight year old beside me. I would entertain him with made up stories about the security guards, nurses, doctors, anything to distract his young mind from the reality of his situation. This boy, this eight-year-old boy with wide, innocent eyes, was experiencing unimaginable distress. . . Both of his parents were being treated. His mother was being treated for a deadly infection in her arm, and she had been in the hospital for a week when his father had collapsed of a stroke. This boy, who sported a worn-out Pokémon t-shirt and shorts, was straining to smile while his innocence was swiftly stolen away. I remember talking with him, playing with him, late into the night until a sympathetic nurse offered rest inside the nurses’ lounge, where stiff couches replaced the hard chairs of the waiting room. I remember separating from the boy to sleep; yet sleep evaded me. It was one thing for me to be trapped in this terrible hospital waiting to hear about my loved ones… I was eleven years old; I could handle the stresses of reality. But this boy, this eight-year-old boy, was too young. I remember trying, failing, to fall asleep, when I heard a rustling from the other side of the room. The pitter-patter of little feet echoed against the walls in a far more haunting manner than the metronomic beeping of hospital machines that echoed from room to room. I remember the boy climbing onto the couch and curling into me, asking me to sing him to sleep. I pulled the boy close and stroked his hair comfortingly as I sang “You Are My Sunshine” until he drifted off to a peaceful sleep. And as I stared at those white walls, the tears finally fell. The last thing I remember before finally succumbing to sleep was pulling that boy, my little brother, closer to me, and kissing the top of his head.

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Kaytlin Workman

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R2D2 Cruisin’

Maggie Kretzmann

Andrew May

DRAWING

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Sunday Doodles

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The Beauty in Death

Brina Shariffi

Ryan Fischer

DRAWING

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SuperMom

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Father

Haley Mokelstad

Barbara Johnson

DRAWING

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Harvest

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Interview with John Price: Success Story of Creative Nonfiction Jeremy Navarro

as to say, “If there is a heaven, there will be no humor, because there is no hurt in heaven.” Price believes that this humor is what allows him to write about deep issues. It gives him permission to write about them without writing directly about them. Humor is a great tool to connect with

John Price, altering the quote from the movie “Field of Dreams”, states, “If you write it, they will read.” The Fort Dodge Native, now residing in Council Bluffs, recently visited our small University to read

laughs, it is about showing a side to issues no one ever sees. “It helps to have others read my work,” he adds, and he explains

from his memoirs Daddy Long Legs and Man Killed by Pheasant.

that he has a group of peers to read his work regularly. These peers

After his reading, I had the pleasure of interviewing the University

allow him to see the reaction that people will have before he goes to

of Nebraska at Omaha professor. From talking to him, I learned that

share his work with the world. “It allows me to add humor where I am

there are what seems like three main qualities that make up superb

suggested to add humor, or draw it back if the humor is not coming

creative nonfiction writing - passion, humor and vulnerability - and

across the way I expect it to.”

demonstrated by the excerpt at the end of this article. Price believes that good writing comes from a voice that is created

Finally, Price argues that, when writing, you need to write vulnerably. When asked if being vulnerable is really necessary, Price answers, “If the writer is not risking anything, then why should the

to fulfill a passion. Price’s passion is in the conservation of prairies

reader risk anything? Creative nonfiction is never about the self, it is

in Iowa, specifically the Loess Hills located near his home. “Less than

about using the self to get at the larger issues, the issues that matter

one percent of Iowa’s tallgrass prairies remain intact,” Price states,

and leave us vulnerable.”

and his passion for protecting Iowa’s natural beauty has become a

GUEST AUTHOR

these three seem to leap off the page in John Price’s writing, as GUEST AUTHOR

readers. Humor in creative nonfiction is not about about getting

This vulnerability also ties into the passion and humor that is seen

door to literary activism, hopefully resulting in acts of conservation.

throughout much of Price’s work. The three work as a trifecta to pull

Price believes that biologists do not need more information now; they

people into the issues, learn about them, and understand that they

know what they are talking about. It is the job of the artist to show the

are real and need attention. It is vulnerable writing that produces a

biologists that their studies and their commitment to nature matter,

response from the masses.

that they do reach into the creative world in many ways and do affect the readers powerfully. “Prairies matter,” he says, “they matter

An excerpt from Daddy Long Legs, by John Price

emotionally, they matter psychologically and they matter spiritually.

“Not So Golden Nuggets”

It is the realm of the writer to lend their voices to this cause.” Price also believes that there is an audience for most voices out

Here’s something I can tell you: there comes a time in a man’s life

there, including the comedic voice. “I was afraid to write with humor,”

when he doesn’t want to open the door to his car and find a pile of

he says, and that is due to his fear of not being taken seriously. But

mouse turds in the driver’s seat.

today, most of his work contains a great deal of humor. “Humor is the response to suffering, it is the response to hurt.” He even goes as far

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That’s exactly what happened as I was getting ready to drive to the office. It had been a couple of weeks since I’d visited campus, and I

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was actually looking forward to it. I’d even dressed up a bit—Oxford

Cash Register

shirt, chinos, the shiny brown shoes, and (of course) the tweed jacket my father had given me when I became a professor. . .

Carlos Ruiz

I needed a distraction from the health worries. The day before, during the cardiac stress test at the hospital, they’d run me hard on a an inclined treadmill—like a laboratory mouse actually— until my heart rate reached a certain level just this side of vomiting. Then they’d pumped my heart full of radioactive solution and put me in a dark room to take some images. While under a large, slow-moving machine called a ”gamma camera,” I found myself flashing back to the opening of my favorite television show as a boy, The incredible Hulk, only with me in the starring role: Dr. John Price, professor, writer, searching for a way to tap into the hidden strengths that all humans

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with his unique body chemistry. And now as Dr. Price grows angry or outraged, or just annoyed, a startling metamorphosis occurs. . .

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GUEST AUTHOR

have. Then an accidental overdose of gamma radiation interacts

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Italian Life

DeAnn Hanna

Darian Walsh

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Fall at Pilot Knob

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Last Moments of a Butterfly

DeAnn Hanna

Erisha Menon

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Sphinx Moth

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Bark

Cassie Ruud

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Landscape

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Thorpe Park

Julienne Friday

Isabelle Rothbauer

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Area Show 45 Box

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Blue Letters

Tina Somchit

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Baby Pink Earrings and Bracelet

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Trees Luke Zacharias

Contributors Cathleen Bascom is an Assistant Professor of Religion and Philosophy at Waldorf. After nearly thirty years as an Episcopal priest, she has returned to an early love of writing and literature and is finishing a 3-year MFA in Creative Writing and the Environment at Iowa State University. She likes to ski, walk, and support prairie restoration efforts.

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Marla Britton-Johnson is an Assistant Professor of Theatre at Waldorf, with a B.A. in Theatre and Music from Rocky Mountain College, an M.A. in Dramatic Literature from Western Washington University, and a Ph.D. in Fine Arts from Texas Tech University, where she previously taught and advised students. Her busy household includes her husband Ryan, three children (Kellan, Rowan, and Fiona) and two dogs. Ryan Clark is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Waldorf. He writes much of his poetry using a unique method of homophonic translation and is particularly interested in how poetry responds to violence and subjugation. His poetry has appeared in such journals as Smoking Glue Gun, Tenderloin, Found Poetry Review, and Aufgabe. His first book, How I Pitched the First Curve, is forthcoming from Lit Fest Press. Kenolson Collin is a sophomore, majoring in business. He is originally from Port-au-Prince Haiti and has been living in Orlando, Florida since 2009. He enjoys playing the piano, working in Photoshop, Premiere Pro, and After Effects. He is also a soccer player for Waldorf. MacKenzie Droessler is a junior, studying Secondary English Education. She is originally from Buffalo Center, Iowa. She enjoys spending her time with family, friends and helping others. In addition, she enjoys crafts, writing, drawing and taking pictures. Zabdiel Flores is a sophomore, majoring in Business and Finance followed by a minor in Communications. He was born and raised in Guadalajara, Mexico and finds pleasure in taking pictures and playing golf for the Warriors. Myriah Hacker is a sophomore from Denison, Iowa. She is majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Music and Theatre. She likes reading books about stars making people feel stuff, and if amortentia was a real thing; she would smell bittersweet chocolate, mild spring tulips, and a brand new eyeshadow palette.

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Brena Hamilton is a junior at Newman Catholic High School. She is involved in writing club, band, speech, manages the volleyball team, and volunteers at Youth For Christ. She also has recently been inducted in National Honor Society and Phi Beta Kappa. Besides writing historical romances, Brena also enjoys reading, spending time with friends and family, hiking, and biking. DeAnn Hanna is the Assistant Director of Online Financial Aid for Waldorf University. In her free time, she serves Forest City as an Emergency Medical Technician and Ambulance Driver. She spends a great deal of time in nature, looking for ways that she can use photography to capture and represent nature in its purest state. Jonathan Happel is a senior from Forest City, IA, majoring in Creative Writing. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, singing, leading worship, and playing the piano. Matthew Scott Harris attends to his newly adopted regimen of writing about the mundane, ridiculous or serious. His most urgent task constitutes locating an alternative place to live. Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania does aesthetically, culturally and ethnically appeal, BUT the cost of living for myself and spouse sole income predicated on my monthly allotment sans social security disability. Many earlier years of my moderate lifetime afflicted with debilitating psychic torment. The severe sinusoidal spikes of anxiety currently ameliorated with a prescription pharmacological medications Megan Haugen is a freshman from Forest City, IA, majoring in Creative Writing and Business. She enjoys crocheting in her free time and her favorite color is Orange. Diana Humble is a freshman from Stewartville, Minnesota. She’s currently triple majoring in Creative Writing, Communications, and English at Waldorf University. When not slaving over her majors, she’s inducing early arthritis by virtue of her Guitar Hero addiction. Barbara Johnson is a retired business education teacher, having taught at Forest City High School for 28 years. She enjoys taking art and writing classes at Waldorf University. Favorite activities include: drawing with oil pastels on paper and writing memoirs of her childhood in the Great Depression Era. Donnica Keeling is a sophomore, majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Communications. When she isn’t writing, she is outside with

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her nieces and nephew, teaching them new games. Marcus Lopez is a sophomore transfer, majoring in Business-Marketing. He was born and raised in Wilmington, Delaware and is a football player for the Warriors. Andrew May is a junior, majoring in Communications with an emphasis in Digital Media and Graphic Design and an Art Minor. He is from Forest City, Iowa and enjoys making computer generated artwork, drawing, painting, film making, designing graphics, playing video games, and reading the Bible. His tools of choice would be paper, pencils, pens, charcoal, computer, and acrylic paint. Erisha Menon is a junior, majoring in Communications with an emphasis in Digital Media, Journalism, Public Relations, and Graphic Design. She is a Malaysian-born urbanite, and she is passionate about music, singing, and exploring. Haley Moklestad is a junior, majoring in Communications with an emphasis in Graphic Design and achieving an Art minor. She is from Forest City, Iowa and when she’s not drawing or painting she is living life to its fullest with her friends! Jeremy Navarro is a junior, double-majoring in Biology and Creative Writing from Prescott, Wisconsin. When he isn’t in class, he is either tutoring in the Writing Center, working in the Waldorf Library or lacing up his skates for the Warriors Hockey Team. Joy M. Newcom lives in Forest City and appreciates the opportunity to develop her writing abilities alongside skilled writers in Waldorf University’s creative writing program. Her favorite storytelling genres: non-fiction, poetry, and musical theatre. Saheed Olaosebikan is a sophomore, majoring in Criminal Justice and minoring in Psychology. He is from Lagos, Nigeria and is also, a football player for the Waldorf University football team. He enjoys life. Jaci Olson is a senior, majoring in English with a minor in Communications. She is originally from Pomeroy, Iowa. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading and listening to music. Elizabeth Peters is a sophomore, majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Psychology. She has lived in Iowa her entire life, and writing is one of her favorite hobbies, along with reading for enjoyment.

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Nicholas Ray is a junior transfer, majoring in Cellular and Molecular Biology. He is originally from San Diego, California, and when he is not in the lab or having his head in the books, he is on the baseball diamond, continuing his athletic career with the Warriors.

Ruth Worrell is a sophomore, majoring in Secondary English Education and minoring in Creative Writing. She is originally from Denison, Iowa. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with family.

Isabelle Rothbauer is a senior, majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing. In her spare time, she enjoys watching America’s Next Top Model, Painting, and eating sushi. She plans to attend culinary school for her next journey.

Mandi Wright is a sophomore at Waldorf University. Coming from South Dakota, she always had a great love for writing, which she now can pursue with her Creative Writing major. Besides writing, Mandi likes to take walks in the forest, listening to her favorite band, and working at Taco Jerry’s.

Carlos Ruiz is a faculty/staff member in the Communications department at Waldorf University. When he is not taking photographs, he is found writing film scripts and working in the film industry, where he is known professionally as Charlie Gandez.

Luke Zacharias is a senior from Cologne, Minnesota. This is the second year Luke’s photography is appearing in the Waldorf Literary Review. He is grateful for the opportunity to share his passion for photography with those that pick up this edition.

Cassie Ruud is a staff member and 2016 graduate of Waldorf University. Aside from her passion for photography, she also enjoys being of help to others, singing, and weight lifting. Brian Shariffi is a senior from Ontario, California. He went into the Wellness major and became a part of the soccer team his freshman year. He got into drawing by listening to music and drawing out the lyrics to pair visual images with his favorite songs. Tina Somchit is a senior, majoring in Communications. She believes in designs that can complement art, mathematics, and science together. Currently, she is also into environmental issues, in which she has been using several recycled objects to express the concern through her artwork. She will be continuing her education by attending a Master’s program in Architecture. Darien Walsh is a senior, majoring in Communications focusing on Journalism and print media from Fort Dodge, Iowa. She enjoys traveling and interacting with different cultures, reading, playing the tuba, trumpet, and piano, and swing dancing with her fiance. Abbie Wells is a senior, double-majoring in Theatre Performance and Playwriting with a minor in Communications. Apart from writing, she loves to act and sing her heart out on the stage. Kaytlin Workman is an alumnus of Waldorf University (class of 2016). She is from Mahomet, Illinois, and she holds a love for music, theatre, her friends and family, and of course her two cats, Bear and Flash.

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