Waldorf L i t e ra r y Review 2021
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 Professor Ryan Clark at ryan. clark@waldorf.edu.
Copyright © 2021, Waldorf University
Waldorf Literary Review Volume XIV 2021 Editorial Team Benjamin Hassebroek Murad Hazhibayev Kelsey Peterson Sierra Kearns Lydia Knudtson
Associate Prose Editor Associate Prose Editor Associate Prose Editor Associate Poetry Editor Associate Poetry Editor
Designer Sierra Kearns
Faculty Advisor Ryan Clark
Table of Contents Poetry Empty Words Thalassophobic Nightmares What I Wanted Dream Rooms Sunken City Inked Human Flame Anxiety Cement Glue Capitalist Scratched Walls Garden Grass Bent Under Snow Gravel Dreams IDENTITY ENIGMA
Madina Tuhbatullina Myra Meyer Cecelia Hemsworth Myra Meyer Myra Meyer Derik Wolfe Mandi Wright Mandi Wright Ongelle Schroeder Dillion W. Daniels Madina Tuhbatullina Madina Tuhbatullina Jakyris Vormics Elaine Bossard Lydia Knudtson
6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21
Ongelle Schroeder Madina Tuhbatullina Cecelia Hemsworth Casey Fraser Dillion W. Daniels Sophia Gil Joe Milan Myra Meyer Jonathan Klauke Sara Rodriguez
22 29 34 37 43 49 54 56 60 67
Prose Why Not Us? Desert Chris and Pete Running Up That Hill A Quarter for the Crows Janis and Her Daydream Morning Hours A Superior Trip What Is Your Warrior Code? Who I Am Now
Art Innocence Winter Serenity Off-Center Twisted [Untitled] Peonies in Blue Rose from Mother’s Garden Fallen Leaf Anima Jesus, Empowered Son of God Mermaid in Surf Desolate Downslope Golden Rays Patagonian Paradise Somewhere Over the Rainbow One Step Winter Moon Perfect Asymmetry Alive Is This Heaven? No, It’s Iowa! Golden Tree Amidst this City of Glass Time Passed Muted Personality Monster Looking in the Mirror
Noah Keolanui-Herman Gulnaza Saburhojayeva Madina Tuhbatullina Noah Keolanui-Herman Diana Dzasezeva Keely McLain Keely McLain Keely McLain Keely McLain Darrell Barbour Eden Moore Tyler Clouse Tyler Clouse Tyler Clouse Tyler Clouse Audrey Sparks Audrey Sparks Gulnaza Saburhojayeva Gulnaza Saburhojayeva Hannah Meyer Hannah Meyer Noah Keolanui-Herman Noah Keolanui-Herman Madina Tuhbatullina
71 72 73 74 75 76 76 77 77 78 79 80 80 81 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 88 89
Kaltun Mohamed Amy Dong Bella Santos
90 92 98
High School Contest Reflection Pools The Monty Hall Problem Time Intolerant
Contributors 101
Empty Words Madina Tuhbatullina
First Place Salveson Prize in Poetry Words of emptiness: If I am a pot of soup, then steel spoons carve into my depth, steal imagination and void any taste while I am still on the burning stove. If I am a fly, a needle is poking my eyeballs one at a time, narrowing the world into bony grey sketches, disorienting any passion. If I am alone, deserted by the seemingly present, then there’s something else that left me too. How long does it take for emptiness to stop creating depth and start eating its own child. If I am a villain, people are safe. What is the point at which bitterness decides to abandon you too. Maybe words to express emptiness do so by absence:
,
,
.
Judge’s Comment It’s a deceptively simple poem that explores many possibilities of being and how they are not enough to understand such emptiness inside. Laura Cesarco Eglin
Poet and Founding Editor/Publisher of Veliz Books Assistant Professor of Spanish, Simpson College
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Thalassophobic Nightmares Myra Meyer
Second Place Salveson Prize in Poetry There’s an elevator to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. A shark cage, really. Take a breath and sink. Let yourself float down— deeper, darker. Salt water violates your eyes,
Watch the final bubbles of hope escape through your nose— They rise above as you continue to fall. When the last orb fades from view, you’re left with the sinking feeling that these thalassophobic nightmares are your reality.
but in the vastness you still see undefinable shapes pass in freezing darkness. Water presses in, gripping your chest. An attempt to squeeze the last whisper of air from your constricted lungs.
Judge’s Comment It’s interesting how as the poem progresses the phobia sinks into the reader. Lines are blurred, then, between reality and dream, and speaker and reader. Laura Cesarco Eglin
Poet and Founding Editor/Publisher of Veliz Books Assistant Professor of Spanish, Simpson College
Salveson Prize in Poetry
7
What I Wanted Cecelia Hemsworth
Third Place Salveson Prize in Poetry You are what I wanted
The path is overgrown
A lake dried up, the fish dead
Animals filled with life
What used to be filled with life
Now bones, motionless
Now smells rank, just like your breath
A mind, a working body
Cascading out with your lies
Is all gone
On the path
Just you
Cheap cigarettes
Only you
smoking out of my mouth
Like the fish
Circling laps around my head
Dead
Almost, as if with intention The path that was ours Is not mine anymore, just yours Even though you said it would be there forever Behind our own closed doors
Judge’s Comment The slow separation between the self and the interlocutor ends up being a discovery of the speaker as the object of “what [was] wanted”. Laura Cesarco Eglin
Poet and Founding Editor/Publisher of Veliz Books Assistant Professor of Spanish, Simpson College
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Dream Rooms Myra Meyer
Impact shoves air from frightened lungs as eyes gaze upward toward the sky. No, not the sky at all. An impostor of the sky streaked red. A black square’s sharp edges cut off the ominous sunrise, so it can’t spill back into the hole above. But still the severed sky is alive— fraudulent, but alive. A bloody sun moves across walls of a rectangular room. A grassy floor slopes down toward one wall. I press my shoulders against that mock horizon that sends tingles of ice through my spine,
and I turn my head to see another wall open outward to pure darkness. I come nearer, pressing bare feet into green blades. Suddenly, my ears are pierced by the clang of the ceiling sealing itself closed. Darkness invades my eyes with every hesitant step until I’m consumed by nothing Fall once again through a dark abyss. Winds from below tangle their fingers through wild hair until everything
stops—
Poetry
9
and I hang precariously
I can’t reflect the confidence
above my own reflection,
of those superior images.
held back by an invisible string
Even still, I’m drawn to them.
of my own making. I reach forward to caress the glass, A string that keeps me
but she touches me first,
from shattering glass
grasps my wrist
and merging with the me in the mirror.
and pulls me through
She’s an impostor, or am I? I ground myself to look around at the millions of “me” that have me surrounded. They move as I do, but I don’t recognize them with their false masks
with a flourish. I find myself spinning through a ballroom— hidden faces all around. As I’m spun from faceless partner to faceless partner in a nightmare masquerade, I gaze upward toward a skylight window.
of courage and joy. Chests uplifted,
A million stars are clustered above:
lips turned up—
Big dipper
held in place with wire.
I can feel my own back crumpled over,
Cassiopeia
Draco
Minor.
Ursa
chest weighed down
And the “world” around me disappears
by leaden insecurities.
while I spin into oblivion.
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Sunken City Myra Meyer
There’s a gem
The town’s new inhabitants
hidden beneath
don’t mind the ghosts that linger.
manmade waters.
They weave through windows and wind through streets.
A desire to quench the electric thirst of millions,
Follow them--
drowned the towns of thousands.
they are familiar with the map of their town.
A single cross pierces through water
Pass through the skeleton
marking the grave
to the sunken cemetery.
of a sunken city.
Forgotten souls-Forever drowning,
Take your flashlight
and lost to false waves
and scuba gear.
created by unquenchable human thirst
Dive to the depths,
for power.
now home to only fish. It’s perfectly preserved when encompassed by waters— no longer touched by humans.
Poetry 11
Inked
Derik Wolfe
Lines of discourse confuse the reader. Time passes while the fragmented portrait Yearns for completion. Explanation is demanded For the oblique and tangent Curves of masterpiece. The possessor becomes defensive. “Master of my fate, Captain of my soul” Is the usual response for justification. Cold piercing stings of penetration Cause sublime numbing. Vaseline coats the creation. Let thy body be the slate, Thy God be thy painter, As you once intended. Now Your name will be Marked upon the exterior Until we meet again.
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Human
Mandi Wright
I’ve found that I enjoy
in destruction
watching myself crumble
(by the both of us).
to the weight
It would be easier to just sit
of my problems,
like a pile of ashes and
even if it’s a product
simmer in the aftermath,
of failed fixation.
but instead I blow around with
Maybe it’s to beat others
the impulsive winds, trying to
to the blame, or
choke out and blind the atmosphere
maybe I just enjoy
just so I am not the only one
being a masochist and
whose environment got ruined.
letting a chaotic mind take the reigns ahead of an already ruined situation: it makes the finale pain more durable. By now I’ve learned the only way to deal with unfinished bridges is to set them all on fire. I don’t need the fake closure anymore— I know what it’s like to be a human being. But I don’t know what it is I prefer to hear or feel— either way it ends
Poetry 13
Flame
Mandi Wright
I flick another cigarette
I keep pushing to see
out the window,
time as concrete, to
allowing the wind to extinguish
never realize the presence
the regrets the embers were burning
of the future, but soon
through, because I am too timid to
the fire won’t have
put them out myself.
anything to burn and
With a particular mindset,
I’m afraid to build upon ashes’
I’ve become keen to
potential to be set to
focus finely on issues
flames again because the
I am willing to admit.
only thing left to burn
The others I stash
is myself.
shamefully in the ashtrays, cigarettes boxes, and crevices in my vehicles. The remaining thoughts want an escape route, like the smoke which seeps through my lips in bitter relief. I’m always too eager to envision the confrontation of my problems, but like many cigarettes I said were my last— I’m not following through.
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It’s why I keep smoking.
Anxiety
Ongelle Schroeder
Pressure crowding my heart Forcing beats to swiften Frantic feverish breaths Biting lip ‘til blood Floats like a bobber above The pale ivory surface Beating, pressing Whistling air as swift As a mountain breeze Out harrow lips Searching savagely For relief
Poetry 15
Cement Glue Capitalist Dillion W. Daniels
Old platitudes
into glass fingertips;
outdated, outmoded catchphrases.
he’d stare at his shoe,
He called himself a Marxist
or his socked foot,
but dressed so well.
for hours on end.
Fascist state, or socialist utopia;
No longer heroin high
one still had to get laid.
just a quiet longing. Cement glue
A filthy drug den capitalist
and nontoxic Sharpies
with dreams of petite bourgeois happiness.
beginning to sound like
A little taste on his tongue: Flat screens, and surround sound, and couches with chaise lounges. Soft pillows, and black socks; the kind that don’t show. Nothing happy here. Although sadness was a lot kinder. A sort of groovy mellow, with electronic beats pumping slow with rotten memories. Blood running cold
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a viable alternative to sobriety. Silent thoughts of beating off like having to piss but not. Ejaculating was dull; pissing only feels good when your bladder is full. Maybe a revolution? Why not a mass murder? There’s something someone might read. Too languid. All too lazy. He laid back on the couch, and took a nap instead.
Scratched Walls Madina Tuhbatullina
The pastel green walls watched me turn into someone and then someone and then me as I summed my desperation into notebooks my mom always found and read. As I dreamt before falling asleep, I scratched at green, revealing white, then grey, then the lines were covered again. My uncle and his friend made a mistake in the paint job. I then picked at the little outbursts in the wall like skin blemishes. One touch chipped inches away. Inked lines authored by a younger kin; he put them there while lying on my old bed and dreaming. The boy who grew in the same green light and shadows, adding abstractions near the cracks, new outburst of same experience; the need to explore into the need to create. Mom has always looked at the green walls and sighed, “This room needs a repaint.” It never gets one. I don’t want it to.
Poetry 17
Garden
Madina Tuhbatullina
I don’t build walls around me, I grow vegetation. Solid wood intervenes the greens, a bright peace and a warm variety of plants. You decide to stay. When you find the heart of the garden, you rip the little purple eyes of my vines and crush the buds of my rose bushes. You slip on wet grass, bruise to the lividity of plums; worms crawl on you: you’re initiated. There is danger for both parties in every war. The short season of bliss leads you further into the thorned confusion of twigs. Once there, be cruel enough to open the green labyrinth, expose my weeds and burn them.
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Grass Bent Under Snow Jakyris Vormics
Grass bent under snow buckles the way I do when I’m in a crowded room struggling to breathe yet reaching ever upward toward escape. Snow melted into grass dissolves the way I do when you tell me “I’m here for you” as I let out a sigh of relief the sun shining down my face.
Poetry 19
Gravel Dreams Elaine Bossard
The ‘Driftless Region’ they call it, but drifters we were. We ride on country rollercoasters, up and down, curving around the hills, reaching for a thrill not found inside the limestone walls of our river valley town.
reminds us of our rural life. Not wanting to admit this inheritance, we block it out and crank the radio to anything that’s not country. Favorite stories emerge between summer songs. Hey, remember... Yeah, that time we...
Gravel spits out behind us—
Revealed by our memories:
a barrier, a protection, a weapon,
a fondness for the past,
for those who drive within the ruts—
a yearning for tomorrow,
covering our tracks
and no appreciation for the present.
with shields of rock and dust. Later, the starlight illuminates The gravel represents
our hopes and dreams.
a journey away
We speak of life
from prying small-town eyes
we have yet to live,
and constraints of age.
but still pontificate on the meaning,
We only recognize the escape
sure of the wisdom beyond our years,
from known to unknown,
a wisdom never before seen or felt by others.
a chance to feel wildness in our hearts. No plans, no agenda, no time. Rumbling fills our ears. A bumper clink every now and then
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This certainty our misguided anchor in an otherwise drifting world.
IDENTITY ENIGMA Lydia Knudtson
An ingenious refill
Never obey the
essential for discovery— the vessel for the substance.
Capture the convection,
Add culture to the tube of existence,
apply the heat to your inexperience,
never the right elements
drench it all with the vessel
for a succession of
to form the base of the next waste project.
No woman-made malfunction. Manipulate the variable of money and accomplishments, With no constant of location or surroundings or Build. Build what? With your fleeting materials, utilize the gas and the oil before the tank is nullified. You don’t have time to Halt. There was no hypothesis, set of direction, the matter wasn’t labeled right and succession was a scheme.
Poetry 21
Why Not Us?
Ongelle Schroeder
First Place Salveson Prize in Prose “Chug! Chug! Chug!” people yell from all over the room. I laugh and bring my hand up to cover my mouth, but it’s holding a beer, so I take another swig. They’re doing another keg stand. I guess that’s why it’s called the “Beer Olympics.” I laugh again. What a silly name. Suddenly, a girl pushes into me from the side, and the next thing I know, I’m on the floor. I laugh again. “Omg! Are you ok?” the girl asks. I look up at her. I’m squinting, but I can see she’s just a tiny blonde thing. She looks only a couple inches over five feet tall, but her scrawny limbs make her look almost like a child. I laugh again. A child pushed me over at the Beer Olympics. That can’t be right. I continue to laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m just looking for my friend Amber. Do you know Amber?” she asks. The name doesn’t ring any of my bells. “No, but can you help me find a bathroom?” She frowns, but says, “Sure. It’s this way.” She grabs my arms and pulls me away from the heat of the party. On the way there she yells out to someone, “Hey Luke, do you know where Amber is?” I can’t pick up my head to see who she’s talking to, but he answers, “She left with John.” She curses under her breath. “I wasn’t supposed to let that happen.” She pulls me faster. We get to the bathroom door, which she finds is locked, so she pounds on the door. “Are you almost done in there?” We hold our ears to the door and can faintly hear two people moaning, loudly. I laugh. “Is there another bathroom?” She nods and takes my arm again. We walk down to the basement, and Bang! We both grab each other and look for a place to flee as the yelling and screams ring out around the house. The effects of the alcohol evaporate, including my need to pee, but my adrenaline moves more sluggish than usual. Before I know it, she pulls me into the nearest bedroom. The room is dark, but
22 Waldorf Literary Review
she manages to find a door leading into a small closet. “That had to have been a gunshot.” “I think so too.” She locks the door behind us and pulls me down to the floor beside her. I can feel at least three pairs of shoes under me. For a small girl, she really puts force into her movements. I start trying to feel around the closet for a light. She senses my movements and stops me. “No,” she whispers. “No light in case the shooter sees it.” From what I felt, there are clothes hanging above us, a lot of shoes beneath us, and a plastic tote behind us. We are scrunched right up to the door with our knees pressed to our chests. Bang! Bang! Yep. Definitely a gunshot. It’s hard to say where they are coming from in the house. We sit completely still, silencing our rapid breathing, and just hold each other while we listen. Just when we think it’s been quiet long enough, we hear someone enter the bedroom. “Elijah, please. You don’t want to do this.” I recognize the voice, but I can’t pinpoint whose it is. The girl next to me inhales sharply. “Luke,” she whispers more to herself than me. I hear the floor creak by the door as someone else walks in. The floor continues to creak as the first guy backs up to the closet where we are hidden. The light flickers on in the bedroom, and we can see the shadows from the guys feet as he gets closer to us. “Who are you to tell me what to do? This isn’t a mistake. You and your friends are all the same. You—you all just act like you—like the world was made for you. Everything was supposed to stop after high school. You were all supposed to start leaving me alone.” On his last word, his voice breaks. He chokes back tears, sniffles, and composes himself. In a split second, the girl is standing and unlocking the door. “Elij—” Luke says and rips the door open. He sees us and is about to get in and shut the door behind him when the shooter yells, “No! You don’t get to talk!” Bang! Bang!
We sit completely still, silencing our rapid breathing, and just hold each other while we listen.
Salveson Prize in Prose 23
I cover my head as soon as I hear the shots, but I can still hear the sounds of them ripping through his body, the clothes above me, and the wall behind me. I am low enough on the ground that the bullets don’t hit me. Suddenly, Luke’s body drops on top of me. My first instinct is to shove him off, but my survival instincts tell me to hold him steady. If he is still alive or the shooter knows we are in here, he might come back. I keep holding the body steady but open my eyes to look over at the girl. She is still standing, but she is nailed flat on the wall and silent tears stream down her face. She hasn’t opened her eyes yet. I hear the shooter sob only once, and whisper, “And neither do the rest of them.” The floor creaks as he moves out of the room. I hold my breath for as long as I can before letting it go. The shooter—I can’t bear to even think of his name—left the light on, so the damage is displayed horrifically. I haven’t heard Luke breathe since he was shot, and I can feel the blood from Luke’s wounds dripping on me. My arms are also beginning to shake from holding this fullgrown man steady. The girl begins to cry. “Hey. What’s your name?” I ask, trying to stay strong for us both. She opens her eyes. “Julia,” she gets out between sobs. “Ok, Julia, my name is Casey, and I need your help. I can’t hold him much longer, so I need to get him off me and set him down on the floor out there.” She nods, but her eyes are still flooding with tears. I push up and she lifts and steers the body to an acceptable position on the floor. We both try to make as little noise as possible. I reach down and feel for a pulse. Nothing. I shake my head. “Hey,” I whisper. “Do you have your phone?” “No. My friend took mine by accident, and I didn’t know her password to call her, so I left it in my bag in my car.” I sigh. “I don’t have mine either. I didn’t have pockets, so I set it somewhere.” Silence. “We grew up together.” She looks back down at Luke on the floor. “I didn’t know Elijah, and I don’t know why he would go after Luke like this. He was such a good guy. He was going into law school. They have a Pre-Law program here at the University. I hadn’t talked to him since college started. I got so busy... ” Luke seems like a pretty good guy according to her. I wonder why the shooter was after him. What did he and his friends do? I don’t know what to say to her, but I do know we need to decide what
24 Waldorf Literary Review
to do next. “I’m really sorry Julia, but we are going to get out of here.” She begins to sob again. “Hey, hey, hey. Julia, we are going to get out of here.” I don’t know what else to say. “But Luke didn’t. This could have been us.” “I think the shooter was looking for Luke and his friends. We don’t know that we would have been killed.” “But why do we deserve to live, and he doesn’t? He was literally one of the best people I knew from back home.” “I—I don’t know why the shooter came after him, and I know it’s not fair. I’m also not saying that we deserve to live more than him. We just need to try to get out of here, so we can live. It’s just too late now.” Her sobs leave her looking like she was just stung by a jellyfish. “It should have been me. I—he knew what he wanted to do. He was going to law school. He was going to help people, and I don’t even know what I’m doing,” she says despairingly. I don’t know this girl, but pull her to me and hold her close. I can feel her shaking with tears that drip and mix with Luke’s blood. She clutches me tightly. “Julia, I don’t either. Going to college was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I don’t have a major—well, I chose business which is super boring— but I haven’t found any classes I like. I don’t know where I’m going or what I like and neither does anyone else in my life! My family and friends know me as the ranch girl.” Through her tears she asks, “Like a horse ranch girl?” “No. Like the dressing. Ranch dressing. Growing up, I ate it with everything, and so everyone made a huge deal about it. They buy me ranch socks, shirts, and sweats, and they make a big deal about it everywhere we go... How messed up is that!” She laughs, and I continue, “And you know what the sucky thing is? I’m starting to get sick of ranch. I mean, I don’t know who I am without it, but it’s just getting old... Anyway, what I am trying to say is that we need to get out of here to figure things out, because if Luke can figure out what he wants to do, so can we.” She slowly begins to nod. We just stand there staring at him on the floor. “We can’t leave now. The shooter could be anywhere, and we should really know where he is before we leave.” “We’ll just have to wait for the next gunshot,” she says solemnly. I nod. “We should still try to stay hidden. The closet is probably our best bet, because the door locks.” We both move back to our spots in the closet.
Salveson Prize in Prose 25
There is blood on the floor where I was sitting, but I’m already covered in it. We hunker down and lock the door. The silence seems unnatural. Like talking is the only thing silencing my thoughts and keeping me sane. “Tell me about yourself. What’s your story?” “I... I don’t know. My life has been so short.” She pauses and I can tell she’s thinking about Luke. “How did this happen? I don’t understand. This is a stupid college party, and... ” People died. “Yeah.” “I just feel like I’ve wasted so much of my life. I mean, obviously we can’t always change the world starting straight out of the womb, but I don’t know what I want to do with my life either.” “I mean at least if we would have died tonight, they wouldn’t write in your obituary about your love for ranch.” I expect a laugh, but she stays silent. “Too far?” I ask. “No. I—um, no one knows this, which is shocking because it’s such a big part of my life, but I actually have anorexia. Close to three years now. I mean, I don’t remember exactly when it started—probably a lot longer ago—but that part of my life is a secret.” I stay quiet, and she continues, “I don’t know what my obituary would say, but I sure wouldn’t want it to say anything about that.” Bang! Bang! Bang! The shots are from farther away. We grab onto each other again. “That’s our cue,” I say. She nods. We begin to exit the house, staying as quiet as we can while exiting out the opposite direction of the shots. When we finally make it outside, we both let out a sigh of relief and cling to each other, crying. I can feel the relief radiating between us. Waaaaaahhhhhhh! Waaaaaahhhhhhh! Waaaaaahhhhhhh!... The police arrive, get out of their cars, and start walking our way. “Are you two hurt?” I remember the blood on me from Luke. It must be all over Julia by now. Suddenly, they stop, pull their guns up, and backpedal to their cop cars. From behind, I hear, “Stay where you are.”
I expect a laugh, but she stays silent. ‘Too far?’ I ask.
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Julia and I freeze. I don’t move, and I can’t make myself open my eyes, but I can sense what is happening. The shooter decided to come out the front door, and somehow we ended up in the crosshairs. Julia, who is still clinging to me, begins to shake in fear. “Let us get them out of here, Elijah. You don’t want to hurt them. “No, they didn’t do anything to me, so I don’t want to kill them, but I don’t want to go to jail.” “Elijah, you killed people. You need to take responsibility for your actions.” “I do. I don’t regret what I did. The world is a better place without them. I just don’t want to deal with the guilt, because I don’t deserve to feel it.” “Elijah, you killed people. No one deserves that.” “They did.” He pauses. “I want you to shoot me.” “We can’t shoot you, Elijah.” I open my eyes. His eyes are aflame. This isn’t going according to his plan. He begins to move closer to us. “Well, what about now?” We shift slightly to the side so we are not in the line of fire for the police officers. Elijah doesn’t seem to care that they have perfect shots—that is his point, I suppose. “I’ll shoot them!” he says, trying to be convincing. I look over at the police officers. One of them shakes their heads. Another has eyes of stone. A third looks to his fellow officers for a sign of confirmation. They don’t believe he’ll do it. The shooter gets angry at their lack of response. He shakes in anger, and Julia begins hiccuping in fear. I can’t bring myself to move. “You don’t believe me! I will do it!” Bang! Things happen so fast. Officers rush over immediately to remove his gun and try to perform medical measures to save him. One comes directly to Julia and I. My body doesn’t want to move, and Julia won’t leave my side. The ambulance arrives and they send Elijah to the hospital. They ask us questions, especially about the blood covering us, and call our emergency contacts. More and more people come out. I find my phone. There were three bodies found. Another person was injured by a ricocheting bullet, and they were taken to the hospital. The first shot from the shooter was a warning shot. The others were not. The arrival of our parents was what split Julia and I up. A week later, I found out Elijah was sexually harassed, as a joke, by the boys he killed for four years because of his sexuality. Only one of the offenders was still alive, because he left the party early. Elijah left a suicide note
Salveson Prize in Prose 27
documenting everything that happened to him, and his reasoning for what he did. Elijah, despite being rushed to the hospital, died minutes after departure due to a severed spinal cord connection. The injured person was able to return home after two days. Ten of the seventy people at the party unenrolled from the University. Five of the seventy transferred schools. ------------------------------ I meet Julia at the same coffee shop we have met four times before within the last month. We sit at our usual two person table. Sometimes this tradition gets me through the week. “I told my roommate Katie it’s ok to go to parties last night. She’s been refusing to go to them because of me, and she’s been too afraid to tell me. She thinks I’ll freak out or something.” “I mean, I understand her reasoning.” “Yeah. Me too. I just wish things could go back to normal.” I nod. “I have big news, actually.” “Me too. You first.” “I decided that Monday I am going to change my major. I’m thinking of Criminal Justice. I’m not sure where exactly I’ll go with it. Possibly an officer or maybe a victim advocate. I don’t know.” She smiles and tears well up in her eyes. “That’s great. I’m so happy for you.” “So... what’s your news?” She wipes away her tears and forces herself to nonchalantly say, “Well, on Tuesday, I have an appointment with an eating disorder specialist. I’m starting treatment.” She continues to cry. That’s when my wells burst. We both reach across the table for each other’s hand, and I’m sure we look like a couple of crazies, but I don’t care. Our happy tears, almost of relief, are huge. This is a start, and right now, it’s all we need.
Judge’s Comment The haunting truth that what we know of others is only the surface. The story reveals how complex humans are, as well as the systems they create. Laura Cesarco Eglin
Poet and Founding Editor/Publisher of Veliz Books Assistant Professor of Spanish, Simpson College
28 Waldorf Literary Review
Desert
Madina Tuhbatullina
Second Place Salveson Prize in Prose I swing. The bobber plops into the water setting up a familiar tranquility. I let my eyes capture Syr Darya, the river I have so many memories about. On the other side, the yellow of numbered saxauls1 fights the greyness of the fog. Many of them have been planted here to keep the remainder of the Aral Sea alive. People say they are helping. I hear frogs and crickets signing, leaping round. The buzz engrosses me and I almost forget about my pretense-goal – to catch something. The wiggles of the bobber bring me back. I pull: it does not feel like anything significant. It is a little fish of the color of stainless steel and the energy of an ice dancer. Once I went fishing with my wife’s brothers. The catch was good, all sizes. It was a nice day out. We sat down under a humongous round water tank, its light yellow paint was flaking off, revealing the rust of the past. We ran the water from the spigot at the bottom of the tank. I took a knife and proceeded to clean the fish from scales and insides. A cat came about to feast. My in-laws never knew whether cats that frequented them were their pets. But they fed them sometimes anyways. I threw the cat a little shiny fish, the most common in the vicinity. The cat ate right there, bobbing its head while devouring it, reminding me of a pigeon. Ajva, then five, ran up to watch. She asked, “Are these fishes crazy? Why are they jumping like that?” Some of them were still alive. After that question, they would forever be called crazy fishes in our house. I throw the crazy fish back into the water. There is a lot of work involved in cooking them and hoping my daughters, Ajva and Inna, will not swallow any bones. Of course, they are older now and far away; I don’t have to worry about that. Habits. The trees on the other side of the river start moving slightly, tilting to the right. I feel the wind’s passage as it inhibits breathing for a moment. The sounds change into something more unsettling. The buzz is a whirl. The crickets are not to be heard, or frogs. It is one of the louder silences. The tips of my pointy ears sting; I know they are red now. They are very sensitive to cold.
1
A species of trees or shrubs common in Asia that has a stabilizing effect on salt in desert soils.
Salveson Prize in Prose 29
I had never paid attention to that until I saw Ajva wearing a smaller pair of my reddened pointy ears one winter morning. She had never liked hats for some reason. Maybe, her short thick braids didn’t allow for one. It is already snowing where she is now, I hope she wears a hat. The bobber is motionless. The wind dies down. It takes all the life away with it. I wait for another half hour. Nothing. It is too tranquil. There is no point for me to stay here. It’s time to start packing my duffel bag. I fold the fishing rod Inna bought me. It has been serving me well. There’s little chance of me getting a new one, since Inna is not coming home anytime soon. Maybe not coming back at all. I place the rod carefully in the bag. Having packed, I give the river a glance. Still no life. Staying any longer is pointless. Somehow, that makes my heart’s beat increase in sound. I touch my chest while breathing slowly. Maybe tomorrow I will look for another spot, where I can make use of the fishing rod. The road home is bumpy, but I manage to get a half hour nap on the bus. Warmth settles on me as a walk into our apartment. There is a smell of black tea with milk, our 6 o’clock ritual. In the living room, there is a little square table, not high enough to have high chairs to go with it like in Western culture, but not low enough to lay kurpacha2 next to it and sit on the floor, like in many Uzbek households. So we put low armchairs parallel to the table, it’s always uncomfortable, but that is the best place in the house. Maviya is watching a Turkish show, tensely waiting for another shocking turn. “Any fish?” she says. “No,” I reply. Neither of us are ever disappointed at that, since it is more of a hobby for me. Very rarely do I surprise her with a “Yes!” I walk into the balcony to set my fishing tools in their usual corner, go into the bathroom to wash my hands and face, and head to the living room for the hot, milky pink tea served in a
Nothing. It is too tranquil. There is no point for me to stay here.
2 A thin hand-made mattress popular in Central Asia. 30 Waldorf Literary Review
kasa3. Holding it with both palms warms me up quickly. The Turkish show is over and my wife turns her attention to me, “Any news from family in Kazan4?” Maviya says, while reaching for a piece of cheese for her bread. “No. They were supposed to call.” She nods while taking a bite. “It would be great to know sooner.” “Well, if they have made a decision, we’ll know tonight.” “Yeah, I’m just saying, because we need to buy tickets soon, the prices will get higher.” She is irritated; I am not sure at what. I don’t know what I am supposed to say, so I don’t respond. “Am I wrong?” she says, seeing that I am not enjoying the conversation. I stand up and go to the hallway to call my cousins. They moved to Kazan a couple of decades ago. Maybe I should have gone with them, who knows what life would be like? My nephew, Rustam, picks up, “Hi, Arslan, how are you?” “Rustam! Not bad. How are you? How is family?” “Good, good. Well, you know how it is here. But we’re okay.” “Arslan...” His tone grows uncomfortable, I suspect they decided they can’t help. “... we have not decided yet, but we talked about hosting you. It will take a lot of adjustment for you, especially at this age. Are you sure you want to do this?” “Well, yes, if you let me stay, of course. I have no other option.” “I understand. Let me talk to everyone. We will figure something out.” “Okay. Thank you, Rustam.” I hang up, feeling less nervous. When I go back and sit at the table, she looks at me waiting. I tell her, “No news yet.” She is tense, her usual state. Always on her toes, anxious about the future. Her frown makes me nervous about the future too. Every fear that I try to battle, like not being able to pay for our daughters’ education, never seeing them again, losing whatever I have left of my family, everything resurfaces when I see that frown. If I move to Russia to find a better paying job, which became our next strategy, maybe that frown will disappear. I don’t think it will, but part of me thinks selfishly that at least I will not have to see it. I flip through the channels trying to find something interesting. Indiana Jones is on one of the channels, I keep going just to see what else is
3 4
A round cup without handles. The capital of Tatarstan, a republic located in Russia.
Salveson Prize in Prose 31
there. I find a show where the host cuts a salmon into uniform pieces, and puts them next to the cut up vegetables. People say there used to be all kinds of fish in Syr Darya when it flowed into the Aral Sea. There’s barely anything left of the Aral now. My mind sees the beautiful fish being cooked, but I can’t settle it on the beauty. Why haven’t they called back yet? At 9:48 pm I hear a phone call. My heart begins to beat furiously, I get scared when that happens, I am well in my fifties and have had heart issues. I pick up, “Arslan. You can stay with us, uncle!” “Oh, thank God! Thank God! That’s good news. Thank you!” “We will talk to you about all the details, and maybe possible work even.” “Great! Oh, thank Allah, thank you, Rustam. Tell your family, they are good people.” After the conversation, I don’t feel the relief I expected. I go out to the balcony for a smoke. It is certain that I am leaving. I have been to Kazan before, it is a beautiful place. But I was not this old back then, not this settled. My daughters are even further than Russia; we decided they were better off there. It was a good decision, this place is dying out. Everyone’s leaving. I wonder what Russia is like, to work there, to live there. I have been working as a security specialist for so many years; can I still learn to do anything else? The fishing equipment, old and shaggy, catches my eye. They have a better climate. All kinds of fish. Maybe I should be excited about this trip. Trip is not the right word, I’m moving there. Maviya knows that, mother knows that. I am not sure if my mother will live for me to visit her, or her to visit me. But my daughters need a future, so I have to do something. Maviya might follow later. Her job at a school is slowly pushing her out, just like my work has been. I look at my fishing rods again. I think of Syr Darya, the Aral Sea. It’s dying, and no one seems to care. Only a few ecologists and fishermen who plant saxauls to help it survive. About ten years ago, I used to take the family to a picnic on the bank of Aral Sea. Girls splashed in the water, but kept close to the bank. I think it’s in our gene pool to be scared of going too far from home. I fished. It was a big catch, we fried most of it and still had some left. I keep
If I move to Russia to find a better paying job, which became our next strategy, maybe that frown will disappear.
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dreaming that day can come again, with the Aral full of water, the air full of children’s laughter. I hope it will happen someday, but most likely not here. I finish my cigarette with a cough, and wonder if my health will handle the move. I decide to go fishing the next morning, just to look at Syr Darya; then I will go and buy tickets.
Judge’s Comment The readers are privy to a man’s interior landscape. Laura Cesarco Eglin
Poet and Founding Editor/Publisher of Veliz Books Assistant Professor of Spanish, Simpson College
Salveson Prize in Prose 33
Chris and Pete Cecelia Hemsworth
Third Place Salveson Prize in Prose The air has a cold tint in it; when one breathes out a frosty fog comes out of their mouth. Leaves, turn from dark-green-full-of-life to lovely yellows and oranges. As time passes, the leaves fall and die; leaving room for new leaves to grow. Pete walks his dog every single morning. It doesn’t matter if it is raining, snowing, sleeting or windy. It was a sort of routine and meditation, he enjoyed the jaunts through town with Buddy. This was the only thing Pete looked forward to every day; he didn’t like hanging around anyone else. Buddy understood him, that was all he needed. On one of these early morning walks, there was a fog that was cast over the town. Pete walked in long strides, his ragged corduroy blazer flapping in the slight cool breeze. Buddy trotted along, smelling everything that was in his path. Pete looked down at his dog. A black, scruffy, kind hearted mess but was one of the best pets he Next thing Pete knew, his face was on the concrete. He must have tripped on a shoelace. Wiping the bit of blood off of his face and hands, he looked down to see if he needed to re-tie his shoe. He heard a bark, and realized that he had let go of the leash when he had fallen. He got up in a panic, he couldn’t see Buddy anywhere because of the fog. Calling for his name frantically, he started to sprint down the sidewalk. He could feel the pain in his legs, just like the times in grade school when he would play tag. Except, this was something much more urgent. Pedestrians looked at him, jumping out of the way. They may have seen the dog, but how was that their responsibility? On the road ahead of Pete, the light was yellow. Buddy was chasing a stray cat, and was headed right for the road. An old, battered, 1972 blue Chevy truck rushed the light. Pete got there just in time, to see Buddy hit by the vehicle. With a guttural scream, Pete dropped to his knees with his head in his hands. After a couple of seconds, he looked up at the scene. What he saw, he couldn’t fathom. Chris, his childhood friend, was laying there. 35 years prior to this moment, Chris had died in a car accident when Pete was there. It was Pete’s fault, he should have caught up to Chris. Pedestrians continued to walk around
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Pete, who was curled up in a ball at this point, sobbing on the sidewalk. He began to flash back to that very moment. Chris jumped over every crack on the sidewalk. “If you step on a crack, you break yo momma’s back, Pete!” He doubled over, wheezing with laughter, his glasses starting to slip off of his nose. He held onto Pete’s shoulder to stable himself. After Chris had caught his breath, they both began to walk down the sidewalk. They began to talk about the future, what they wanted to do with their lives. “The LAST thing I wanna do,” Pete said, “is go to school this morning, Chris. What I want to do is play tag, and football, and eat ice cream whenever I want to eat ice cream!” Chris agreed full heartedly, and they decided to break out into a race to the end of the sidewalk. “Last one smells like your farts, Pete!” “Catch me if you can!” Chris shouted over his shoulder. Pete saw Chris just ahead of him, he still had time to catch him! He took in a breath, and started to move his legs faster than what they were moving before. He could feel the pain in his legs, but he knew it was all going to be worth it soon. After this exciting race between the two, it became a very close camera finish. “I won,” Chris said. “No, it was me!” Pete said. “No you dummy, I won, you’ve always been the slow one.” This argument continued, and slowly Pete made his way into the street, yelling at the top of his lungs. HE was the winner, and Chris was not. Pete pushed Chris, and continued to yell that he was clearly much faster than Chris; he always was when they raced. Sometimes he would let him win, because he felt bad that he beat Chris all the time. They continued yelling, pushing each other back and forth in the middle of the street. The light was yellow. A truck, similar to the one that hit Buddy, hit Chris with a solid crack and crunch carrying Chris five yards on its grill until the shrieks of the brakes stopped, dropping Chris to the pavement as it stopped. A woman scrambled out of the vehicle, and saw she hit Chris. Pete ran over, screaming, hoping his friend was okay; but knew even as young as he was that Chris did not make it. It was all his fault.
It was Pete’s fault, he should have caught up to Chris.
Salveson Prize in Prose 35
Months later, after the incident, Pete woke up in the morning; just like he used to, he took a deep breath, kept his eyes shut for a couple of seconds and got up out of bed. He grabbed the faded purple and white flowers that were sitting on his dresser. Even though they were fake, they still looked as though they were wilted and dying. Pete knew that people died, just like his father, mother, grandma and grandpa. The only issue with Chris dying was that Pete was left behind, with no friends. He had come to the realization that maybe it was time for something new. He began his long walk. It was a brisk morning, and there was a fog still throughout the town, which he thought was ironic. He thought back at the time of Buddy’s death, took a long deep breath, and continued on his way. He stopped where he had imagined Chris getting hit by the car. He held the delicate flowers in his hands, recalling the time they ran through the flowerbeds at the school when they were playing tag at recess. Pete began his walk to the cemetery. He dragged his feet up the short but steep grassy hill, and walked up and down the tombstones. He didn’t know where Chris was exactly, but he knew he was lying here somewhere. Eventually, he found him, a grave covered in moss. He scraped it off so he could see Chris’s name, and when he passed. He laid the flowers down, and said goodbye to his friend that had been there with him all of those years. Pete looked up, eyes foggy with happy tears, and could see Chris give him a friendly wave by a cluster of trees near the edge of the cemetery. Chris then pushed up his glasses, smiled one last time, and turned away. Pete knew he would never see him again, but had come to peace with that.
He didn’t know where Chris was exactly, but he knew he was lying here somewhere.
Judge’s Comment This story shows how hard it is to overcome the past. The present always holds remnants of this past, like a shadow that will always be there even if at times it gives us respite. At the end of the day, it will always be Chris and Pete—together. Laura Cesarco Eglin
Poet and Founding Editor/Publisher of Veliz Books Assistant Professor of Spanish, Simpson College
36 Waldorf Literary Review
Running Up That Hill Casey Fraser
The steaming cup of hot chocolate melted the cold from my fingers. I cannot believe how freezing the weather is today, and it’s only October. I took a sip forgetting that the liquid is like molten lava. Ugh, at least it’s Friday, and I can work from the café on various projects in relative silence. I just need to finish up the paragraph for this article, then I can go home and watch Netflix. I looked up as the bell chimed hoping that it was Daniel coming in for work; he makes the best pumpkin bars shaped like cute little bats. Instead I saw a familiar woman shaking the cold off her jacket as she walked up to the counter. I felt a weird pull, and I walked over to her.
“Excuse me.”
“Hmm?” She made a questioning noise before turning to face me. There is no way I know this woman. “Yes?” “Ah! I’m sorry. You... just seemed familiar, but I guess I was wrong. There’s no way I would ever forget a face as beautiful as yours.” I blinked a couple times processing what I just said. Shit. Did I really just hit on a stranger? She probably thinks I’m some kind of perv trying to pick her up.
She just offered to hang out with a complete stranger; I would be more wary if I was her; maybe I should be wary of her.
“Ha-ha. Oh wow, that was corny. Do you say that to all the pretty ladies that walk in here, or am I just that special?” She has a slight smirk on her face, and she doesn’t seem like she minds that I hit on her. I mean, she is cute. Maybe I can chat her up and get to know her. “Y’know, you’re pretty cute yourself.” Oh God, did I say that out loud?! “Do you mind if I sit with you? I’d like to get to know you more if that’s okay?” “Umm, yeah, yeah. That would be dope. Er, I mean that would be great, cool. Um, I’m just gonna go sit over there while you order and um...
Prose 37
yeah.” I walk over to the table trying not to trip over my own feet. I busy myself with my laptop until she sits down across from me. She just offered to hang out with a complete stranger; I would be more wary if I was her; maybe I should be wary of her. I wonder if she does things like this often, a more spontaneous person than I could ever be. Although, I did approach her first and blurt out that she was beautiful.
“My name is Mia.”
“Huh?” Hearing her name sparked something. Long, fiery red hair and the smell of sweet pea reached my nose. Why did I think of that? Her hair is definitely more of a honey brown color than bright red and the smell is gone. Shit, she told me her name, and here I am spacing out. “Ah, I’m Dani.”
... I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I had a weird feeling when I was with her. It wasn’t bad, but it was really strange.
*** After parting ways with Mia, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I had a weird feeling when I was with her. It wasn’t bad, but it was really strange. I’m not usually that bold at giving my number to someone, but I loved talking with her. We just got along so well. I pulled out my keys to my apartment and stuck them in the lock. When I twisted the key, the doorknob did not turn. I attempted a few more times by taking the key out and making sure it was in all the way, and the door finally opened. The landlord really needs to get new locks. One of these times, it is not gonna budge, and I’m gonna be stuck outside freezing my ass off. I can’t wait to go to bed. *** White doors carved with large golden numbers line the hallway I am in. The numbers glow even in the light, and I run my finger across one. The gold shimmers around my finger as it slides over it; my finger catches on several divots in the door probably caused by the force of time. There’re like thirty doors here, am I supposed to pick one or go through all of them? I look at the door to my left; it bears the number one. Best to start at the beginning, right? As I touch the doorknob, memories flood my mind: two women kissing cloaked by the
38 Waldorf Literary Review
shadow of a large stone column, laughter lilting through a public bathhouse, tears kissed away by soft lips, star-watching and picnics. I grip the doorknob tighter and turn it. *** “Please, I didn’t do it.” My head snapped up at the sound of a woman’s voice. It sounds so familiar, but she doesn’t look like anyone I know. “I love my country and its people. I would never-” The woman was jerked to the side as an older man hit her across the face. “Silence! You have already been deemed guilty. Now face your punishment.” The woman was grabbed roughly and jerked into a chair in front of the crowd. She was wriggling, trying to get her arms free from the hands that trapped her, but her attempts did nothing to help. Tears ran down her face, and she pleaded for anyone to help her as the man from before prepped a bottle of some liquid. This is not good, but what can I do? The crowd is so thick, and if I interrupt, I might be the one sitting up there. I can’t just let her die, though. My legs are rooted to the ground, and my lungs have ceased taking in air. “Here is a vial of hemlock. Drink it all.” The man grabs her by the chin and forces the liquid into her mouth. She struggles but has no other choice but to drink. The men release her arms, confident that her fate has been sealed. The crowd watches with bated breath to see how she will react. After a while, she drops to the floor, and my heart sinks. I fight my way to the front and drop to my knees in front of her. I grab her limp body and try to hold her close to me. She looks up at me but shows no sign of speaking or moving. “You can’t die. Please don’t die. I love you, I always have.” My throat feels raw, and I can’t speak anymore. You are my world as I am your star, and our love is as pure as anyone else’s. They have no right to denounce us. I am so sorry, I should have been the one to... I mean... if only they hadn’t found our letters in your possession. They wouldn’t have suspected anything. I hold her closer as I sob. I feel her breath on my neck slow and eventually stop. *** The white hallway is blinding compared to the darkness I was facing before. What the hell was that? That woman... she reminded me of Mia. Will I see her again in the next door? I walk further down the hallway and grab a doorknob. Visions of days spent together in the library, holding hands and running through the forest, thundering gasps breaking the silence of night, and
Prose 39
love letters penned in secrecy pass through my mind. I brace myself for what will happen next and open the door. *** “May this witch be purified by the holy fire, and all the spells she cast upon her victims be reverted.” What the hell? I was surrounded by people, all wearing peasant clothes. This is like something out of the movie The Village. I looked forward to seeing what the crowd was hypnotized by and almost screamed. A young woman was tied to a pyre ready to be lit. When I locked eyes with her, she seemed like she already accepted death. My heart clenched at the thought, and I attempted to push my way through the crowd. Someone roughly grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back. “Please! She’s not a witch. You need to stop this. Let me go! She hasn’t done anything wrong!” The people around me ignored my screams while the hands clenched my arms tighter. She can’t die. God, please. Don’t let her die. I can’t bear to watch her die like this; I love her more than anything in the world. Please, stop this. Please. Let me take her place. Kill me instead. Please. My prayers went unheard, as they lit the torch. Tears ran down my face, and I just screamed as loud as I could. I thrashed and threw myself to no avail. The torch was dropped into the sticks, and I was forced to watch it climb up her legs. She started screaming, and the air was permeated with the scent of burnt flesh. She struggled for so long before her body went limp. The hands holding me let go, but I lost the will power to keep myself up. I slouched into the ground and sobbed. Why couldn’t I be the one to die? Why her? Why take her? She was so pure and kind. She .... *** Back in the hallway, I place my hands on my knees while I try to suck in as much air as I can. The cold air burns my lungs, but I still feel as if I am suffocating. Okay, I really wanna leave this place. I don’t know if I can take another one. How do I get out? I stand up and look at both ends of the hallway. One end has a bare wall, and the other holds a door much like all the others. I guess I have to go to the last door. Maybe it says exit on it instead of a number; that would be convenient. I walk to the end of the hall toward the last door. It has twenty-three carved into it. So, not the exit, but it is the highest number. This looks to be the only way to go. Unless I really do have to go through all these doors. I grab the knob and ignore the rush of memories as I push the door open.
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*** “You fuckin’ dykes!” was the only thing I heard before a fist smashed into my face. My feet slid back against concrete, but I steadied myself. I wasn’t able to move much before something hit me in the side. I don’t think that was his fist. I stepped back trying to put distance between myself and my attacker. “Get the fuck away from me you freak!” I was shoved from behind. How many people are here? Where am I? I need to fight back. I blindly swung a fist into the person I knew was in front of me. I heard a grunt of surprise, but he was quick to send another hit my way. My back slammed into the pavement. A kick to my stomach made my lungs ache as the wind was knocked out of me. Several more feet stomped into my body, and all I could do was try to protect my head. One of them grabbed my hair and slammed my face into the ground, ripping some hair out with the force. Eventually they stopped kicking me after what felt like hours, and I heard their boots clunk out of the alley. I was reeling from the blows, and the world was spinning much too fast for me to keep up. I felt the cold, slimy ground of the alleyway seep through my jacket. Blood was running down my face, and when I pressed my hand against my side, it revealed even more. Oddly doesn’t hurt for how much I got my ass kicked. A woman grabbed my head and placed it onto her warm thighs, and I couldn’t help but snuggle a little closer, smearing blood onto her jeans. I barely heard her frantic voice while she was shaking above me. Tears fell from her face sliding down mine mixing with the blood that hasn’t stopped dripping onto the concrete. Why is she crying? I don’t want her to cry. I reached up trying to find her face, and found it when a warm hand held mine to her cheek. I slid my thumb back and forth trying to soothe her and wiping blood on her face in the process. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. Don’t worry, help is on the way. You need to stay awake now.” She grabbed my face between her soft hands and pleaded with me. “Please, look at me, honey, and stay awake. Don’t fall asleep.” I was so tired, but I couldn’t leave her while she was freaking out. I strained to keep my eyes on hers, the most gorgeous shade of brown I’ve ever seen. I stared at her burning every detail I could into my memory, and my eyes traced lines with her freckles. “Don’t worry, beautiful. Hey, I hope you know CPR, because you are taking my breath away.” I tried to flash her a reassuring smirk, but the throbbing in my cheeks made me cringe instead. She gave me a watery smile in return. The warmth was seeping out of my body, and I felt so cold. I was extremely grateful
Prose 41
for the heat rolling off her, but I couldn’t move any closer as my limbs betrayed all commands to move. Am I going to die like this, ‘cause some stupid punks thought that our love was disgusting? I won’t ever again get to make pancakes with Mavis in the morning listening to cheesy love songs and serenading her with my awful voice, wrapping my arms around her from behind while she cooks and kissing her on the cheek, or getting surprise kisses when she pops out from around a corner to scare me. She’s the best thing I have. Black spots invaded my vision, and my eyelids were winning the fight to close. My body went limp, and the last thing I heard was Mavis’ frantic cries. *** I woke up in a start to my phone buzzing but quickly laid back down after realizing the excruciating pain that I was in. Oh God, my whole body feels like I’ve been hit by a truck. I felt a wetness run down my face, either from sweat or tears I’m not sure. If those really were memories of our past lives.... I grabbed my phone to see who texted me. “Hey, it’s Mia from the café. I’m free later at 6 if you wanna hang out? ;*”
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A Quarter for the Crows Dillion W. Daniels
They circled overhead, little reptilian sprites of death; feeding on the carrion of lesser animals and street refuse. This was the off season for human death. These were days of plenty, for man at least, and the decades old cement and rebar gutters of this new nation had never tasted blood. Neither had the crows. They’d live on the excess fat of human beings, their trash and shit, for generations. It was a living to be sure, but it was no party. Not one crow had even a taste of Man flesh in nearly 13 generations. But some of the older ones had stories, the old crows who had lived so long their nests were nothing but shiny things. Some had lived so long they even had solid silver half dollars tucked away beneath piles of screws and cheap cats eye marbles. These old crows remembered the stories of the ancestors, the stories the younger generation had all forgotten. The old crows were known to complain that the younger crows were too busy chasing newer and shiny things to remember the old ways of the crow; which coincidentally enough was eating worms and collecting new and shiny things. The old crows told stories that were generations old. From the old times before a crow could live perched on a traffic light, dropping walnuts down to be crushed by car tires; then waiting for a red light to eat up the pieces. They told of times when Crows didn’t have to live on trash or worms or even car crushed walnuts. In the old days they lived on the flesh of dying and dead human beings. The acrid, truffleflavored exquisiteness of rotting mankind. The old crows remembered stories where the human beings in this land killed each other en masse. You see, long ago a different sort of human being came to Crowdom. They were white. Even before the crows of the east could bring word to the crows of the middle, all the first people, the red people, were dying. They were dying so fast the crows couldn’t be bothered with
In the old days they lived on the flesh of dying and dead human beings. The acrid, truffle-flavored exquisiteness of rotting mankind.
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the harder bits. They just pecked out the buttery eyeballs. The crows ate well for many years, even after the plagues. There were always some human beings killing other human beings. In those times humans didn’t worry so much about burying their dead. There were so many dying all the time. The old crows were fond of saying that in those days’ humans had more respect for crows, they had more sense. They knew the crows were the rightful owners of this cursed land, and had a right to be fed. Many years passed in relative comfort. The crows dined equally on human garbage and human flesh. Forced only rarely to scavenge like cave birds for nuts and berries. Then came another great period of feast. There were no more red people for the white people to kill, so the white people made up reasons to turn on and kill each other. Some of the crows had their nests lined with the papers humans liked to read and wipe their asses with at the time. Some of these nest linings bore the curious human symbols: 1.8.6.0. The reason the white people made up for killing other white people was this: some of the white people felt that the black people that they had brought to the cursed land, should be owned by the white people since they had brought them here fair and square. The other white people thought that all people, black, and white, and red; should be owned by the fat people, by the people who owned everything else anyways. So the white people killed each other. They used fire to shoot metal and burn each other to death. Human beings had gotten very good at butchering themselves for the consumption of the crows. Many times, all the tasty innards were already splayed out. Although most crows didn’t care for the burnt ends. All a crow had to do was pick at what he wanted to eat and then fly away to fornicate in the berry bushes with a crow who liked his collection of shiny things. For four years the crows lived high on the human hog. They wouldn’t even look at animal carrion, all filled with leaves and such. Berries became a sort of post coital ritual. Something to clear the throat after breeding. But alas, all good things come to an end. Spring turns to summer, summer turns to fall, fall turns to winter. So it was for the crows. After the little nest scraps marked 1.8.6.0 began to melt away, and new nests had to be made; things steadily began to dry up. Sure some lucky murder got to dine in a lovely manner; there were always labor standoffs and protests gone wrong, or the poor lynched body of a black human. Oh those were especially lovely to the crows. They were never cut down, so the lesser animals could never get to them. The crows of that lucky murder could just feast and feast for days. At one point, when the human papers were embellished with the strange characters M.L.K. and X and 1.9.6.0; the crows dined on so much black flesh they started to get cavities in their beaks! Something unheard of until then
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amongst the crow community. Since then it’s become a stand a crowatarian knowledge not to ingest too much black flesh, too rich, aged too long, and full of too much history; “It’ll rot your beak out!” the old mamma crows say. Coincidentally a new dietary trend has come about in the crow community. The experts say that white flesh, at least here, is no good either! It’ll give a crow the gout. Too much salt. Too much sugar. Not enough fear. Of course this all came from ‘naturalist crows’ who think crows should go back to the old ways, eating berries and worms, animal carrion and seeds. “They’re all a right bit of loonies,” the older crows say. Young crows turning their backs on the rich history of crows eating man flesh. By and large though, Crowdom fell on hard times. The people stopped killing each other. And even when they did, they swept the bodies away, and buried them too deep for any crow beak to reach. Every so often, a lone crow would stumble across some human choosing to live in the woods for a week. The crow would be hanging around because the bears there often left little bits for him out of respect, the bears have never forgotten who’s crowdom this crowdom is. Well, every so often this human would get lost and starve to death, or better yet, in the later part or the year, a bear would find him; and for nothing at all a crow could have a five-star human innards feast. Such a crow was hailed as rebellious, going on without a murder. After such an exploit he might as well have been a Rockstar. The crow community has suffered immensely by this cultural fixation: young male crows going off in search of the promised land; human flesh waiting to be pecked in 1 million hectares of wilderness. Foolish. But admirable. The old crows shook their head remembering what it was like to be young. So it was that crows of the Cursed Land settled into the perpetual famine that human beings called ‘peace.’ Every so often the Cursed Land murders would hear of extravagant orgies; feasts in far away places over the no-crow-land humans call the sea. Aquatic birds that backpacked around the world brought the news, hitching rides on the moving steel islands humans called ships. They brought newspaper clippings with images of humans killing humans on such an immense level that the crows seemed to blacken out the sky with their revelry. The human beings had discovered ways to seal thunder into giant metal capsules. Each thunder capsule erupted into lightning and killed enough humans in one go to feed several murders for a week. They dropped these capsules from the sky by the tens of millions. It seemed all the other crows of the world were still eating like the kings and princes they were, only the crows of the Cursed Land were left to starve. The gulls said that the Old World crows we’re growing so fat; they died happy then and there. Their fat little bodies asphyxiated in human
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eye sockets. But that wasn’t here. The humans here all grew fat and slack jawed while the crow grew lean and very muscular. Some of the murders out west had even resorted to hunting again! It was hard times indeed. Everything here had become stagnant. But it got even worse. As the humans stopped killing each other, they started to reproduce. Suddenly ten million humans became 400 million. And they all wanted what the human beings called dignity, and comfort, and economic rights. So each human ate up a square of crowdom equal to his standing in the herd. So it was that after a while the crows couldn’t even rely on what had sustained their ancestors. Not only were the crows no longer eating humans, now the humans were eating everything the crows had eaten before the humans had even learned to make the shiny things the crows liked so much. That was the thinking crows only solace. That the now humans were making so many shiny things even the youngest crow had a nest packed with shiny slivers of plastic and corrugated iron. This is what the crows had to say. That there had been beautiful times, times of heaping human bodies. Human bodies with pockets holding a few shiny coins that the crows took as trophies of pleasure. Now, the old crows say, the whole thing has been reversed. The crows subsisted on garbage, while their nests grow so fat with worthless things they fall from the trees; their metallic treasures soaked in the yolk of a generation unborn. The old crows had become all filled with doom and gloom. They prophesied a vision of the world where human beings stopped killing each other all together. But not all of them had given in to pessimism. Some of these old crows had other tales to tell. Tales of the future, where human flesh was as common as earthworms on an April morning. You see, these crows were the ones who had taken to wrapping their nests in the human papers with the strange symbols. While they didn’t understand why, they understood the humans had a reason to look at and wipe their asses with these papers daily. So they kept them. They tuck them in walnut shells and in discarded miniature bottles. The crows took to reading the lines on these papers as omens. They looked for what the humans called numbers. 1.8.6.0. 1.9.1.4 1.9.3.9. 1.9.6.8. These numbers corresponded with times when the human beings had died in such quantities, had destroyed everything they made so completely, that the crows dined from the moment they woke to the moment they collapsed in gluttony. The numbers seemed to hold all. The crows thought that maybe these numbers, numbers which corresponded with great human feasts of the past, might somehow relate to the crows of future great feasts in their own land. The crows nest were now lined with scraps of paper that read 2.0.1.8. Although only sparsely. The humans hardly looked at the papers now; and they certainly didn’t
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wipe their asses with them anymore. Now the humans were clear-cutting entire swathes of forests to wipe their asses; and they just stared into black mirrors instead of reading the papers. The crows were delighted by the shiny mirrors, but they were too heavy and clumsy for any crow to carry. Most of the crows who understood numerology didn’t expect much from 2018. They referenced the older papers with ominous dates, assumed these numbers were out of accordance with prophecy. The sages predicted that the human time 2.0.1.8. would be yet another year of famine. So the crows went on crushing walnuts beneath traffic lights. There was a new trend among some of the more scholarly of paper hoarding crows. Some of the crows began looking for omens of the future in the papers, not via the numbers, but of the images of humans printed therein. The papers now were printed with all sorts of images containing human faces and the acts they were caught up in. Some crows had begun to notice similarities between the images printed now, and images printed in the past that were marked with the numbers of feast. The images therein seemed to titillate the crows: There were humans in shirts and pants with angry faces holding signs. Other humans in black armor, humans whose faces were reflective glass; beat back the sign holding humans with clubs and rifles. There were images of humans staring solemnly and fearful at long screens that rolled ceaselessly with brightly colored letters and numbers. Some were clutching paper and crying. There were images of children so skinny and close to death, the crow’s beaks watered and their tongues clicked instinctively. Then there people with nicer shirts and pants smiling in front of crowds of more angry people. There were images of strange bright white creatures with pointed heads marching down streets in tandem. They carried torches. There were pictures of places which had once been forests and were now storms of fire. Many of these images resembled images shown in the good times of the past. Images of fire, and calamities and angry faces. The crows now still eat worms and garbage, they still eat walnuts crushed under car tires that taste of rubber and asphalt. They go on collecting shiny things, and fornicating in berry bushes and trees. They go on reading little
There were images of children so skinny and close to death, the crow’s beaks watered and their tongues clicked instinctively.
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scraps of paper, looking for signs and images of the promised future. They do all these things without complaint, because the crows now know; that good times are on their way. An old battered crow told me all this while I sat outside in the November cold enjoying my libations. Of course, he said nothing. He couldn’t speak because he was a crow. But his eye touched my eye, and it was all full of wisdom. His murder flew overhead squawking. The old battered crow told me that they wanted to eat me. But they couldn’t, because I was young and would run away. The old crow told me that he would share more wisdom with me, if only that when I grew to be old, I would let his offspring feed on me. I told him that seemed reasonable, so I agreed. I told him I hoped this would do for now, and I slid him a worthless nickel-plated quarter. He took it in his beak, cocked his head, and flew away.
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Janis and Her Daydream Sophia Gil
The woods were quiet and cold. They looked like they never ended and were ranging from every color of green and brown. It’s as if they were made for everyone to see them. So huge that it was overwhelming, there were too many trees compared to the family that was about to enter. Janis was not entertained by what was outside, at least not as much as her brother Micheal was. She kept looking down at her camera and trying to get a cool picture of the woods as they drove past them. Mike had his head literally glued to the window staring at the beautiful woods that he would soon be able to smell and touch. He wanted to run through them, dodging the trees and letting the cool air sift through his long blonde hair. Then maybe he could get Janis to come out and take some pictures on her fancy camera and “Mike?! Are you deaf or stupid?” His sister’s words rang in his ears. She basically shouted at him. “What is it ?” Mike replied. “Which room do you want in the lodge?” Mike knew exactly why his sister was asking this, and she hoped he would answer correctly. He knew she wanted the pretty room with the good view and the heater. The one that had an elk in it that their father had shot when they were children. Janis and Mike knew the story so well because their dad would never shut up about “the time I killed a deer 40 feet away and they couldn’t find his heart because it exploded.” They could say it in unison when he began talking about it. It was one of those stories that everyone sighed when he began to tell it. The whole family knew this story, but it was his favorite to tell, so they always shut up and listened out of respect. Mike decided to not be an ass today because he wanted Janis to take pictures of him later frolicking in the woods, even if she would call him a weirdo. “I’ll have the one downstairs with the fireplace. I like the painting in there” Janis smiled so big and pretty, just like she would when she was talking to strangers or her good friends. She looked back down at her camera and took a photo of Mike. Click, flash. It made Mike’s day because now they could go hangout in the woods without her being a snob to him. The drive was another forty minutes and everyone except for Mike’s dad, Jack, had fallen asleep. The road was so smooth and relaxing, it was so
Prose 49
easy to drift to sleep. Jack’s eyelids began to feel so heavy, and he began to get scared. He looked at his wife and his kids. He slowly cracked the window and lit a cigarette to keep himself up. Worked like a charm. The remainder of the drive went smoothly, but there was something off. No deer? Where did they all go? In fact, there were no animals anywhere. They had always seen some kind of an animal on the drive up. There weren’t even any dead animals on the side of the road. “Jeanie, can you wake up and tell me I’m crazy?” Jack said with a chuckle. His wife smiled slightly, “I wasn’t sleeping, just resting my eyes.” Jack explained the lack of life outside. And she said it was probably just too cold for animals today. He shrugged it off and took the exit to get to their lodge. He turned on the radio and smiled at the fact that he got to spend another week with his family, away from work. It was the most peaceful time of his life. They were his favorite people and the only humans who really understood him. Finally he could take pride in something other than his work and his skills; he could be proud to be a family man. He turned on the muddy road that led to the lodge and kept driving. The woods were so empty and quiet, he couldn’t even hear the birds. But it was very cold. Finally he arrived at the gate, unlocked it, and opened both sides of it. The lodge was so huge and so much prettier every year. The sun had just peaked out of the clouds and was aligned perfectly with the tip of the lodge’s roof. Mike and Janis woke up, and they both ran to the trunk to get their luggage and race inside. They went to their rooms and put on some running around clothes as their mom would call it, and ran out into the woods that they knew so well. Janis had her camera around her neck and Mike had his favorite walking stick. They ran and laughed happily, they finally were free to be kids for a few hours. They kept running, even though it hurt. The cold was so hard to run, it felt sharp like they were running through shards of glass. Their lungs filled up with fresh cool air that stung slightly but tasted so fresh and clean. They saw the trees and the colors, and Mike felt his hair flowing behind him. It was so long and light on his head, and his sister felt the same feeling as his with her lengthy
It was the most peaceful time of his life. They were his favorite people and the only humans who really understood him.
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hair as well. They were both smiling and laughing. Janis pulled out her camera and took so many pictures of her brother: climbing trees and running around like a crazy person. He posed with his walking stick, pointing it towards her and the lodge. She took a picture of the lodge, with the sun almost sitting on top of it. What a pretty picture. It began to get dark, and they raced inside the lodge to eat. They gathered around the table together, and Janis talked loudly and happily. She told her parents about how much fun they had already, and how they couldn’t wait for it to be tomorrow, so they could explore again. They ate the most delicious dinner, and everyone went to sleep. Janis stayed up looking at her photos, listening to a Bob Dylan CD on her walkman. She couldn’t sleep because of how happy she was. She wanted to stay up late and watch a movie, maybe laugh some more before her lungs fell into the rhythm of sleep. She laid back down for a few minutes before doing this, and realized how tired she was. I guess we can laugh tomorrow. She woke up to the sun sneaking through a crack in the blinds, hitting her right in the eyes. She sat up and put her legs over the edge of her bed. She felt sore from running and her head hurt a bit. Janis stood up and went over to her mirror to brush her hair before heading downstairs. Her alarm clock showed 2:43 A.M. “Well that can’t be right!” she said surprising herself with how loud she had said this. She probably woke up her parents already; they were such light sleepers. She ran downstairs and saw all the clocks reading the same thing. The power must have gone out. Ugh, my camera is probably dead. She had left it downstairs charging. She walked to it and picked it up off the charger. It wasn’t dead, it had two bars of battery life left. She smiled, thank God she could take some pictures of the beautiful morning. She ran back upstairs to get dressed as quickly as she could before the sun rose too much. Janis ran back down stairs as quietly as she could with her boots on and opened the least creaky door to go outside. She ran away from the house to get the perfect picture, and boy was it going to be great. She hummed the last song she heard before she went to sleep as she took a photo of the house. Oh man look at my life, I’m a lot like you were.. she sang in her head with a click of a camera. She took a few and looked at them when she was done. But what she saw wasn’t the sun behind the lodge. She didn’t see the brown two-story lodge with four windows in the front and a huge black door. She didn’t see the steps leading up to the creaky front door, and she didn’t see the car parked on the side of the house. The picture revealed nothing but trees. It was like the woods without the lodge, just trees and brush. Her heart sank to her feet, and she felt a strange pain in the middle of her stomach and her lungs.
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She was so afraid; fear was a feeling she was not familiar with, and she couldn’t tell if she was going to vomit, scream, or cry.
Maybe it was a problem with the camera, she took four more, click, flash, click, flash, click, flash, click flash. Why was there nothing but trees? She was so afraid; fear was a feeling she was not familiar with, and she couldn’t tell if she was going to vomit, scream, or cry. Janis began to look through the photos from yesterday she took of the lodge, but still nothing. Just the empty woods. No building, nothing. She kept pushing the back button on the left side of her camera, all the way to the first picture she thought she had taken of her brother. It was nothing except for trees and the muddy ground. “No, that doesn’t make any sense”
she said out loud to no one. She took the camera and flipped it around to where the lens faced her and clicked the photo button. Again, she wasn’t there, just the woods behind her. She began to feel a lump in her throat and started crying. Her face was so cold it felt like her tears were boiling hot water rolling down her face. She looked away from the lodge again for no longer than two seconds, and her whole family was standing on the front porch with their pajamas on. Janis jumped and let out a small gasp. “Jesus Christ, you guys! Were you not going to say anything? How long have you been standing there” They continued to stare at her, not speaking or moving. They weren’t even shivering, and it was probably below freezing. She pulled out her camera to take a picture of her family and the lodge, and again nothing. She started to run to them. “Janis” they called to her, over and over again. She ran to the lodge but went right through it. When she turned around again, there was nothing. The woods looked back at her. The car, the lodge, and her family was gone. She fell to the ground on her knees and began crying out to them, asking where they went. Their voices echoed in the woods, and she could hear them talking far away. She ran towards the voices. Her boots felt so heavy, it was like she was running in slow motion. She could barely move and barely breathe, she was out of breath in no more than ten strides. All she could see was the woods, the green and brown woods.
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Janis She smelt a cigarette burning and knew her father must be close. Her name rang in the air, and it wouldn’t stop echoing in the emptiness. She ran for so long and found nothing. Maybe she was running in the wrong direction. She waited for them to call out to her again. She spun around frantically waiting to hear her name again. “Call out to me! Please!” she shouted into the cool air. The only echo she heard was her own. She found a tree that had been chopped down and sat on the stump. Her boots were covered in mud and her face was burning from the sweat and tears. She tried to run her hands through her hair to relax, but it was so knotted from running that it felt coarse. It was so cold, she was so tired and out of breath. She wanted to be back in her room. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to focus and listen to the forest, but all she heard was the trees breathing to the wind. Janis Janis Janis “Janis?! Are you deaf or stupid?” She opened her eyes wider than a deer in headlights. Mike looked at her impatiently. She was breathing so heavy for someone who had been sitting in a car for four hours. “Which room do you want in the lodge?” She looked down at her camera. She was holding on to it so tightly. Her dad was looking at her in the rear view mirror, and her mother had turned around concerned. “Janis, why are you crying?” her mother asked. She saw a deer run by as she stared out her window. “Nothing, I love you.” She took the room with the fireplace and the pretty painting.
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Morning Hours Joe Milan
It’s hard to be frustrated at 4:30 in the morning, with little sleep, when I feed the baby. We take our shift in the nursing chair in the living room in a shaft of light cutting through the window slates from the streetlamp. Baby swims in his onesie and blankets until he latches onto the bottle nipple, takes one deep draw, and then another shallower gulp, and another lighter one until he finds his rhythm. He’s almost two months old. He is finally sleeping longer than two hours a time. By 5:30, I’ve got him in a sling across my chest like a broken arm. I try writing at the table. I try writing in the nursing chair. But my shoulder grinds and aches, and when I uncurl the hunch of my back, baby’s head plunks against an elbow or the edge of the table. Writing doesn’t go well. I’m too tired to know it, but I white-knuckle the pen, and I doodle tornadoes with my arm at a safe angle to keep baby’s head from knocking. But I’m not thinking of head bumps, or even what I’m trying to write: I’m thinking of how there will be no other time, how I’ll never have time to do this or anything else just for me. A clock ticks on the wall and from my watch, marching on through today, tomorrow, and more until their tiny batteries quit. The first friend of mine to have kids told me that having kids was to erase the passions you had and plant the seeds of sacrifice, a penance for all past joy. I didn’t understand what he meant then, and, honestly, not now Time would only either. By 7 am, I haven’t written a be a measure of useful thing. I eat a bowl of cold cereal, writing and not of trying not to spill milk on baby’s head, the rest of my life. but somehow manage to get crumbs in his hair. It’s the only thing I can eat that won’t wake my wife and the firstborn. I hate cereal because that’s what I always ate on those drizzling dark mornings, getting ready for school alone as a
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kid. Cereal crunches between the teeth, and I seethe. I grind. I’m all steel cables and rigid ice cores where supple tendons should be because I have it in my head that a writer who doesn’t write is part of that despicable class of losers: “I could’ve written something great if only life would’ve let me.” I put baby beside my wife, who took care of him while I was at work and most of the night. Sometimes she’s awake to see me stew. But maybe she doesn’t see because she’s blinded by fatigue and seeking the coffee. At 7:45, I’m out breathing cold Iowan air, stomping through snow, slipping on ice, breathing fog in and out of my mask, and smoking my glasses. Balancing on ice is a practiced skill. Walking on ice is a meditation. Listening to the crunch of field snow, cleansing. I can walk. I can work. My kids can scream and laugh and cry together in solidarity and are healthy. Writing time will come in the crevices of the day (like this little piece). By the time I’m opening the door at work, it’s 8:10, and I remember that Stephen King said something like, “Writing supports life, not the other way around.” It’s easy to forget that. Without kids, I would. Time would only be a measure of writing and not of the rest of my life. And it would tick by, frustratedly and not, full of expectation and never savored, negotiated, cleansed, and left to rot.
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A Superior Trip Myra Meyer
Nature is a comfort. It can be a remedy for the majority of any problems and stresses in my life. So, when I was asked if I wanted to go on a last-minute backpacking trip in Michigan’s Porcupine Mountains, I was ecstatic. My boyfriend, Kevin, and I had everything planned out. We had a tent that could withstand almost any storm, plenty of food, fire starters, a first aid kit, and, since I don’t go anywhere without one, a book. I brought the book They Both Die at the End just in case I needed to escape to a different world. Upon reaching our first campsite, nature delivered its first gift to us--a downpour. Kevin and I stood, staring at each other for a solid two minutes while more rainwater collected in our boots before ultimately arguing another three about the best way to remedy our situation. We settled on putting the camp together as fast as possible despite the tempest raging around us. Our tent was made to withstand almost any storm, as long as the storm starts after you finish setting it up. That first night was spent sleeping in the lake that the bottom of our tent had turned into. No amount of shoveling could have emptied the puddle from beneath us. Mother Nature was being unkind. But, we didn’t realize just how much damage her merciless tantrum had caused. The next morning we came upon a river crossing on the trail to our next campsite. Muddy brown water that spanned about twenty feet in width forced its way over rocks and fallen trees. No bottom could be seen underneath. Kevin found a long stick to test the depth of the river, and it appeared to be thigh deep at the point he could reach. We figured that the middle of the river would probably reach our waists. I’m terrified of drowning, but I was feeling adventurous. I felt the need to prove that I could do it. I’m still not sure whether I was proving that I could overcome a deep-seated fear, or if I wanted to prove that I was the
I’m terrified of drowning, but I was feeling adventurous.
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survivalist I always wanted to believe that I was. Maybe it was a little bit of both. I stared at the murky water in front of me and willed myself to do it. I took a deep breath in, filling my lungs with air that was heavy from the rainfall the night before. Kevin went first. If he can do it, I can do it. He made it halfway across and looked back to see if I was okay. I took one more deep inhale before reaching my foot down. I stretched my leg until my boot brushed the bottom. Still at the edge, the icy chill grazed my knees. As it turns out, bravery, or rather striving to be brave, can easily make people stupid. In my hurry to get going, I failed to notice an important sign nailed to a nearby tree. A sign that warned against crossing a river that has high, fast waters right after it rains. Instead of looking for warnings like the one the sign would have provided me, I took step after shaky step on moss-covered rocks and through heavy currents until shaky steps turned into a slip. A slipup that sent me tumbling into a river that was already waist-deep. My tragic downfall re-soaked the clothes that were already damp from the night before. And even more tragically, it drowned my poor book--the only escape I had from the wet tragedy that this trip was turning into. Would we both die at the end of this trip? I clung to life facing my worst fear--a fear of meeting the same fate as my book. My only hope was a slippery rock that was already beginning to release itself from the river floor. All I could think about was holding on and the kinetic potential for death that was slipping beneath my dirty fingernails. Kevin made his way back to the side. It looked effortless. When he had climbed onto solid enough ground to support me, he reached his hand out to help me up. I was jealous. I was angry that it was so easy for him, and I was stuck there, about to be washed away with my fear. And I was embarrassed that I had been so insistent on crossing. I was embarrassed, and terrified. I flinched at the sound of rushing water for the rest of the trip. I spent that entire afternoon afterward dwelling on the incident. I can’t help but wonder what might’ve happened to me. What if I had slipped from the rock? Or maybe the rock would have given way, dislodging itself from the muddy bottom of a raging river. Perhaps I would have tumbled backward, unable to return to the surface with a heavy backpack weighing me down. I could have been ripped away down the river, unable to fight the current. It’s also quite possible that I could have hit my head on unforgiving rocks. The same rocks that put me in that dreaded position. I could have drifted to the mouth of the river where I might have been dumped like a piece of garbage into Lake Superior. A lake that is superior for its icy cold grip. Superior in the jagged teeth of its shoreline. A lake with a size and
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depth that is surely superior. Even the metal graveyard it hosts beneath its waves is superior to all but the ocean. I could have been dragged beneath those tyrant waters and lost like so many other boats--forgotten like I was nothing. *** Kevin was upset with me for the rest of the day. Not because I fell into a river, but because I wanted to turn around and backtrack to take a different trail to our next campsite. Kevin wanted to cut through the woods to where the trail would cross back over the river onto this side. But, I didn’t want to take risks and hike off-trail. I guess I wasn’t feeling so adventurous after falling in a river. He begrudgingly did what I wanted, but he made it well known that he wasn’t happy with the decision. He no longer walked with me. Instead, he would hike ahead until I could no longer see him, then he’d wait just until he could see me again before turning around and hiking forward again. Every time the trail curved back toward the river, I could hear it roaring for its lost meal. It made my stomach turn. I felt so alone with a ghost of a boyfriend floating ahead of me, too far to reach, and a monster somewhere to the left, waiting for me to get too close so it can drag me away for real this time. We hiked for a short while before we reached the campsite we had had the night before. We could see Lake Superior, so I knew that I was done with the river for now. The next part of the hike should have been beautiful and calm. We stopped to eat lunch by the lake to take it all in. It was also a great opportunity to take my sock and shoes off and see if maybe my sock could dry in the sun a little while we ate. Kevin chatted away while we ate because he can never go too long without saying something. For a moment, everything was okay again. Of course, it was never going to last that way. We eventually had to put the food away and squish our sore feet back into soggy boots, letting the remaining dampness leak between our toes. We hiked along the lake for a short couple of miles, avoiding puddles the whole time. At one point we found a little salamander on the trail, and we just had to pick it up and play with it. Little did we know that that little guy would be the one redeeming part of
I was on one, never-ending trail with no stop in sight. I just had to keep going.
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our day. Before long, we finally reached the Cross Trail. A trail that was seven miles across the floor of the forest. Seven miles to camp. We could do that no problem. As it turns out, it was seven miles of a swampy mess that did not even resemble a trail. In most places, the water reached mid-calf or higher and there was no way to walk around it. The entire forest floor was one big puddle. The only way to tell if we were still on a trail was by looking for the markers on the trees. We saw one other couple halfway through the trail, which made me feel better since we weren’t the only ones attempting to hike through a swamp. I was starting to feel a sense of panic. A similar panic to what I had felt upon hearing the rush of the river on our backtrack hike. An angry fist was grabbing my lungs and squeezing. My throat was closing up, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. The air coming out of my mouth consisted of mere wheezes. I wanted to cry. Kevin was too far ahead to notice how I felt. All I wanted to do was sit down, but there was nowhere to sit, not even a tree that had tipped over. I was on one, never-ending trail with no stop in sight. I just had to keep going. By the time we reached our campsite, I was ready to flood it with tears. I was ready to let my flood of tears fill the campsite and fall into the river beside it, causing it to be as violent as the part of the river we had met earlier. But that wouldn’t have helped me. We got to work setting everything out to dry. I peeled off my shoes and socks to relieve my feet which were covered in painful blisters that made it difficult to walk. And that night, I fell asleep to the sound of a gentle river pushing its way over rocks and under fallen trees. A river that was no longer filled with the rage of the storm from the night before. The same river that had tried to drown me just that morning.
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What Is Your Warrior Code? Jonathan Klauke
Slowly rowing across a small body of water the warrior looks at the two swords sitting in his raft, his trusted katana and wooden practice sword. Approaching the small isle before him, his mind is immersed in contemplation of his final duel. His opponent, one of the strongest he has ever faced, awaits him. Focused on his challenge he reaches down to retrieve his weapon, leaves his raft, and approaches the opponent who has long stood awaiting him. Swords drawn he observes his opponent; the angle of his sword, where his eyes are looking, his facial expression, the beads of sweat slowly sliding towards his chin, the positioning of his feet and hands, the tightness of his grip and the tenseness of each muscle. His gaze then extends beyond his opponent, to the grass and trees that surround him, the strength and direction of the breeze, the length and direction of the shadows betraying the position of the sun, the wetness of the air and the ground beneath his sandals. Soon his opponent initiates his attack. Anticipating the opponent’s thrust the warrior easily parries the razor sharp steel of his opponent’s katana, his own weapon, body and mind beginning to flow as one. Blades of men bend against each other while blades of grass bend underneath the shifting sandals. No movement is without intention and no act of the opponent is unobserved. The opponent continually changes attacks and grunts with frustration at his repeated failures while the warrior’s mind becomes increasingly empty, calm through practice, knowledge and experience. The opponent makes a slight but fatal error and the warrior smoothly disarms his opponent, winning the duel yet sparing his opponent’s life. After all, how does one kill their opponent with
The opponent makes a slight but fatal error and the warrior smoothly disarms his opponent, winning the duel yet sparing his opponent’s life.
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a wooden practice sword?1 Miyamoto Musashi is considered by many to have been the greatest samurai in history. He was undefeated in more than 60 duels between the ages of 13 and 29. At the age of thirty he decided he did not fully understand the art of sword fighting and retired to a life of study and contemplation. In 1643 AD shortly before his death he completed his Book of the Five Rings which contains the sum of his knowledge of the martial arts. It is not just a philosophy of war, it is a philosophy of life. His lessons are not only applicable to samurai, but to all of us. All of his teachings stem from his warrior code, the nine rules of learning martial arts. For people who want to learn my military science, there are rules for learning the art: 1. Think of what is right and true. 2. Practice and cultivate the science. 3. Become acquainted with the arts. 4. Know the principles of the crafts. 5. Understand the harm and benefit in everything. 6. Learn to see everything accurately. 7. Become aware of what is not obvious. 8. Be careful even in small matters. 9. Do not do anything useless.2 He argues that a samurai must consider and understand morality, what is right and true, what is valid or invalid. Skill requires practice, familiarity, and expertise of the foundations of the discipline. The knowledge of many disciplines and crafts are more useful and necessary in life than specialization. One should not rush into action, activism or application before first taking the time to learn the foundations and principles of each skill, issue or discipline you desire to master. The smallest of cracks or deficiencies in a foundation will cause the whole building to collapse. One must see every side of all things, not just one side of an argument. Further, all possible effects of an action both beneficial and detrimental must be considered. One must learn to see things as they truly are, not how we want them to be or hope they will be, eliminating bias and solving problems by seeking the cause rather than the symptom. Do not limit yourself through confirmation bias or social bubbles.
1
Eiji Yoshikawa, Musashi: An Epic Novel of the Samurai Era, trans. Charles Terry (Kodansha International, 2012). 2 Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings: A Classic Text on the Japanese Way of the Sword, trans. Thomas Cleary (Boulder, CO: Shambhala, 1993), 21-22.
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Observe every detail, not just the obvious ones, like a weakness in an opponent or detail in a source. All large issues begin as small issues, thus beware the small things because they turn into large things. Finally, stay on task, don’t waste time on useless things (turn off that Netflix once in a while and do something useful!) Live an intentional and purposeful life rather than simply biding your time with distractions. Not bad advice for a samurai, or anyone else. Musashi provided further life advice beyond his nine rules. “Thinking unhurriedly, understanding that it is the duty of warriors to practice this science, determine that today you will overcome yourself of the day before, tomorrow you will win over those of lesser skill, and later you will win over those of greater skill.”3 Again, practice leads to skill and success, nothing is learned overnight. Perhaps the strongest line in the entire text is to measure yourself based on who you were yesterday, not in comparison to others. You achieve in life by becoming better today than you were yesterday, not by how you compare to others today. In distinguishing the advantages of the tools of warriors, we find that whatever the weapon, there is a time and situation in which it is appropriate. The side arm, or short sword, is mostly advantageous in confined places, or at close quarters, when you get right up close to an opponent. The long sword generally has appropriate uses in any situation. The halberd seems to be inferior to the spear on a battlefield. The spear is the vanguard, the halberd the rearguard. Given the same degree of training, one with a spear is a bit stronger. ... You should not have any special fondness for a particular weapon, or anything else, for that matter. Too much is the same as not enough. Without imitating anyone else, you should have as much weaponry as suits you. To entertain likes and dislikes is bad for both commanders and soldiers. Pragmatic thinking is essential.4 Musashi argues that samurai should not have a single weapon that they specialize in and rely on in every combat. Rather, a samurai should understand the advantages and disadvantages of each weapon, know which situation they are best suited for and train to master each weapon so that as a situation arises the samurai can choose the most advantageous weapon and be able to utilize it to achieve victory. Similarly, universities teach many subjects (general education) while specializing in a few, this is designed to develop a broad set of
3 Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings, 46. 4 Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings, 19, 20. 62 Waldorf Literary Review
skills in students so that when students graduate and go through life they have a broad set of skills that can be utilized based on the changing situations and conditions of life. At Waldorf we are all warriors, it thus seems fitting that each of us should have a warrior code that one lives by. In developing your warrior code Musashi’s is a great one to start with, but there are many other resources to draw from. The Bible is full of advice for life that a warrior code can be developed from. The book of Proverbs tells us, “he who heeds discipline shows the way to life, but whoever ignores correction leads others astray” (10:17). The book of Ephesians teaches us “do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen” (4:24). And the book of James teaches us to “consider it a pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (1:2-4). Similarly, the Tao Te Ching teaches us to: Undertake difficult tasks by approaching what is easy in them; Do great deeds by focusing on their minute aspects. All difficulties under heaven arise from what is easy, All great things under heaven arise from that is minute.5 Great leaders of history also have much to teach that can help us construct our own warrior codes and rules for life. The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius’ stoic maxims contained in his Meditations teach us “if it is not right, do not do it; if it is not true, do not say it.”6 Like the book of James stated, we all face challenges in life, and there are different ways to react to them. Marcus Aurelius argued that “the impediment to action advances action, what stands in the way becomes the way.”7 When we face challenges we should all “be like a promontory against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm and breaks the waters around it.”8 St. Augustine of Hippo argued in his City of God that how we react to things is far more important than what happens to us.9 While awaiting his own execution Boethius argued in his Consolation of
5
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, trans. Victor H. Mair (New York: Bantam Books, 1990), Ch. 26 (63). 6 Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, trans. George Long (Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 1997), XII. 17. 7 Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, V. 20. 8 Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IV. 49. 9 St. Augustine, City of God, trans. Henry Bettenson (New York: Penguin Books, 1972), Bk. II.
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Philosophy that there is no bad fortune or bad luck in life, only challenges. It is only through overcoming challenges that we grow as individuals.10 Marcus Aurelius concluded with the maxim, “in your actions, don’t procrastinate. In your conversations, don’t confuse. In your thoughts, don’t wander. In your soul, don’t be passive or aggressive. In your life, don’t be all about business.”11 As Musashi stated, do nothing useless, be intentional in life. Maxims and good life advice do not only come from those of our distant past. In Milada Horáková’s final letter to her daughter before her execution at the hands of communist usurpers she urged her 16 year old daughter, “have courage and clear goals and you will win over life.”12 She argued to constantly expand the circle of her worldview, “not only from books, but from people; learn from everybody, no matter how unimportant! Go through the world with open eyes, and listen not only to your own pains and interests, but also to the pains, interests and longings of others.”13 Finally, she encouraged her daughter to “examine, think, criticize, yes, mainly criticize yourself don’t be ashamed to admit a truth you have come to realize, even if you proclaimed the opposite a little while ago; don’t become obstinate about your opinions, but when you come to consider something right, then be so definite that you can fight and die for it.”14 More recently the professor of clinical psychology Jordan Peterson completed his 12 Rules for Life which include: 1. Stand up straight with your shoulders back 2. Treat yourself like someone you are responsible for helping 3. Make friends with people who want the best for you 4. Compare yourself to who you were yesterday, not to who someone else is
It is only through overcoming challenges that we grow as individuals.
10
Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, trans. H. F. Stewart (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962), Bks. II-IV. 11 Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, VII. 51. 12 Milada Horáková, “My only little girl Jana,” 26 June 1950. 13 Milada Horáková, “My only little girl Jana,” 26 June 1950. 14 Milada Horáková, “My only little girl Jana,” 26 June 1950.
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today 5. Do not let your children do anything that makes you dislike them 6. Set your house in perfect order before you criticize the world 7. Pursue what is meaningful (not what is expedient) 8. Tell the truth – or, at least, don’t lie 9. Assume that the person you are listening to might know something you don’t 10. Be precise in your speech 11. Do not bother children when they are skateboarding 12. Pet a cat when you encounter one on the street15 One of the focuses of Peterson’s book and rules is the importance of confronting one’s problems and fulfilling one’s responsibilities in life. Similarly, Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl argued that “life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets before the individual.”16 This came from his observation in the concentration camps that “what was really needed was a fundamental change in one’s attitude toward life. We had to learn ourselves and, furthermore, we had to teach the despairing men that it did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us.”17 We each have a potential in this world that only we can bring to fulfillment, a change in the world that no one else can bring about. It is through fulfilling our responsibilities that we can identify and achieve that potential. If any individual fails to do this, no other person in the world is capable of achieving it and this change to the world is lost forever. It is that potential and fulfilling it that gives our lives meaning, even in hopeless situations. We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted by a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed. For what then matters is to bear witness to the uniquely human potential at its best, which is to transform a personal tragedy into a triumph, to turn one’s predicament into a human achievement. When we are no longer able to change a situation we are challenged to change ourselves.18 Our lives will take many paths and each have many challenges
15
Jordan Peterson, 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos (Toronto: Random House, 2018). 16 Victor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning (Boston: Beacon Press, 1959), 77. 17 Victor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning, 77. 18 Victor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning, 112.
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along the way. At Waldorf we encourage our students to find their vocation, where their passions meet the needs of the world. However, you don’t have to wait until you graduate to change the world. Every time we stop to have a conversation, plant a seed, complete a project, lend a hand or give a word of encouragement we are changing the world around us, leaving it different than it was before. Every time we interact with a person or object we leave a little bit of ourselves in it or them when we move on. What we leave and how the world changes depends solely on who each of us are as individuals. As the book of Proverbs states, “as water reflects the face, so one’s life reflects the heart.”(27:19) Who we are as individuals (not what we are) determines everything else. Improving oneself requires honest self-reflection of who we are and clear intentions of who we desire to be. Forming a warrior code, or rules for life, can set you on the path to be the person you desire to be, and thus effect the change in the world you desire. There are many warrior codes and rules of life from history to draw from. When Musashi left his raft to fight his opponent his warrior code led him to success, even with the disadvantage of facing a warrior’s steel katana with only a wooden practice sword. All of you Waldorf Warriors, I now challenge you to develop your own warrior code, live by it, and achieve the potential that life requires of you.
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Who I Am Now Sara Rodriguez
Getting to the field with the sun at the highest point of the day and leaving the field with stars in the sky has always been something I dreaded until the day it was taken away from me. Growing up in a family that only consisted of athletes, there was nothing else expected for me to do. Although my parents always claimed I had the choice to stop and start something new, I always knew what the right choice was. My father grew up playing soccer and baseball, while my mother grew up playing softball. My brother was a big star athlete that no one ever wanted to face on the field. Then there was me. My parents first put me in soccer when I was about five years old. Growing up I didn’t mind it too much, practice three times a week, games on Saturdays and my favorite part, the oranges at half time and the snacks after the game. That lasted until I was about 11 years old. At 11, softball was introduced to me. I absolutely hated the whole introduction that came with the first week of practices. I didn’t want to say my name, age, or my favorite thing to eat. The ice breakers were the worst because I was so timid and didn’t know how to talk to anyone. Looking back I assumed that’s why I didn’t enjoy the sport the way the other kids did. They all laughed and had a good time together while I was standing by the sideline being coached by my parents. At the age of 15, my world was turned around for the better, I’d like to say. Before the incident I was a self centered 15 year old who had drama, boy trouble, not to mention the “changes” I was going through. April 4, 2018 was the day that not only my outlook on soccer but my outlook on life changed. The flame within me grew and I knew I wanted to better myself for me. I wanted to prove things to myself, not for anyone else. April 4, 2018, I was coming home from another long day of school hungry and tired from my seven classes. It had been a very boring day because I had gotten my phone taken away from my parents the night before, which in my young teenage years was nothing new. My dog was waiting for me at the gate which she always does at this time. I was always the first one to come home so my dog was always very eager and excited to see me. Only this time she wasn’t. I took her out to use the restroom like normal, but she didn’t have to go, which was strange. That was when I realized that someone was home. It was my mom. Immediately, a bunch of questions as to why she was home early
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from work began to pop into my head. I began to sweat and my heart started to race. Initially, I thought to myself, “Could I be in trouble?” At that moment my mom and I weren’t talking to each other just because we were both so hard headed. I was so nervous to walk in that I dried my clammy hands on my jeans right before reaching for the door knob. I hesitated to walk in with fear for what was waiting on the other side. I started to think the worst, that something had happened within my family. I felt my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach. Finally, I opened the door to find that the house was silent as if no one was home. I turned to see my dog and she went straight to my mom. My mom’s face was pale and blank, like a piece of paper. All that was heard was the hands of the clock ticking and my dog’s paws hitting the hardwood floor. Tears began to flood my mom’s eyes. I couldn’t imagine what she was about to tell me. I assumed she was going to apologize about the argument we had the night before but right away I knew the problem was bigger than that. I slowly crept up to her and sat beside her. Her body was cold. When I felt her arm against mine it gave me the shivers. My arm hairs stood up. After a few seconds still no words were exchanged between me and my mom. Then she wraps her arms around me. Her cold fingertips laid on my back and her racing heart was racing against my chest. She began to cry. Tears were running so hard down her face that they were going all the way down to her neck. She began to ask me if I was okay. Crying, hugging me and slurring her words, my mom could not control herself. At this time I still had no idea what was going on but I knew I didn’t like seeing my mom be in this position. In a sudden moment, everything changed. Her grip became harder, her heart raced even harder. I asked her, “What is wrong?” but there was no response. She began to feel warm, hot almost. My mom let go of me and I saw a bead of sweat on her forehead. Her eyebrows were arched down and all her worry lines were showing. She took out my phone and began to look through it. I did not understand what she was looking for. My mom went straight to my messages between me and my coach. Again, she hugged me but only this time it was different. There were no worry lines on her face and her eyebrows were going back to normal. The tears came
‘I got a phone call from one of your teammates today,’ she said. ‘Your coach, Frank, has been arrested for child molestation.’
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back and she began to talk. “I got a phone call from one of your teammates today,” she said. “Your coach, Frank, has been arrested for child molestation.” At the moment, I was at a loss for words. She continued by saying, “It is all over the news,” while flipping through channels to find the right one. At that moment, I felt my world slide out from under me. My hands began to shake and get sweaty. I started to get light headed, nauseous even. I had so many questions as to how this even got out. I felt my body go numb, my thoughts everywhere. I zoned out from what my mom was saying and just heard mumbling come out of her. Her face got blurry and all I could hear and see was the news reporter talking about what was going on in his investigation. I was in denial about what was going on. I had spent my entire summer for the past two years with him. I had spent so much time with this man just to find out he had a different agenda. At first I was embarrassed, I just imagined what people would say or what their thoughts about me would be. Moments later the feeling of betrayal is all that went through my body. My shoulders felt heavy and I began to slouch over into my mom’s arms and asked, “How could this even happen?” After, the problems I had didn’t seem to matter anymore and all I could think of was his family. He had three kids and all I could imagine was what they were going through. I had gone from thinking “What about me?” to “His poor family.” I knew I was bound to have trust issues with other male coaches and that I would stop playing soccer for a while. For a few weeks, I felt like Frank had taken something away from me— something that I never thought would be taken from me, and if so it would be due to injury. I was embarrassed by all the comments that were made at school and around town about him. The worst one ever made to me was when people would ask, “Was it you?” Everyone knew that me and Frank had been together the longest and that we had a close player/ coach relationship. It was an ongoing investigation, so I just kept hoping and praying for a positive outcome. I was ignoring all the comments that were being made about him. Unfortunately, a few weeks later, he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two years in jail. Although he
For a few weeks, I felt like Frank had taken something away from me— something that I never thought would be taken from me...
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was guilty, he never did anything to me to lead me to believe he was that type of person. He never put me in uncomfortable situations. It pained me to hear comments from his players who said, “I knew it all along” There was never anything to know. Frank’s life would be changing for the worse from this point on. I decided to dedicate myself to soccer and do something big with it so he didn’t feel like all of his life’s work was going to go to waste. Over the next couple of years, I set out to make myself all around the ultimate player. It was tough at first because it was hard to find a coach who was as talented as him, and who truly wanted you to get better and had their best interest for you. I started to eat the right food for my body and tried to cut out the things that I didn’t need. I started trying in school, I would just do the bare minimum but I began to go the extra mile. At home I would wake up and do my own workout so I could get stronger and I would take out my dog for runs to stay in shape. Within two years, I had many accomplishments in soccer. My club team placed second in State Cup, placed first in regionals, and second in nationals. At nationals, I earned the Golden Glove award which meant I was the best in the nation. For high school, the soccer team completely turned around the women’s program from a losing team to a winning team. We placed second in league and it was the first time in school history that we had made it to the playoffs. That same year, I earned First Team and an All League award. Within those two years, I also made the decision to sign to Waldorf University to further my soccer career. It was the goal for Frank, to get me ready to play at the college level. The day Frank was arrested, I felt like something had been taken from me. I didn’t realize what I had and it was an ugly feeling to have taken something so big in my life for granted. Frank and soccer had taught me to become a hard worker, which meant to do what you are told and then go above and beyond that. I also learned how to adapt to new things. It was hard to be looked at differently by people after what had happened to Frank, but instead of letting it shut me down, I decided to rise above it. Being coached by Frank was already a humbling experience, but to have it all taken away was just a wake up call for me. It taught me to not take anything for granted.
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Innocence
Noah Keolanui-Herman
First Place Salveson Prize in Art
Judge’s Comment The strength in this image is truly in the eyes of the subject. There is beauty in them and we as an audience are left wondering what sort of story do the eyes contain and what sorts of things have they seen. The emotional impact can be felt more in the fact that the image is in grayscale which is a wise decision on the creators part. Not only are we seeing one’s eyes, but it’s as if they are begging us to look into their soul. Carlos Ruiz
Assistant Professor of Communications, Waldorf University
Salveson Prize in Art 71
Winter Serenity
Gulnaza Saburhojayeva
Second Place Salveson Prize in Art
Judge’s Comment The foggy and cold, wintery mountains in this image leaves us with a sense of a perfect mountain getaway. The artist frames the image with a natural frame using the tree branches which leads us to a view that is very much like one that belongs in a storybook. Carlos Ruiz
Assistant Professor of Communications, Waldorf University
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Off-Center
Madina Tuhatullina
Third Place Salveson Prize in Art
Judge’s Comment The stillness of the water and peaceful sky brings a sense of serenity to the composition. The horizon line moves us from left to right and still allows us to take every element in. The mere fact that the image isn’t truly center due to the person standing slightly to the left makes it even more beautiful and compelling to look at. Carlos Ruiz
Assistant Professor of Communications, Waldorf University
Salveson Prize in Art 73
Twisted
Noah Keolanui-Herman
Honorable Mention Salveson Prize in Art
Judge’s Comment There is a sense of beauty in the chaos of this image. It’s an example of work that leaves us wanting more, and with an emphasis of negative space it forces the viewer to hone in on the subject on the left third and feel the emotions that are present. Carlos Ruiz
Assistant Professor of Communications, Waldorf University
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[Untitled]
Diana Dzasezeva
Art 75
Peonies in Blue Keely McLain
Rose from Mother’s Garden Keely McLain
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Fallen Leaf Keely McLain
Anima
Keely McLain
Art 77
Jesus, Empowered Son of God Darrell Barbour
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Mermaid in Surf Eden Moore
Art 79
Desolate Downslope Tyler Clouse
Golden Rays Tyler Clouse
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Patagonian Paradise Tyler Clouse
Somewhere Over the Rainbow Tyler Clouse
Art 81
One Step
Audrey Sparks
82 Waldorf Literary Review
Winter Moon Audrey Sparks
Art 83
Perfect Asymmetry Gulnaza Saburhojayeva
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Alive
Gulnaza Saburhojayeva
Art 85
Is This Heaven? No, It’s Iowa! Hannah Meyer
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Golden Tree Amidst This City of Glass Hannah Meyer
Art 87
Time Passed
Noah Keolanui-Herman
Muted Personality Noah Keolanui-Herman
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Monster Looking in the Mirror Madina Tuhbatullina
Art 89
Reflection Pools Kaltun Mohamed
11th Grade. Southwest High School, Minnesota First Prize in Poetry, Top of Iowa High School Writing Contest In the beginning there was only home, where the scent of cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon tea would stick to my skin and soft, brightly patterned cotton tunics would pool around my ankles too long for my frame, making my hasty feet trip over themselves my broken tongue still speaks this patchwork language in this body that exists in between its mismatched pieces held together by an ever-unravelling thread the kids at school who wore shorts in the spring sun would ask me if I get warm in my hijab and long sleeves, their questions pointed to pick at my differences when the sharp edges of my name catched on their tongue they crushed the syllables between their teeth I am the corner tile that didn’t quite fit their mosaic my glass edges stained with envy later, after I sanded my jagged corners smooth I begin to fear that I’ve scraped too deep that I’ve burned away something precious at home, I sit in brightly colored tunics, that now fall a little too short and wonder if adding more pieces to my patchwork will make it whole if it ever really could’ve been done in the first place
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“a piece of wood may float in the river for years but it will never become a crocodile” I have swam for my whole life the pieces of who I was and am, drifting together I wonder if, when I finally resurface there will be anything recognizable left nobody asks me questions anymore but I still find myself practicing the answers
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The Monty Hall Problem Amy Dong
11th Grade. Hindale Central High School, Illinois First Prize in Fiction, Top of Iowa High School Writing Contest Here is a famous mathematics problem: you are a contestant on a game show, and the host gives you the choice of three doors. Behind one door is a car. Behind the rest are goats. You pick a door at random, say #1. The host, who knows what is behind each door, opens one of the doors you did not pick, say #3, revealing a goat. He offers you a choice: to switch your choice to door #2, or stay with your current selection. Being a mathematician, you know that upon choosing door #1 from three unknown doors, you had a one-third chance of revealing a car. After the host opens one of the doors, the chance that #1 contains a car stays at one-third, but the chance that #2 contains a car rises to two-thirds, since the host has revealed the goat behind door #3. So, you choose to switch. The host opens door #2 for you. A beautiful, sleek Ferrari gleams red under the studio lights. The audience roars as you take home your prize. ---
You decide that you would rather regret the choice that you didn’t make, rather than the one that you did.
...Being generally unversed in all instances of math save for the few glimpses of high school algebra that you remember from a long time ago, you know that you have two choices. There is the door that you have picked, plain as day, and the door that lies a few feet away. You decide that you would rather regret the choice that you didn’t make, rather than the one that you did. You choose to stay.
The host opens door #1 for you. There is a goat chewing grass, its hooves slightly dirty and its fur slightly brown. You choke down your disappointment, but it comes bubbling back anyway.
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--…You know that you have two choices. There is the door that you have picked and the door that lies a few feet away. The host is smirking sweetly, as if he can see the lack of cogs running through your brain. There’s a tremble to his widespread arms that you did not see when you picked door #1.
There’s something about his smile that pisses you off. You smile at him back, and choose to switch. The host scowls as he opens door #2 for you. You cherish the distaste in his eyes more than the sports car in his door. --...Being a mathematician, you know that the chance that #1 contains a car stays at one-third, but the chance that #2 contains a car rises to two-thirds. So, you choose to switch. The host opens door #2 for you. As you stare face to face with the goat that has been revealed, you realize that at the end of the day, probabilities mean nothing more than the floor that you stand on. --...The host opens door #2 for you. It’s a car. Sort of. The hood is sort of busted up and there’s no roof––and not in the stylistic way. When you start it up, the engine groans and there’s some sort of horrible scraping sound that vibrates beneath your feet. The host smiles at you, next to two goats that look better cared for than your new ride. “We’ve never said that the car was the prize.” --Here is a famous mathematics problem: the host of a game show is giving out raffle tickets for a one in a million chance to compete for a prize car. You buy
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a ticket just for fun, and buy another few for your sister. At the end of the day, nobody wins, and no one learns anything. --Here is a famous mathematics problem: you are a contestant on a game show, and the host has just revealed an infinite amount of doors. Behind one door is a car. Behind the rest are goats. You are asked to pick a door at random. The host, who knows what is behind each door, opens every single wrong door that you had not picked, leaving only your original choice and door #33500. You switch to #33500 immediately and score yourself a car. The host scratches his head sheepishly. “I guess we didn’t really think that one through,” he laughs awkwardly. --Here is a famous mathematics problem: you are a contestant on a game show, and the host gives you the choice of three doors. Behind one door is a car. Behind the rest are goats. You are asked to pick a door at random. Here is something the host did not account for. You have always been a naturally indecisive person. You ponder your options endlessly, and you doubt yourself before you can confirm your choices. You ask your friends to choose your hangout locations, and you ask the waiter to recommend your dishes. You don’t get invited to truth or dare games anymore.
...out of a job and out of a studio, you stand there alone. You and your three unopened doors.
“Please, make a choice. Any choice.” The host pleads with you under the studio lights. Most of the audience has left. His TV time is dwindling. The producers are shaking their heads. You bite your nails anxiously as you weigh the consequences of door #1 to door
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#2 to door #3. You feel eyes all around you even though there are none. When the host himself finally leaves, out of a job and out of a studio, you stand there alone. You and your three unopened doors. --The host shows you all three of the doors, in the end. You stand in shock as three identical cars stand, gleaming in a row. “It’s all for the drama, anyway.” The host mutters, lighting a cigarette backstage. You stand by him, silent. “It’s the season finale. You happened to get picked. Everyone likes underdogs, right?” You glance back beyond the curtain. The crowd is screaming for you, as people begin to clear out. There is still confetti on the ground, and the janitorial staff is having a field day. “Oh.” Is all you say when the host hands you the paperwork. You owe him money, for the publicity, he says.
“I hope you understand.” He says, rising tiredly. “We’ve been giving out too many goats. Budget cuts, you know?” You do not. “Maybe we can get you something secondhand. How about a nice Toyota?” --Here is a famous criminal law problem: to whom do the charges for the murder of a game show host apply to? The contestant, or the goat? --The host sits down tiredly. “There is no prize,” he tells you evenly. “There never was. There is only an outcome, and it will never matter.” “That’s too bad,” you tell him instead. The lights are down, and you can see that there never was an audience either. Just you and the stage, and some prop doors
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that can’t even open. The host’s makeup looks pasty and smudged without the glare of the studio lights. You suddenly feel tacky, in this suit. You leave the studio, suit and all, and stroll down to the nearest pet store to adopt yourself a prize instead. You elect to name your outcome Cotton. Cotton nuzzles your palm affectionately. --“Would you like something to drink?” you ask instead. His posture is stilted, and even though he smiles to the audience, you know those eyes that look like a drowning man. “Uh?” He blinks at you, startled. No one ever offers him anything, after all. Not even a goat. “Like, tea, or something?” You gesture vaguely with your hands. He’s still standing next to the three doors, hands still outstretched, as if frozen. He really might be. “Something warm? Hot chocolate? I don’t know.” “Are you,” the host gestures sort of tiredly to the door, “not gonna to pick something?” He’s putting on the airs of reluctance, but the shift in his brow and the slant of his mouth betray his real desperation for something other than television glamor. “I think,” you reply softly. The microphones won’t pick this up. “You need it more than me.” --“Was there ever a choice?” whispered the game show host as the lights begin to dim. “Do we ever get a say in any matter? What do the numbers, the probabilities, the chances mean, really, when all we are going to get in the end is a yes or a no. Did you ever have a chance to win, when the world itself has been playing against you? What a foolish decision, to come on such a show. Did you know, darling? That we were already doomed from the beginning? Did you already know that it wasn’t ever the matter between the goat or the car, but the matter of whether we even got to pick one or the other?”
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--Here is a famous mathematics problem: you are a contestant on a game show, and the host gives you the choice of three doors. Behind one door is a car. Behind the rest are goats. You pick a door at random, say #1. The host smiles, and goes to open it. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I want to switch my choice?” You ask, flustered. This is not how the story goes. “Oh, darling.” The host turns to you, eyes wide and camera-ready. Their hair is slicked and plastic, and their smile is more menacing than you remember a few minutes ago. You can no longer see the edges of their facade. “You’ve made your choice, already.” “But–” you begin to protest. You have planned out every possible outcome, until this one. “Foolish mortal,” the host snarls under the studio lights. “Why would you ever make a decision without fully committing to it?” Door one opens. There is a goat, but its eyes are far more predatory than you remember them to be.
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Time Intolerant Bella Santos
11th Grade. Benilde-St. Margaret’s School, Minnesota First Prize in Non-Fiction, Top of Iowa High School Writing Contest I’m not even sure I liked ice cream that much before third grade, yet what I do know is that I’ve had it stocked in my freezer ever since, and I’m now one of Dairy Queen’s biggest fans. The illustrious ice cream party we would get at the end of the school year never loomed over my head like it did the other third graders, I was indifferent, for I didn’t think I needed an edible incentive to succeed in school. My lack of interest in the dessert was possibly my excuse for not being able to learn the times tables I was required to know for ice cream party access, but on the inside, I blamed myself and accumulated a sense of guilt which would later convince me I could never be good at math. When we started learning how to multiply, my endearing third-grade teacher was on maternity leave, which placed me in the hands of a not-soendearing substitute: Ms. Ronne. Ms. Ronne’s desk sat in the very back of our classroom, and behind it, stood the revered wall of ice cream cones, the cones which detailed our multiplication progress and were updated each afternoon. Despite her lacking affection and incessant nagging she still had her friendlier moments, and it was in all of the student’s best interest- but mine especiallythat the ice cream cones were anonymous. Turns out Ms. Ronne felt no need to proclaim our mathematical futures to the world. Rather than having our names inscribed, each cone was labeled with a number, one that only the number’s owner was supposed to know. Because no other kids were supposed to see my results I launched into our times tables unit fearlessly, that was until I learned our times tables would in fact..be timed. Each day during math I would be tested on one number of the table, working my way from zero-twelve, and each day, I would also be expected to advance. The catch was that with every ten problems, we had an allotted amount of time to complete them, and somehow for me, Ms. Ronne’s timer ended up being much more daunting than it appeared. I believe it was my threes I first got stuck on. Something about them simply seemed more complicated than my zeroes or my ones or my twos. Then one day once I had conquered my threes, I was stuck on my fours. Day by day, the cones of other kids gained a scoop for each table they completed while my cone stayed barren and desolate. A reminder that the problems I worked so hard to memorize each night, meant nothing when I walked into that classroom each
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morning. Not so long as Ms. Ronne’s timer was there as well. Soon I was overwhelmed with anxiety and shame, but I stayed protected through the anonymity I was guaranteed. I spent math time every afternoon digging my grave as I fell further behind my classmates, but at least I could dig my grave in peace and solitude. When my friends went over to the ice cream wall to laugh at the kid with the least scoops, I laughed too. However, when one boy in my class discovered that each number on the cones matched a number on the underside of our desks, the humor of the situation ceased to exist. I lacked a Plan B, my comfort and self-confidence slipped helplessly through my fingertips. I saw my predetermined fate lying in front of me, where even the lactose intolerant kids would receive a dairy-free treat, the time intolerant like myself would receive nothing. It’s not important to note exactly what happened next. As I’m sure many know, young kids can be ruthless, and with each child’s harsh comment, comes another child’s growing fragility. The relevance of this story is that my exposed failure did not act as a motivator for me in the way I hoped, instead, it led to my Mother’s special request that I start taking my tests sans timer and sans anxiety. Personally, I despised the way this singled me out; however, mothers must truly know best, because I finally persevered and accessed the ultimate scoop. The shining light at the end of the tunnel which was my thirdgrade social stigma. This same phobia of time followed me through the rest of my school experiences. I soon noticed that my education was a race. A measurement not only of quality of work, but also the quantity of minutes in which I could garner myself an acceptable grade. In fourth grade, multiplication and I were re-acquainted, but this time it was one hundred problems per five minutes. It seemed the only math problem I would ever be able to solve was that of five minutes equaling not enough. Nevertheless, all my fears faded away as my Mom asked my teacher not to time me and in turn, all one hundred answers suddenly appeared within my mind. When I began taking standardized tests (no matter the subject) my focus was rendered nonexistent due to the surrounding students I feared would finish before me. To solve this issue, I simply asked to sit in the very front of the classroom where I could see nobody and convince myself I wasn’t being seen either. It was here I regained the solitude I lost from Ms. Ronne years before, and it was here my anxiety was extinguished for I didn’t have to wonder whether the other kids were on the “calculator active” section yet or if they were pencils down, completely finished. One day I would be 15, a freshman in high school, learning how to write AP World History essays in 45 minutes, while still maintaining pride in my work. This I did, but that isn’t to
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say I did it without the stress. I listened in class. I liked answering and asking questions. I cared about my grades, and I knew the work. What I didn’t know was how to remember it when under pressure. Why did educators have to create such a system and why did students have to indulge in it? Sure, time is important. It’s important now and it will be a crucial asset when we enter the workforce if we know how to manage it. However, all benefits recognized, should a statement issued by the minute hand be prioritized over what I’m learning? With so much to do and so little time to complete it, our work accumulates into an unmanageable load. Time no longer represents a skill essential to our futures, but it represents the stress, tension, and exhaustion students experience until their process of learning transforms into a complex system of cramming. This calendrically organized education system provokes a mindset tampered with thoughts of due dates and timeliness. In my years kindergarten through eighth grade, my teachers would always give me a planner on the first day of school. If our planner was filled out each day and signed off by our parents, we received a gold star. If we couldn’t manage to mold our measurement of learning into the concept of time our school wanted, we received a degrading red X. This system worked, at least it did for me. It allowed me to get my homework turned in when planned, craft schedules for myself to follow, and compartmentalize each assignment into a certain hour of my night. Yet this system carried no incentive of actually knowing the material but only one of never coming in last in the race that was our education. The third-grade teachers reading Aesops’s Fables to their classes, preaching that “slow and steady wins the race” were the same ones adorning their rooms with ice cream cones. One of the last math classes I took was Algebra Two. By some weird turn of fate, I completed every test first in my class. I could hardly recite to you any of the material in which we covered. But, I finished first.
I cared about my grades, and I knew the work. What I didn’t know was how to remember it when under pressure.
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Contributors Darrell Barbour is the University Registrar and Chief Regulatory Officer for Waldorf University. He is originally from the piedmont of North Carolina and is an epicurean delight. Additionally, he enjoys cooking, photography, history, all things Star Trek, and astral studies. Elaine Bossard is a faculty member in the Psychology Department. Beyond the classroom, she is always up for learning new skills (like creative writing) and using psychology to make the world a more enjoyable place to live. Two children and a small farmstead help to maintain her work-life balance. Tyler Clouse is a freshman from Forest City who is majoring in Business Management. Tyler is also a member of the golf team here at Waldorf. Though he enjoys photography in general, sports photography is his favorite, as you can find him at many home sporting events taking pictures here at the university. Dillion W. Daniels is a working class writer and poet out of Mason City, Iowa. His prose and poetry focus on working class struggles with themes of addiction, abuse, and class consciousness. Dillion is also a Podcaster, youtuber, and political activist who creates content and organizes on behalf of working people. Amy Dong is a junior at Hinsdale Central High School. She is from suburban Chicago and in addition to writing enjoys painting, dabbling in data science, and playing badminton. Diana Dzasezeva is a junior at Waldorf University. Her major is Health Promotion and Exercise Science. She is a member of the Women’s Wrestling Team here at Waldorf and a Latvian wrestling champion. In her free time, Diana likes to watch anime, read books, and go hiking!
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Casey Fraser is a senior from Thornton, Iowa majoring in psychology with minors in criminology and Spanish. She is part of the Waldorf Wind Symphony and enjoys spending time in the psych lab. Sophia Gil is from Redlands, California. Her whole life she’s loved reading and writing. She’s had a very interesting life. She’s moved around a lot and always wanted to explore the unknown. She’s only 19 but she thinks her life has been amazing and full of experiences, and she loves to write about them. She hopes that one day she can be an educator and learn to write stories for everyone to enjoy. Cecelia Hemsworth is a Waldorf University junior, majoring in secondary English education. When she isn’t reading or writing, she is running for Waldorf ’s track and cross country team. Go Warriors! Noah Keolanui-Herman is a Communications major at Waldorf University. He enjoys forming his creative thoughts into visual representations when spending time out in nature. His love for art is what continues his drive to push his creative process. Dr. Jonathan Klauke is a professor of History at Waldorf University specializing in medieval history and the history of science. Dr. Klauke teaches a variety of world history courses spanning the ancient world to the present. Lydia Knudtson is a 21-year-old sophomore attending Waldorf University, working towards a bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing with an emphasis in Journalism. When Lydia is not at school, you can often find her working, tending to her plants, doing yoga, or creating visual art. Keely McLain is the Gallery Director and Art Professor at Waldorf University. She enjoys painting, drawing, woodworking, and learning new ways to make art. Hannah Meyer is a 19-year-old Freshman from Burt, Iowa majoring in Communications and Creative Writing. She is involved in several activities on campus including Band, Writing Club, Rotaract, and Pillars. In her free time, Hannah loves to read, write, and do all the music things.
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Myra Meyer is a Junior at Waldorf University majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing and Spanish. She plays French horn in Waldorf ’s band and is also a part of the Warriors Writing Club. In her free time, Myra loves to read, write, and spend as much time in nature as possible. Joe Milan is an alter-ego for Dr. Joe Mac Milan Jr., who is a literary savant, a man on the run, and a breaker of hearts. 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. Kaltun Mohamed is a junior at Southwest High School in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She is passionate about books and poetry and spends her free time learning new languages. Eden Moore is a freshman in high school from Salem, OR. She is currently looking into volunteer work relating to wildlife biology. In addition to painting, she enjoys reading and writing particularly in the fantasy/romance genres. Sara Rodriguez is a Waldorf University sophomore who is majoring in Psychology. She is originally from Santa Maria, California, and when she is not in the classroom she likes to spend her time playing soccer for the Warriors. Gulnaza Saburhojayeva is a Waldorf University senior, double majoring in Business and Communications while being part of the Honors Pillars Program. Originally from Turkmenistan, Gulnaza discovered her love for traveling and passion for learning different languages after her study abroad year in the United States when she was 16. When out in nature, she loves capturing moments and places she finds beautiful through photography. Bella Santos is a Junior at Benilde St. Margarets in Minnesota. She is originally from Wilmington, North Carolina, and when she is not writing, she loves to run, watch movies, and go to the beach. Ongelle Schroeder is a Waldorf University freshman double majoring in Secondary English Education and Creative Writing. She is originally from Wells, Minnesota. In her free time she enjoys reading, staying active, and trying new things.
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Audrey Sparks is a 2019 Waldorf University graduate with a Master’s in Organizational Leadership for Human Resources as well as a 2016 graduate with a Bachelor’s in Communications for print media and a minor in Creative writing. Originally from Nebraska, she has lived in numerous states but calls North Iowa home. In her spare time, she enjoys a little of everything, including ultrarunning, rock climbing, white water kayaking, riding a unicycle, reading books, sewing pockets in her dresses, spending copious amounts of time in the bathtub, and petting every dog she sees. Madina Tuhbatullina is a Waldorf University senior from Turkmenistan. She double majors in English and Creative Writing and minors in Communications. Madina has been involved in campus life by being active in Honors College, Alpha Chi Honors Society, Warriors Writing Club, Amnesty International, World Student Association, and Student Senate. Jakyris Vormics1 is a mage wanted in 49 states (not Iowa) for crimes against prose and necromancy. They enjoy reading books and eating s’mores. This is Jakyris’s first poem. Derik Wolfe is the Director of Online Student Services and Student Accounts at Waldorf University (Orange Beach, AL). He is also currently earning his MA in Organizational Leadership at Waldorf University Online. Derik earned his BA in English/Creative Writing from Huntingdon College (Montgomery, AL), and is the author of the successful children’s book series The Adventures of Bo Bradley. Mandi Wright is a writer and vaguely aspiring media and musical artist originally from Waldorf University, who has grown up in South Dakota, and flourished in Iowa. She now lives in the Rogue Valley in Oregon where she pursues her love for writing and nature. She spends most of her time raising her son Elijah, who teaches her more about the nature of reality and the human condition more than anyone else in her life. While she works at Chipotle, she aspires to keep her works of writing on print anywhere she can, whether on paper or on Instagram, and teaching her son and other family members about the fundamentals of life as well as herself on her journey during her quarter century mark of her own.
1
Jakyris Vormics is the pen name for the CWR 390: Collaborative Writing class, featuring Joe Milan, Ryan Clark, Arie Reyes, Christopher Skipper, and Makayla Vogt.
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CONTRIBUTORS Darrell Barbour - Elaine Bossard - Tyler Clouse Dillion W. Daniels - Diana Dzasezeva Casey Fraser - Sophia Gil - Cecelia Hemsworth Noah Keolanui-Herman - Jonathan Klauke Lydia Knudtson - Keely McLain - Hannah Meyer Myra Meyer - Joe Milan - Eden Moore Sara Rodriguez - Gulnaza Saburhojayeva Ongelle Schroeder - Audrey Sparks Madina Tuhbatullina - Jakyris Vormics - Derik Wolfe Mandi Wright