Waldorf Literary Review, Volume 16, 2022-23

Waldorf

Literary Review

VOLUME XVI 2022-2023

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 Bookmobile in Minneapolis, Minnesota. 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 eighth annual Top of Iowa Conference Creative Writing Contest. The top winners are selected annually by the staff of the Review.

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

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 Dr. Joe Milan at joe.milan@ waldorf.edu.

Copyright © 2023, Waldorf University

Waldorf Literary Review XVI Volume 3 202

Editorial Team Managing Editor Publicist Prose Editors

Charlie Blue Zöee Pond Josh Martin Danny Caruso Joseph Van Essen

Poetry Editor

Designer Hannah Meyer

Faculty Advisor Joe Milan Jr.

CONTENTS POETRY

9 Zöee Pond

10

Salvation Unclaimed

Arden Phan

12

death.

Joseph Van Essen

14

Shining Waves

Josh Martin

16

The Colossus

Arden Phan

18

dog.

Josh Martin

20

The Winter Moon

Josh Martin

22

The Writer’s Forgotten Hero

Arden Phan

23

green.

Zöee Pond

24

Celestial Body

Zöee Pond

25

Grandmother, Dissected

Arnaldur Stefansson

26

7/21/2001

Joseph Van Essen

27

Consumed World

Joseph Van Essen

29

The Shattering

Dana Yost

30

Far Away From Nowhere

Lillian Lawlor

32

Mary

33

PHOTOS & ART

Matthew Burns

34

The Chapel in the Sea of Skyscrapers

Meredith Mulvaney

35

Pork Soda

Ashley Peterson

36

Golden Hour in Iowa

Ellie Clark

37

Stretch

L.G.R.C.

38

L.G.R.C. #2

Ellie Clark

39

Bills Gift!

Tyler Clouse

40

Hydroflask

Helena Josephine

41

A Time Burton Town with a Disney Moment

Helena Josephine

42

The First Wedding to Make Me Cry Was For People I Don’t Know

Keely McLain

43

Holt Erwin

Meredith Mulvaney

44

Morticia Addams

Meredith Mulvaney

45

The Pull of Adventure

Autumn Petersen

46

The Highland Cow

Ashley Peterson

47

Golden Hour in Iowa

Ashley Peterson

48

Golden Hour in Iowa

Tatum Phelps

49

Cotton Candy Sky

Dana Pioske

50

Untitled

Kayliegh Wilkie

51

Two Souls

PROSE

53 Zöee Pond

54

Headlights

Charlie Blue

56

When We Used to Sit at the Kitchen Table

Arnaldur Stefansson

62

Every Minor Discrepency

Charlie Blue

65

if smoking is not allowed in heaven

Charlie Blue

73

PUREBRED STANDARD POODLES

Ryan Clark

76

On Breughel’s Painting The Fall of Icarus

Jonathan Klauke

77

How to Lead Like a Warrior

Dana Yost

85

The Man Who Loved Ava Gardner

Jenna Polich

88

Father’s Day

SPECIAL FEATURES

93

Zöee Pond

94

A Brief List of Things that will Forever Remind us of Dr. Clark

Julienne Friday

95

Friday Feature

Danny Caruso & Josh Martin

97

To Boldly Go Where No Writer’s Gone Before: An Interview with Said Shaiye

CONTRIBUTORS

101

P O E T R Y

Salvation Unclaimed Zöee Pond

1st Place Salveson Prize - Poetry

I remember the soft orange from the streetlights settling around your silhouette. You put a glass of water on my nightstand and laid next to me. You are an angel I do not believe in.

You like the way the smoke curls lazily up from my mouth. It is just a way to die a little faster.

Last night I couldn’t see anything but the crinkle of your eyes as you let out a soft oof when I fell into you. You just pulled me closer. How many times will you suffer my flaws before you become a martyr?

I haven’t had a lot of soft moments in my life, but I’m grateful for every single one I get from you. Some day you will feel my hard edges and yearn for softness. I don’t know how to be good like you.

Every night you pray to a god I do not believe in. I feel baselessly holy sharing my bed with you.

There will never be another feeling as good as your fingertips meandering idly across my body as I wake up.

I am Icarus and it is only a matter of time before the sun looks too enticing.

You laughed when I burned the eggs this morning. Every day I think you are going to leave, and I will come home to an empty bed, a note on the nightstand. I don’t think I could even be mad at you for it.

Your best friend came over last night, and I heard him tell you not to fuck this one up. One day you will see me as my mother does.

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I just got off the phone with your mom; she invited me on family vacation. Someday I will be a stranger who used to date her son. She will wave in the supermarket and think terrible thoughts about me, and they will all be true.

I don’t know how to love you. I do anyway.

I do anyway.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Judge’s Comments - Dr. Ryan Clark

Author of the poetry collections Arizona SB 1080: an act and How I Pitched the First Curve

I applaud the poet’s use of form to convey this ongoing battle with feelings of unworthiness in a relationship. The crossed-out “I feel baselessly holy sharing my bed with you” is such a striking line, though these words—and other vulnerable sentiments—remain painfully unsaid. The ending, with its ease of apology against the impossibility of openness, is a truly sorrowful moment.

Volume 16 / Poetry

11

death.

Arden Phan

2nd Place Salveson Prize - Poetry

june twenty-third, two-thousand and twenty-two. my ears were ringing from the silence, mouth dry with parted lips, eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows furrowed together. i didn’t realize death came so soon. knocking at a loved one’s door so quickly, swooping them off their feet and leaving a skeletal corpse in the soul’s place. i couldn’t help but stare, his eyes closed and mouth ajar, skin splotchy in color and cheekbones jutting from his face. it was as if skin were over a skeleton and called it human. the dreams i had after seeing him, dead in bed, were not so pleasant, an eyeless body sitting upright in bed, staring… staring at me with wide sockets, mouth agape, teeth yellow and bared. i could barely breathe, breathe breathe breathe breathe and finally, i wake up, holding a fist to my chest as i squeeze my eyes shut. i can see him, i can see the skeleton of who he used to be. the flesh protruding from his corpse in the soon-to-be-taken casket and his black-gray wispy hair. oh, uncle hoang. i miss you. breathe for me again, more than i could ever in my dreams.

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Judge’s Comments - Dr. Ryan Clark

Author of the poetry collections Arizona SB 1080: an act and How I Pitched the First Curve

Skeletal imagery haunts this poem: “draped skin,” “cheekbones jutting,” and “wide sockets” confront us with the horror of death. What makes it so effective here is not in its grotesqueness, however, but in the speaker’s desperate plea to breathe life (“breathe breathe breathe breathe”) against the devastation of a loved one’s passing.

Volume 16 / Poetry

13

Joseph Van Essen

Shining Waves

3rd Place Salveson Prize - Poetry

darkness swirls, run through with spears of light, like holes punched through the lid of a jar through which the essence of life seeps. ancient gold, old and bold as time itself. born of a billion chance encounters flung far from home in a journey of solitude. skating on waves, they fly and collide with a million jars, and a billion motes of dust floating in a soup of primordial essence.

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those who survive, the fires of birth, the solitude, the crashes, illuminating a million worlds, swimming in the sea of life. arise in a blast of golden beauty, seeming as constant as the truth is fleeting. showing us what, showing us how, but never telling us, why.

Judge’s Comments - Dr. Ryan Clark

Author of the poetry collections Arizona SB 1080: an act and How I Pitched the First Curve

“Shining Waves” is extraordinarily effective in how it fulfills the central function of poetry: allowing us to experience the world anew. In this case, our experience is more galactic than worldly, as we take note of the “ancient gold” of seemingly-mundane rays of light and their “journey of solitude” through bleak expanses of time and space—no more instructive of life’s mysteries for all their travels, unfortunately for us.

Volume 16 / Poetry

15

The Colossus Josh Martin

Honorable Mention Salveson Prize - Poetry An inscription read: At Rhodes stood the grand colossus, 70 cubits high, all of gleaming bronze Glistening brightly in the light of dawn.

Praising the mighty sun god Helios, He imprisons flame in his hand, Under his watchful gaze the island Of Rhodes shall never fall to invaders From the farther, crueler shore.

Cracked, torn, and broken.

Bronze fills the life-giving waters.

The earth has laid the sun to rest.

Helios’ gaze burns through me, Yet his mouth is drowning.

At Rhodes stood the grand colossus, 70 cubits high all of gleaming bronze Glistening brightly in the morning sun.

Praising the mighty sun god Helios, Holding imprisoned flames in his hand, Under his watchful gaze the island Of Rhodes shall never fall to invaders From the farther, crueler shore.

The Guardian of Rhodes fell

Long ago, laid low by Mother Gaia.

Glistening bronze stripped from the body,

bones of iron and wood crushed under wrathful waves.

The brilliant light of Helios never to shine upon Rhodes again.

At Rhodes stood the grand colossus 70 cubits high all of gleaming bronze, Glistening brightly in the morning sun Praising the mighty sun God Helios, Holding the imprisoned flames in his hand Under his watchful gaze the island Of Rhodes shall never fall to invaders From the farther crueler shore

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Judge’s Comments - Dr. Ryan Clark

Author of the poetry collections Arizona SB 1080: an act and How I Pitched the First Curve

The poem’s inventive use of fonts and white space brings an exciting formal approach to its central theme, as we are reminded that all of humanity’s works will crumble and fade under the weight of time.

Volume 16 / Poetry

17

dog.

Arden Phan

Honorable Mention Salveson Prize - Poetry

there is a rumor that a dog will sink its fangs into its prey and drain the color from its skin. i have a dog. he’s nothing special, a lingering thought in the back of my skull bouncing around the corners like an old television screen. he barks when i see my friends. he growls when he sees my enemies. he waits to eat at late hours of the day. he waits for the command to throw up in porcelain, against cold tile, the rancid taste of shame and guilt filling his mouth, but it never comes. he obeys my command. he obeys my words, no matter how quiet and lifeless they are. my dog is my friend and enemy. it barks and growls and waits. it is fueled by the murky darkness, the unbearable reminder that nothing is important, that the untrimmed nails of its paws hit the ground like dropped change. there is a rumor that a dog will sink its fangs into its prey and drain the color from its skin.

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Judge’s Comments - Dr. Ryan Clark

Author of the poetry collections Arizona SB 1080: an act and How I Pitched the First Curve

The poet here astutely conveys the lingering fear that while dogs may be our best friends they remain capable of vicious acts, particularly in the casually menacing image, “the untrimmed nails of its paws / hit the ground like dropped change.”

Volume 16 / Poetry

19

The Winter Moon Josh Martin

The waxing of the moons Illumination on lilacs, Purple heads dusted with a silver gleam.

The falling snow highlighting beauty.

That is where he lay her to rest, In a field of her favorite flower.

Under the light of a nearly full moon, With blessings of graceful snowflakes.

They gently kissed her pale face While slowly falling to the earth.

The night is cold, but she never minded the cold.

Winter was her favorite season.

She looked so peaceful in his arms She was always elegant and regal Her boundless beauty Shown through the darkest nights.

She carried that beauty to the grave, There was nothing he could do.

Except honor her dying wish To be laid down in the flowers she adored.

She had wished not to be buried She wanted her lifeless body To be useful for all other creatures A wish he begrudgingly granted.

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Her only other wish was To be laid to rest on the first snowfall Beneath a full winter moon.

A hopes in his heart that she will forgive him for the nearly full moon.

He laid her down in the middle of the lilacs.

Her face covered with droplets of water, He didn’t think the snow was falling so fast.

A realized it wasn’t the snow, but his own tears Falling to her face beneath the winter moon.

A placed a lilac over her breast He folded her arms over the lilac He wiped his tears from her cheek, A loved her dearly Beneath the winter moon.

Volume 16 / Poetry

21

The Writer’s Forgotten Hero Josh Martin

Sunder the sound Plunder the world, Eat the heart of the skittish boy, overcome the anxiety it creates.

Since it is best to conquer adversity.

Unmask the God… Yeah you know the one, Turn to face the grayed sun, what have you become? the purveyor of knowledge the lacker of faith, O’ ye of little fate.

What have you become wait, who are you?

Cries to the wailing willows, cries to the waning willows.

Why the talk of tearful trees?

This should be about you and what you’ve done…

Wait, who have you become?

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Do you still think yourself pure?

Then you should reflect on the past in this tornado of words.

What have you Done?!

What have you done?

When will you speak your mind?

Wait, do you have the mind to speak?

It’s become harder to think…

Harder to thought?

The collapse of worlds the confusion in the mind. You know, these words can be quite treacherous at night.

How did we become like this?

Where do we go from here?

What about the boy?

He keeps popping into the mind, why?

Do you reflect on that boy…

You know, The one whose heart you ate?

Volume 16 / Poetry

23

Arden Phan

green. i feel ill. i feel as though a flower is growing in my throat, embedding its thorns into my esophagus, its petals spilling out like blood. the red covers me like hives, itchy to the touch and swelling with pain. i feel so sick, as of late, the nervousness churning, my stomach lurching. i hate the lump in my throat, the way my nostrils betray my mind, the pain i feel when sustenance touches my lips. i forget i feel ill. i wish i didn’t forget. but i can never escape the green.

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Celestial Body

Volume 16 / Poetry

Zöee Pond

The point where the sun meets the moon is full of longing, thousands of hands reaching out and asking each other for love. The space between them is full of every childish insecurity, so foolish we cannot bring ourselves to say them aloud.

The sun says he is too blunt, too direct, too intimidating, all hard edges and misunderstandings. He is too much, hard to look at, hard to love.

The moon says she is quiet. She is afraid nobody will remember her if the sun is not near to utter her name.

Both long to feel like the other, to hold that grandiose beauty and know in their hollowed out bones that someone, anyone, thought of them as so lovely.

We look at the people around us and seek to feel the love we hand to them, to be bathed in the light of the stars in their eyes.

If we all think about the endless beauty of the sun and the moon, if we see such infinite wonder in the world around us, every being, every plant, every insignificant thing, why do I cover the mirror? Am I not stardust reimagined?

Do the ants not look up at us and feel the wonder we do for the sun and the moon? When I take my love out to the garden to water the tomatoes, do the spiders not look up at the space between us and see thousands of tenuous hands reaching for love?

Once I have seen them, how do I forget all of the hands open and ready to hold tight to the first touch that does not burn, grasping in desperation until the skin splits open?

And in this tumultuous battle against loneliness, when hands meet and neither pulls away, is it fear or love?

If the cavernous craters of the moon begin to fill with stardust, and the splotches of fury-filled fire of the sun begin to soften, does it matter?

25

Grandmother, Dissected Zöee Pond

My grandmother named her body when she quit drinking.

She told me softly, over weak coffee, “I named it old girl.”

“Why old girl?” I asked, thinking of all the ways that could be mangled when held up to the light.

She considered this for a moment before answering, “Otherwise I’d have torn myself apart.”

And it all fell away.

She tore her heart open for me to peer into, Showed me the ways she learned to be kind to herself, TRICUSPID VALVE Her most regrettable mistakes, LEFT VENTRICLE Her pride, RIGHT ATRIUM Her shame, AORTA All beating together in a life lived fully.

She looked tired but I kept asking, and she kept answering.

We are in the wrong office for a cross examination, her chest open, mine empty Scalpel in hand— Hers or mine?

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Arnaldur Stefansson

7/21/2001 Top of your class, the best there’s ever been, Still so much for one man to deal with.

The buildup of persistent pressure; Feels Like the weight of the world’s expectations Resting squarely on your shoulders.

Impossible task for anyone to fulfill– Yet you fully embrace your role, Happily seek to carry it out With a cheerful smile And a laugh.

The season’s first snow fell at your funeral.

The bereaved only ask for privacy, Giving you a peaceful sendoff– A world of strangers grieves silently with them.

Only twenty years old, So suddenly snuffed out– A stark reminder of the agonizing apathy This world holds back for no one.

I never had the honor of meeting you, It remains an unrealized dream– Static, frozen, forever unfulfilled.

Yet I can still see your smile, Your kind eyes– Forever remembered in the void of your absence, Immortalized in collective heartbreak.

Rest well; you’ve earned it.

Volume 16 / Poetry

27

Jospeh Van Essen

Consumed World the orange of fire, that consumes all it is given, black ash, to stain the broken stone of an unforgiving world, red blood of the slain, on the white hewn throne of a tyrant king, a golden people, from a conquered land given a price for their lives, blue tears, shed by mothers for the ruined lives of their children, and a violet hope, distant as the morning sun, but always seeming in reach.

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Joseph Van Essen

The Shattering A broken mind, becomes the playground for a malignant and spiraling madness as it accumulates more and more malefic meanings, while visions flood the cracks and crevices of a shattering conscience.

A conscience cracked, by the crushing pressure of life lived without meaning, and without hope for a new path. beginning the downward spiral to insanity that makes you sane.

So sane that you reach for the life you want, the life you were promised at birth, but was stolen from you by impossible expectations laid by the world at the feet of all its inhabitants.

Inhabitants so desperate to tear free of their home’s oppression. that they shake and shatter the souls that give them life, forced to choose safety, or madness.

Volume 16 / Poetry

29

Far Away From Nowhere Dana Yost

I’m beat and my day has just started.

What is this condition that has hold of me?

Doctors, therapists give it a name, and I think about it.

Far away from nowhere —a line in a song I like.

What does it mean?

Far away from nowhere.

Think double-negative in a twisted way: must mean at the center of things.

Wouldn’t mind giving that a try.

Yet, with this condition, I doubt I’d last more 30

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than a minute before flopping to the floor, wiped out, asleep. Even your kicks to the ribs wouldn’t wake me.

Volume 16 / Poetry

31

Mary Lillian Lawlor

1st Place High School - Poetry Junior at Madrid High School

Mary is killing me slowly, Running of empty, running on fumes Can’t hinder my love for her, though, Cuz she makes me feel good.

Hold me up high, Lift me into the Sun when I come down Get me to feel things unfelt, She’s thrown me into outer space More times than I can count.

I can’t leave her behind, But Mary can’t stay For I tell her how I love her On every bad day.

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P H A O N T D O A S R T

The Chapel in the Sea of Skyscrapers Matthew Burns

1st Place Salveson Prize - Photos & Art

Judge’s Comments - Keely McLain Waldorf University Art Gallery Professor

I love the angle chosen and the dynamic black and white that dramatizes the contrast of the buildings.

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Meredith Mulvaney

Pork Soda

2nd Place Salveson Prize - Photos & Art

Judge’s Comments - Keely McLain Waldorf University Art Gallery Professor

Fun and intriguing piece with a great use of patterns!

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

35

Ashley Peterson

Golden Hour in Iowa

3rd Place Salveson Prize - Photos & Art

Judge’s Comments - Keely McLain Waldorf University Art Gallery Professor

The asymmetrical composition and the warm lighting made for a pleasing photo

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STRETCH!!!!

Ellie Clark

Honorable Mention Salveson Prize - Photos & Art

Judge’s Comments - Keely McLain Waldorf University Art Gallery Professor

Wonderfully light and expressive of the flutter of stretching wings.

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

37

L.G.R.C. #2 L.G.R.C.

Honorable Mention Salveson Prize - Photos & Art

Judge’s Comments - Keely McLain Waldorf University Art Gallery Professor

Great amount of detail and use of leading lines!

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Bills Gift!

Ellie Clark

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

39

Tyler Clouse

Hydroflask

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Waldorf Literary Review

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

Helena Josephine

A Tim Burton Town with a Disney Moment

41

Helena Josephine

The First Wedding to Make Me Cry Was For People I Don’t Know

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Holt Erwin Keely McLain

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

43

Meredith MUlvaney

Morticia Addams

44

Waldorf Literary Review

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

Meredith Mulvaney

The Pull of Adventure

45

Autumn Petersen

The Highland Cow

46

Waldorf Literary Review

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

Ashley Peterson

Golden Hour in Iowa

47

Ashley Peterson

Golden Hour in Iowa

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Waldorf Literary Review

Cotton Candy Sky Tatum Phelps

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

49

Dana Pioske

Untitled

50

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Two Souls Kayliegh Wilke

Volume 16 / Photos and Art

51

P R O S E

Headlights Zöee Pond

1st Place Salveson Prize - Prose

Sitting in the back seat of my mother’s car on the way home from yet another trip to my father’s house, I used to stare out the windows and try to find something to believe in. She’d ask what we did, or if I had fun, or some other question mothers ask their children. In winter, when it got dark early, I’d stare blankly ahead, eyes following the dull headlights of our shitty car.

Sometimes, on the quieter roads, it would be just the two of us for miles, only dead cornfields to keep us company. When cars were coming the other way, we could see them pretty far off, so I readied myself for the shadows to dance back behind the stark trees and vast fields of nothingness, a brief reprieve from the darkness.

I’d wait until the perfect moment when our headlights met theirs and the ditch on the side of the road would be completely clear. In that second, I’d search for the monsters I knew were there, but hidden. Always hidden.

I never saw them. The monsters are never where you look. That’s what makes them monsters.

But on the hills, I didn’t always know there was a car coming the other way. I could only see their headlights pointing up into the night sky for a fleeting moment when they were almost over the crest, and I didn’t have time to prepare. They weren’t there, and then they were, and then they weren’t again. I didn’t have time to check the ditch, but still I knew the lights would flash. I would miss the monster.

Watching my Nonna die was like searching for monsters.

I learned the name of it. They called it Alzheimer’s. I didn’t know why it was a monster then, or why my mother sobbed so hard she had to pull over on the way home. I knew enough not to tell her we had to keep going or the monsters would come out of the ditch to get us. She had enough of the real thing for the day, she didn’t need my simulated pain. Desperately, I hoped for headlights to meet ours anyway. They didn’t.

The first time Nonna forgot who I was, I knew I’d 54

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missed the flash of the headlights.

My little sole, she’d called me when I walked in. But that’s not what she called me. I was her luna. My mom was her sole. She said we lit up her sky together, made the whole world bright.

In the years following, she forgot everybody she ever loved. She felt safer with some people, stood a little closer, lingered a little longer, but she didn’t know why. It was the worst for my mother. Even if she didn’t know who I was, I was still someone to her. I was her daughter. But my mom? She wasn’t anyone. She was a stranger. Nonna would lean away when she got too close, stack pillows between them on the couch like bags between strangers on the bus. She looked into the eyes of her mother day after day and never got to see recognition. No spark. Misplaced as it was, I saw the love. I felt it; it was almost tangible.

Some things changed, others didn’t. They still had coffee together every morning, but every day she asked my mom what she did for a living, and if she had any kids.

When I’d walk in, she’d look at me, smile, and say, “Ah, sunshine!” in her thick Italian accent. Her smile would spread, and my mother would turn to answer before realizing she wasn’t who Nonna was talking to. Sometimes I thought I could almost see the headlights flashing in my mother’s eyes, but it was just the gloss of the tears she wouldn’t let fall.

Every day headlights were flashing, and I was too slow to see the monsters. I used to think if I could see the monster, it couldn’t hurt me anymore. I was wrong.

I believe Nonna died twice. Once with her mind and once with her body, but they hurt all the same.

Judge’s Comments - Said Shaiye Author of Are You Borg Now?

“Headlights” had great pacing & did a lot in a short amount of time. I enjoyed the refrain of headlights as a metaphor, and how well the author dealt with such a painful memory through diffusion.

Volume 16 / Prose

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When We Used to Sit at the Kitchen Table Charlie Blue

2nd Place Salveson Prize - Prose

Of all the things I still remember, it’s not what I want to, or what I should.

I remember the way the green light of the microwave’s digital clock reflected in your blue eyes and turned them a radioactive shade of turquoise, and I remember the way your fingernails slotted perfectly into the dents in the old oak surface of our kitchen table. I remember the sound of your sneeze, sometimes, in the aftershocks of your mother’s, my stepmother’s. And I remember your handwriting, but only because I can still see it every time I drag your old books out of the boxes in my closet, and only because I kept that receipt you once wrote me a note on, the one from the Chinese restaurant four blocks from our old house, a note that just says: Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a whale?

When we used to sit at the kitchen table, I wish I’d had the good sense to memorize the curve of your crooked smile, and how it made one of your eyes squinty and narrow. I wish I’d had the foresight to commit your chipped teeth and the mark on the side of your nose to memory. I wish I would have charted each and every last freckle that dotted your cheeks, and I wish I had memorized the way your eyebrow hairs stood on end after a particularly fitful night’s sleep. I wish I had known to cling to those days, our good days, our numbered days at the kitchen table.

Do you remember the night I came home late from work, toting McDonald’s coffee in a paper to-go cup? We sat at the table and cackled at the CAUTION: CONTENTS ARE HOT warning seared across the cardboard sleeve. Our parents shushed us because it was a random Wednesday night; we had school, they had work, and it was just coffee. It wasn’t that funny.

I keep staring at your jacket draped across the back of the chair. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can hear you thunder down the stairs, taking a quick detour through the kitchen to grab it on your way out of the house. I can still see the outline of your shadow on the tile floor.

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But now I’m sitting here at the kitchen table, and it’s a quarter after midnight, and I’m supposed to be writing the eulogy, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t say that I miss you because I don’t miss you; I see you every time I close my eyes, and I smell you every time I walk past your bedroom, and I hear you every time I listen to your favorite song and sometimes— If I focus for long enough, I can feel your arm around my shoulder and your hand messing up my hair. You never listened when I told you to knock it off. Looking back, I wish I’d done that less, because then maybe I would’ve felt it more, and maybe I would remember it better.

I met you as you, as my stepbrother, at this kitchen table for the first time. You were playing with the salt and pepper shakers that belonged to my mother. Your mother said she hoped we’d get along.

I remember staring holes into the clock on the wall because I didn’t want to look at you or your mother or my father. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you.

It was 4:12 PM. I still remember that, just like I remember that you were wearing a red shirt that made your complexion look blotchy.

Our first Thanksgiving together was a month after the wedding. Your mother handed me a notecard with her mashed potato recipe, then a bowl of red potatoes, and then a peeler. You were supposed to be helping me, but nobody gave you any potatoes. You were useless in the kitchen and we all knew it.

At first it irked me, that she thought I couldn’t do it on my own. But eventually you got to talking—there was some ocean documentary on Animal Planet the night before, and you chattered my ear off about hermit crabs. I don’t remember when the tension faded. I don’t remember most of that conversation. I wish I had listened better.

Mom asked me to make mashed potatoes for the wake, for a table full of people who are going to turn them runny and salty with tears. I don’t want to, but I’m going to make them anyway and I’m not going to cry when I Volume 16 / Prose

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peel the potatoes because, frankly, that’s a stupid thing to cry over. It’s stupid to sit at the kitchen table and peel the potatoes and think about those stupid whales and eels and hermit crabs you used to talk about so much, just like it’s stupid that I went to that old second-hand bookstore last week and bought every book on ocean animals I could find.

I’ve taken to reading in the weeks since. I found all your books when I was loading your existence into boxes and pretending this pair of socks doesn’t remind me of the day you pretended to be Tom Cruise in Risky Business and broke Mom’s favorite vase; pretending that hoodie doesn’t remind me of the day you gave your sweatshirt to me at a football game because I looked cold; pretending those bedsheets don’t bring to mind all the conversations where I harped on you for not washing them enough, called you a pig and wrinkled my nose when I walked by your room to give the illusion that you smelled bad when you only ever smelled like cheap ‘Suave for Men’ shampoo.

But the point is that I found your books. Most of them were stolen library books or textbooks; I remember Dad yelling at you to return them so he’d stop getting emails and fees from the school and the public library, but I can see why you never did.

You had a copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning in the back of your closet. I never knew you liked poetry; you used to complain about it. Or maybe you always hated it and kept this book out of spite, even though it would never impact your English teacher, Mr. Laurens, who once told you off for talking during class when you were just trying to help some kid understand a word he didn’t know.

You wrote a note at the bottom of a page reminding yourself to text a line of poetry to your high school girlfriend. I remember that day. I remember the way she bounced up to me in the hallways and showed me her phone screen, displaying the text from you that compared her to the subject of ‘Sonnet 43.’ And I also remember curling my lip, sneering that it was hardly romantic to steal somebody else’s words and use them as your own.

But in your copy of a book about sea creatures, you highlighted a passage about eels and their horrible eyesight.

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You scribbled in the margins that if I were a sea creature, I’d be an eel because I have glasses. I think you were going to tell me about it—I keep staring at the words he’s gonna think this is so funny in your illegible scrawl—but you never did. I guess you just forgot.

Tomorrow, I’m going to take your books to Goodwill. But I’ll keep that one. And I’ll keep Sonnets from the Portuguese too, because it reminds me that I didn’t always like you.

Once, when we were sixteen, our parents went on a weekend retreat, and we got drunk on Mom’s cherry wine coolers. Intoxicated for the first time, we laid on the grass in the backyard and promised we would live forever. I don’t remember much from that night, but I remember that the drinks tasted more like red than anything resembling fruit, just a vaguely bland but also overwhelming flavor—maybe it was just red dye #46 I tasted—and I remember it was cold. I wish I’d made an effort to remember you, too.

I can’t remember when I dropped the step- from stepbrother. Or when your mom and my dad became our parents.

When our dad taught us to play poker, he gave you the deck of cards to hold onto. I thought I cleaned out all of your things, but I guess I was wrong, because last week I found that same deck of cards in the drawer of your bedside table. When I pulled them out of the sleeve, I saw the sketches of ocean animals you’d drawn on the back of all 52 cards, every image a little different from the last. I never even knew you could draw.

And because nobody told me to cling to them, to wrap them in chains and lock them in the deepest, darkest, securest cell in the prison of my mind, all of these stupid, insignificant memories are disappearing.

But how was I supposed to know that there wouldn’t be more? That last Christmas would be the last time I’d watch you ball up the wrapping paper before kicking it into a garbage bag like a soccer player? That our joint graduation party on the hottest day of July would be the Volume 16 / Prose

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last time I’d ever see you eat too much cake and smear the frosting on your forehead by accident? How was I supposed to know that our spring break road trip to see the sights of America would always just be pushpins on the map on your bulletin board, half-designed itineraries we’ll never finish, gas in the tank of your old Silverado we’ll never buy?

How was I supposed to know that Mom would call me at 3:17 PM on a Tuesday afternoon and I’d send her to voicemail because I was going to be late for class? That when I got out of class at 4:03 PM on a Tuesday, I’d have three missed calls from Mom and four from Dad and a text from my cousin and two from your old girlfriend and one from each of our mutual friends from high school?

How was I supposed to know that at 4:04 PM on a Tuesday, I would listen to Mom’s voicemail, and my brother would be dead?

On your 21st birthday, I went to the Kroger down the block and bought a pack of cherry wine coolers and poured them all down the sink. I took a shot of vodka at the kitchen table—it tasted like rubbing alcohol—and then I went and I sat on your stripped mattress and stared at the ceiling until my mind went numb with the static of everything I can’t remember.

I wish you’d told me, the last time we sat at the kitchen table together, that it would never happen again. I wish you’d told me that I’d want to memorize the way you folded into those rickety chairs. I wish you’d told me that in two months and seventeen days, I’d be sitting here all on my own, using a butter knife to touch up the place where you carved your name into the tabletop when we were fourteen.

Mom’s going to sell this table. I wonder if the next owners will look at the places where you scratched the finish and took a chunk out of the edge of the table when you fell asleep at breakfast and slammed your forehead against it. I wonder if it will make them smile to know that you existed, once. I wonder if they will cover the marks—your marks—with cheap paint they buy at Home Depot.

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Instead of reading a eulogy about how much I miss you and how great you were, I got up in front of everyone at the funeral and read all of the pages you dog-eared in your big book of ocean creatures, and everyone at the parlor walked away knowing that crabs have taste buds on their feet and there’s a species of jellyfish that can live forever.

When they sent me back to college, I got your name tattooed on the inside of my wrist and now I have to pretend my breath doesn’t stutter every time I catch sight of it. I wear your jacket around town, because somebody has to.

It doesn’t smell like you anymore.

I get your coffee order because your vanilla lattes taste better; I eat at your favorite restaurants because I feel bad that they’ve lost your business; I read your books over and over and I keep staring at that stupid note in the margins of that stupid book about those stupid ocean animals and I’m losing my mind.

I think about eternity and rebirth and I think about that receipt and I think that maybe in our next life, you will be a whale and I can be an eel and we will be together even if nature doesn’t want us to, because fuck nature. My brother is a whale and I am an eel. I am an eel.

I am a fucking eel.

I think I read somewhere that in the act of remembering something, we forget more of it, until all that’s left is fiction.

Judge’s Comments - Said Shaiye Author of Are You Borg Now?

“When We Used to Sit at the Kitchen Table” had so many beautiful moments for me. Most especially, I remember the line “mom asked me to make mashed potatoes for the wake, for a table full of people who are going to turn them runny and salty with tears.”

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Arnaldur Stefansson

Every Minor Discrepancy 3rd Place Salveson Prize - Prose

Nothing…your vision is encapsulated by perfect, uneasy blackness–but you’re still aware of your surroundings. You can faintly make out noises in the periphery of your consciousness. What is that? Are you dreaming? “… It’s like if you made a cornhole simulator and started by programming the residual impact of the big bang…”

You’re awake; that’s not a dream– that’s the video essay playing in your left earbud, currently forced upside down into your right ear.

What time is it? You don’t dare open your eyes even an inch to check, afraid of losing your hard-earned progress towards sweet sleep, built up over what feels like hours of restless laying. Tired but not, peaceful but anxious, untroubled by everything except your own thoughts. “...Around the turn of the 20th century, New York was gonna be buried under horse poop…”

What’s this video about anyway? Now all notion of sleep is out of your system, curiosity has overtaken self care– you can’t stop yourself. You need to know what that video is.

Beginning the arduous process of peering into the world– the eyelids, like thirty pound dumbbells, eventually give way. For a second or two, everything’s blurry; you’re awake, but no one told your eyes. They’ll need a little more time.

Your vision clears enough that you can make out the video on your phone, the faint light emanating from it pulling you even further away from any hope of a good night’s rest. It’s 2:49 AM. You look at the title of the video: “Cities Without People” by Jacob Geller.

Ok…What the hell was so important about that? Your curiosity has vanished just as quickly as it overtook your whole mind and you’re left with nothing but the punishment of waking. You try in vain to find a comfortable position, close your eyes and do your best to sleep. “...There’s a couple hundred places out in the wilderness, up in Montana and Wyoming, where you could draw a circle with a 50-foot radius and say, no human has ever walked in that circle…”

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It’s a hopeless effort. Your eyelids have lost all their weight.

Now the struggle is simply in keeping them closed. Rolling around, attempting to find a comfortable way to exist in place on your bed, every unevenness seems to dig into your side. You’re aware of every minor discrepancy and each one of them is currently working to keep you awake by any means necessary. It’s gonna be another long night… “...Bygone visions of life asunder, long since quelled by newfound wonder…” …Ok, let’s try switching it up. How long has it been? 30 minutes? An hour? Two? Who knows?

You open your eyes once more, this time to turn off the video which by now is a different video. The clock on your phone reads 3:48 AM as the beautiful soundscape of LEMMiNO’s “Bygone Visions of Cosmic Neighbors” gives way to nothing but the hum of the AC unit next to you. Too loud. The sheer uncomfortableness of the quiet droning seems to overtake your ears entirely, even with your earbud still in place to block out much of the noise. You know if you turn the AC off it’ll feel like you’re in a sauna, but at this point you’re just desperate for any form of rest. You reach up and turn the knob on the unit down one setting… off.

Before you lay back down you take a second to adjust your pillow and the memory foam topper that doesn’t quite fit the mattress and shifts under you all night, doing everything you can to make sure everything is perfect before you lower your head again.

Enter silence.

It overtakes your every sense. Your ears, regularly accustomed to a relaxing soundscape, or at least a quiet drone, notice every audible discrepancy: a car speeding on the highway a mile away, the chorus of crickets seemingly concentrated around your window, the hum of the refrigerator–the sound of your own breathing. No, the quiet does not deign to provide respite for you. You again reach up and turn the knob on the AC, this time up one setting…on.

Why are you gripping your pillow so tight? You have to slowly, consciously lessen the grip of your fingers on your right hand, seemingly holding on to the pillow for dear life. Trying to force your hand into a suitable resting position you find that nowhere is comfortable. The rogue limb Volume 16 / Prose

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seems to protest every change you force upon it. The others join in, and a chorus of mutineers shower you with an unending barrage of complaints from every direction. Your right leg isn’t positioned well enough. Your left leg reports an uncomfortable resting spot. Your left arm is going numb from being under your head for hours. Your right arm protests being drooped from the side of the bed. It’s four against one, a fight you can’t win. The army cot that is your bed, quite frankly, isn’t meant for you. And so again you resign yourself to the brute-force struggle.

Did you sleep? You remember a vague dream, something about an asteroid extinction event. Was that tonight or the night before? Are you hallucinating fake memories? You’re too over it, too exhausted to tell.

Birds are chirping in the trees outside your window and you get the sneaking, unfortunate suspicion that it might be morning. You feel like shit, like you’ve just worked a 10 hour shift with no overtime pay. Do you even want to open your eyes right now? Not really; you’d rather keep them closed, continue to live in a fantasy where nothing exists outside of your personal space. The world around you is but a momentary afterthought.

Of course you pick now to start feeling comfortable.

A sharp sound attacks your ears and swiftly pulls you away from any immediate restful thoughts. The alarm. In a blur, you swipe right on your phone screen to turn it off, a motion that you’ve seamlessly perfected over years of unintended snoozing. Rolling on to your back as your eyes once again adjust you see the sun, peering through into the room. Its curious, wandering rays faintly illuminate through the cheap, badly-fitted blinds. You allow yourself a single sigh, and begin to activate the rest of your body as you slowly rise from your cramped resting place.

Time to start your day.

Judge’s Comments - Said Shaiye Author of Are You Borg Now?

“Every Minor Discrepancy” had good use of vignettes.

That, plus the clips of audio from the background videos, helped set the scene of sleepless nights. Something too many of us are too familiar with, I’m sure.

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if smoking is not allowed in heaven Charlie Blue

Sometimes I think the click of a lighter sounds like a gunshot. In the next second I usually find myself laughing humorlessly, because how melodramatic and delusional do you have to be?

I cock the gun in my hand anyway. Bring the cig up to my lips, fantasize about biting down on the filter, biting through it like I used to when I was dumb and naive and didn’t know shit about smoking. Cup my hand around the tip, pull the trigger. Click. Flash.

And there it is. That ever-intoxicating smell of burning paper and nicotine and tobacco. It’s actually kind of repulsive. I love it anyway.

There’s nothing quite like this, I’ve found. I know I shouldn’t like it, and to tell the truth, I don’t even like smoking all that much to begin with. But there is nowhere in the world quite as peaceful as the alley behind my apartment building when I go out to have a smoke, raindrops still clinging to the gutters five stories above, puddles collecting underneath the dumpster, the trash bags water-logged and smelling more like petrichor than whatever rots inside of them. The world is quiet apart from that lone gunshot, just me and a cloud of smoke curling up, up, up, me and my withering lungs and stained teeth and the slow exhale of someone who doesn’t want the cigarette to burn out.

It’s dark outside by now. It gets dark early this time of year, the sky swirling with indigo-colored clouds by five o’clock in the afternoon and the faintest stars you can’t even see behind the light pollution.

I’m not usually one for people-watching; I come out here to be alone, to escape. There’s no reason for me to care about passing footsteps. I do care, though, when I hear footsteps stop at the mouth of the alley. Nobody ever comes back here, apart from me and the garbage man.

Most people try to avoid this alley if they can—the smell has permeated the air, ingrained itself into the brick. But behind a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, I barely even notice the scent of the rotting garbage.

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I can’t help my curiosity; I turn to see who it is. I don’t want to, but I feel my lips tick up into a lazy grin. I’m not going to be the first one to speak. I know it’ll drive him crazy.

He’s staring at me like you would a stranger. Astounding.

This man took me apart, piece by painstaking piece, and rewrote me into something better, something nicer, something worse—it all depends who you ask—and now he looks like he doesn’t even know me. It’s truly a miracle what a little time apart will do.

Close to a decade now. Damn.

I tip my head back to rest against the wall behind me and exhale a soft plume of smoke, my eyes never leaving his face. He’s older now, more wrinkled around the eyes.

There’s one gray hair in his left eyebrow that wasn’t there the last time I saw him.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says at last.

“Wow,” I hum. “You must have some superior intellect to be able to figure that one out.”

He scowls. A spike of pleasure lances my gut; it’s nice to know I can still rile him so easily. Some things never change, it seems.

He watches me inhale. “How can you stand those things?

That’s disgusting.”

“To you,” I reply. Smoke ekes out through my teeth.

He watches me go around again. His eyes never leave the glowing tip of my cigarette. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

I smile. “There are worse ways to go.”

He scoffs, his eyes rolling skyward. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you specifically sought me out where you knew I’d be,” I reply, flicking some of the ash and watching it fizzle out against the wet pavement. “One might think you wanted to see me.”

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He says nothing. Works his jaw. His hands are curled into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles taut and pale.

My time to shine now. “We live in the same relatively small city, and you’ve somehow managed to avoid seeing my face for almost ten years,” I point out. The cigarette’s dwindling in my hand; it’ll burn me soon if I don’t stub it out. I keep going. “That’s no coincidence.”

He says nothing, but his scowl pulls tighter across his face, and he makes a tch kind of noise. It’s always so easy with him. Always the same thing.

“You’ve been going out of your way to avoid me for years, and now here you are,” I drawl. “What’s so special about tonight?”

“Put out that cigarette,” he huffs. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Tell me why you’re here,” I counter. “Tonight, of all nights.”

“I don’t know,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

I hum. “Liar.”

He glares at me for half a second, but he can’t seem to look at me for any longer than that before his gaze skitters away like a frightened animal running from the light of day.

It’s easy to forget, in his absence, just how well I know him. It’s infuriating to remember.

He mumbles something. I don’t catch it.

“What?”

“You know why I’m here tonight,” he says, louder this time. His eyes come back to my cigarette. I stub it out against the wall behind me and crush it underfoot. His gaze never strays, even when I drag my toe back and it’s little more than a blackened smudge against the wet pavement.

I do know. I want to hear it from him, though.

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“I thought you would’ve given it up by now,” he says, watching me fiddle with the pack of cigarettes. I don’t usually have more than one, but I need to do something with my hands. I tug one out of the package.

“Maybe I just like destroying myself,” I tell him, placing the cigarette in my mouth.

He rolls his eyes. “I almost forgot. You’re incapable of having a serious discussion.”

“I don’t really see why I’m required to have one with you,” I reply. “You left, remember?”

He says nothing. If it were lighter, if we were younger, I almost imagine he’d be blushing, an embarrassed flush crawling up his neck. He never liked it when I was right.

I pull out the lighter, but I don’t want to set off the gun just yet, so I hold it between my thumb and index finger at my side. A strange look comes across his face, something harrowed and solemn. He looks much older than he actually is in the dim light.

Or perhaps time was just not kind to him.

“Say it,” I prompt.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it once more, closes it, and on he goes for a good few seconds before finally he blurts, “Why couldn’t it have worked out?”

I want to bite through the cigarette and throw the pieces at him. I don’t. These things cost money. “You left.”

He closes his eyes. “You know why I left.”

“I do,” I agree, “and I don’t. I don’t believe a thing can just be doomed. I think a thing can be going wrong and you can give up on it. But nothing’s ever as doomed as you seemed to think we were.”

He shakes his head. Says nothing.

My lip curls involuntarily. The cigarette slips where it rests between my front teeth. I catch it before it hits the pavement. “Why are you here?”

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“You already know the answer to that,” he says. He sounds morose. Once again, I’m amazed at how he seems to have willingly come here knowing how miserable it would make him. There is nothing quite like a person’s uncanny ability to ruin their own life. We really do excel at self-destructing.

I grip the lighter a bit tighter in my hand. “I want to hear you say it.”

He scoffs. “Why? You want me to get down on my knees and grovel? You want me to beg for forgiveness?”

“No, I just want you to admit it,” I say. I hear it; my voice has gone hard around the edges. And I’d been doing so good, too.

He nods to the cigarette in my head. “Those things certainly didn’t help.”

“You suck,” I tell him.

He just shakes his head. “You know why I’m here. You know why I left.”

“I know you think we were doomed,” I reply. “And I know that that’s bullshit. That’s an excuse and you know it.”

“It’s not an excuse,” he snaps. “It’s true. We weren’t right for each other.”

“Maybe not,” I agree. “But we were worth a hell of a lot more than the way you walked away.”

He just sighs. “I don’t know why I came.”

I tilt my head back. “I think you do.”

“I don’t,” he insists.

“Then go,” I reply. “There’s nothing keeping you here.”

He shifts, almost like he’s actually going to leave, but he’s too much of a masochist to do that and we both know it.

The sky rumbles softly overhead. He looks up, I don’t.

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on my scalp, then my shoulders, and then it’s raining in earnest, as if the sky itself has opened up. He curses softly, lifting his arms to shield himself from the rain, but I don’t see the point.

His face shifts again, that same solemn glint returning to his eyes. “I loved you, you know.”

Hm. “I know you think you did.”

He huffs. He doesn’t say anything. At least he learns.

“Tonight,” I whisper, “of all nights.” I glance at him in the corner of my eye. He’s looking at something past me.

I don’t care to see what. “It’s not an anniversary. There’s nothing special about today.”

“That’s not true,” he says, turning back to face me. I raise a brow. He frowns. “Eight years ago today, you left.”

“I didn’t leave,” I retort, sneering. “That was you.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not true. It was after that dinner party, the one where we fought after our friends left. You walked out and didn’t come back for two days.”

He pauses. Licks his lips. Doesn’t seem to care about the rain anymore, and drops his hands. “Came back looking like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have. Smelled like cigarette smoke for the first time.”

Oh. Right. I remember now.

Trust him to remember a day like that. He always was so sentimental.

He looks at me, his face pinched. He so badly wants to go back in time, to when it was good. That’s where we’re different; he longs for the good days to come back. I long for them to have never existed. I think I would be better off, having never known him. I don’t know how to tell him that, though, so I just raise the unlit cigarette back up to my lips and stare straight ahead.

I did love him, I think. I think I love being without him more, though.

He sighs. “I don’t know why I came.”

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“Then go,” I say again. Not unkindly. At least, I try not to be. It’s long over now; there’s no point in hashing out old bitterness.

He looks like he wants to argue. Maybe he truly does.

Maybe he wants to stay and fight for all that we had, to stand his ground until the battle’s bitter end or until he bleeds out on the field. He’s noble like that, never gives up except for when he does—when he did—and can’t admit that sometimes giving up is just the smarter option.

I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired.

“Go home,” I say again. “You’ll catch your death in this rain.”

He turns to leave. “I wish you’d stop smoking those damn things,” he says over his shoulder. “I want you to live.”

I know.

He plods off into the night. I still don’t know for sure why he bothered to come, but I do.

I cup my hand to shield the cigarette from the rain. It’s anybody’s guess if it’ll light or not; the rain has only gotten heavier since it started mere minutes ago.

I tip my head back. Bang it lightly against the wall. Once, then twice.

Bite down on the cigarette, even though it’s gross.

He’s long gone by now. I stare at the mouth of the alley anyway, half-convinced he’ll come running back to get down on his knees and make his case. But it stays dark and rainy and empty, and I stay there against the wall. I could go after him, if I really wanted to. I know that.

You’re going to kill yourself. He sounds terribly fond in my head. Far nicer than he does in real life. I like the version of him that exists in my head better than I like his actuality.

I raise the gun to the end of the cigarette. It’s a gamble in the rain. I’m willing to take the chance. I pull the trigger.

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I listen for the sound of footsteps over the way the rain pounds against the metal lid of the overflowing dumpster.

I hear nobody but my own breathing. I exhale a plume of smoke into the damp night, and it’s not half as satisfying as when the air is clear.

My lungs feel tight. I held that breath too long.

I wait for the peaceful feeling to come back, now that he is well and truly gone—was he ever even really here?

Suddenly I’m not convinced—but it evades me. I light another cigarette to see if time helps. I don’t chain-smoke, but sometimes I get lost.

Deep breath in. Hold it. It burns against the back of my throat. A beat too long. Let it out.

There it is.

I turn my head to the side and watch as the restaurant across the street flicks off its neon lights. A second later, the owner locks the door behind himself and plods off through the rain, one lone umbrella sheltering him from the elements. I move to face forward again. No point in looking at something that isn’t there, and I’m not one for people-watching anyway.

The breeze picks up. Even through the rain, my cigarette burns stubbornly down to its filter.

I love it here. I am killing myself. I love it anyway. *Title taken from Mark Twain’s quote, “If smoking is not allowed in heaven, I shall not go.”

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PUREBRED STANDARD POODLES Charlie Blue

Last Thanksgiving, I watched the AKC National Dog Show while my grandfather slept on the couch beside me.

My mother’s perennially overcooked turkey sat uneasily in my stomach, mingling with one too many glasses of cheap grocery store Chardonnay. In the kitchen, I could hear the scrape of metal against pottery as my mother washed the dishes, and beyond that, my aunt leaned her head out the back door to holler in the general direction of the annual backyard football game. The sound of my youngest cousin wailing could just be heard over the din.

I knew he was too young to play, his older siblings too rough and rowdy. Nobody listened when I tried to warn them.

On the screen, a standard poodle stumbled its way through the obstacle course, and the announcer tutted loudly into his microphone.

“I hate to say it, Carol,” he said as the poodle was led away, “but Fifi might be past her prime.”

“You know, Jim,” Carol replied, “you just may be right.

Nine is awfully old for a champion show dog.”

“Screw you,” I sneered, jabbing a finger at the TV, my hand shaking with righteous fury on Fifi’s behalf.

The atmosphere in the house was stiff. It was the first time my brother didn’t come home for dinner, off spending the holiday with his in-laws. My sister got called in to work, or so she said. I Googled the department store where she works; they’re closed on Thanksgiving.

That left me, my parents, my aunt and uncle, their gaggle of children, and my grandpa. I wouldn’t have come, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Pathetic, I know. Going on my sixth year of college, still no degree to show for myself, nothing to my name except student loans I’ll never be able to pay back, and my most recent report card chock-full of Cs, Ds, and one D minus. I left it in my car, and still it was burning a hole in my pocket.

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I grit my teeth, taking another sip of wine. People like Carol and Jim probably never felt like this. They probably grew up in nice subdivisions with manicured lawns and country club memberships. Nobody poor would ever become a dog show announcer. Dog shows only took purebreds.

24 felt too old to still be sitting in my parents’ living room on Thanksgiving. Only six years since I gave the shittiest speech of my life at my high school graduation—probably the only valedictorian who had to improvise their speech because their hangover sweat smudged the ink to the point of obscurity—and somehow, I’d fallen so far as to flunk my senior year of college twice. Which meant I was 24 and still in undergrad, living in an apartment off campus because how fucking embarrassing would it be to have to say I lived in those sub-human dorm rooms for six years in a row?

Sips no longer feeling like enough, I refilled my wine glass and chugged the whole thing.

And then Fifi was back, prancing around like a gazelle.

Maybe not as gracefully as the Wire Fox Terrier that went before her, but still pretty impressive considering she was a fucking dog.

But of course, Jim—the crotchety old bastard—had something to say about it. “Really, Carol, if Fifi doesn’t clean up her act, this will be her last show.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” I slurred.

“It’s such a shame, Jim,” Carol simpered. “Some people just don’t know when to quit.”

“Motherfucker!”

I heard more than I felt myself chuck the almost-empty wine bottle at the television. I guess I’d hoped the shattering glass would make me feel better, but it just made that growing knot in my chest tighten. “Why don’t I drag you around on a leash and make you perform asinine, elitist tricks in front of thousands of people and then broadcast it to millions more on TV?” Only the last shred of my self-control kept me from spitting at the TV. “You don’t 74

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get to criticize until you’ve done it yourself ! Asshole!”

It would’ve made things worse, but I almost wished someone would’ve come and told me I was being unreasonable.

It’s just a dog show, I wanted them to say. Fifi’s gonna go home to her nice, wealthy, loving family and live the rest of her life being pampered like a princess. It’s just a dog show. She’s just a dog. It’s okay.

My grandpa snored loud enough to startle himself awake.

He looked at the broken wine bottle, brows furrowed.

“Damn. What are we watching?”

I gestured to the TV. “Dog show.”

He turned to me, lips pressed in a thin line that hid behind his bushy mustache. “We all have our vices,” he said, and then he went back to sleep.

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Ryan Clark

On Breughel’s Painting The Fall of Icarus The everyday head tilt, we see it: Icarus flailing, shepherd’s eyes guiding his head up the slope away from splash; the plough man’s turn, seconds past. We see it in our daily coffee, the ritual of creamer, of the day-old grounds dumped in a bin. Here I am writing, looking away.

I want to write toward you Icarus, but my neck is stiff.

I want to write toward you, but this horse leads me down the run of field.

Here I am writing away from you with a backward glance which is the best I can do. What master am I, this I of the world too bound to move beyond the look.

There is pageantry in our ritualistic movement, yours and mine. You fall and I dance around you; eyewitness reports say I am light on my feet, say I have the elegance of a goose flying south over a plane crash that winks from the side of a hill. My movements are untroubled.

How the hand moves to create the picture we all look from—it’s a running to a running from the scene, because look: how easy it is to look.

My eyes are helmeted. They can take it. They’ve gone to war again and again and again, seen the thing, seen all of it: the smudges of bodies in rubble, the mapping of history.

Is this what you have for me? All of it, more than all, in the white kicks of your feet? What more can your waves bring but a light interruption of my breathing apparatus.

As my head turns, I will breathe out again and suck in as normal the slow shudder of life, the quiet smells, the loud sounds of the day.

There: the ship swings out like a glance returning to the static field of a life. See how the sail bends skull-shaped and pulls. The ropes pull. The men on the ropes pull their attention. I will not write the men turn to Icarus drowning.

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Jonathan Klauke

How to lead like a Warrior Then, under night’s shroud, Grendel walked down from the moors; he shouldered God’s anger.

The evil plunderer intended to ensnare one of the race of men in the high hall.

He strode under the skies, until he stood before the feasting-hall, the house of gift giving, gleaming with gold. And this night was not the first on which he had honored Hrothgar’s home.

But never before in his life did he find hall wardens more greatly to his detriment. Then the joyless warrior journeyed to Heorot. The outer door, bolted with iron bands, burst open at a touch from his hands: with evil in his mind, and overriding anger, Grendel swung open the hall’s mouth itself. At once, seething with fury, the fiend stepped onto the bright paved floor; a horrible light, like a lurid flame, flickered in his eyes.

He saw many men, a group of warriors, a knot of kinsmen, sleeping in the hall.

His spirits leapt, his heart laughed; the savage monster planned to sever, before daybreak, the life of every warrior from his body – he fully expected to eat his fill at the feast.1 King Hrothgar had led his men well, accruing a vast fortune that he used to build his great mead hall Heorot where he could drink with his warriors and reward them for their service and great deeds. But as it often does, wealth and success aroused envy, in this case from the god-forsaken monster Grendel. Tormented by the noise of their evening feasts and celebrations, Grendel ventured from his lair to punish those who disturbed his solitude, turning Hrothgar’s golden haven and refuge from years of hard fighting into a living hell. Every night Grendel would burst into the hall, seizing warriors, tearing them apart, and consuming their remains. All of Hrothgar’s best and bravest warriors vowed to face and defeat this new challenge, though none survived a single night with 1 Beowulf: A Duel Language Edition, trans. Howell D. Chickering Jr. (New York: Anchor Books, 1977); Beowulf in The Anglo-Saxon World: An Anthology, trans. Kevin Corssley-Holland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), ll. 710-734 (91-92).

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the hideous monster. Hrothgar needed a savior, he needed a true leader of men, he needed Beowulf.

The epic story of the hero Beowulf, like many Anglo-Saxon and Viking stories, is a lesson on leadership. From the beginning of this epic poem, we learn that leadership is something that must be earned. The opening lines of the poem introduce the leader Beow, a man who, By his own mettle, likewise by generous gifts while he still enjoys his father’s protection, a young man must ensure that in later years his companions will support him, serve their prince in battle; a man who wins renown will always prosper among any people.2 Similarly, Hrothgar previously “won great honor in war, / Glory in battle, and so ensured / his followers – young men / whose number multiplied into a mighty troop.”3 Even when born into positions of authority, leadership must always be earned. There are two ways to gain authority and lead others, power or competence.

“Authority is not mere power, and it is extremely unhelpful, even dangerous, to confuse the two. When people exert power over others, they compel them, forcefully. They apply the threat of privation or punishment so their subordinates have little choice but to act in a manner contrary to their personal needs, desires, and values. When people wield authority, by contrast, they do so because of their competence – a competence that is spontaneously recognized and appreciated by others, and generally followed willingly, with a certain relief, and with the sense that justice is being served.”4 This dichotomy of leadership is seen in the Viking Saga of King Hrolf Kraki. In this saga, King Adils represents one who rules through power. He gained authority by inviting a powerful rival under the pretext of peace, then ambushed and killed him.

“King Adils became boastful and arrogant about his victory. It seemed to him that he had greatly distinguished himself having overcome a king as important 2 Beowulf, ll. 19-25 (74).

3 Beowulf, ll. 64-67 (75).

4 Jordan Peterson, Beyond Order: 12 More Rules for Life (New York: Penguin, 2021), 26.

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and famous as Helgi. … King Adils believed that he had made himself exceedingly famous, and now all those who served among his followers and his champions thought themselves masterly men. King Adils remained at home in his kingdom, convinced that no one would raise a shield in opposition to his authority or dare to test the strength of his berserkers.”5 King Adils ruled through power, compelling his people to follow him through the use of force, mainly from his berserkers. King Adils viewed others only from the perspective of power, as a resource to enforce his own power or as a threat to that power. If one of his soldiers struggled Adils cast him out, abandoning rather than aiding him.

Adils is contrasted by the competent King Hrolf Kraki.

“I have heard that King Hrolf is open-handed and generous and so trustworthy and particular about his friends that his equal cannot be found. He withholds neither gold nor treasure from nearly anyone who wants or needs them. He is handsome in looks, powerful in deeds and a worthy opponent. The fairest of men, Hrolf is fierce with the greedy, yet gentle and accommodating with the unpretentious and modest.

Toward all those who do not threaten him, he is the most humble of men, responding with equal mildness to both the powerful and the poor. Hrolf is so great that his name will not be forgotten as long as the world remains inhabited. He has exacted tribute from all kings who are near him, for everyone is willing to serve him.”6 The effectiveness of a leader is displayed by those who follow them. The berserkers of Adils were dismissed when beaten and his other men fled at the first sign of his defeat. In contrast, the followers of Hrolf Kraki willingly serve him because they know Hrolf has their best interests at heart, evidenced by his actions. When Hrolf Kraki faced the overwhelming forces of Queen Skuld and her army of undead monsters his men rallied to him, fighting and dying beside him.

“Now is the time for us to lead the forces of our king, that man who denies us nothing. Let us fulfil our solemn vows that we will defend the king who has become 5 The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki, trans. Jesse L. Byock (New York: Penguin, 1998), 13 (24-25).

6 The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki, 15 (31).

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the most famous in all the northern lands. Let it be heard in every land how we repaid him for the weapons, armor and many other generous acts, because what faces us will be no minor undertaking.”7 Competence is the far more effective way to lead others.

Power requires force to compel others because persuasion has failed, because no demonstration has proved to others that good outcomes will follow from their leadership.

Compulsion always follows the failure to persuade, the failure of leadership. Powerful leaders mistake compulsion for competence. Adils lost his kingdom (and half his ass cheek to a sword, literally losing his seat of power) while Hrolf Kraki’s men fought with him to the death against overwhelming odds.

So how does a leader display competence and earn the authority to lead others? Returning to Beowulf, “the discriminating warrior – one whose mind is keen – must perceive the difference between words and actions.”8 Oaths were the glue that bound Anglo-Saxon and Viking societies together, to break an oath was the highest of crimes. “Your whole family will suffer an ill fate, for you are the breakers of oaths.”9 Before Beowulf arrived at Heorot, many men had boasted that they would slay the mighty Grendel.

“After quaffing beer brave warriors of mine have often boasted over the ale cup that they would wait in Heorot and fight against Grendel with their fearsome swords.

Then, the next morning, when day dawned, men could see that this great mead-hall was stained by blood, that the floor by the benches was splattered with gore; I had fewer followers, dear warriors, for death had taken them off.10 When Beowulf arrived he traveled knowing the depth of evil he faced and vowed to prove his oath with his deeds.

When I put to sea, sailed through the breakers with my band of men, I resolved to fulfil the desire of your people, or suffer the pangs of death, 7 8 9 (91).

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The Saga if King Hrolf Kraki, 32 (72).

Beowulf, ll. 287-289 (81).

The Saga of the Volsungs, trans. Jesse L Byock (New York: Penguin, 1990), 32 Beowulf, ll. 480-488 (86).

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caught fast in Grendel’s clutches.

Here in Heorot, I shall either work a deed of great daring, or lay down my life.11 Beowulf places himself in danger rather than his men.

His actions will prove his worth. “Beowulf trusted in his own strength, / the might of his hand. So must any man / who hopes to gain long-lasting fame / in battle; he must risk his life, regardless.”12 Effective leaders are always self-reliant. Leaders put themselves at risk rather than others, and accept responsibility rather than blaming others. It is not what you have but who you are that separates leaders from followers. Beowulf knows that “fate will often spare / an undoomed man, if his courage holds.”13 Or put similarly, “when it comes to battle, a fearless heart serves a man better than a sharp sword.”14 The heart makes the leader, not the weapon in their hand or armor on their chest, neither of which Beowulf had when facing the hell demon Grendel, fighting without armor or weapon, truly hand-to-hand combat. Beowulf ’s strength prevailed as he ripped Grendel’s arm from his shoulder, allowing him to flee mortally wounded to his lair to die miserably alone in darkness.

Leaders face the monsters that threaten society. They face them with courage, determination, and confidence.

It is thus through overcoming these challenges that leaders prove their competence to others. Beowulf could have easily used this display of power to rule through force and coercion, but chose not to as equally competent king Hrothgar advised him, “arm yourself, dear Beowulf, best of men, / against such diseased thinking; always swallow pride; / remember, renowned warrior, what is more worthwhile – gain everlasting.”15 Beowulf learned that effective leaders first carefully consider any action, then speak their mind, and finally fulfill their boasts through action. “Wherefore a wise man will value forethought / and understanding. Whoever lives long / on earth, endures the unrest of these times, / will be involved in much good and much evil.”16 Life is full of good and evil, and everything is tradeoffs. Leaders must be able to carefully 11 12 13 14 15 16

Beowulf, ll. 632-639 (89-90).

Beowulf, ll. 1533-1536 (112).

Beowulf, ll. 572-573 (88).

The Saga of the Volsungs, 19 (65).

Beowulf, ll. 1758-1762 (118).

Beowulf, ll. 1059-1063 (100).

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consider all the ramifications of their actions and determine what can be given up for a gain, making difficult decisions often when no outcome is ideal. Ultimately, effective leaders take ownership of their actions and fulfill their responsibilities even in the face of the most difficult challenges, the most fearsome monsters.

Once Grendel was killed its mother, enraged at the death of her son, attacked Heorot and slayed many warriors.

Beowulf, not content with his victory over Grendel saw that his responsibilities were not yet at an end and sought out Grendel’s mother in its lair beneath a lake. Facing the challenge again alone he found and slayed the vicious monster, ending the threat to Hrothgar’s great hall. Finally, as an old man he again faced a terrible monster, the dragon scouring his country. Even as all his men but one abandoned him in fear, he faced the Dragon and defeated it, losing his life in the process. Self-sacrifice is a further trait of effective leadership. One should not expect another to make a sacrifice that you would not.

A final trait of leadership is how one treats those who follow them. When Beowulf arrived at Heorot he was challenged by Unferth son of Ecglath who had seen many brave warriors arrive boasting of great deeds, only to be turned into a splatter of gore by Grendel. Beowulf responded to this challenge by clarifying his past deeds then stating, I have heard no tell that you have taken part in any such contests, in the peril of sword-play. Neither you nor Breca have yet dared such a deed with shining sword in battle – I do not boast because of this – though of course it is true you slew you own brothers, your own close kinsmen. For that deed, however clever you may be, you will suffer damnation in hell.17 Beowulf responds that Unferth has no stories of great deeds that he should challenge others, in fact, his only deeds are the slaying of his brothers, a most heinous sin in any kinship-based society. This passage further teaches that gaining influence through cleverness rather than honesty and courage leads one to hell, not heaven; to power, not competence. The story of Unferth could have easily ended with Beowulf further putting Unferth in his 17 82

Beowulf, ll. 581-589 (88).

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place after defeating Grendel, but Beowulf is a competent leader not a boaster of power. When Beowulf left to track down Grendel’s mother Unferth offered to him the mighty blade Hrunting, “it was one of the finest of heirlooms; the iron blade / was engraved with deadly, twiglike patterning, / tempered with battle blood.”18 Unferth was too afraid to accompany Beowulf on his quest, but did offer his powerful and valuable Damascus steel sword.

Beowulf, knowing that no blade of men could pierce the hide of Grendel’s mother accepted the blade anyway, responding, “I will make my name / with Hrunting, or death will destroy me.”19 Rather than rejecting Unferth or pushing him further down he accepted the gift and absolved him of his previous lack of respect. Finally, after defeating Grendel’s mother Beowulf returned to Unferth.

Then the bold Geat ordered that Hrunting, that sword beyond price, be brought before Unferth; he begged him to take it back and thanked him for the loan of it; he spoke of it as an ally in battle, and assured Unferth he did not underrate it: what a brave man he was!20 Effective leaders build others up, they do not tear them down. Beowulf had every opportunity to drive Unferth into the mud and destroy the man after being challenged, but instead chose to build this man up by accepting his apology and then honoring him for providing all that he could in aid even though the sword was never used.

Hrolf Kraki showed similar wisdom to his champion Bodvar telling him, “I knew when you came here that few would be your equal, but it seems to me that your finest achievement is that you have made Hott into another champion. He was previously thought to be a man in whom there was little probability of much luck.”21 As John Quincey Adams wrote, “if your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.”

So what is the outcome of effective leadership? Beowulf faced the monsters that others were afraid of, proving his competence by relying on his own mind, heart, and courage. He acted when others only boasted and fulfilled 18 19 20 21

Beowulf, ll. 1457-1460 (110).

Beowulf, ll. 1490-1491 (111).

Beowulf, ll. 1807-1812 (119).

The Saga of Hrolf Kraki, 23 (52).

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his responsibilities. He built his followers up rather than abandoning or dismissing them when they erred. He swallowed his pride, served his people, gave the respect to others that he expected in return, and led his kingdom to peace and prosperity. Upon his death, he recalled to the brave Wiglaf, I have ruled the Geats for fifty winters; no king of any neighboring tribe has dared to attack me with swords, or sought to cow and subdue me.

But in my own home I have awaited my destiny, cared well for my dependents, and I have not sought trouble, or sworn any oaths unjustly. Because of all these things I can rejoice, drained now by death-wounds.22 Beowulf led a fulfilling and meaningful life because he learned how to be an effective leader. Wealth and power fade as quickly as they appear, as do those who seek them. Living a meaningful life will win one true renown and have influence that lasts generations. Beowulf ’s story is not one of a strong warrior who slays monsters, there are many such heroes as these. Rather, his story is one of a great warrior who became a great leader, a burning flame to light the darkness of a demon haunted world. As a Waldorf Warrior, how will you lead others, and what monsters will you slay?

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Beowulf, ll. 2732-2741 (143).

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The Man Who Loved Ava Gardner

Volume 16 / Prose

Dana Yost

On the long wall in his library, Tommy Wilson had covered, from end to end and floor to ceiling, the entire space with photos of the late actress Ava Gardner—studio publicity stills, photos from fan magazines, even candid photos he had found while scouring the Internet. Every morning, he walked into the library and looked over the collection, sometimes replacing an old or substandard photo with a new one, sometimes just looking it over, smiling to himself at her beauty, the way she stared into the camera lens, the mole on her left cheek accentuating how lovely her face looked to him.

He had recorded every Ava Gardner movie that Turner Classic Movies had played, and if TCM hadn’t broadcasted one, he went on the Internet and bought a copy.

Most nights after work, he sat in his beige recliner and played an Ava Gardner movie. He drank a beer, paused the movie at places where there were close-ups of Ava, and replayed moments where she had long periods of dialogue, her smoky voice always stirring something like passion inside him.

Tommy thought the moment in The Night of the Iguana where Ava danced in the ocean waves, her wet dress clinging to her beautiful body, was the sexiest scene ever filmed.

He also ordered old Hollywood magazines from when Ava was acting, looking for contemporary stories on her.

And, of course, he’d read and re-read Ava: My Story, the autobiography by Ava, so many times the hard cover was limping along, nearly torn off. He read about her miserable marriages, wished he had comforted her after her divorces.

Yet, he did not think of himself as obsessive, or at least not obsessively sick, not struck with a mental illness. He did not, no. He thought he was “normal.” He went to the gym every day and rode a stationary bicycle for 30 minutes. He worked as an analyst for a corporate bank, discerning customer trends and capital cycles in branch banks in three states. He was good at the job, knowing how to read the collected data and collecting data himself, by calling bank managers, weather forecasters, even man85

agers of grain elevators to see what seasonal trends were like in areas where there were branch banks. So, he talked to other people every day, not just to himself about Ava. He went out for drinks with his co-workers almost every week, and was an usher at the Methodist church where he was a member.

So, yeah, he had more in his life than just Ava Gardner.

Still, Ava was beautiful. Even though she’d been dead since 1990. She was beautiful. And it was her that he loved.

When Turner Classic Movies offered a classic-movie cruise one day, with a special feature showing of the 1947 movie The Hucksters, in which Ava starred alongside Clark Gable, on the ship’s big screen, vhe withdrew $3,200 from his savings account and signed up for the cruise. He took two weeks vacation and enjoyed the cruise, talking classic movies with other fans, and watching the screenings of several old movies on smaller screens. But he could barely wait for the showing of The Hucksters, and when it came, he settled into a cushioned seat. As it played, he thought he was saying to himself, “Oh, Ava,” but discovered he was saying it aloud when other moviegoers shushed him more than once. Ah, well, he thought.

When the cruise was over, Tommy came home to his wall of Ava Gardner and his job at the bank. On the morning he was headed back to work, he stepped into his library first and looked at his wall of Ava Gardner photos. He saw that there was a bit of an open space in the lower right-hand corner of the wall. He was amazed. He thought he’d covered everything with her photos. So he stood in front of the wall and, with his cell phone, took a selfie, with the wall as background. Using his wireless printer, he printed out the selfie and clipped off two strands of see-through tape, then taped the new photo to the bottom right-hand corner. There. It was filled.

He ran his hand over the new photo, then over the whole wall, slowly dragging it across Ava’s mouth, nose, cheeks—lingering on her beautiful cheekbones—and through her hair. All in the photos, of course. But he wouldn’t let go, couldn’t. He thought of her on the big screen on the ship, larger than life. So beautiful was Ava Gardner. Finally, he took his hand away from the wall and turned to leave the library.

But before he left, he said out loud, “Oh, Ava.” 86

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Father’s Day

Jenna Polich

1st Place High School - Prose Junior at Madrid High School

Father’s day, to me, is personally the worst day of my life. For most of my life leading up to that point, I had used the holiday to celebrate my father and all he had done for us. However, that day, June 19, 2014, changed my perspective on that holiday and my father as an eightyear-old.

My father. The man I have been told I look like numerous times. Throughout his life, he has suffered from alcoholism and tobacco addiction. Yet, even as children, he has always been honest with us about his struggles.

His life was consumed by alcohol. He drank it every night. He brewed it every weekend. He even grew his own hops and made his own recipes for his brews. I even remember him sitting on the couch with his ‘grandpa readers’ glasses, writing in a composition notebook with his collective recipes while a glass of beer was balancing on the couch’s armrest.

Before Father’s Day, he had tried to quit both drinking and smoking but would always fall back into the addiction. While alcoholism is an addiction, it is a disease. It can and will flood your mind every morning, afternoon, and night, all focused on when the next drink will be.

When he would fall back into drinking, he always tried to keep it a secret from us. Us being my two older sisters and my mom.

We always managed to find out, though. Usually, from the open twenty-four pack of Bud Light in our fridge in the garage or said beer cans littering the top of the recycling bin.

Father’s Day. June 19, 2014. My father left to hang out with a friend who was also an alcoholic. They went out to different breweries and taste-tested as many different alcoholic beverages of different percentages as they possibly could.

The most potent beer I remember was around 14% alcohol content.

He came home around 5:00 that evening, drunk, of Volume 16 / Prose

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course.

My mom, sisters, and I helped prepare a meal for him.

To celebrate him as a father.

After we ate, I remember exactly what pajamas I changed into. It was a purple and black long-sleeved nightgown with characters from one of my favorite series of childhood movies, Monster High. I remember being in my room, the overhead light on, and one of my sisters was in her room right next to mine. I could hear footsteps going downstairs to where my oldest sister resided.

I heard thuds and yells that belonged to my mother and father that came from the vent that led down to the basement. As an eight-year-old, I was very confused and scared. I hid between the wall and my nightstand and used the trashcan to place in front of me to hide further.

My mother rushed into my room and said, panicked and out of breath, “Get Puppy and get into the car right now.”

I followed her directions and grabbed my prized possession; a black and white stuffed dog I so creatively named Puppy. Then, I slipped my tennis shoes on with no socks, walked down the three steps leading to the garage with Zoey, and went into the car. All three of us sisters sat in the car. My oldest sister was in the passenger seat, my other sister was behind her, and I was behind the driver’s seat.

We sat. We waited.

Finally, the door opened, and my mom exited.

Following a few inches behind Mom was him.

Mom was yelling at him, and he was yelling at Mom, but I cannot remember what was being yelled.

What I do remember will forever be ingrained into my brain.

I cannot even call him my father at this point. He grabbed my mother by the throat and pushed her down those three steps of stairs to the garage.

What is also ingrained into my mind was what my sister and I all screamed.

We screamed variations of “Stop!” “What are you doing?” “Don’t hurt mom!”

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At this point, I could barely see.

Tears were flooding my eyes and running down my cheeks, wetting the neckline of my beloved Monster High nightgown.

Everything was blurry with the tears and the fear that my sisters or I could be next.

Mom broke free on the garage floor, ran to the car door, got in, and sped out as fast as possible while she joined our sobbing.

Mom called her best friend from southern Iowa, explaining to her what had happened. My mother’s friend hung up and immediately called the cops, reporting the domestic abuse that had just occurred.

On the ride to a random hotel for shelter, I remember my sister trying to distract me from everything by showing me funny videos on Instagram. I watched them while crying, clutching Puppy to my chest, and letting out the occasional giggle and smile.

We got to the hotel. Once I was sitting on the bed with my sister, clutching Puppy to my chest, there was a knock on the door. Mom opened it, and a police officer entered.

As an eight-year-old, I was questioned by a police officer and watched him take photographic evidence of the fingerprints on Mom’s neck.

The questions asked were asked to understand what happened that night.

I remember saying, “He pushed mom down the stairs with her neck.”

An eight-year-old should not have seen, let alone be questioned by the police about her drunken father’s abuse towards her mom, the woman she has looked up to her entire life.

On the night of June 19, 2014, I lay in a hotel bed with my sister while Mom and my oldest sister were in the other. I turned my body in to see my sister while Puppy was held.

I needed to know that someone was there.

It was a fairly sleepless night, which is quite understandable.

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near the hotel, where I found out he had been arrested and held in custody overnight at the local county jail.

Back at the hotel, I grabbed Puppy, and we drove home.

If you could even call it home.

A home is where someone can feel comfortable, safe, and loved.

I did not feel safe or comfortable in that house.

It was a cold feeling. I walked around and went down the stairs. Walking to my oldest sister’s room, I saw a dent in the wall.

“Mom, what’s that?”

Mom did not know what to say. “Dad was mad and hit the wall.”

Confused, I questioned, “Why did he hit the wall?”

“I don’t know.”

I did not see him for a while. He was released after one night at the county jail and stayed with his parents for a month and then more.

My sister and I would visit him. He was a lot more loving towards us and would take us out to do things he had never done previously.

When we went to our grandparents’ house the first time, I noticed his hand was wrapped in a bandage.

“What’s that from? Is it when you hit the wall?”

“Uh, yeah. It is. I broke it all the way down here.” He pointed down to his hand near his wrist. “The doctor said that I was so strong I broke it all the way down there. I’ve gotta get surgery on it now.”

He bragged about the shattered bone and his strength with a smile.

He took my sister and me to the Science Center and bought me a stuffed snowy owl.

The cashier was worried as he wrote his signature on the receipt. “Oh, dear! What happened to your hand?”

He replied to her nonchalantly, “Just a farming accident.”

It was no farming accident. He broke his hand while 90

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punching the wall next to my mother’s face in front of my oldest sister.

Later in life, I found out the reason for this event. He was as drunk as ever and went downstairs to where my oldest sister lived. No one ever went downstairs since everything we really needed was upstairs. He decided to go to the bathroom downstairs and saw her dirty clothes on the floor. There were two other bathrooms, but he chose to lose control over a change of clothes on the floor of the bathroom one person uses. He started yelling at my oldest sister, and of course, Mom came to her defense. As he claims, Mom was “sticking her neck out at him,” which excused him from punching the load-bearing wall next to her head and forcefully pushing her down the stairs by her neck in front of his eight, ten, and nineteen-year-old daughters.

The aftermath of Father’s Day has left me traumatized for the rest of my life. I have gone to four different therapists because of him. Father’s Day was not the last time we had to leave the house because he was so drunk it created an unsafe environment. Our go-to spot was my aunt’s house. I believed it was normal to leave the house because it was dangerous because of a drunk father. I did not know any difference and would not realize it until six years later.

To this day, I barely talk to my father. When I do speak to him, usually unwillingly, I get anxiety and panic attacks. This was the beginning of my feeling unsafe in my home and around him. Multiple things have occurred since this, and thankfully I am around him rarely and always with at least one other person, but those are stories for another time.

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S P E F C E I A A T L U R E S

Zöee Pond

A Brief List of Things that will Forever Remind Us of Dr. Clark Donuts (all kinds), well-loved (battered) jackets with elbow patches, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, pandas, Shasta orange soda, homophonic translation, puns, the second after a particularly ornate pun when he raises his eyebrows just a little bit while he waits for a laugh, “Hot Ass Poem” by Jennifer Knox, 24-hour events, chapbooks, the Twin Cities, Oklahoma (but the part that used to be Texas), fantasy baseball, the El Bordo Mine fire, writing journals, Gary the Gavel, videos of phonemes, fun socks, green Ls, The 5-8 Club, comedic gaslighting, pickle chips, mugs, open mics, pouring beer on authors’ graves, two pennies, and truly wanting to go to class.

Dr. Clark is one of the most genuinely kind people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He is always fighting for his students no matter who they are, or what mistakes they’ve made. He pushes them to do things they didn’t think they could do, helps them find ways to get their work published, sometimes even critiques pieces for students who aren’t even in his classes. He goes the extra mile. He is the person who believes in others until he can convince them to believe in themselves. When something good happens, his office is the place people go to talk about it, no matter how small it is. An A on the test they were worried about, a cute cat, a funny joke, a kind gesture, a new leaf on a plant.

His love for writing and comedy is infectious, and he makes the people around him want to do better simply by being who he is. I haven’t heard a bad review of him from anyone. There is no amount of words in which I could possibly articulate the impact Dr. Clark has had on me, this university, and its students. Wherever he goes, he is going to spread joy and creativity.

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The Resignation of Professor Friday Julienne Friday

Professor Friday is wildly engaging. She has been a staple of all that Waldorf stands for: the wild and weird, constant pursuit of joy, and lifelong learning. She shares incredible stories of a life I can’t imagine being lived by anyone else.

Professor Friday has always refused to be defined by others, and I won’t change that now. Here, in Professor Friday’s own words, is her resignation letter to President Alsop; I only hope it is enough to portray the great joy and magic she brought to this campus. —Zöee Pond *** Dear Dr. Alsop: After riding the rhetorical range with an assortment of cherubs over the past 48 years and endeavoring to lead them to greener pastures of knowledge and enlightenment, the time has come for me to hang up my spurs and ride into the sunset.

During this extensive and protracted ride, I have had to contend with errant cherubs who attached pictures of the “Penthouse Pet of the Month” wearing only a staple in her navel when I raised the screen in the big pit; exceptionally errant cherubs who broke into my office at 2:00 a.m. intending to purloin a copy of a sociology exam (subsequently this lamentable episode was referred to as Sgt. Friday’s Big Bust) and the miscreants were apprehended and duly punished for their misdeeds; frightened cherubs who called me at 1:00 a.m. because a farmer had pulled a gun on them when they approached his farmhouse because they had a flat tire—they didn’t call the police because in the words of one of the cherubs, “We knew you’d come!” I hugged them and jacked up the car, and fixed the flat. To say nothing of the nude wrestlers, the ill-fated galvanometer experiment, and threatening a wayward cherub with the wrath of the Great Rabbi in the Sky if he persisted on his path to perdition by cheating on his exams.

On the other hand, I have presided over ceremonies for two of my cherubs intent on committing marriage; delivered a homily at another cherub’s wedding; played hammered dulcimer for still another cherub’s wedding; Volume 16 / Special Features

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and accompanied a cherub on her honeymoon. What could be better on a honeymoon than having your own live-in shrink available??

Even though there have been times when I have felt as though I had all the impact of goose-down feathers falling on granite cliffs, some of my cherubs have soared to unbelievable heights. One became a judge and ran for Hennepin County District Attorney and wrote much of the civil rights legislation for Minnesota; another went to Harvard; and a myriad of cherubs became teachers, social workers, pharmacists, doctors, psychiatric nurses, interpreters for the deaf and most of them have all made the world a better place in which to live.

Suffice it to say that I have been richly blessed by God. I had the best parents in the world, the best siblings, and the best friends…and I have indeed been blessed by Waldorf University. I have been privileged to have a supportive administration, delightful and erudite colleagues, and wonderful facilities and support staff.

All of these folks have tolerated my eccentricities, made allowances for my inopportune outbursts of hyperekplexia, and have been an unfailing source of joy for the past 48 years. (With four notable exceptions who will remain nameless.)

It is with soulful regret that I intend to resign at the close of this academic year. I am absolutely content that my departmental colleagues will continue to uphold and support the mission of Waldorf University, and I repose great confidence in their abilities.

It has truly been the greatest ride of my life. Peace be with you!

Sincerely, Julienne K. Friday, Professor of Social & Behavioral Sciences P.S. In case you missed it, I quit.

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Danny Caruso & Josh Martin

To Boldly Go Where No Writer’s Gone Before: An Interview with Said Shaiye We recently had the privilege to talk with the award-winning author of the novel Are You Borg Now?, Said Shaiye, who obtained his MFA from the University of Minnesota. He was born in Somalia and was relocated to Kenya after the Somali civil war before migrating to the United States. Said Shaiye was our visiting author on October 9th. Said Shaiye was kind enough to sit down for an interview. He allowed us to pick his brain on the process in which he writes and how he completed his novel Are You Borg Now? (Really Serious Literature, 2021), as well as a tip for writers who struggle to write about themselves. This is a great look into the mind of a fantastic young author with a hybrid form for his novel. We can not recommend Said Shaiye’s novel Are You Borg Now? enough, and we are incredibly grateful that Said Shaiye agreed to be interviewed.

1. Was the initial inception of the project more or less the same, or did it evolve while you were writing?

It started out as an idea that I was really excited about.

Then, I kept thinking about it and talking about it with my friends, and the idea kind of expanded. But, what really preceded the idea was one dialogue exchange. I remember I was sitting at a coffee shop, and I was just messing around, free writing, and then I just asked myself a question in the free-write. Then I responded to the question. I liked how that felt, so I just kept going. The idea of what the project was expanded, and I tried really hard not to define it as anything while I was in the middle of it. I was really excited by the interview [aspect] of it.

There are other parts of the project that came together later on. [Including] the immigration documents was one of the last steps, the photos. That was pretty much after the writing was done. That all came together in later versions of the project.

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2. Did you face any resistance from your editor about your naturalistic dialogue? Because of this, was your original vision for your book kept intact or did your vision change during the editing process?

I have a long-standing history of [beefing] with editors.

We don’t get along really well. I was really fortunate that my publisher was really small, which was something I saw as a drawback for a while because it would be less publicity. But it was also a passion project where the publishers really saw the project done as it was. I wanted to do some light polishing editing…just to make sure there weren’t a lot of mistakes before it went to print. For the most part… they didn’t challenge me to change it…They liked it exactly how it was, and that’s a dream come true for me…I don’t think the book would have come out if they had asked to try and change too much of it.

3. Why was Star Trek such a pivotal part of your book, especially compared to the other pop culture references in your book?

Star Trek is top-tier entertainment for me. [Star Trek Voyager] was a show that meant a lot to me during my formative years in early high school…It was my number one form of escapism…I would just hop up on the TV whenever it came on…The characters represented so many different parts of myself that I couldn’t reconcile and that I didn’t have language for. And each individual character represented a part of me. I didn’t know it at the time. I only felt this looking back years later…I can go back and watch a random episode, and the dialogue will just stop me in my tracks. It really helped me feel seen and whole as a person, and I didn’t have to tell anybody what I was feeling. I just sat down in front of the TV, and it took me away.

4. What advice do you have for writers that struggle to write about themselves?

It’s not easy. I will admit that. Be honest with yourself.

Know your limitations. Know when something is too painful to write. It’s a process. The more you learn about yourself, the easier it is to do. And, the more you write about yourself, the more you learn about yourself. It 98

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cycles and moves itself forward. Know what to hold back, too. Writing and publishing are not the same things. Writing about yourself doesn’t mean that you have to publish or share everything that you wrote about by yourself because some things are meant to be secret. And there are some things that you don’t want the world to interrogate, which often happens with writing.

5. When did you realize that this was something you wanted to create?

I wasn’t thinking about the future so much as I was trying to survive the present when I was writing the book. I had a really bad experience with my MFA program… that first semester is when I did the bulk of the writing for [Are You Borg Now?] That was such a painful time that all I could think about was breathing, and this project was helping me breathe. I wasn’t thinking about trying to publish it…I wasn’t thinking about the future; I was just trying to survive a present as much as I could, going as deep as I could to explore these characters in my situation in my past and trying to have a deeper connection with my inner child through my writing. Those were all things that were helping me breathe outside of these crazy-ass workshops where I was being traumatized, and every single word that I wrote was being questioned, and I was being questioned because I write about myself…it was a challenging time of my life…I was really just focusing on the moment, [holding] on to my love for writing because that process of opening yourself up to strangers and being torn apart day after day was really wearing me down.

It was also making me hate writing which is what I used to survive through so many hardships. [Are You Borg Now?] was my attempt to hold on.

6. Do you feel any different after publishing your first book?

I feel pretty much the same. I think a few more people in my community know about me. I don’t think I’m any type of famous by any means…I feel better for having gone through the process. I learned a lot about publishing…The publishing industry, when it comes to books, is a monster. I’ve had to navigate a lot of that on my own…I learned a lot about publicity, promotion, going Volume 16 / Special Features

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on readings, and going to book fairs. All these things are challenging for me, but I believed in the book so much… that I wanted to do it…I’ve grown because of it, and the book has connected with people who relate to the central themes of redemption and faith, and finding yourself and your culture and trying to survive by any means. I feel better for having written it, but I don’t feel any different as a person.

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C O N T R

I

B U T O R S

CONTRIBUTORS

CHARLIE BLUE: Charlie Blue is a Sophomore at Waldorf University currently majoring in History and Musical Theatre. In their free time, they can be found reading, writing, painting, or even tapping out an amateur tune on the piano.

They make a mean mashed potato, but usually save it for Thanksgiving. Though they have experience with all genres, they currently favor prose with their writing, and have been previously published in the Waldorf Literary Review, Ampersand Pages, and Hot Dish Magazine.

MATTHEW BURNS: Matthew Burns is a Senior from Westbrook, Minnesota.

He is a double major in Elementary Education and Theatre Performance. Matthew has always been a fan of photography and enjoys getting the chance to take pictures, especially of nature. The piece submitted is of Saint Paul’s Chapel in Lower Manhattan. Matthew found the image of the chapel surrounded by the skyscrapers of New York breathtaking and worthy of being captured. The photo also helps show the beauty of the past, which is something near and dear to Matthew.

DANNY CARUSO: Danny Caruso is a Sophomore at Waldorf University majoring in Musical Theatre. His history of writing is brief, mainly consisting of non-fiction prose pieces. He served as co-prose editor for the Waldorf Literary review this year and wishes to express the utmost gratitude to his fellow staff members.

ELLIE CLARK: Ellie Clark is a Sophomore music education major at Waldorf University. She is a part of the Waldorf Concert and Jazz bands, playing trumpet for both ensembles. In her free time she likes to draw, research birds, and watch her favorite movies. When she isn’t goofing around in the music building, she loves practicing various instruments and performing for her friends.

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CONTRIBUTORS

DR. RYAN CLARK: Ryan Clark loves puns, doughnuts, and horror movies.

Please talk with him about any of these things. He’s desperate. He also writes poetry through a unique method of homophonic translation. He is the author of the books Arizona SB 1070: An Act and How I Pitched the First Curve, and his poems have appeared in such journals as DIAGRAM, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Yemassee. He teaches at Waldorf University as an Associate Professor of English and Creative Writing.

TYLER CLOUSE: Tyler Clouse is a Junior at Waldorf pursuing a degree in Marketing. He is a member of the golf team and Student Athlete Committee and serves as the school’s primary sports photographer and as a student leader with The Bridge campus ministry.

HELENA JOSEPHINE: Helena Josephine is a Freshman enrolled at Waldorf University currently majoring in Musical Theatre. She loves everything involving literature and the arts, and spends much of her free time indulging in them, as well as eating or gaming.

DR. JONATHAN KLAUKE: A crouton and Guinness aficionado, Jon teaches sword fighting, ax wielding, jousting, Viking raiding, witch trying, and the occasional history class at Waldorf. While teaching the good, the bad, and the ugly of history with a careful balance of seriousness, sarcasm, and opportunistic dark humor, he also helps with student clubs and occasionally shreds guitar in chapel. At home he spends his time lightsaber dueling, playing sports, reading, and watching MacGyver with his kids.

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CONTRIBUTORS

JOSHUA MARTIN: Joshua A Martin is a Creative Writing major and a Junior this year. He often spends his days writing something somewhere. Much of the writing he does isn’t sarcastic, such as “My City of Worn Stone Brick” which was in last year’s Waldorf Literary Review. However, this is not one of those pieces, take that as you will. This is his first year on the Waldorf Literary Review and his second year as a contributor. He thoroughly enjoys writing, reading, video games, and Legos. He hopes that everyone enjoys reading the 2023 Waldorf Literary Review as much as he enjoyed putting it together.

KEELY MCLAIN: Keely McLain is the Gallery Director and Art Professor at Waldorf University. She enjoys painting, drawing, woodworking, and learning new ways to make art. She loves to bake bread and pastries in her free time. She has been previously published in the Waldorf Literary Review and the SCC Chiaroscuro Creative Magazine. She has shown her art at Dallas Baptist University, Texas A&M University-Commerce, Fort Works Art, Temporary Art Collectives, and more.

HANNAH MEYER: Hannah Meyer is a Junior Communications major at Waldorf. She is known as “Bubbles” by her close friends due to her bubbly personality and love for carbonated drinks.

Hannah loves all things creative including color guard, the digital arts, writing, drawing, and photography.

DR. JOE MILAN: Joe Milan Jr. is an alter-ego for Dr. Joe Milan, who is a literary savant, a man on the run, and a breaker of hearts. A literary child escapee from the wastelands of the military-industrial complex, he wrote his first story, “Pokey, the bacon’s lawyer,” while in his high school’s boiler room that doubled for detention. While seeking power in all the wrong places, he ended up in Forest City, Iowa, where there is no forest and no city, but in winter, snow ices the ground, and the decent people of Forest City slow their cars down to offer rides.

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CONTRIBUTORS

MEREDITH MULVANY: Meredith Mulvany is 18 years old and a Freshman here at Waldorf. She loves all things art and has always wanted to try to say something with what she does. Meredith is always up to experiment in her craft and develop new techniques. She thanks you for enjoying her work.

ASHLEY PETERSON: Ashley Peterson is from the small town of Manly, Iowa, a Senior at Waldorf University, and currently majoring in Business. In her free time she can be found reading, dancing, painting, playing music, or spending time with her friends and family. Her grandmother Linda, a former art teacher, cultivated her love for the arts and is one of her biggest supporters along with the rest of her family. Her artwork was featured second place in the NIDAT art/writing contest in 2013, and was featured in the Macnider Art Museum student artwork selection in 2017.

DANA PIOSKE: Dana Pioske is a Sophomore at Waldorf University majoring in History. You can usually find her in the music building with all the ensembles that she participates in, including the Waldorf Concert and Jazz bands, and the Waldorf Choir and auditioned choir, Schola. Though she is in this year’s issue for her photography, she won the third place Salveson Prize in prose last year for her piece, “The Cardinal.”

ARDEN PHAN: Arden Phan is a Freshman at Waldorf University majoring in Secondary Education with an endorsement in English and Theatre. In his free time, they can be found playing video games, writing, or attempting not to fall and skid on the ice. They enjoy cooking and know the shrimp that fried the rice. Although they have a familiar history with writing and publishing, this is his first time in the Waldorf Literary Review, and hopes his pieces hit home.

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CONTRIBUTORS

TATUM PHELPS: Tatum Phelps is a Senior Communications major with emphases in Graphic Design, Digital Media, Public Relations and Journalism. She is involved in music as well as the Gender & Sexuality Alliance on campus. When not in class, she can be found spending time with friends, watching football and spending time with her dog Echo.

ZӦEE POND: Zöee Pond is a Sophomore history major at Waldorf. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and cheering for the underdog. She is currently working on turning her dorm room into a makeshift greenhouse, coffeehouse, and music bar while curating ~immaculate vibes~.

ARNALDUR STEFANSSON: Arnaldur Stefansson is a Freshman at Waldorf University currently majoring in English and Creative Writing. Originally from Reykjavik, Iceland, Arnaldur came to Waldorf through an esports scholarship. You will most likely find him wasting away his free time playing video games, reading some interesting science fiction or jamming out to music from any genre ranging from Classical solo piano, 80s rock or even Icelandic Rap. Arnaldur prefers writing prose, although he dabbles in poetry as well. This is his first publication.

JOSEPH VANESSEN: Joe Van Essen, not to be confused with Dr. Joe Milan Ph.D., is a double major Senior currently losing his mind as he gathers the last few credits necessary for his Business and Creative Writing degrees. He likes reading, video games, long walks in the Iowa snow, and occasionally writing. This is his second year on the Waldorf Literary Review staff and his third year as a contributor.

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CONTRIBUTORS

KAYLIEGH WILKIE: Kayliegh Jade Wilkie is a History and Creative Writing double major, and a Shakespearean Literature minor.

They are an artist who struggles with actually making art and usually can be found playing video games with their beloved roommates or screaming at them over a game of Uno. They also enjoy playing Dungeons and Dragons and Pokémon, with a particular fondness for Bulbasaur. They hope you enjoy their work.

DANA YOST: Dana Yost was an award-winning daily newspaper journalist for 29 years. Since 2008, he has published eight books and been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes. A former resident of Forest City, he now lives in Sioux Falls, SD.

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