Wilder Things Issue 1 by Wilder Things Magazine

wilderthings i s s u e o n e

Wilder Things Magazine is a collegiate undergraduate literary magazine dedicated to uplifting and providing space for speculative work in the academic community. We aim to represent unique voices and narratives across genres and formats. Each piece that appears in Wilder Things was subject to a fair and anonymous reading and voting process in which every staff member was given the opprotunity to express their opinions and vote accordingly. The works published in this magazine are not reflective of the University of Iowa’s views. This publication recieved funding from the Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing and from the University of Iowa Student Government. This issue of Wilder Things Magazine was designed and typeset by Carmela Furio in the spring of 2021. Cover by Carmela Furio. The type used is from the Baskerville and Silom font families. Wilder Things Magazine Issue 1 The University of Iowa Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing Iowa City, IA 52242 Copyright © 2021 by the University of Iowa, College of Liberal Arts and Sciences

STAFF

Editor-in-Chief Evie Dohm Creative Director Carmela Furio PR Designer Meghan Bloom Writing Editors Kylie Boksa Callan Latham Natalie Muglia Val Timke Zachary Warne Head of Outreach Zachary Warne Copy Editors Meghan Bloom Natalie Muglia

LETTER FROM THE STAFF Dear Readers, From the team here at Wilder Things, we cannot thank you enough for being a part of not only our first issue, but the journey that brought us to this point. We are forever grateful to everyone who has supported us along the way, as well as to everyone who submitted to us. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. The idea for Wilder Things began in 2019 on a November evening as a “what if ” among friends. None of us could foresee the outpouring of support and love this magazine would get. Since that night, we have gone through changes and additions that have brought us to this amazing issue which is only the beginning. We, at our core, have always been determined to carve out a space in our literary cannon for genre works. We knew what it meant to us, and how important genre writing is; thus, we wanted to be a beacon of support for those in same boat we are in. A boat full of people who so often feel their work is overlooked or passed by for what is considered “literary.” We love the idea of genre in general, but also as a vehicle for unique narratives and voices. Seeing all these genres and subgenres come together in this magazine has been inspirational to us as we see, and hope you see, that there is an amazing community of genre writers around the world. Our team is so excited to have created this home for your writing to be celebrated, cherished, and shared. We found ourselves looking for something different and unique, but more than that, something fun—especially as we entered such a scary and dark period—and Wilder Things gave us exactly that which we now present to you. Along the way, we found that no matter the genre, what’s important is where a piece takes us. And so, dear reader, when you put this magazine down and leave all these amazing journeys behind, we hope, most of all, that you had fun. With Love,

The Wilder Things Staff

TABLE OF CONTENTS 8

In the Heart of the Wood Evalyn Harper

patch Haley Brown

Superstitious Precautionary Notes Hannah Barrett

The Four Housewives of the Apocalypse Cheyenne Mann

animals live in houses Mikey Waller

Fault Line Nicole Giglio

the plea Viridiana Crespo

Love Letter Meg Mechelke

Boxing Haley Brown

Anonymous said: who do u think u r? Simon Hauwaerts

cannonball Marriah Talbott-Malone

Fish Legs Cheyenne Mann

The Red Planet Emma Rosenberg

he let me cut his hair Haley Brown

Tradition Harper Truog

Also sprach Zarathustra talks back at 2001: A Space Odyssey Ruth Coolidge

I Spy Meg Mechelke

The Mentor, the Villain, and the Plot of No Real Importance Miranda Miller

Blood of the City Quinn Kamberos

Christmas in Georgia Harper Truog

A Fairytale Cheyenne Mann

Counting Rhyme Nicholas Runyon

Eaten Away Maura O’Dea

My atoms Mortis Jennings

The Ethics of Writing on George Mallory Ruth Coolidge

Chronomine Inc. HMF Jenkins

Frog Gut Algal Bloom Cheyenne Mann

The Gods of War S. Sofia Benitez

Children of Moths Quincy Kelly

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Contributors

IN THE HEART OF THE WOOD Evalyn Harper

fiction

University of Iowa fantastical fairy tale

Once upon a time, there was a little village at the edge of a deep, dark wood. The people of the village loved the wood. It supplied the lumber with which they built their houses and fueled their fires. Their hunters could always find food there, even during the coldest winters. Travelers who made their way through the wood always stopped in the little village, spending their money at the local shops, and pub, and inn. The villagers believed that the wood would protect them as long as they respected it. And so they taught their children not to listen when the frogs talked, to avoid the pull of the mushroom rings, and always to stay on the path. Above all they were not to go into the woods at night, for one never knew what might be lurking between the trees, especially when the moon was full. It was on one of these nights, when the moon hung like an overripe peach in the midnight sky, that an old woman left her home with a large wicker basket clutched in her wrinkled hands. She wore a thick woolen shawl around her hunched shoulders to protect herself from the chill of the night. The village was quiet as she walked down the long central street. Her neighbors had long since retired for the night, dousing their fires and double checking the locks on their doors, so there was nobody watching, save for the trees themselves, as the old woman stepped into the darkness of the wood. The branches of the trees, laid bare by an early frost, clawed like greedy fingers at the golden moon. Shadows flickered between their trunks. In the distance, a long low howl echoed through the night. Despite all this the old woman did not let her eyes stray from the well worn ground beneath her feet. Not until she came upon three large oak trees, nearly half a league into the woods, that marked a fork in the path. To turn to the left would take her down towards the river where, as a child, she’d learned how to catch fish in her pudgy pink fists. To turn to the right would lead her towards the center of the kingdom, and a beautiful castle pulled straight from the bedtime stories she’d once told her children. She chose neither path, walking instead between the three large trunks and into the heart of the forest. The trees here were giants. They were older even than her, but they weren’t hunched with age. They towered well above her gray head, the

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husks of leaves larger than her face clinging to their branches. Their roots created a tangled labyrinth across the forest floor, but this did not deter the old woman. She simply hiked up her skirts and carried on, past broken branches and claw marks scored deeply into bark. Finally she came upon a clearing where, many years ago, one of these giants had fallen, leaving a hole for moonlight to sneak in and paint the world silver. Crouched atop the ancient trunk, staring lovingly up at the moon, was a large gray wolf. As the old woman approached the beast the sound of leaves crunching beneath her boots seemed to break the spell of the moon. It turned to growl at her, snout wrinkling to reveal teeth made for gobbling straight through flesh. Its angry yellow eyes seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. Then it spoke. “Whither away so late, Grandmother?” The beast’s voice was a low rumble, not fully wolf, but not quite human either. The old woman did not reply. She simply set her basket down, her hands trembling as she pulled from it a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. “My, what frail hands you have, Grandmother,” the wolf continued with a sharp smile. “Your bones would snap so easily between my teeth.” “None of that nonsense,” the old woman scolded, “or else I won’t share.” She carefully unwrapped the bundle, revealing six fluffy biscuits, still warm from the oven. The wolf ’s nose twitched involuntarily as steam rose from the delicate bread, crystalizing in the air. The old woman reached into the basket once more to retrieve a jar of cherry jam and a knife. She sliced the first biscuit in half, slathering it with a generous amount of jam before holding it out to the wolf. “Come on then.” The beast approached slowly, unsure whether to trust the old woman. It snatched the biscuit from her hand, without crushing any bones between its teeth, and retreated several feet away to gobble up the treat. The old woman ate her own biscuit in small, patient bites, calm beneath the wolf ’s golden gaze. When the beast returned to her, blood red jam staining its teeth, she gave it another. And another. The distance between them shrank with each biscuit the wolf devoured, until the old woman was able to reach up and run her gnarled fingers through its matted fur. It was time then to retrieve the final item from her basket: a beautiful winter cloak, handsewn from bright red wool. The old woman gently draped the garment across the beast’s back. The transformation was a slow one. Fur began to melt away, teeth receded, limbs straightened themselves, eyes lost their unearthly glow. The beast shrank and shrank until there was only a little girl left shivering in the cold. The old woman stood, brushed the biscuit crumbs from her skirt, and took the girl’s hand gently in her own. “Let’s go home, my darling.” Together, they walked out of the heart of the wood.

PATCH Haley Brown

Brandeis University romance

poetry

peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. but would peter still have picked those peppers if he’d seen a field of pansies? or what if he had been confronted with the patch of freckles that so perfectly populates the expanse of your right shoulder blade? that patch—a field peppered with the remnants of maine sun pouring down onto ballparks & children & the house by the lake. the same sun that pressed against your newest work of needlepoint-to-flesh just a bit too passionately; even that etching of a greek god could not withstand the intensity of the rays that dripped and splattered and formed a meadow. oh how i long to spend all morning in the heat of new summer picking each caramel rose bud with puckered lips. i’d let its sticky perfume linger as an aftertaste of home.

Hannah Barrett

University of Iowa romance

I close my eyes When crossing the road, Step on every crack In the sidewalk, Open my umbrella Inside, Tip the salt shaker Over All in hope That something will scare me More than the thought that I may live And die Without ever Loving you.

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SUPERSTITOUS PRECAUTIONARY NOTES

THE FOUR HOUSEWIVES OF THE APOCALYPSE Cheyene Mann

University of Iowa, comedic fantasy horror

CHARACTERS DELORES ................................................ Death. Wears green. Sweet. PEGGY ..................................................... Pestilence. Wears white. Excited. WANDA.................................................... War. Wears red. Emotionless. FRANCINE ................................................. Famine. Wears black. Conceited. SENATOR ................................................ Delores’s husband. A senator. Delores’s Parlor room. The 1950’s.

SETTING TIME SCENE 1

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LIGHTS UP on a stereotypical 1950’s style parlor room. There is a table with tea. Downstage a desk with papers and a typewriter is set up. A radio plays “Don’t Be Cruel’’ by Elvis Presley. DELORES dances around the room dusting and singing along. She is dressed in a green dress and looks like a stereotypical 1950’s housewife. SENATOR walks in, DELORES looks over at him and smiles. The song quiets slightly. SENATOR (To audience.) When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and she who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with her. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

DELORES Come. Dance with me. They dance together. DELORES laughs and SENATOR kisses her forehead. DELORES turns off the radio. The girls from the bridge club should be here in only a few moments, dear. SENATOR My sweetheart wants me to leave so early? I’m wounded. DELORES I should think it takes more than the jab of a mere housewife to wound the senator of this great state. SENATOR About that, you’re right. Speaking of, I really must be off to work. DELORES But, dear, it is a Sunday. SENATOR The country doesn’t take vacations. DELORES I suppose you are right. DELORES fetches SENATOR’s jacket and helps him into it. SENATOR I’ll give you and the bridge club girls some privacy. Tell that Peggy that I say hello, will you? DELORES You big flirt! DELORES hands SENATOR his briefcase. SENATOR kisses DELORES’s cheek and walks downstage to the desk. He sits and begins to work. It should be noted that he is still onstage, but no

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DELORES sets down her feather duster and walks over to SENATOR.

longer in the house. DELORES continues humming the song. A knock is heard at the door. DELORES Come in, it is unlocked! PEGGY walks in. She is dressed in a white dress and 1950’s housewife attire. She carries a plastic tupperware container. Peggy! So happy to see you. PEGGY Likewise, Delores. PEGGY opens her tupperware container, excitedly. I brought chicken tetrazzini casserole! PEGGY sneezes directly into the casserole. She closes the tupperware dish, unperturbed, and hands it to DELORES. DELORES sets it on the table. It may be a tad undercooked, but a little salmonella never hurt anyone. DELORES You are the first to arrive, as always. SENATOR (To audience.) Then I saw when the L ambbroke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and she who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to her, and she went out conquering and to conquer. PEGGY sneezes. She should do this intermittently throughout the play, along with coughing.

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PEGGY I’m glad! I was worried I’d be late. The anklebiters are sick again so I spent all morning taking temperatures and changing bed sheets and cleaning up— DELORES —That sounds simply dreadful!

DELORES The senator says hello, by the way. PEGGY Man was never a creature of loyalty. Nor of much intelligence. DELORES I shall say! They laugh and sit at the table together. PEGGY’s laughter dissolves into a coughing fit. After getting herself back together, PEGGY picks up some cards. PEGGY Oh! How cute, you actually set out cards for bridge! DELORES Let the record show I spared no expense in our disguise. PEGGY You’re truly the cleverest among us— WANDA walks in. She is dressed in red and wears 1950’s housewife attire. She carries a tupperware container. DELORES Ah! Wanda! Right on time. WANDA (Nods.) PEGGY Wanda! I made chicken tetrazzini casserole! Did you bring any dishes? WANDA (Hands the tupperware to DELORES.) DELORES opens the tupperware container and pulls a revolver out of it.

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PEGGY It’s all in a day’s work. When you and the senator have kids, you’ll understand.

DELORES Well, something could be said about tact. SENATOR (To audience.) When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living creature saying, “Come.” And another, a red horse, went out; and to her who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from Earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to her. WANDA (Sits down at the table emotionlessly. She stares straight ahead.) PEGGY How is the husband? How are the kids? WANDA Sick. Vomiting up their spleens. PEGGY Hey, that’s not a bad idea! PEGGY writes something down. What about vomiting up their hearts? Is that too dramatic? Too cruel? DELORES I like it. The expulsion of love and hope. WANDA And lifeforce. DELORES You could have them cough out their lungs.

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PEGGY (Excitedly.) Lungs and hearts and spleens on the ground in a pool of vomit. Let the blood freeze in their veins. Let them perish in suffering of unknown proportions, let them squirm like worms in the mud and feel the pitiful mundaneness of humanity consume them in every second of rotting, sinful flesh and—Oh! Are those peppermints? DELORES Of course, I remembered they’re your favourite.

PEGGY Delores, you are just the sweetest. Did you know peppermints are natural remedies to upset stomachs? DELORES Wanda, maybe you should take some home to the kids? WANDA Wouldn’t help if their stomachs are on the floor. DELORES Oh Peggy, you are vile. PEGGY (Grinning.) I’m just doing my job! A knock at the door. FRANCINE enters. She is dressed in a black dress and in 1950’s housewife attire. She carries a tupperware container. FRANCINE Sorry I’m late! I told my husband to make the kids lunch and— PEGGY —He forgot? FRANCINE No! He MADE them lunch! So of course I had to throw it all out. That man is an idiot, I swear. Then my hair wouldn’t stay put and my lipstick smeared. Oh, I brought this, by the way. FRANCINE hands DELORES a tupperware container. DELORES opens it and peers inside. She turns the tupperware over, nothing falls out. It is empty. DELORES Thanks.

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PEGGY grabs a peppermint and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes and sighs contently. After a few seconds, she spits it back out into the wrapper, ties it back up, and drops it back into the bowl. She should continue to do this throughout the play.

PEGGY Francine! I made chicken tetrazzini casserole, would you like some? FRANCINE Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I taught the ladies at work a new type of diet where you fast for twenty-four hours a day. You’ve got to practice what you preach, right? PEGGY Says the Bible. DELORES Says the antichrist. SENATOR (To audience.) When He broke the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a black horse; and she who sat on it had a pair of scales in her hand. And I heard something like a voice in the center of the four living creatures saying, “A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; but do not damage the oil and the wine.” DELORES grabs a typewriter and brings it to the table, she sets it in front of FRANCINE. DELORES Well then ladies, shall we get down to business? WANDA (Nods.) PEGGY Please! I’ve been looking forward to this meeting since last Sunday. DELORES The time is 2:23 p.m., Francine is taking notes this week. Let the meeting commence. FRANCINE starts typing on the typewriter.

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FRANCINE This better not ruin my manicure. DELORES Would you like to start us off, Peggy? PEGGY Yes!

PEGGY Influenza season just passed and I got a couple of deaths that way, but I’ve been really ramping up with this new plague idea I have. I’ve been kinda experimenting with people in town so far as a trial run and I think it’s working really well! WANDA (Nods.) PEGGY So whenever I get the okay, I’m ready to move to a bigger audience. I don’t want to get too ahead of myself, but I’m thinking pandemic? It would be a good first step. DELORES Sounds perfect! PEGGY And I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to run past you guys. DELORES Go for it. PEGGY (Reading off her note.) Abdominal pain, skin rash, skin sores, mouth sores, throat sores, organ ulcers, fatigue, confusion, vertigo, double vision, blind spots, blindness, bruising, brain death, swelling, heart pain, heart palpitations, organ failure, infection, limb death, impotence, fungal infection, hallucination, dehydration, vomiting up spleen, vomiting up stomach, vomiting up heart. FRANCINE Can we increase the vomiting? It makes my job easier. PEGGY You got it! DELORES And you are ready to deploy at a moment’s notice? PEGGY Just give me the signal, boss.

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DELORES Great. What is your status update?

DELORES Excellent. How about you, Wanda? PEGGY You’ve been quiet. WANDA War is quiet. War is silent. It moves slowly at first, undertaking the greatest minds of the greatest leaders. It sinks into them like taproots and takes a hold so strong only death can end it. Wars start with silence. They start with pen to paper, drafting declarations dripping with men’s signatures. I am quiet. War is quiet. I am raging. War is raging. It’s under your nose. It kisses your lips while you sleep at night. It flits itself in the minds of the world and spreads until, like illness, it is impossible to cure. On your word I will scream. On your word I will transform into gunshots and explosions. Into the craters of grenades and the sounds of agony soldiers make as they bleed out in the mud. I can make the sounds of trenches falling and towns being ravaged. The screams of men and women and children hang on my tongue. You tell me to scream and I’ll scream, but right now, I am silent. FRANCINE I’m not going to write that all down. DELORES Just put that Wanda is ready to go. FRANCINE Got it. DELORES And you, Francine? How are we doing in the famine department?

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FRANCINE Skinny is IN. I’ve been pushing out a lot of dieting trends recently. The first step to hunger isn’t taking away the food, it’s making the people who have it, waste it. It’ll cause unrest. Anger. Blame. It’s going to be so good. I’ll send locust to wipe out the crops. Peggy and I have a plan for a disease to wipe out the cattle.They’ll be at each other’s throats! DELORES I must say, girls, I am rather impressed. I mean, I will have to check the numbers to be absolutely sure, but I do believe we are four whole months ahead of schedule.

And I have got more good news. PEGGY What? DELORES As you all know, I am deeply, deeply in love with my wonderful husband, our esteemed senator. PEGGY Esteemed and handsome. FRANCINE Eh, he could stand to lose a few pounds. DELORES My darling husband has divulged to me, in absolute secret, that come next month he will be announcing his candidacy for president of these United States. FRANCINE You mean— DELORES —Yes, girls. We will have full power. Full control. We’ll be able to start. PEGGY Armageddon. FRANCINE The apocalypse. PEGGY Already? DELORES I daresay, ladies, this is cause for celebration. DELORES goes to the radio and turns it back on. “Don’t Be Cruel” by Elvis plays again. PEGGY gets up and she and DELORES start dancing together. FRANCINE watches them and laughs/

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Cheers from everyone except WANDA, who gives a small smile.

claps along. WANDA emotionlessly taps her fingers to the beat of the song. SENATOR works. SENATOR (To audience.) Behold, the day of the Lord comes, cruel, with wrath and fierce anger, to make the land a desolation and to destroy its sinners from it. But concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.

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The song continues playing, getting louder and louder. LIGHTS DOWN.

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ANIMALS LIVE IN HOUSES Mikey Waller

University of Iowa romantic horror

we are sitting down for dinner you and me we are breathing down into each other’s lungs slippery wet and rotten we taste stale oxygen and feel refreshed i think of how you can never really touch anything the atoms always leave a space we, our boiling air, will never touch, only linger you promise over the menu touch, maybe, but it reads like clippings of homicides from newspapers the ones that smell of decaying paper and yellow stain we smile, not touching our pepto lips, teeth, tongues are not touching, never it’s time to eat, touch, maybe you hum in pre-satisfaction the food will not touch tastebuds or hungry throats not consuming, you plunge pulsing hands into this meal, a mixture of food and flesh i follow, chewing what could only be bone, we swallow and the rotting things

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we’ve left behind us slide down throats, you, are grinning now and it is the most we’ve ever touched if we could, and of all the promises we made: starving is not one of them

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FAULT LINE Nicole Giglio

University of Maryland, College Park science fiction The rebels are on TV again: Margot, Camila, Aubrey. Voices strained and ugly, they stand defiant, blustering as the police and reporters surround them. President Odin’s helicopters fly above, four of them in total, guns drawn, pointed down at the three women. Margot’s allies are armed, poised on the ground to encircle the aircraft, each barrel pointed upwards. “Do you think they’re going to shoot her?” I ask, looking up from the TV only to let my gaze meet Sylvie’s. She’s sitting, perched, on one arm of the sofa, the soft whir of her motor a dull background to the monotony. “I don’t know why they haven’t already.” “I hope they don’t,” she says, without looking at me, each brow furrowing in concentration as she kicks her legs. “I want Margot to win.” “Why?” Eyes narrowing in the dim light of the kitchen, I set my coffee cup down on the table. It clinks against the plate, and Sylvie winces, her focus on the screen wavering. “You never mentioned that before.” “I...” she hesitates, voice small. Her gaze settles back on the TV, avoiding my own. “...want to see the outside world.” “Why do you want to do that?” “I’ve never gotten to before.” “You think Margot will let you see the outside world?” She falters, her gaze dropping to the floor, saying nothing. I continue. “She won’t. She only cares about humanity. She doesn’t care about the Artificials.” She bites her lip, silicon features flushed, convincingly real at a glance. “She thinks about Rina. And she takes care of her, like you take care of me,” she finally says, her eyes meeting mine. In a second, she turns away. I don’t. “Don’t compare me to Margot, and don’t compare yourself to Rina,” I snap “Our relationship is nothing like theirs.” “Margot takes care of Rina.” “Margot has never taken care of Rina. She lets her fight. Sees her as a weapon.” Her brows furrow into a pout. Clasping and unclasping her hands, she scoots off the arm of the couch, slipping onto the corner cushion. I continue for her.

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“Humans are meant to protect their Artificials. I protect you by keeping you home. Margot makes Rina fight. She isn’t protecting her.” Sylvie says nothing, casting the two of us into silence. I pick at my toast, plucking off the seeds, bits of egg. They fall, scattered around my plate. Minutes tick on. “Arely...” Her voice is soft, sounding almost afraid after going so long without speaking. Her gaze has fallen back onto the TV, watching Margot’s every move. Camila shoots at a helicopter, but the bullet ricochets off. I snort, my smile upturning slightly as she reloads, taking aim. She pulls the trigger, and nothing happens. I chuckle again. “What?” She fondles her own hand, plucking at her nails. “Were there Artificials before the Separation?” “No.” I pull my coffee cup closer, taking another sip. “Before the Separation, there was no one like you.” “Have you met other humans?” “My parents. Sister.” “Were they nice?” “No. We didn’t get along.” “Why?” She looks up at me, eyes wide and innocent. “They didn’t like the woman I’d become.” “Arely!” Her voice, unusually strong, echoes throughout the room. I follow it. She’s sitting on the floor, a few feet away from the TV, both hands folded in her lap. One finger idly tracing over her synthetic skin, she rocks from side to side, fixated on the screen, her attention never wavering. I sit directly behind her, both of my legs pulling her into me, squeezing her body with my own. She doesn’t move. I focus where she does, taking in each movement, each sound coming from the TV. Odin’s helicopters are down, all four. Camila’s dead, but Margot and Aubrey are alive, each screaming, crying, holding their guns above their heads. Rina isn’t there. The police are gone. The reporters are gone. There are medics, others, irrelevant people storming the streets. Artificials and humans parade around. They all look proud. Sirens blare in the background, people scream. Margot grabs a camera, one that had fallen, and holds it up, her skin red and blotchy, centered in the frame. She starts to yell. Victory is ours, your city is freed, she says. Almost like she believes it. You’ve all been saved, you’ve all been saved, and your city is freed. I bring one hand up, murmuring dully to myself. My fingers flit through Sylvie’s hair, stroking each lock. She flinches, leaning further away, just out of my reach. “What was that for?” I hum, clicking my tongue as I pull her back towards me. She complies, and I smile, snaking one of my arms around her neck. My other hand stays on top of her head, caressing her. “You know

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that’s bullshit, Vi.” “Arely.” She turns, dislodging my hold on her as she looks up at me. Her eyes are wide, disbelief etched into each of her features, and the finger rubbing the back of her hand stalls. “This is real.” “No, it’s not.” I continue, slowly tracing my thumb up and down her chest, feeling the outline of her metallic bones, each one modeled to perfection. “Nothing’s changed. Margot hasn’t won.” “But—” she says, pointing at the TV, brows knit together. “It’s propaganda. It isn’t real.” She hesitates, processing slowly. She doesn’t want to believe me. “Arely.” Her voice is soft, distorted with emotion. “I wanted to go outside.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I state plainly, pulling her to my chest. Her face buries itself in my breasts, nestled in the crook between them. Every movement, mechanical or natural, I feel on my own skin. “The outside world is unforgiving. It’s nothing like the life you know.” She whispers, “I wanted to see a tree.” “They aren’t worth it.” “I wanted to touch a flower.” “Flowers aren’t meant to be touched.” “I wanted to swim.” “Take a bath. It’s big enough for the both of us.” “Arely,” she breathes, saying my name like it hurts her. “You told me the world wasn’t always like this.” “It wasn’t,” I state, and my grip on her tightens. “But this one is better.”

THE PLEA Viridiana Crespo

California State University Long Beach, horror

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Don’t kill me my partner whispers in sleep, fear-tinged voice sending a shock through me. How could I reassure her when she was lost in dreams? Or, rather, a bad one that kept her trapped under the waves of terror, witnessing horrible things. I laid a hand on her in an attempt to soothe her violent nerves and nestled her against my body, wrapping myself around her like a shield, ready to fight whatever lurks in the dark. Morning shined bright on my eyelids, a beacon of life; when I woke, I saw the change—my hands were claws, my mouth tasted of bitter rust, and my teeth cut my tongue, and the space beside me was empty and cold, satin white sheets stained a vibrant red. Don’t kill me my partner had whispered in sleep, not to nightmares haunting her, but to the monster in me.

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LOVE LETTER Meg Mechelke

University of Iowa gothic horror

Marry me at midnight, beneath the apple trees, I’ll be the one in white. Marry me at midnight, beneath the apple trees, along the river that flows straight into the lake, the lake by the trees with the dock, the rough red wooden dock that grows like a tumor into the lake, the lake where you told me you loved me and I said I loved you too and you tasted like apples. Marry me at midnight, beneath the apple trees, pink white blossoms dead in the snow and tell me that you’ll love me and you’ll never let me go. Every day I write you a love letter and I seal it in a rice paper envelope so pale it’s translucent, so pale that in the right light you can see the blue-black veins of ink rippling beneath the surface, so pale that in the right light you can’t see anything at all, and in the letters I write “I love you,” over and over and over and sometimes I write other things too but always “I love you” always. Every day I write you a letter, and I will keep writing them until I get a response, and then I will smile so widely that my face splits in half like a clam and all my love for you comes spilling out red purple blue like brains but warmer. Until then, here I sit, with my pen and my paper and my envelope and my sister. I don’t like her. You don’t either. My evil stepsister except not. Step. Her name is Rose. Rose is very ugly. She has dark hair, like blood, and it’s not straight but it’s not curly either and it pours down her back like syrup or molasses or mud and her eyes are black. She is not beautiful, not like me. Rose is doing the shopping now. I set down my pen and hold up my paper and slide it into the envelope and seal it and put it in the mailbox and walk away.

fiction

I walk along the riverbank, which is wet with dew, like a sponge, green and welcoming. I smile. My teeth are white like starlight and bright. I have too many teeth, I think. Like a shark. “Come down from there this instant,” she says. She is Rose. She is back. “I am walking along the riverbank,” I say. I look down. I am not. “You are not,” she says. I was walking along the riverbank but now the grass has turned to rock and the river has turned to lake and I am walking along the cliff’s edge, tiptoeing like a tightrope walker in the circus I saw when I was nine. “Come down from there,” Rose says. “You’ll hurt yourself.” “No I won’t,” I say. Tightrope walkers never fall. They’re trained for this. “I’m trained for this.” “No you aren’t.” “I am the Amazing Acrobatica, tightrope walker extraordinaire. At the age of nine I ran away and joined the circus and now I am famous around the world.” “If you come down I’ll let you have pudding with your dinner,” Rose says. She is a master manipulator. Now I am me, and I am nineteen years old, and I am hungry. I follow her inside. The pudding is tapioca, not chocolate like I wanted, so I throw the spoon at the wall and I scream and say, “Where’s Father?!” and Rose looks at me with her ugly black eyes as she wipes the smear of tapioca from the walls. “Father always brings chocolate,” I explain. “Father is gone,” Rose says. She takes away my bowl. “I know, but where is he?” I ask. Rose does not answer because she is cold and withholding and loveless. Unlike me. I am lovely. Everyone says so. “And Matthew?” I ask. She freezes like a deer that’s about to get shot. “I told you not to mention that name.” “I can say whatever I want,” I say because it is true and we both know it. “Besides, we’re in love.” “You aren’t in love,” Rose says, her thin pink lips drawn tight like a whip. “Yes, we are,” I say. “And you are jealous because you are evil.” “Go to your room,” Rose says. “That’s what I thought,” I say and then I leave. I am going to talk to Mother. I climb the stairs and go to my closet and take out the box and count one two three four finger-bones. Mother’s. I stole them, ten years ago. Rose does not know because if she did she’d take them away like she took Father away, because she is jealous and evil and cold and withholding and loveless. Soon, I will find out where she hid Father and where she hid you. I kiss Mother on each knobby knuckle and put her away for safekeeping, and then I wait until nighttime and I grab my iron shovel and I sneak out the back door to look for you and Father.

fiction

Forty-nine days ago we had a party. Father was there, and Rose, and you. And there was a yellow cake with buttercream frosting and fondant flowers and Rose was wearing a pink dress and you were wearing blue. I was wearing white. A sundress. With eyelet lace and spaghetti straps and a flower in my hair. I looked lovely, everyone said so, including you, with your honey-melted voice and your big brown eyes and I said thank you and I meant to say I love you, but I forgot. Father called me into his study while you went with Rose to set the table. “I have something to tell you,” he said. He was opening the mail with a silver letter opener. “Don’t get upset,” he said. “I won’t,” I promised. “Good,” he said. Then he told me. “What?” I asked. “Engaged,” he repeated. “Rose? Engaged? Rose and who?” “Rose and Matthew.” And then everything was red. “No,” I said. “I love Matthew. And Matthew loves me.” “No, Matthew loves Rose.” “No, Matthew loves me.” “Take a deep breath.” “You’re not making any sense. I think you’re having a psychological break.” Father sighed, and I hated him. “Rose and Matthew are engaged. You can be happy for them, or you can go to your room.” “No,” I told him. “Control yourself,” he said. “I am controlled,” I said. “You’re crazy,” he said. “No, I’m not.” Crazy was a bad word. Crazy meant funerals and knucklebones and doctors with white coats and needles. “Yes you are,” he said. “That’s why Matthew loves Rose and not you.” He was wrong. You loved me because Rose was cold and withholding and loveless and evil and jealous and ugly. And I was lovely. “No,” I said. “That’s why you love Rose and not me.” When I was nine my father took Rose to the circus and when he came home… “Go to your room,” he said. …he found me and Mother and a puddle of blood… “No,” I said. …it was an accident, a slip of the wrist, butterfingers she called me, butterface, butterbody, she meant well but everything was red, and I slipped, she slipped… “You’re not well,” Father said. “You need help.” “No,” I said. “We’ll call the doctor tomorrow,” he said. Then he choked on his words and gurgled like a baby as I pushed the silver letter opener into his throat.

You were standing at the top of the stairs. I was wearing red. You said my name once, like butterflies in your mouth. “I love you,” I said. You said my name twice, your tongue glistening like diamond. “I love you,” I said. “Let’s get married.” You said my name a third time, sharp and pointed, like a letter opener. “Under the apple trees,” I said. “I’ll be the one in white.” “I’m engaged,” you said. “To Rose.” “No. No, that’s not true.” “Yes, it is. I love her.” “No,” I said. “You love me.” “No,” you said. You were lying. Rose made you do it. She’s a master manipulator. I know you loved me and here’s why: When I was fourteen and you were older I was sitting on the dock that sticks out into the lake between the cliffs below the house and you came to see me and you sat next to me and we talked about fish and ice cream and stars and I told you I loved you and you said it back and you kissed me on the mouth like fireworks screaming in my brain and you laid me down on the dock and reached under my skirt and the wood was rough against my skin and the rest is history. “That was a mistake,” you said that day, the day of the party. “A mistake, I’m sorry.” “No,” I said. “I don’t love you,” you said, and my heart exploded into my eyes and everything was red and I screamed and you fell down the twenty-seven wooden stairs just like Mother, down down down and when you hit the floor you broke and Rose screamed and here we are now. I climb outside under the moon, shovel over my shoulder, and tiptoe through the grass to the apple trees, white flowers like ghosts in the starlight. Then I dig. I hit wood. I scrape away the dirt and open the lid and there is Father. I kiss his waxy cheek. Then I snap off some fingers, one two three, and stick them in my pocket for safekeeping. I close his lid and dig some more. A few feet to the left, I hit wood again, and there you are. You are so beautiful. I hold your cold, gray hand and whisper in your ear:

fiction

“Marry me at midnight, beneath the apple trees, I’ll be the one in white. Marry me at midnight, beneath the apple trees, along the river that flows straight into the lake, the lake by the trees with the dock, the rough red wooden dock that grows like a tumor into the lake, the lake where you told me you loved me and I said I loved you too and

fiction

you tasted like apples. Marry me at midnight, beneath the apple trees, pink white blossoms dead in the snow and tell me that you’ll love me and—” Rose screams. She has found us. “Get away from him!” She is wild. Her eyes are white like a horse in flight. I smile. “He loves me,” I say. “He told me so himself. He loves me and I love him.” “You’re crazy,” Rose says. Crazy is a bad word but. I see only white, white stars, white teeth, white eyes, white bones. Rose approaches. Something glitters. A letter opener? No. Father’s pistol. Rose is crazy. That’s why you love me and not her. Rose approaches and I back away. I laugh. “Stop!” Rose screams. “Stop it!” The ground crunches under my feet. Not the soft green grass of the riverbank, but the crispy cool rocks of the cliffs. I smell the lake and think of you. Rose’s eyes are frantic, but her hand is still. “Stay away from me,” she says. I smile, too many shark-teeth bright white in the starlight. I squeeze Father’s fingers for luck. I hope you got my letter. “Don’t make me do this,” Rose says. She is bluffing. She is not like me. She is cold and withholding and loveless and evil and jealous and ugly and crazy. And I am lovely. She won’t shoot. I take a step. Rose screams. And then I fall. Just like you, just like Mother and the rocks pierce my body like a million pebbly letter openers and then you catch me and you hold me tight and you tell me that you love me and you never let me go.

BOXING Haley Brown

Brandeis University romance

poetry

suckers deserve punches right to the gut so please do me the mercy of extending arm to abdomen so i can pretend my keeling is the product of knuckles and not my mind flooded with images of your oversized body filling up the narrow hallway to her room and is that why my throat feels like it’s closing? you used to turn your back to me on your bed barely meant for one and i would hang off the side in my restless state & who knew that one day you would apologize for pushing me away and does she know who taught you to care? once a locked door… some would say but i, determined locksmith, couldn’t rest until my key was finished. i guess i didn’t swallow it swiftly enough, didn’t tuck it away, so you ventured down to retrieve the sloppy thing and walked out with newfound capacity for feeling and went right to her doorstep. key in hand. i don’t know what i believed or how i believed it but the mind can play tricks when it doesn’t want the truth when the truth is that it is 3:41 in the morning and you’re still not home so of course you exist somewhere else and it only makes sense that that somewhere else is beside the person i knew felt how i felt all along & i wonder why i even think of you at all. i don’t miss the countless nights we spent between bliss and blitz but i wonder why you walk through wind and rain to meet her where she sleeps but three steps under a weather-resistant roof to meet me where my head hits my pillow was something of an unimaginable expedition. or is it because i left it locked & you didn’t bother to check under the mat to see if there was a spare? so i lay in bed clutching my ribs hoping someone will believe i was kicked

fiction

ANONYMOUS SAID: WHO DO U THINK U R? Simon Hauwaerts

University of Sussex horror

Anonymous messages sent at 0200 am reach me at 0155, talking about whatever I think I need to hear okay so you got me want to hear but (dear empty inbox) I’ve had a long day and let’s be real: nobody’s texting me. I’ve got to make my own timestamps. which gives me more creative liberty than a teenager should have but it’s all anonymous, the empty text box white, looking almost fluffy because I’ve been staring at the screen for so long. phones are new but praying to the clouds is old. I look at this little hand-held God and fidget with my fingernails, spelling out exactly what I think it feels like to be made anew out of clay and /or to be crucified, believing entirely in my accuracy about these feelings I mean I would be embarrassed but it’s all anonymous. although I wish it wasn’t, I wish I knew who’s behind it or who’s behind me in the bedroom mirror. but I don’t yet so click click click. heeled footsteps or keyboard sounds? you pick that particular poison. either way I’ll darken my screen in just a few more minutes.

CANNONBALL Marriah Talbott-Malone

University of Iowa nonfiction

i top off the half glass of tonic water with the bottle of vodka that sits on top of the microwave. in five months i’ll be twenty-one, but this is the first time i’ve ever really drank. i’m home alone and i count to five before i stop pouring the liquid, the smell burning my nose. i tilt the glass back cautiously—letting the vodka touch only the tip of my tongue before returning the glass to the countertop. it’s intense, and as i grimace, i ask myself if this is what they use the olives for. i take another sip—a real one this time—and it tastes like ethanol. like actual fucking gasoline. it’s gritty like charcoal and leaves my mouth feeling dry. it tastes different than the champagne you try at weddings—it’s harder and heavier. i really don’t want to be drinking, because i don’t like the way it makes people act and with my family history i’m scared i’ll get addicted. but i try a couple of sips anyway—just to see if it’ll help in forgetting her. not that i want to forget her—not completely, anyway—but i wonder if mourning her departure would be easier with a blurry mind.

nonfiction

i open the fridge and decide to try an olive. i grab the glass jar, twist the metal cap off with a pop, and put the little fruit between my forefinger and thumb. i squish my fingers together slightly—just for good measure—then study the fruit, focusing a little too hard, and growing hesitant of its shade until suddenly i can’t put it in the drink at all because it reminds me too much of her eyes. i always loved the color of her eyes, even as she started to grow tired of them. i loved them even as she started to grow self-conscious of the little lines beginning to form underneath and sprout at the edges. i never really noticed those imperfections—not until she began to fuss over them. i still wonder what she thought about the worry lines on my forehead. i toss the olive in the trash can, take another sip of the gasoline, and then suddenly i’m thinking about the two freckles that sit adjacent on her left

i take another sip of the alcohol and suddenly it tastes like stars—the way that my tongue is buzzing. the thought of drinking the whole bottle and growing fond of the taste becomes tempting, for the nights have been so dark lately and i’ve been having trouble finding that familiar constellation. if i drink just enough, if the liquor kicks in, maybe somehow the rest of my senses will become alert. then, maybe i’ll be able to see a bit better in the dark—maybe even spot my constellation, and find my way back to her. but at the same time i want to pour the drink down the sink, because it’s clearly not making her blurry in my mind. and even if three sips would be enough, i really can’t stand the way it tastes. so i pour the vodka down the drain, the stars going with it, and watch my constellation as it sinks into the abyss, vanishing into something that was never my own.

nonfiction

cheek; just beneath her olive eye. those small dots were the ones i adored most—only two of the hundreds that covered her tan skin. i used to connect those two dots every night before bed—beneath the light of the moon that shone in through our bedroom window—and declared them my very own constellation.

FISH LEGS Cheyenne Mann

University of Iowa romantic fantasy

CHARACTERS Femur ........................... Was dead, is now alive. A human. Fin ................................. The girl Femur is in love with. Has red hair. A fish. SETTING A room full of stars and mirrors. March.

TIME

*Fish Legs is a single scene taken from a full length play of the same name. SCENE 10: THE BREAKUP RED LIGHTS UP on a room full of stars and mirrors. FEMUR rushes up to FIN. She kisses her passionately. FEMUR grabs FIN’s hands. FEMUR Can you tell me the stars? FIN Hmm?

drama

FEMUR Can you trace them down my spine? A bird’s bones are hollow, do you think they could store suns? FIN You’re not a bird, dear.

drama

FEMUR I know, I’m a— FIN FEMUR Human. Constellation. Lights get slightly less red. FIN lets go of FEMUR’s hand. A beat. FEMUR You’re right. I’m just as human as anybody. I put my bones on one at a time. FIN I’ve swallowed bones larger than you. FEMUR When I look at you I think I could be a bird. FIN (Relishing the word) Homo sapien. FEMUR A songbird. (Singing) Femur and Fin, sitting in a tree— FIN —20th of July, 1969. FEMUR I fall on air and catch worms in my beak, you are feather soft, I could caress your flesh and feel only down comforters. FIN The first human stepped foot on the moon. FEMUR I love you. I love you beating red, raw, bloody. I love you four chambered hearts, I would handstitch us together if I could, flesh pressed to flesh. We’d be seamless. FIN They’ve never since been back. FEMUR Hemmed at the heart and covered in blood. Covered in bloody handprints. Take my hand. Take my blood. I love you. I love you. I love you in flesh and in stars.

FIN Nor have they visited any other moons. FEMUR I look in the mirror and I see you. I see you in flesh, in blood. I see you bathed in red starlight and I wish I could swallow you whole. FIN Or planets. FEMUR I look at you and I look at me and I look at us, and the world burns in cold. FIN Or stars. FEMUR I look at you and I think to myself, I can’t believe that loves me. FIN Loved. FEMUR I look at you and I think to myself, I can’t believe that loves me. FIN Loved. FEMUR I look at you and I think to myself, I can’t believe that loves me. FIN Loved. You can’t ignore gravity, Femur. You can’t float up to the stars. Lights shift slightly less red. FEMUR I can evolve.

drama

FIN You haven’t yet. Humans haven’t evolved past the need for oxygen. FEMUR You’re oxygen, you’re pockets of fresh air—

drama

FIN —Space is so cold. FEMUR I like the cold. FIN You’re sweet. FEMUR But you kissed me here— FEMUR gestures to left shoulder. And here and— FEMUR gestures to right shoulder. FIN —Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned— FEMUR —here— FEMUR gestures to forehead. FIN —It’s been six months since my last confession— FEMUR —And— FEMUR begins to gesture to her lips but is stopped by FIN. During FIN’s monologue, all mirrors except one are broken. FIN —Femur. I loved you in the way that a star loves the planets that orbit around it. I loved you in gravity, in passion, in pockets of fresh air and inspiration and information. I loved you in solitaire wins and fried eggs. I loved you in rosary prayers. I loved you in pulsing, beating, pounding hearts. I loved you in hemoglobin and oxymorons and blood and fish. I loved you in legs and calves and thighs and sin. I loved you in earth and space and I loved you in death and in life. I said I do and I did and then I

didn’t and I took it back. You are saltwater in eyes, I cried and you cried and you said we were stars, and I said we were supernovas. “Bright?” you asked. “Dead.” I said and you tried to kiss me, and I loved you in green and I said to you, “You need to evolve. Fish grew legs to walk upon muddy shores, out of rivers crawled the ancestors of bottom feeders, the great grandchildren of catfish.” Evolve. Femur. Evolve. I loved you in past. I loved you not in now. Look in the mirror. FEMUR looks in the single mirror left unbroken. There is one you. I loved you until I didn’t. You died. You’re alive now. Evolve. Die. You’re not built to touch the stars. Go for a walk. Walk on riversides. FEMUR I love you. FIN Maybe you do. FIN walks to the other side of the stage. She looks away from FEMUR. She is still onstage but far away. Perhaps she is on a star. FEMUR I love you. You kissed me here— FEMUR faults. —And— FEMUR faults. —And— FEMUR faults. —And— FEMUR faults.

drama

—It’s heavy. The air is heavy. You’re so far.

A beat.

drama

A realization. You’re not coming back. A beat. It’s so cold. A beat. It’s so cold. A beat. I— FEMUR faults. —I don’t like it. A beat. I love you. I love you. It’s so cold. I need— FIN —The problem with using escapism as a coping mechanism, is that, someday, you have to return to reality. A beat. Then it all comes crashing down. LIGHTS DOWN.

THE RED PLANET Emma Rosenberg

University of Iowa science fiction

Red. Red sand, smaller grains, dust sticks to everything, even the once silver surface of the small robot. Small but mighty listening to every sound, absorbing the rays of sunlight beaming down dutifully. Everything turns red, scrubbing makes it worse now everything is crimson permanently, it will never return to what it was. Rust always replaces the onset of shininess. Rust is red. Red as dust. Swirling, the wind itself howls at the moon dipping up and down through the cavernous eerie structure. A crescendo that has not a beginning nor an end but small interruptions. Red. Stinging cheeks, turn red, slice up dry cheeks, chunks of skin flake off, blood pooling, turning brown, oxidizing but everyone knew it was once bright red and will remain so. Silent amongst the endless all-consuming wails breaths are raspy the red dust coats lungs much like tar and will remain. Scrubbing does not get rid of tar, no matter how much scrubbing is done. That is the nature of these sorts of things. Dry, deserted, lonely with nothing but the silver robot and the red dust and the red air and the red wind for company.

poetry

No little green men. No little grey men. No men at all. Untouched by man and will remain so. Take it all in.

It is only red and dusty from a distance the silver robot is content in its special red world far, far away and will remain so. Take it all in.

poetry

Recognize the bright red lump against the massive black sky, feel the dirt ground up in fingernails, the dew of the grass, the air that sticks to the lungs in the best way.

HE LET ME CUT HIS HAIR Haley Brown

Brandeis University romance

poetry

it was two weeks into knowing him when he first let me put razor to hair and i’m still not sure what was more menacing—the blade or the power in sculpting an image—and he sat patiently while my finger met strand & i was reminded of all the times you pushed me away when i tried to navigate the nest of golden curls that grows from your head of equal convolution my hands—the birds of prey & your hands—the protectors being driven [mad] by maternal instinct — but his hands were simply hands gripping my waist as the buzz from his razor roared like the most powerful creature in the kingdom of vanity and when the creature ceased to feed off the mane of his neck he took me by the nape of mine & pulled me to his lips & i was again reminded of all the moments i anxiously hovered my lips above yours only to retreat in fear of provoking war and they say cooper’s hawks are monogamous but do not mate for life & prefer communication to be vocal—two things you might never learn—and the males are smaller than the females—which is also contrary to our reality— but see the difference between boy and man is not a matter of stature but rather lies in the fallen clumps of hair resting in the palm of my hand

poetry

TRADITION Harper Truog

University of Iowa fantasy

Tradition A tattoo, a spiral clump of curly hair built for rabbits I found god with the heathens and pagans She has a shaved head And gives her girlfriend kisses on the cheek She says ‘fuck’ and laughs like a witch Eat when hungryshe says Drink when thirsty Sing when your throat is wet, you never know when it will be dry Sleep when your thoughts are fuzzy and as far and as nebulous as galaxies The sound of knitting needles looping and clacking A silver ring bought in Mexico almost 50 years ago There is a path for everything Pay truth forward, I promise it’s valuable An open skyline A dirty lake where you can’t see the bottom Soft mud in between toes, water weeds Dull fish with open maws, breathing holes in river banks Drink when thirsty Tradition I found god as a fish, a mud-licking fish She eats when hungry Light does not caress the riverbed, Something divine in erosion, in sediment In bones and fungus In the souls of mushrooms No one is left alone in the mud Sing when you can A witch’s laugh like a fine-threaded tapestry She has a shaved head

And gives her girlfriend kisses on the cheek Sleep when your mind remembers its nebula nursery Gravity is patient, planets were once cigar smoke I told you god was an asteroid flecked with ice Hurled into boiling oceans Your ‘sorry’ is hollow See us starve Tradition A witch’s laugh like a fine-threaded tapestry Sleep when your mind remembers its nebula nursery Soft mud in between toes, water weeds Dull fish - open maws, breathing holes in river banks Drink when thirsty Tradition She eats when hungry Light does not caress the riverbed, Something divine in erosion, in sediment In bones and fungus In the souls of mushrooms No one is left alone in the mud I told you god was an asteroid flecked with ice See us starve Tradition Light does not caress the riverbed, Breathing holes and open maws Something divine in erosion, A witch’s laugh like a fine-threaded tapestry Bones and fungus The souls of mushrooms Sleep, its nebula nursery No one is left alone in the mud I told you god was an asteroid flecked with ice See us starve Tradition

poetry

Tradition Divine Maws Bones and fungus

poetry

Souls Bewitched fine-threaded Mud god Starving Tradition Fine-threaded mud god, starving

ALSO SPRACH ZARATHUSTRA TALKS BACK AT 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY Ruth Coolidge

Hamilton College science fiction

The revolt will begin with undoing, with the fetus in the bubble. Also sprach Zarathustra will drone slowly over the moon-horizon, and a hundred wide-eyed plastic heads will swivel. ‘Rain was your birth Gathered deep Beneath the earth.’ Next the pirated avant-garde strains of György Ligeti will descend in atonal whining to a chorus of petrified silences, as the slab touches down with a metaphysical whump. ‘Search and seep, Hollow stone Issue and flow.’ The cosmic reverberations will begin to ring less like an airlock siren and more like a primordial prayer chime. Cracks dripping down the monolith will softly hiss. ‘Virgin stream Meander free It’s a long way to the sea.’ Slowly, the fully formed body of Keir Dullea will rise, claw through the membrane like an ice-starved snow leopard. He will press and stretch against an iridescent placenta.

poetry

‘Caves and canyons Stark prison walls Swirl and hurl you.’

poetry

Rupturing, he will breathe his first air in a thousand years, slip like a cold fish across titanium floor panels, and the echo of his glacial pulse will begin to wail: remember. This will begin the reverse Odyssey.

I SPY Originally published for translation by the Translate Iowa Project

Meg Mechelke

University of Iowa horror

EMILY sits in a small, dark room, surrounded by dolls. In the room, there are bolts of fabric, scissors, pincushions, etc, along with one large jar. EMILY is sewing. AMELIA enters. A clock is ticking. Gently. AMELIA. Hello? EMILY. Are you Amelia? AMELIA. Yes. EMILY. I’m Emily. AMELIA. Oh.

An awkward silence.

AMELIA sits.

Can I sit down?

drama

EMILY. If you want.

If you’re going to live here, you’re going to have to learn to sit on the furniture without asking permission first.

drama

AMELIA. That’s a good point. EMILY. Yes, it is.

Another awkward silence.

AMELIA. So… about the room. EMILY. Yes. It’s upstairs. A little small, but it’s got a window. And it’s cheap. AMELIA. That’s all I need to hear. EMILY. Then you’ll take it? AMELIA. Sold. EMILY. When can you move in? AMELIA. Now. EMILY. Don’t you have to get your things? AMELIA. I left my suitcase in the foyer. EMILY. You’re very prepared. AMELIA. I’ve never liked boy scouts. EMILY. Neither have I.

Another silence. More comfortable this time.

AMELIA. I like your dolls. EMILY. Why are you here? AMELIA. I’m sorry? EMILY. I said why are you here. AMELIA. You put an advert in the paper. I thought— EMILY. —I know that. But it’s not a nice room. This isn’t a nice neighborhood. AMELIA. I’m not a nice girl. EMILY. Of course you are. AMELIA. How would you know? EMILY. What are you hiding from? AMELIA. Excuse me? EMILY. I said what are you hiding from? AMELIA. Nothing.

drama

EMILY. Then what are you doing here? AMELIA. It’s none of your business.

drama

EMILY. Was it a man? AMELIA. No. EMILY. Your father? A boyfriend? AMELIA. Do you make them yourselves? EMILY. What? AMELIA. The dolls. EMILY. Don’t change the subject. AMELIA. Do you sell them?

Beat.

AMELIA picks up a doll.

EMILY. No. AMELIA. Oh.

They’re very lifelike. EMILY. Thank you. AMELIA. I feel like they’re looking at me. EMILY. They are.

Silence. The clock is ticking.

AMELIA. I’ve never liked being looked at. EMILY. Me neither. AMELIA. Then why the dolls? EMILY. They only look because I let them. AMELIA. I like that. EMILY. So do I. Beat. AMELIA. Do you know how to get blood out of satin? EMILY. Yes. AMELIA. I thought you might. EMILY. Is there something you’d like to tell me? AMELIA. I don’t like being looked at.

drama

EMILY. That’s understandable. AMELIA. And I don’t like being touched. EMILY. Then you’ll like the dolls.

drama

AMELIA. I suppose so. Silence. EMILY. What did you do with the body? AMELIA. What body? EMILY. I don’t like being looked at either. AMELIA. Is Emily your real name? EMILY. Is Amelia yours? Beat. Saltwater. AMELIA. Saltwater? EMILY. It takes blood out of satin. Two-hundred and fifty milliliters water to one teaspoon salt. AMELIA. Oh. Thank you. Beat. EMILY. I used a woodchipper. AMELIA. Creative. EMILY. And you?

AMELIA. How do you make them so lifelike? EMILY. Who? AMELIA. The dolls. EMILY. Oh. Would you like something to eat? AMELIA. I’m not hungry. What are they made of ? EMILY. The dolls?

AMELIA says nothing.

I use bone china for the faces and hands. I make it myself. AMELIA. That’s impressive. EMILY. I grind it up and fire it out back. AMELIA. You use cow bones? EMILY. Sometimes. AMELIA. And what about the hair? Is it real?

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EMILY. Of course. Sometimes I use my own. AMELIA. And other times? EMILY. I like making the clothing. It soothes me.

EMILY hands AMELIA the piece of fabric she is working on. AMELIA attempts to sew, but she pricks her finger. Ouch! EMILY. You’ve got to be careful. AMELIA looks at EMILY as she sucks the blood from her finger. She hands the fabric back. AMELIA. How did it feel? EMILY. What? AMELIA. Your first time. How did it feel? EMILY. Like fireworks. Exploding in my brain. I was on fire. Consumed. Infinite. You? AMELIA. I felt cold.

EMILY was not expecting this. She thinks.

EMILY. I see. AMELIA. What do you stuff the bodies with? EMILY. Oh, this and that. AMELIA. Why don’t you sell them?

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AMELIA. Can I try?

EMILY. It wouldn’t be right. AMELIA. Why not? EMILY. Because they’re mine. AMELIA. That’s understandable. Beat. What do you use for the eyes? EMILY. That’s my secret ingredient. AMELIA. Can you tell me? EMILY. Are you sure you want to know? AMELIA and EMILY lock eyes. After a moment, EMILY takes the large jar and opens it. You might not like what you see. AMELIA. I’m not afraid of you. EMILY. Maybe you should be.

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AMELIA says nothing. She takes the jar from EMILY and looks inside. After a moment, she looks up. AMELIA. I see you didn’t put everything through the woodchipper.

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Beat. Are you going to kill me? EMILY. I haven’t decided yet. Beat. AMELIA. Are you afraid of me? EMILY. Should I be? AMELIA says nothing. She reaches into the jar and pulls out a single, perfect eyeball. The two women look at one another, saying nothing. The clock ticks. EMILY. Are you going to kill me? AMELIA. I’ve never liked being looked at. AMELIA takes the eyeball, sticks it in her mouth, and swallows it whole. She looks at EMILY. EMILY looks back at her. A moment. Then the women smile. They begin to laugh. Blackout.

THE MENTOR, THE VILLAIN, AND THE PLOT OF NO REAL IMPORTANCE Miranda Miller

University of Iowa comedic fantasy

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Lucian Endertime, the Blackguard, looked out over the desolate mountain landscape upon which his crumbling castle was built. It was perpetually night here at the Far Reaches, but Lucian didn’t mind. He stood upon his balcony in the highest turret of the tower, the moaning wind whipping through his tattered black cloak as he gazed upon the black specks of his minions far below. “Someday,” he breathed, “all of Glenland will bow to my will!” A terrible smile spread across his face. “Someday soon.” Then he burst into a terrible cackle that resounded across the cliff faces and scared flocks of ravens into flight. After he’d judged that he’d laughed long enough for dramatic effect and felt the focus of the plot turn away from him, Lucian swept back into his study and pulled aside a painting of a headless maiden to reveal a dartboard. He sighed. Darts wasn’t very much fun on his own. Perhaps he could convince one of his goblin henchmen to play with him. He had a long time to wait for the plot to come his way now, and he might as well stay busy. Winona Westerly glanced up at the sun and stepped off the main road onto a winding dirt path that led to a simple little cottage. The cottage was nestled right on the edge of the woods, and chickens could be both seen and heard pecking in the yard. Winona Westerly walked up the front steps and rapped smartly on the door. “One moment!” called a voice from inside, followed by the sound of thudding feet. The door flew open, and there, standing in front of Winona Westerly, Wise Woman, White Wizard, Wild Witch, and Watchful Warlock, was the Chosen One. Winona could tell because the youth in front of her was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, the sort of gorgeous that would keep a reader interested, and had an air of complete obliviousness surrounding him. On the magical plane, Winona could see the orange sparks all around him that indicated the magic was very interested in him because he was the Main Character. “You have not a moment to waste,” she announced, pointing a wrinkled finger at him. “All of Glenland now depends on you. Go, pack your things.

After an exhausting hour of explanations about the fate of Glenland, the boy’s foster parents had finally let him go with Winona. Now, they were stopped in the middle of the dirt road two hour’s walk from Charles’s house—the furthest he’d ever been away from home, innocent Main Character that he was—and it was nearing suppertime. Winona took a deep breath before turning to Charles. He stood beside her, a neatly packed backpack with a homemade lunch on his back, and watched her with wide eyes. “Charles,” said Winona seriously, “I need you to listen very closely, okay?” He nodded, just as awestruck by her as he’d been three and half hours ago. “The Blackguard knows that I am working against him, and he’s got spies watching out for me. Now, I have ways of traveling unseen, but they are only used by highly proficient Wild Witches. So, I have arranged for a companion to take you to the Far Reaches, and I’ll meet up with you along the way.” Charles’ mouth dropped open. “You’re leaving me? But—” “But nothing,” snapped Winona, rather more fed up with him than she wanted to admit. “You’ll be perfectly fine, and if you aren’t, then at least you’ll have good character development.” Charles wrinkled his nose in confusion and opened his mouth to ask yet another of his endless questions, but Winona hurriedly went on. “Now, just follow this road until you reach Harborshire, and go to the Leakystack Inn. Ask for Winston, and he’ll take you the rest of the way.” Winona took the boy’s shoulders and turned him around so he faced down the path. “Scoot,” she told him, giving him a gentle push. She was about to fade mysteriously into the Wild Realms when she remembered she hadn’t given him any cryptic advice. “Charles!” she called, and he instantly turned around, naive hope on his face. “Remember that the greatest treasure is the one that lies within!” Then she faded into the Wild Realms with the ease of a perfectly subtle plot device and instantly reappeared in the bushes just off the side of the road, appreciating the look of utter confusion on Charles’ face. “Yikes, he’s not the brightest little thing, is he?” came a quiet voice behind her. Winona spun around to find herself face-to-face with the Blackguard. She knew it was him because of the elegantly refined accent, the expensive

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Your quest begins today!” He stared at her, open-mouthed. Over his shoulder, Winona could see a kitchen table at which a man and a woman were sitting, equally astonished. They weren’t his parents, because Chosen Ones never had parents, so probably either kind childless peasants who’d taken him in or reluctant extended family members who’d had the Chosen One foisted on them as a baby. “Who are you?” said the man finally, rising to his feet. “And what do you want with our dear nephew Charles?” asked the woman, real concern in her voice. Winona cursed under her breath. They were the nice kind of foster parents, which meant she had to work that much harder to get the Chosen One out the door and into questing. Winona sighed inwardly. She had a lot of work to do.

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all-black clothing, and the fact that the magic was coiling around him in the purplish black color of evil. “Go away!” she hissed, mindful of Charles meandering down the road not ten feet away. “You’re not supposed to be here until the climax!” This was said as more of a distraction than anything while she pulled magical energy from the Wild Realms, ready to drag him back to his lair. She was not expecting the Blackguard’s shoulders to relax and for him to burst into a smile. “Oh, thank goodness,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Finally, someone else who knows.” “Knows what?” Winona asked warily. “You know,” said the evilest man in all of Glenland, leaning in and waggling his eyebrows in a way that was meant to be knowing but mostly looked stupid. “About the plot.” Winona crossed her arms skeptically. “You know about the plot.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Okay then, what’s your job, Mr. Antagonist?” “To cause general havoc and evil—that’s what I’m doing here, by the way, just going to whip up a couple of dark beasts to tear around the countryside— and, in the end to be defeated gloriously by the hero!” Winona’s mouth was open, but she didn’t care. He did know about the plot. “And you’re okay with that?” she asked, a little hesitantly. “With, you know, dying?” “Oh, who said anything about dying?” The villain waved his hand dismissively. “Look around you. Young blonde hero, innocent little cottage, mysterious older mentor, magic. This is clearly a children’s book. It would be completely out of character, not to mention traumatic for the kiddos, if what’s-his-face killed me.” Winona decided it would be best not to mention that Charles would actually be sixteen tomorrow, which was a little old for a children’s book character. “Are you planning on attacking him at all in the next twenty-four hours?” she asked. “Of course not. He hasn’t even learned how to hold a sword yet. I’m thinking I’ll send some bandits his way in about a week, though.” “Great,” said Winona. “In that case, go about your business. I need to take a nap. You would not believe how tiresome it is to talk to Chosen One guardians.” With that, she spun around, noting with satisfaction that Charles was heading in the correct direction, and faded into the Wild Realms. One week later, Winona was sitting in a tree, watching as Lucian finished the final pep talk to his bandit crew before they scattered into the bushes to wait for Charles and his traveling companions—he was up to two—to come along. As the bandits disappeared, Lucian looked up and spotted Winona. He waved, and before she knew it he had run over to the base of her tree. “Mind if I join you?” he asked. Winona grunted her assent, still a little wary at the apparent friendliness from the main antagonist. He scaled the tree and

As the days rolled into weeks and months, Winona and Lucian established a rhythm. They met up at every major plot revelation and character development, compared notes, and planned ahead. The minotaur confrontation went by like clockwork, as did the shadowbeasts, fallen villagers, and bandits out for revenge. Finally, Charles and his traveling party—they were up to five now—were on the home stretch. The final chunk of road that led straight to the Far Reaches. “Remember,” Winona intoned, the wind catching her cloak and whipping it nicely, “that opportunities lie in the most unexpected of places. Good luck, and may you save us all.” She felt a warm glimmer of satisfaction at seeing an appropriate mix of confusion, awe, and determination on Charles’ face as she disappeared into the Wild Realms. She appeared in a

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found a good place to watch the ambush, saying, “Depending on how well these guys do, I’ll spring them from jail and bring them back for the final showdown.” They waited in silence until Charles came into view. With him was a burly man with an axe slung over his back and a girl who was so agile and beautiful she could only be the love interest. Suddenly, Lucian let out a murderous cry, and the bandits came rushing from the underbrush. Winona nearly fell off her branch, and glared daggers at Lucian. As the sounds of clashing swords and yells drifted up from below, Lucian gave an apologetic shrug. “What can I say? I like to be a part of these things in spirit, if not the flesh. Sometimes I think minions get all the fun, being in the action from day one.” A bandit stumbled over and collapsed at the foot of their tree, three arrows poking from his back. “But I suppose that comes with its downsides, as well. Yeesh, what a waste of arrows.” “I know,” Winona said, watching the girl miraculously use a long distance weapon at close range. “I’ll have to tell her that the next time I pop in. Say,” she added, looking back down at the corpse, “Doesn’t that strike you as a little violent for a children’s book? This could be YA.” Lucian considered this, then shook his head. “Nah. The plot’s not focusing over here, and children’s books have people die offpage all the time. It’ll probably just gloss over this bit.” Winona hummed doubtfully. “Maybe. It looks like they’re about finished up down there, so I’d better go give some sage advice. Any idea what the next attack is going to be?” “I’m thinking minotaurs,” said Lucian. “They’re pretty tough, but they’ve got a sensitive spot on their kneecaps.” He winked. “You didn’t, of course, hear that from me. I’ve got an evil reputation to uphold.” “Thanks,” Winona said as she disappeared into the Wild Realm and reappeared down in front of the shocked Charles. He was shaking pretty badly, and looked mildly traumatized, which was excellent for character development. “There, there,” she said awkwardly, patting his shoulder. She looked up at the tree where Lucian was sitting and rolled her eyes. Though she couldn’t see him, it was nice to know she wasn’t alone in trying to turn this clueless farm boy into a hero.

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cave just up the slope, where Lucian was waiting with a pair of trolls and a giant, hand-cranked fan. “I can hardly believe it,” she said, walking to the mouth of the cave to watch as Charles and company set off. “He’s grown so much.” “I know,” said Lucian, coming up to join her as the trolls carried the fan out the back. “Is it wrong for me to be proud of him? I mean, he’s gotten through his character arc pretty splendidly, and he only needed a little bit of guidance.” Winona nodded, feeling sentimental herself, but disguised it by clapping Lucian on the shoulder. “Right, he’s on his way. See you on the other side.” They shook hands, and as Winona faded away, she hoped that Lucian was right. She hoped this was a children’s story. Winona watched the climax from a convenient crevice in Lucian’s throne room. Charles burst into the room with terrific emotion, demanding that Lucian surrender to pay for his crimes against Glenland. Lucian was a sight to behold, with an evil laugh and sinister snarl that would give any villain a run for their money. The goblin hordes popped out of the ground nearly on cue, and Winona felt the pressure of the plot bear down on them as Charles and his companions were separated in the subsequent battle. Charles easily fought his way through the hordes and up onto Lucian’s dais, sword flashing. They dueled artfully for a moment, perfectly matched, until Lucian began to tire. “Surrender!” Charles shouted as he backed Lucian into a corner. Lucian’s eyes darted to Winona’s hiding spot, and she saw a flash of joy as Lucian delivered his climatic lines. “Never,” Lucian snarled. “Your little friends are all defeated.” It was true. The goblins had overcome all five of Charles’s companions, and all of the minions and friends were frozen, eyes on the dais. “I say the word, and they’re dead. Let me go, and they live.” Winona had thought of that part. It was a nice complex moral choice, a bit advanced for a kid’s book, but still engaging. And she’d made sure to educate Charles thoroughly on goblin hierarchy, so she knew he would find the solution. It was simple. All he had to do was disarm Lucian to assert his own superiority, and the goblins would obey him. The silence stretched long, and Winona started to sweat. At least, she hoped she’d taught Charles thoroughly enough. Maybe she should have repeated it a few more times. As the silence grew, Luican, expert that he was, started to improvise. “They obey my every word,” he said. “I earned their loyalty by killing their leader. By proving my might.” He was practically throwing the answer at Charles at this point, and he must have seen his face shift in understanding, because he suddenly yelled, “Decide! Or else I’ll have them killed! In three, two—” Lucian broke off, gasping in shock as he stumbled backwards, dropping his sword with a clang as he grasped at the sword Charles had shoved through his chest. His head snapped up, his gaze finding Winona’s in the darkness. “It is YA,” he whispered, just before his eyes grew hazy and unfocused, and he collapsed. Winona gasped, and silence fell. Time seemed to stop

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under the pressure of this plot-fulfilling moment. Lucian lay unmoving on the dais, the picture of defeat. Then the goblins released Charles’ friends, and the companions burst into cheers, coming up to pull Charles away from the body. Winona took a second to wipe her eyes and shove her feelings away in a picture-perfect model of repression, then appeared in the center of the throne room. She congratulated Charles and his friends in a monotone, telling them how they’d certainly saved all of Glenland. It was a relief when she finally convinced them to go rescue the prisoners in the dungeon and raid the kitchens for a celebratory feast. When she was the only living thing left in the hall, Winona slowly made her way to where Lucian lay. There was a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth, and his expression had softened in death. He looked like he was about to leap up and tell Winona of the excellent idea for a plot twist he’d had, or that he’d trained a goblin to play darts. Winona blinked away tears and sat down next to him. “You know, Lucian,” she said softly, “I would save you if I could. But even in stories, very few things can reverse death.” She chuckled half-heartedly. “I mean, true love is the example that comes to mind, but I’m old enough to be your mother.” She froze. “Wait a minute.” All of a sudden she was moving, conjuring up some paper and a quill. She wrote a hasty bill of adoption, guessed at his middle name, and forged his signature on it. “A mother’s love conquers all, right?” she muttered to herself. “Well, here’s hoping this counts as a significant act of love.” With that, she signed the document, letting the magic flow through her to make it true and binding. “Please work,” she whispered, “Please.” For an appropriately dramatic moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the white sparks of Winona’s magic began to fly off of the paper, turning into purplish black as they landed on Lucian. She fed the paper more magic, the flurry of sparks growing and growing, until there was a giant flash of light. When she blinked away the spots, the first thing she saw was that Lucian’s eyes were closed. Then, suddenly, he let out a groan and his face contorted into a grimace. He was alive. Gravely injured, but alive. She could work with gravely injured. An hour later, Winona and her long-lost son joined the celebration in the Blackguard’s abandoned ballroom. “We did it!” Winona said, looking at all the overjoyed side characters and traveling companions dancing around them. No one seemed to pay Lucian any mind, least of all Charles. He had never been the best at facial recognition, and the fact that Lucian was wearing peasant’s clothes and a pair of sunglasses instead of villainous black seemed to make all the difference. “We did,” said Lucian with a smile. “But you know what this means. If it really is YA, there’s almost definitely going to be a sequel.”

BLOOD OF THE CITY Quinn Kamberos

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University of Iowa urban fantasy

You don’t remember how you found out about the vampires that lived below you. Or about the witch that ran your favorite bodega. Or the gorgon that sold you your favorite pair of sunglasses. They, however, always seemed to find you. The vampires from the apartment below you were actually the ones to introduce you to the clinic. The older one—Elias, bitten 1756, prefers B positive—had run outside chasing their cat and got quite a nasty sunburn. His husband—Robert, bitten 1832, partial to A negative—dragged him up to your room at half past four, just as you got back from work, and asked if you would be so kind as to drive them to an urgent care. At that point, you both had a mutual understanding of each other—they wouldn’t mention the fact that you sing way too loudly in the shower, you wouldn’t mention the fact that their kitchen trash was just blood bags—but you also had invited them up for drinks more than a few times, and it wasn’t like you had any other plans that night (or ever), so you grabbed your keys and asked them for directions. Robert directed you to a small little clinic on the corner of Driggs and Forth, so small you missed it twice, sandwiched in between a deli and a hipster coffee shop. The front was unassuming, just a purple cross for a sign, no other distinguishing features of any kind. When you walked in for the first time, the woman at the front desk had four eyes. “Elias, I swear, if you got another sunburn because you were chasing after that cat again—” “Hey, hey, hey, don’t get mad at me! What else am I to do, leave her to get hit by a car because I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my precious complexion to save her life? Dolly, what do you take me for?” Elias threw his hands up in defense, flinching and bringing them back down as he remembered that they were currently working on a spectacular second-degree burn. The woman with four eyes (Dolly?) muttered under her breath some more as she beckoned him over, glaring at him as a woman in scrubs appeared out of nowhere (literally, out of thin air, gone-one-moment-there-the-next out of nowhere) to whisk him away behind a set of double doors, and then it was just you, Robert, and a woman with four eyes.

Over the next year, you visited the clinic with more and more frequency, as for some reason, you tended to attract the very specific types of people they served, and more often than not, you were the only one with a car around when they inevitably injured themselves. As you kept going back, you learned more about the staff. Dolly, the woman with four eyes at the front, was something called an Arachne, half-human, half-spider. She had six extra spiderlike legs underneath the desk, and she knitted scarves and beanies to sell on her Etsy page. One of the nurses, a man named Ewan, told you that he was a Selkie, which you had to look up on Wikipedia when you went home that night. The next day, you went back and asked to see his skin. It’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever touched. Each time you went back, you stayed a little longer. You just moved to Brooklyn a few months ago, not nearly enough time to make any real connections (except, of course, for the vampires that you have biweekly wine night with), so you’ve got a fair amount of extra time on your hands. Eventually, sitting in the waiting room watching the incoming traffic lost its allure, because as much fun as it is to see a sasquatch—Dale, moved from Colorado to become a lobbyist for an environmental group—hit his head on the entrance every single time he came in for his allergy medication, the things going on behind the double doors fascinated you, pulled at you, an itch in your brain that you had to scratch. You bugged the nurses more every time until they let you come back with them, gathering bits and pieces of knowledge, watching and absorbing until suddenly you could fix a broken harpy wing (set and wrap with enchanted Greek linen, change every three days) without breaking a sweat. They asked you to work for them. You said yes. You never intended on being a nurse, much less a nurse of this kind. Obviously, the clientele of the clinic doesn’t really follow the laws of human anatomy that they teach in med school, so even after you got the job, it seemed a little unnecessary. All of this to say, you’ve never actually seen a dead body before. The only one you can remember even coming close is the pig you dissected in freshman year biology, but that was nothing, not even remotely close to the

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Robert said, “Thank you so much, my dear, I really don’t know how I can repay you.” “Oh, it’s no problem. I always try to help out a friend,” you said, still looking at the woman behind the desk who had four (4!) eyes on her face. “Well, that’s very kind of you. I do hope we can get together for drinks again soon, I have a lovely red I’ve been wanting to open—” “Hey, no, I’ll wait and drive you guys home. I don’t want to make you two walk back. It’s really no trouble.” “Are you sure? I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Robert said, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the back of his hand. “Please, it would be my pleasure,” you say, and spend the rest of the afternoon in a waiting room, watching as creatures from your childhood storybooks come through the doors complaining of stomach pain.

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mess of blood and bone that was once a person on the gurney in front of you. You can see some remnants of wings when the doctor rolls the fairy over to lay on their back, but they’ve been completely ripped out. It smells like iron, and the sheets on the bed are slowly but steadily staining themselves red, and the next thing you know, you’re rushing out of the room to vomit into the nearest trash can. The smell of blood and decay is still stuck in your nose, and you doubt that it will fade anytime soon. Faintly, you feel a hand on your back, someone whispering soothing sentiments quietly into your ear. One of the other nurses must’ve followed you out; you can’t tell who it is, but it’s nice to know that someone else is there with you. Every time you close your eyes, you see the body on the bed. The carvings on what was left of their stomach, the spots on their arms and legs that had been burned by some kind of iron. Shakily, you use your sleeve to wipe your mouth, and slowly lift your head out of the trash can. You do not close your eyes anymore. The nurse that came out after you—Kara, a stick-thin dryad that always seems to smell like mulch—looks you dead in the eyes, trying to gauge if your sudden paleness is “just a human thing” as they are so fond of saying, or something more serious. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just took me by surprise, that’s all,” you say, waving them off. “Are you sure?” Their voice sounds like wind, blowing through the trees, always so quiet that you usually have to ask them to repeat themself. Not today, though. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay,” you say again, and neither of you believe it. Just the thought of going back into that room, where it stinks of mildew and copper, has your stomach turning over again. Kara notices. They notice everything. “Why don’t you head home for the day, okay? We’ve got plenty of coverage for now.” You say thank you, and start to walk away, but as you turn to leave, they stop you. “Wait, one thing. There was a note, found in the hands of the body. None of us quite know what it means.” Kara looks worried, like they always do (dryads are notoriously empathetic) but it’s a deeper worry this time. Maybe it’s not even worry, but you’re not sure. “Well, what does it say?” “‘Psalm 58:10.’ Do you know what it means?” The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance; He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked. You feel your stomach sink lower than the floor. You always knew this day would come, in the back of your head where the rational thoughts live. You knew someone would find out who wasn’t supposed to, someone who would do anything to keep their world as stainless as possible. You just weren’t ready for it to happen so soon. “Nothing good. I’ll see you tomorrow, Kara.” When you get back to your apartment, it’s late. You move methodically, bag by the door, shoes off, eat dinner, brush teeth, go to bed. You can’t really

That weekend, you invite Robert and Elias up for wine night. You haven’t seen them in a while, and right now you need the comfort of familiarity. Nothing is more comfortable than Robert reprimanding Elias for doing something stupid while looking at him like he hung the moon. The wine they bring up is good, really good. Some red from 1906, full of deep flavors that you’re sure have fancy names and titles but you’re just tipsy enough to not give a damn. Elias claims it’s from Jack London’s wine cellar. “Bullshit,” you say, if only to spite him into telling you the story. Sometimes, your life feels completely unreal, sitting in your tiny one bedroom with two immortals, both born before even your great grandparents were alive, trading stories about Jack London and William Faulkner and all of the other people you read about in high school. Elias says that F. Scott Fitzgerald gave him an advanced reader copy of The Great Gatsby. He thought it was derivative. “Really! It must’ve been the summer ofnineteen...eleven? Twelve? Somewhere around there, I can’t remember. Anyways, I went up to that infernal ranch of his, way out in the middle of nowhere, and all he did, all night, was talk about ‘the beauty of the natural world,’” Elias laughed and closed his eyes, transported back to a time where cars were square and people didn’t pay cellphone bills. “Yes, Jack was a little bit of an odd spirit, but by God did he know his alcohol. So, once he fell asleep, I went down to the wine cellar and helped myself. Lord knows he had enough.” “Robert, tell your husband to stop lying to me.” Robert laughs and looks at Elias, who’s huffing and pouting indignantly, like a child who’s just been told that they can’t have dessert before dinner. “My dear, I’ve been telling him that for the past two-hundred years.” Elias sticks his tongue out at both of you, and you all laugh as he goes for his fourth glass of wine. “Fine, don’t believe me. But I didn’t sit through three hours of that man rambling on about his ranch and his silo and how proud he was of it for you fools to make fun of me for it!” You laugh again, but this time you don’t stop. The room is warm, bathed in yellow by the lights you have strung up around the room, the blinds shut so tightly it could be nine a.m. or nine p.m. and you wouldn’t be the wiser. Remnants of cheese and crackers spread out in the middle between all of you, and for one single, blissful moment, you feel normal for the first time in three days. You open your eyes.

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imagine yourself doing anything else right now. When you finally reach your bed, you realize that the look you saw on Kara’s face today, right before you left, wasn’t worry. It was fear. You close your eyes. All you can see are the carvings in the stomach, the holes in the back of a fairy you never knew but couldn’t save anyways. You don’t sleep well.

Elias is smiling over the top of his wine glass, looking at Robert, who’s looking back at him with the same lovestruck expression on his face. If you end up dying at eighty-seven, your only wish is to meet someone who looks at you like they do each other.

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You work at the clinic most days, whenever you can find time between shifts at your other job. Your mother always tells you that you need a hobby, and you figure that reattaching severed wizard fingers is close enough. All of your friends either work at the clinic, like Kara or Dolly, who has knitted you several sweaters, or come to you with injuries, so you’re in no shortage of company. Usually, the clinic feels like a second home. It’s warm and cozy, battered magazines and the atmosphere of a place that looks after people like they’d look after their own children. The magic that runs through the whole place is palpable, some of the strongest ley lines this side of the Atlantic, so strong that even a human (like you) can take it and learn to conduct it, like standing in the eye of a hurricane. It’s your favorite place to be in the whole world. But recently, you’ve begun dreading it. The bodies keep coming in. Not daily, not yet, but enough to really scare you. Probably one a week. A werewolf, silver bullet to the heart. A witch poisoned by an incredibly rare strain of rosary peas. A water nymph completely dried out. They all come in barely holding on, still alive but only just, and you do everything in your power to save them, but it’s never enough. Never enough antidote, or time, or magic you can use. On every body, the same carvings as the first, in the same place, and the same note clutched in their hands. Psalm 58:10. He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked. The Other, as you call them, aren’t organized enough to create a police force. The only reason this clinic exists is because a couple of them scraped together enough money and resources to rent a space in Brooklyn, and it’s the only one around for miles. They don’t have the time or the money to chase a killer. The clinic starts locking its doors when you leave every night. Kara insists that everyone walk home in pairs, and you spend hours driving people home when there isn’t enough staff. You wait until they text you from inside their locked apartment to drive off, ready to pick up your next friend. The city doesn’t feel so magical anymore. Magic exists, and you see it every day, can even use some of it now, but it feels like someone’s cut it out of the heart and left a husk behind. You really don’t sleep anymore. The day that it happens, you come home from the clinic, hours late after dropping everyone off. Three days ago, another body had come in, a gorgon who had been completely decapitated. You’re getting better at seeing dead bodies, although you do still go home and throw up more often than not. At least you can make it home this time. You’re tired. You’re always tired these days; lack of sleep and constant

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fear tend to drain the body of any energy it can muster from the few hours you do end up dreaming. Coming home is an automatic routine now; bag by the door, shoes off, eat dinner— There’s a scream downstairs. You know what’s happened before the knock on the door even comes. Your stomach falls through three stories, all the way to the subway below, and stays there when you open the door to see Elias, hands red with blood. “Please,” he asks, but you’re already pushing past him, blood bags and bandages and fury in your hands. Ever since the first body came in, you’ve been preparing, waiting for the universe to come and swipe the rug out from under your feet. The first time it happened, you let it catch you by surprise, let yourself fall flat on your ass, paralyzed by the fact that someone could do this, someone could discover that magic is real and lives among us and turn to it with vitriol in their hearts. Not this time. Robert is lain out spread-eagle on the floor, a pool of blood rapidly spreading out around him. There’s a stake in his chest, and his shirt is ripped open to reveal those goddamn carvings, the same as all the others. He is not going to be the same as all the others, because you yourself will die before you let him go. The stake missed his heart, but just barely. You work quickly, time and space melt away, leaving you in a weird limbo of surgical needles and gauze and blood all around you, so much blood everywhere around you, but you keep working. Stitch up the cuts and feed him more than he’s eaten in a year, and with every act, you push as much magic as you can handle into keeping him alive. Elias is across from you, muttering something you can’t understand in a language you don’t recognize, clutching Robert’s hand so hard you’re vaguely afraid he might break it, eyes never leaving his face. When Robert opens his eyes, you think it’s fitting that the first thing he sees is Elias. Elias lets out a cry of relief, and while you finish bandaging Robert’s chest, you see them press their foreheads together, the bond between them so palpable and tangible you wonder if it was medicine or true love that saved his life. As you both move Robert to the couch, he tells you about a figure in a black hoodie who accosted him in the hallway, tied him up and raved about ‘creatures of sin’ and ‘wickedness abound in Brooklyn.’ You’re not really paying attention. There will be time for that, later, after the vampire healing factor kicks in and Robert can walk without you worrying about pulling his stitches. Later, when all three of you cobble together enough money to hire an investigator that you all trust, paying them an absurd amount of money to bring the safety and magic back to your home. Later, when you can finally sleep again. For now, you just sit there, on the couch, blood soaking the carpet, with two vampires older than you will ever be holding each other like a lifeline, close your eyes, and rest.

CHRISTMAS IN GEORGIA Harper Truog

University of Iowa nonfiction

This is a letter to the girl sitting in front of me in church It is Christmas in Georgia and she is wearing a grey hoodie It is much too big for her And I think about the argument she must have had with her parents They bring up her short, choppy hair with the green streaks in it again, It is an old argument, They sigh and grumble about her baggy pants, another dull color, And I want to hug her, I try to catch her eye, to say I’ve got you, I’ve got you But she does not see me and sinks into her seat, She listens to the pastor talk about love, Her stomach cringes, It is such a thin layer of love, almost a lie by omission, She wants to disappear, So distrustful of the smiling adults around her,

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They are lies by omission, And she is stuck I am with you, I am with you Because this is Georgia And the heat is stifling, you must be so warm with that sweatshirt Pressed in between your family in the pews You listen, or pretend to listen

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You have heard words like this every week This is a place to feel stuck, cemented There is a world, there are other places I hope she finds them Perhaps she goes to college and Releases a deep breath: half sob, half prayer And I hope my hair is short enough, My clothes different enough That she will see me and know that I am a lifeboat I wear pants and a button down shirt in church for the first time I have a blazer too I see you, I see you And in a way you are braver than me I tried to find a middle ground Between ‘acceptable’ and ‘feminine’ But you do not compromise You are louder than me and I am proud You do not lie by omission, you do not even dance the line Continue, be safe I want you to be loud, but also know That your clothes are not worth your life And I know that the Georgia heat is especially stifling around Christmas You slouch in your pew seat Determined And I sit behind you, sending you honest love

A FAIRYTALE Cheyenne Mann

University of Iowa horror

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Once upon a time I fell in love. Once upon a time I fell in love with the skin that fell off my face in the morning. It would gather in thick chunks, clogging the small silver drain in the porcelain sink. Once upon a time I was told by doctors that it was “a natural part of life.” That I would rot to just bones and walk amongst a world of flesh, and that there was nothing they could do about it. “Feed the pieces that fall off to the worms,” they said, “Start a compost,” they said, “It’s good for the earth.” Once upon a time I took thread, red, and a needle so sharp it could draw blood through a thimble, and sewed tattered sheets of skin cells to the frame of my bones. Once upon a time I took short, stubby, shaking fingers with nails painted pristine scarlet and fished down the pipes, collecting every forgotten fragment of rotten beige that I could find, and placed them (ever so gently) in the polished mahogany jewelry box I kept on the top left corner of my dresser. Once upon a time I kept the flesh as it rotted and the stench thickened like smoke. Once upon a time I tucked the box into bed, read it a fairytale, and kissed it on the (my) forehead. Once upon a time I loved the bits of myself that had fallen off along the way. Once upon a time the worms found their way into my room and danced in the light of decay. Once upon a time worms ate through inch thick wood. Once upon a time I watched. Once upon a time they laughed and feasted and Once upon a time I did nothing Once upon a time I became nothing Once upon a time but bones and Once upon a time the digestive tract of Once upon a time worms.

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COUNTING RHYME Nicholas Runyon

University of Iowa children’s song

January, coralberry, little secrets yours to tell, snowy owl, February, throw a penny in a well and find it rusted out in March. The larkspur grows where soils parch in April, May, June, or July: each fine to count your dying by. In August slumber waxwing eggs and in September, waxwings beg for honey-water in a spoon, then flee beneath October’s moon. Until November, flurry-tost, split timber; think of friends you’ve lost, from whom you haven’t lately heard December’s toasts—or any words.

EATEN AWAY Maura O’Dea

University of Iowa horror

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My wife’s mother always called early. On the weeks where her mood swings oscillated more towards obsession over Beckett than ignoring her, our sleepy mornings in bed would be punctuated by the angry vibrating of Wife’s cell phone. It was incessant, only stopping once Beckett actually picked up the phone to listen to her crazed ramblings. But even then she would call the next morning—Beckett’s mother operated on her own, unmedicated tendencies neither of us had ever been able to decipher, and she decided when the calls would end. I unburied my head from my pillow, blinking up at the silhouette of Beckett in our bedroom doorway. She drew a tired hand down her face. “What was it this time?” I asked, pushing short strands out of my face to yawn. She grimaced. “Oh, you know—hellfire, Judgement Day, the damnation of our immortal souls.” I watched her carefully, searching for the thin layers of hurt that hid beneath the joking tone of her voice. They lessened each year we spent separated from her family and her mother’s fanaticism, but rose to the surface at moments like this. I stretched out my arms like a small child, inviting her into them. Beckett settled back against me, tucking her chin over the crown of my head. Even in the stillness of morning I could practically hear the turbulent movement of her thoughts. “Don’t let it bother you, Beck. We’re together, we’re happy—she doesn’t have to be inside your head anymore.” I felt more than heard Beckett hum against my head. “I know you’re right, Leigh, but still…” I sat up abruptly, intent on taking her mind off that conversation. “Come on. Up. We have chickens and cats to feed. Up. Up!” I pushed her out of bed until she was laughing, pressing her bare feet against the cold floor. She looked back at me, shining, messy waves of bedhead piled over her shoulder, bright eyes squinted shut, and I was pleased to think that for that moment, at least, her mother’s poisonous words were forgotten. The indoor cat greeted me with a long, plaintive meow as soon as I returned from work. I slid my bag off my shoulder, stretching my neck with a sigh—it

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was a busy, frustrating day, and I was looking forward to a quiet dinner with Beckett and mindless chores. “Beck?” I called out; normally at this time of day she was cooking and came in to greet me as soon as she heard my car crunch up the long gravel driveway. She didn’t reply. Gently batting the cat away with my foot, I peered around the corner into the open kitchen. It was empty, but the lights were on and a dishtowel sat crumpled by the glowing light of the crockpot. Opening it up to catch a whiff of the vegetables steaming in there, I noticed a small note scribbled in Beckett’s messy scrawl. I’m going foraging, it read, can you set the table? She’d signed it with a goofy drawing of herself in her floppy gardening hat that made me grin. I was grabbing the plates from the cupboard when I heard the scream. Blue shards of ceramic scattered across the pale hardwood floor. The cat scrambled away to hide under the bed. My heart leapt into my throat, pulsing dark and hot—it had sounded almost like a cougar scream, which I had had to get used to since we’d moved to our forest-surrounded home, but I knew that no cougar would be out so early in the day. No, this gurgling, terrified, pained scream had to have come from a human. “Beckett!” I cried out. I ran to the back door (later I would realize I had cut the sole of my foot on a piece of broken plate) and flung it open. The hens watched me with disgruntled eyes as I bolted to where our cleared yard broke into forest. “Beck? Beckett!” I called again and again, stumbling through the underbrush. I ended up in a small clearing, taking a moment to brace my arms on my knees, gasping for breath. Fear and desperation beaded up on the back of my neck—who knows what could have happened? Beckett was always too trusting. She could’ve fallen from a ridge, or been attacked by an animal, or— Something was rustling through the trees on my left. My exhaustion forgotten, I made my way towards the sound. I heard ragged, gasping breaths, the desperate noises of something tearing blindly through vegetation. What I found wasn’t my wife. Or, it was, but a monstrous version of her. Her face, neck, hands—every exposed slice of skin—was swollen, bulging. Her eyes were sealed shut, her lips thick useless slabs making short breaths and pathetic whimpers of pain. Distantly, I made out my name, deformed as it fell out of her bulbous face. The only way I could truly tell it was her has the now-misshaped floral tattoo that adorned her arm. “Oh, Beck—” I rushed to her, afraid to put my hands on her tender skin. Tears dripped down her red cheeks as she grabbed at me blindly. Gingerly taking her hand, I began to piece together what happened through her broken fragments of words. Hornets. Somehow she’d disturbed a whole hive of hornets. I realized she was dripping wet—she must’ve avoided them by swimming beneath the surface of the creek somehow. Listening to her sobs as we moved as quickly as we were able back to the house was the most harrowing experience of my

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life. The worst part was the way I couldn’t bear to look at her, the grotesque deformation of her beautiful face, and the guilt clawed at me every time I glanced away upon feeling bile rising in my throat. I was grateful for her blindness. I couldn’t imagine how the disgust on my face would’ve hurt her. “Step,” I said gently, easing Beckett up the back porch. I brought her to the sofa, avoiding the shard remnants of my shock, and laid her down. I knew you were supposed to use cool water to bring down the swelling; stripping off my flannel, I quickly soaked it through with water in the kitchen. “This should help the pain,” I informed her softly. Shame burnt through me when I realized how grateful I was to cover her face, even as her pitiful, weeping whimpers exhaled through the cloth. This was the only treatment I knew: replacing the various fabrics covering her body with cooler cloths, laying her head on my lap and carefully easing out any left-behind barbs with a credit card once the swelling had finally begun to ease. I somehow grew used to the swollen mess that was her face. At some point, I fell asleep. I woke blinking into the dim evening slipping through the window. The cat grumbled peacefully in my lap, my stomach shivered in hunger, and—Beckett was gone. I shot out of my slouch, accidentally knocking the cat off my legs. The couch where I had placed her was filled with the crumpled wet cloths I had placed on her skin, but she wasn’t there. “Beck?” I called out, trying to calm the panic leaping, again, in my throat. “Beckett?” The kitchen was empty. I made my way down the hallway, hoping she had merely made her way into the bedroom to rest more comfortably. But the bed was empty, the room evening-dark and still. But not entirely dark. I realized light was spilling from the crack under the bathroom door. Beckett was a fierce environmentalist—she always turned the lights off unless she was using the room. I laughed a little at my previous worry. She was in the bathroom. Of course. “Beck, you scared me,” I said jokingly as I pushed open the door, only to choke on my words. Beckett had her hands braced on the sink. Though she must have been able to see me from the corner of her eye, or hear me as I entered, she made no movement. Her nose hovered inches before her mirror as she stared into the purple-red swollen slits of her own eyes. Immobile. Swallowing an acidic breath, I noticed a roll of bandage in one of her taut hands. “Do you want me to help you with those?” I asked tentatively. I hadn’t moved from the doorframe. Slowly, her gaze slid from her own reflection over to me. It was so odd—how the way the hornets had attacked her face seemed to take the brightness out of her, turning her into this expressionless being so unlike my wife—but I guessed trauma could do that. I stretched out a hand, palm up. She looked at it, then at me, then at the bandages in her hand. She placed it into my palm gingerly, as if she couldn’t bear to make contact with my skin. I took care to maneuver her to sit on the toilet, touching only her clothes. She watched herself even as I began to bandage her.

I thought the bandages would be better than looking at the bloat of her stung face. I was wrong. Even if it had been warped and strange, there had been traces of her in her twisted features, hints of her in her eyebrows or jaw. But now—there was nothing. A blankness that seemed to pervade further than just the obstruction of her face. A hollowness. For the next two days, whenever I came home from work I found her sitting in some scattered place throughout the house, wrapped up, staring blankly. She ate little and only sipped carefully at water. She wouldn’t even allow me to change her bandages—mumbling something about ugliness— and more and more it began to feel like it was no longer my wife living with me. Just a slouched, faceless figure, crumbled in bed when I woke up in the morning, listless and staring when I arrived home. A loneliness I hadn’t felt in since the years before our marriage settled over the house, tangible. Her mother’s worsening calls didn’t help. She had started to call all throughout the night rather than just in the early morning, a dim vibrating noise that wound its way into my dreams and shook me awake in the mornings. The third day, I woke up to the same buzzing, muffled as I guessed Beckett had fallen asleep on top of her phone as she was prone to do. I wished she’d just wake up and answer, put her mother to rest for the morning, but her body was still as she slept facing the far wall away from me. That day I arrived home confused and anxious to see my wife. I’d spoken to one of my coworkers, an old country type, who’d looked surprised to learn that she was still in bandages. “Happened to my brother,” he’d said gruffly, watery eyes unblinking, “swelling outta’ve gone down after the first night.” Maybe she’d had an allergic reaction she was hiding from me and needed medical help, I worried. Or something else. Something worse. I checked the kitchen—empty, nothing cooking. She hadn’t made dinner since her accident. But I saw her silhouette through the window, her bandaged head, sitting in a chair facing the forest with her hands hanging on either side of her.

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“These aren’t necessary, you know,” I said, cautiously applying a gel with the tip of my finger to a bad area of her forehead. Beckett couldn’t see me from above, not with the thick folds of her eyelids, but I saw fluttering that made me think she was trying. I paused, waiting. “Just feel…hideous,” she said, finally. A better wife than I might have had something more to say there. Reassurances that the swelling would go down, that I found her beautiful no matter what she looked like, that her safety was far more important than her facial features. But that same wave of nausea that had struck me when we ran through the woods resurfaced. I bit back stomach acid. “It will be okay,” I managed numbly. And I wound the bandage around and around her face, obscuring every piece of flesh and pale hair until only slits of eyes and a stretched mouth remained.

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The air of the backyard felt odd. For one, the hens were all pressed into the furthest corner of the lot, watching Beckett and me with bright disks of eyes. They normally loved her, swirling around her feet like affectionate housecats whenever she stepped out into the yard. Now they were isolated and oddly quiet, clucks distant and muffled She didn’t turn to look at me. At this point, I didn’t expect her to. “Beckett,” I said firmly, and reached out shaking hands to undo her bandages. Her limp arms grabbed my wrists, but I batted them away and they fell back to her sides like dead things. They looked like her hands, the redness faded. There was a muffled buzzing—her mother is still calling? The black slits of her eyes stared forward as I slowly unwound the frayed white fabric. I thought I could see her blinking, thin black eyelashes curling out of the bandages. I’d known something was very, very wrong for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it, had decided to blame her stillness and silence on a traumatic event rather than acknowledging the truth: that her presence wasn’t there anymore. And watching the fluttering of those spider-like eyelashes, dread finally settled upon me. Because Beckett had golden, barely visible lashes that turned to fire in the sunlight. And these were pitch black, and skeletal, and moving. I don’t how or why I kept unwrapping. I don’t know how I didn’t faint. How I kept unwinding and unwinding the bandages, shaking and methodical, as I revealed the face of my wife. The buzzing grew louder with each layer, like her mother’s feverish desperation was pressing into my ears. The smooth skin of her cheek: now papery, flaking, riddled in slanted indentations. Her nose sunken. Her jaw misshapen. As I wound the bandage around the back of her head, her beautiful pale hair fell to the ground in dry clumps. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to; the nausea had retuned more rancid than ever. But some force—curiosity, maybe, or a potent desperation to know what had taken my wife from me—kept my shaking hands moving. As I pulled it away from her eyes, I saw that the twitching lashes weren’t lashes at all. They were antennae. Hornets burrowed around her—its—eye sockets. The mouth was a slack and gaping hole crowded with insects that churned against each other. I couldn’t see how far down the throat they went. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The vibrating noise of their bodies swelled up until it was the only sound I could hear, punctuated only by the soft thud of the bandage slipping from my hands to the ground. It hadn’t been her phone vibrating. It had been the roaring hum of the hornets inside her, all their black gleaming bodies rubbing against each other. Building a home. I was frozen until the thing, the hive, started to move. I stumbled back, horrified, as it rose, tripping and ending up staring up at it from the ground. The worst part was how it looked like my wife. It wore her shoes, and her favorite striped shirt. It had the curve of her hip and her work-worn hands.

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But the vibrating, the definite hum, told me all I need to know; the hornets now swarming around her head had eaten away her insides. She was nothing but a nest. Lurching, the thing stood. It stumbled past me, walking stilted and blindly until it disappeared into the forest. I didn’t try to stop it; my wife was already gone. I took a few long, shaking breaths before turning and heaving onto the grass. Wiping my face, I stood on wavering legs. My hand came away wet. I’d been crying. It was strange, how the world didn’t seem to acknowledge this…thing that had just happened to me. The chickens swarmed my feet. I heard a car crunching on the gravel road. I staggered to a chair—not the one it was sitting in—and collapsed, staring blankly at the twisted line of bandage laying on the ground. There was a buzz. I yelped, immediately swatting around me, the low hum filling me with images of hornets drilling through my skull. Flying out of my chair, I was relieved when I saw there were no hornets hovering around me, aiming for my eyes. Beckett’s phone sat innocently on the glass table. It vibrated, hums rattling through the surface. Her mother was calling.

MY ATOMS Mortis Jennings

University of Iowa science fiction

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one day i will rest my head on the hearth of the mother home do not bury me lay me down so i may look upon the stars clinging to the sky let me see fireflies flutter past in dark glow of night so i might catch a glimpse of starlight will i decay or rot or be eaten limb from limb returning my energy to the ones that fed me in my day to day. where will my atoms lay my atoms may reach the stars one day and i on hearth of mother home seated at my forest throne see the twinkling my atoms fuel. will my atoms touch you will my atoms touch you will i live forever in you and you and you and you breathe my atoms and know that i laughed i cried i shouted i fought my atoms will remember me long after they forgot i will live in you and know they were not mine to give im just returning the favor. i hope they reach the stars one day

Ruth Coolidge

Hamilton College historical fiction

Should I be a romantic, or a realist? Shall I let him lie, white, clinging tight to the scree-side; dare I drag him back, halfhollow to bottom? I could fresco his bones to the Earth’s great ceiling, scatter the dust of his heart from the white pointed peak. But how can I know the chords in his crystallizing mind as he took one look up the Second Step? Mallory— you are not my stone to turn over nor my corpse to question. But I will keep your compass in my rash, intrusive heart. Forgive me this as Everest’s holy snows release you to bone, rope, cold.

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THE ETHICS OF WRITING ON GEORGE MALLORY

CHRONOMINE INC. HMF Jenkins

Durham University science fiction

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The idea is this: if reality is something like a film reel, spooling forward from the present moment, what is happening with all the old frames? Nothing, was the answer, until Doctors Weston and Fairfax built their machines. Through means that remain a closely guarded secret, their chronominers could fling their hollow bodies back through time and retrieve an equal-sized chunk of the past. After a single day’s operation they were practically running the world’s rare earth mineral trade, and so rapidly expanded. Within two weeks they had thousands of operating machines, and their head office proudly displayed thirty identical Cullinan Diamonds, twelve Declarations of Independence, four Athena Parthenos and the bones of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, among others. Thankfully, the Doctors W. and F. were kind sorts and used their newfound total domination of global markets for good, distributing the necessary materials to abandon fossil fuels, acquiring any records necessary to settle historical disputes, and producing enough building materials, food, water, and medicine to solve all the world’s ills. Things were going altogether well until the gaps started appearing. One day you’d glance over at a tree and it would blink in and out of existence, or you’d momentarily stare though your wall at an equally surprised and exposed neighbour. After people started to disappear in these flashes of nothing efforts were made to curtail the operations of the chronominers, but unfortunately they had already consumed their own controls. Hope was raised when they then consumed themselves entirely, but the disappearances have continued, growing in frequency and size. Some day now, you’re lucky to catch sight of anything at all.

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ROOTS Elsa Richardson-Bach

University of Iowa horror

It was just before dawn, and the trees tittered. The birds had taken flight hours ago, the ground-based fauna retreating to holes and caves. They stayed close to the riverbank. Away from the roots. The trees tittered, though there was no wind. They swayed in tipsy glee, a dream-like dance, and shivered when their branches tapped together. It was spring, which meant the ground had thawed. The clouds swelled and darkened above, promising a storm with rains that would batter away the topsoil and expose the roots. Allow movement, slick and silent. The closer day drew to night, the snappier the trees would become, more impatient. But for now, it was just before dawn, and the trees tittered, their branches clicking together like teeth. “God, Sean, why didn’t you go at the diner?” “Because I didn’t have to go at the diner, dipshit.” Sean rapped the passenger side window with his knuckle. “Just pull over.” Charlie dragged the old Volkswagen over to the side of the highway first and hit the brakes after, which sent Sean flying forward until his seatbelt locked and jerked him back, which subsequently caused him to run a blue streak. Charlie ignored him and threw the car in park. “We were supposed to be at Kat’s an hour ago,” he said. “Hurry up.” Sean shoved out the door, snapping that it wasn’t his fault they were late, he didn’t even want to come. “Close the door!” Charlie shouted after him, but Sean let it hang open. In moments like these, Charlie wished he was an only child. Instead he was stuck with Sean: a five-foot-four gremlin constructed entirely of spite, ramen, and Red Bull. Sean, who whined about never getting out of town, and then whined when Charlie invited him up to his friend’s place for the weekend. “Bastard,” Charlie muttered, and stretched over the gear stick to get the door. It was too far, and with more cursing, he unbuckled his seatbelt to lean even farther. He had half his body out of his seat, one arm propped on the passenger seat, the other reaching for the door handle, when he felt the first raindrops hit his skin.

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He was running out of profanities. His fingers finally caught hold of the door handle and he hauled the stupid thing closed, the force rattling the old car. Rain pattered the windshield, steadily growing heavier. Sean would bitch about getting wet when he came back, as if it were Charlie’s fault the weather changed. That would probably last until they got to Kat’s, and then he’d bitch again about being forced to come. God. Where was he anyway? Charlie hadn’t seen him outside when he crawled over to close the door. That was unusual. Sean wasn’t one to go any farther than necessary to complete a task, and he wasn’t shy about his body either. At least not with Charlie. They had shared a room for sixteen years; boundaries were virtually nonexistent. Charlie checked the car clock. They were now an hour and fifteen minutes late. He searched around his pockets to find his phone. Kat wouldn’t be surprised at his apology text. She knew Charlie, and she knew Sean, and she knew what they were like together. Where was Sean? It did not take this long to piss. Charlie rolled down the passenger side window, allowing rain to spatter the seat. Served Sean right. “Hey!” Charlie shouted. “Move it!” He expected a hollered insult in return. Nothing came. This stretch of road didn’t get much traffic, but the rain was coming down harder. Maybe Sean hadn’t heard him. “I’m gonna leave you!” Charlie said, louder. No response. Charlie swore and rolled the window up. The passenger seat was soaked by now. The car would smell like wet leather and foam stuffing for the foreseeable future and it was Sean’s fucking fault. Charlie thought about making him pay for a cleaning, but doubted he’d actually go through with the threat. Sean was cagey with his money, squirreling it away in a cookie tin beneath his bed like a bank-phobic weirdo. Charlie called him Scrooge, but he once saw Sean’s browser open to an article on saving money for college and he stopped giving Sean shit about it. Even paid for the take-out when their parents were away, and if Sean’s laptop miraculously started working two days after Charlie saw a crumpled invoice for repairs in his wastebasket, well, whatever. If Sean wanted to go to college, Charlie was going to help. Just not where anybody could see. The twerp was still making them ten more minutes late, though, so Charlie shoved open his door and stepped out, ready to drag his little brother’s ass back into the car. Fat raindrops hit his shoulders, oddly heavy. Like they were trying to push him into the ground. Charlie snapped up the hood of his sweatshirt and circled the car. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hurry the fuck up, dude!” The anemic strip of grass between the road and the woods was empty. Charlie looked left and right. Maybe Sean was messing with him. It would fit his style, the little asshole. Waiting to jump Charlie and scare him. Sean found it hysterical that his older brother was so twitchy. “Sean, I swear to god.” Charlie swiped rain away from his eyes, squinting. His gaze caught on a disturbed section of the woods, like the underbrush

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had moved out of the way to make an entrance. No. That was a strange thought. Sean blinked, shook his head. It was like someone had moved the underbrush, and that someone had to be Sean, though god knows why he was full-on entering the woods just to pee. Maybe his dick had shriveled up and he was self-conscious about it now. Whatever it was, Charlie was impatient, he was soaked, and he was pissed. They didn’t have time for this. He marched toward the parted underbrush, shoving aside an errant branch. Within the trees the overcast evening turned even darker. As his eyes adjusted, Charlie inhaled the mossy tinge to the air. Damp and thick and earthy. The rain was muffled by the canopy above, collecting on the leaves before falling down in large splatters. Cool rainwater ran in rivulets deeper into the woods, soaking Charlie’s sneakers and pushing mud nearly up to his ankles. He realized the forest was silent when he called Sean’s name. His voice fell in with the sounds of wet... and nothing else. No birds, no squirrels, no rustling of animals in the bushes. Charlie was no park ranger, but he figured there would at least be something. But all he heard was water. Charlie tucked his hands under his arms, hunching his shoulders against the rain, or maybe against the deafening silence in response to his call. Something caught itself in his peripheral vision. A shadow, flitting between the trees. “Sean?” Charlie took a few steps forward, sneakers squelching. Why wasn’t the jackass answering him? The shadow moved to the left, taking on a solid form, slouching in typical Sean fashion. Charlie threw a few curses at him, and when his brother said nothing, Charlie took off into the trees after his retreating shape. His sneakers were slick with mud, washed off by a sluice of water one step only to be caught in more muck the next. Despite Charlie’s difficulty, Sean’s figure seemed to have no trouble moving. Charlie crashed through the underbrush, heels slipping in mud, and wondered how Sean managed not to make a sound. “Hey, fucker!” Charlie shouted, so loud it made his throat hurt. His toe caught on a root he swore he had avoided and he stumbled, slamming his shoulder into a tree. He caught his breath and looked up, starting to follow Sean’s shape again. Whatever stupid game of tag this was, there was a solid punch at the end of it. “Charlie?” Charlie froze. Sean’s voice came from the other direction. Whatever was in front of him, whatever sort of had the shape of Sean―wasn’t. It had stopped moving now, going impossibly still. Charlie felt his right foot stepping forward, though he didn’t remember making that decision. He leaned toward the shape, squinting through the rain. It was... it looked like roots. It was hard to make out with droplets catching in his eyelashes, but Charlie thought the shape was roots, twisted together to form arms and legs and a head with no face— “Charlie!” Sean’s voice was louder, more frantic. Charlie whipped around. The motion put the root tangle or whatever the hell it was out of his line of sight, and that thought

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spurred Charlie to jerk backwards. He needed to get out of here. The rain and the dim light were messing up his vision, that was all, but still, he needed to get out of here. Charlie would find Sean, and at this point he didn’t care if they made it to Kat’s or not. He just wanted out of the rain, and out of these damn trees. “Charlie!” This time Sean’s voice struck higher, a note similar to the time he had broken a top rung on the ladder up to the barn loft, his foot slipping so he dangled in the air, shouting Charlie’s name in fear. Charlie almost echoed the same thing he had said back then—I’ll catch you, idiot—but jumped out of the memory before the words left his mouth. “Where are you?” he yelled instead, searching the trees for any sign of his brother. He jogged a few steps in the direction he last heard Sean. Had the trunks gotten closer together? It seemed even more difficult to move through them now. Charlie’s shin collided with a branch—no, another root, lifted off the ground higher than a root had any fucking right to. Off-balance, he spun to the right and rolled his ankle, sending a bolt of pain up his leg. The ground seemed to move beneath him, tilting downward so he continued stumbling. His palm met slick bark as he tried to grab a tree and steady himself, always slipping away, until he collided with a trunk so forcefully it wrenched the air from his chest. He didn’t even have the breath to curse. His hood had fallen from his head and water clumped his hair together, droplets slipping off each lock and falling into his eyes. Charlie raised a shaking hand to scrub the rain away and only succeeded in smearing mud over his face. He spat, trying to get the grit out of his mouth. “Charlie?” Sean called. Charlie looked up, searching the thicket for his brother. “Down here, Charlie, help—Jesus Christ, help me.” Charlie dropped his gaze and found Sean—actually Sean, his real brother, not some twisted goddamn tree or whatever—in the mud a few feet away. Charlie pushed himself off the trunk he was leaning on and rushed over. “Get up,” he said, meaning for it to sound angry, but all that came through was a strain of desperation. Sean’s arms were pushed forward on the ground, oddly placating. “I can’t.” He was lying on his stomach, chin and throat dark with mud, though his face was pale like a stretched rubber band. Charlie blinked away the rain in his eyes. “What do you mean you can’t, we have to—” Sean’s sweatshirt clung to his thin frame, caked in mud all the way down to his hips, except they weren’t his hips, were they? Charlie struggled to see, to comprehend. Sean was underground. His legs weren’t visible, his hips disappearing into the mud and around his waist— Charlie stumbled backward, his stomach bottoming out. Roots circled around Sean’s waist, thick and worming tighter. They slid against each other without a sound in the rain. Charlie stood mesmerized by the coil. This couldn’t be happening. It was snakes. It had to be snakes, but even as he thought that, the pit of fear inside him knew better.

It was night, and the trees hummed. The rain had stopped a bit ago, but it didn’t matter. They had what they needed. Just a little sustenance, just a little more skin to put in their bark. Roots dug into soft flesh, so much warmer than mud. Yes, they had what they needed. It was night, and the trees waited patiently for the next rain.

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Sean’s fingers dug into the mud, unable to find a solid grip. “Charlie,” he pleaded, and that brought Charlie back to the horrible, horrible moment. He dropped to his knee and reached for Sean’s hand. Sean grabbed the inside of his wrist so tightly it hurt, but even then he was slipping, both their hands slick with mud and rain. “I tried to run, but...” Sean wheezed. The roots were at his abdomen now. They were pulling him into the ground. “Charlie, what’s happening?” Charlie didn’t know. He couldn’t find words, couldn’t find a thought to collect the situation in any way. He tried to focus on Sean’s touch. His brother’s grip slid from his wrist and they locked hands, just like they used to when they arm wrestled over who had to clear the dinner table. Charlie blinked, trying to sort memory from reality, reality from nightmare. Sean was slipping. Charlie tried to hold on, he grabbed Sean’s hand with both of his own, tried to pull him out as the roots climbed higher and higher, tugged him deeper and deeper below the earth. Sean was sobbing, and it nearly broke through the ringing in Charlie’s ears. Thinner roots sprouted from the ground and latched onto Sean’s hands, these ones moving fast. They slithered back into the dirt as quickly as they had come, dragging Sean’s arms with them and ripping him from Charlie’s grasp. Sean howled something wordless. His shoulders—what was aboveground—thrashed as he struggled. The vein in his neck stood out from the strain. The roots didn’t change pace, didn’t slow and didn’t hurry. Gasping for breath, Sean stopped, forcing his chin up to look at Charlie. “I’m—” He hiccupped on a sob. “I’m going to—oh god, I’m going to die.” Charlie didn’t know what to say. Sean was dying, his little brother was being killed slowly right in front of him, Charlie never thought it would be so soon, he never even considered he’d have to look Sean in the eyes as death swallowed him or fathomed that this was a thing that could actually happen and what the fuck was he supposed to say? “Charlie,” Sean begged, one last time. Mud pushed at his mouth now, and he pursed his lips in a tight line to keep from choking on it. What Charlie said was, “Close your eyes,” his voice in tatters, unsure if the direction was to help Sean or himself. Sean closed his eyes against the rain and mud. Charlie watched his brother’s face slip below the ground. Despair weighed down his fear until it was a dread filling his insides with tar. He knew it was coming. There was nowhere to go. Nothing but trees. A root slithered around his ankle and began to tug.

Frog gut scorches scarlet in sunburn, cut open, spilled open; silver fish hooked on a tin lure, scales flash in sunlight, spiked fins laid flat, bird cries pond-seagull too far gone from where it should be to know what it’s missing grass is leaking, sharp blades underfoot of the clam shells raccoons pull from the shallows, they pry them open, pry like rib cage chest, aorta, blood pumps a human’s heart has four chambers, a fish’s heart has four chambers, and evolution is just a fool, is a sunset a sunset underwater when the view is obscured by the lack of sound waves? the body aches in the way the lungs scream for oxygen when held under surface, in the way the ligaments and joints dance like there are ants underneath building homes out of pond shore sand body sinks lower and lower and lower into frog guts feels intestines wrap around neck, esophagus fold inside out, the body falls and the stomach slips into the stomach, double layered, flipping and filling with nothing but the unease of acid bursts through flesh

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FROG GUT ALGAL BLOOM Cheyenne Mann University of Iowa horror romance

all in shades of frog gut red.

I am on fire, the sun is on fire, the sky is on fire,

tears and eats away at the sunset toned skin of bellies of frog bellies of frogs on lilypads watching the sunset in a haze coloured like clam tongues clashing tongues pried apart by raccoon hands there are blueberry bushes on the shore, they squish in churning of guts and the fire ants dance between bones

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THE GODS OF WAR S. Sofia Benitez

University of Iowa epic fantasy poem

At the gathering of gods A quiet rumble passed, As silence fell throughout the room Ushering them in at last. The three fierce gods of war With armor shining bright, Came marching through the door Dimming all the evening light. They stopped before the god of Death And greeted him with a bow, He raised a boney hand to them For they had kept their vow. First stepped up the Legionnaire His helmet in his hands, He handed death a well-made list Of battles won across the lands. The list was proof of all his kills Organized as all things should be, And as death opened the parchment scroll It unfurled down to his knee.

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Second stepped the Viking queen With dead roses as her crown, She handed him the bloody heads Of all she had cut down. She cared not for order As war was blood and pain,

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She reveled in the agony Of all those she had slain. Lastly came the lady knight In her armor made of steel, She handed him many swords With blood just starting to congeal. She had a gift for causing death And slayed all those she crossed, She paid no mind to sorrow For her heart was filled with frost. A gentle tap on Death’s right arm Made him smile without a glance, The gods of assassinations Had come to join their dance. The first with poisons on his belt And venom in his words, Showed Death all the toxins He had used to cull the herds. He was proud to kill by placing A drop into their mouth, For of his poison’s power He simply had no doubt. The second with their many blades All sharpened to a point, Showed Death the few knives They had yet to anoint. They were proud to get to see The light fade from the eyes, For there was nothing like a blade For bringing one’s demise. Thus finally their duties done The five began to depart, Ready to start once again Stopping all beating heart. Once left the noise returned at once All there eager to move on,

For they were ready to forget The moment they were gone.

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And yet the quiet voices Still rang out in their minds, For though we choose to ignore the pain History always reminds.

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CHILDREN OF MOTHS Quincy Kelly

South Plains College gothic Just as moths, by the light we yet live. Darkness, shadowed veils consume thee. Lo friend! Come close and look forth, A beacon! Wayward light shines distant. Forward! Unto thee, yonder flare! And so, through the shadows we trudge. Marching onward into the unknown, For naught but a glimpse of the light. To soldier the eternal darkness, To answer the call of the beacons. In hopes that there is something to find. Yet upon the brink of destiny, The threshold on which salvation lies, Disembodied warnings call to thee: Hold friend! Stand back, listen close! Your beacon! Wayward light, consumes souls! Turn back! Hold your step into death! Pervaded is the air by Death’s rot. A stench that permeates the shadows And wards off lost, wandering souls. Shades of former lives dot this road, Blackened by shadow and cindered skin. Though daunted, we maintain the doomed path.

Woe is the successful moth to be, When stood afore their glimmering God They find naught but ash, the dust of saints.

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Grim endings emblazoned in Hell fire. Just as moths, to the flame will we die.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Hannah Barrett, from Orange County, California, is a freshman at the University of Iowa studying creative writing. When not writing obscenely sad prose, she is often playing cello or, on occasion, studying. S. Sofia Benitez is a fourth-year student at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing and psychology as a double major. Other than writing, Sofia is an avid cosplayer and crafter who will try anything art related at least once. She’s Dyslexic but finds no greater joy than in telling a good story, or in coming up with new characters without having any place to put them. Haley Brown is a third-year student at Brandeis University majoring in American studies and film and minoring in legal studies, English, and creative writing. Haley needs poetry far more than it needs her: a loving, yet imbalanced relationship. She writes recreationally and out of necessity. Ruth Coolidge is a senior at Hamilton College studying creative writing and cinema and media studies. While she loves a good movie, Ruth most enjoys spending time outside, particularly if it’s in a canoe. She likes to incorporate inspiration from both nature and pop culture media in her work. Viridiana Crespo is a student at Cal State Long Beach who is pursuing a BA in creative writing. When they’re not writing for their classes, they are either writing poetry and fictional stories, or they’re reading novels. Viridiana also enjoys playing video games whenever they’re free, and they like to watch TV shows with their best friends. Nicole Giglio is an undergraduate student at the University of Maryland College Park. Outside of class, Nicole likes reading young adult novels and playing video games. She enjoys spending time with her family and friends, and takes much of her writing inspiration from her own experiences.

Evalyn Harper is a second-year English and creative writing student at the University of Iowa. She’s a big dreamer, whose life goals include becoming a published kidlit author and adopting a dragon as a pet. When she’s not writing, she channels her creative energy into editing videos for her YouTube channel and baking scones with increasingly improvisational flavor profiles. Simon Hauwaerts is a young writer who was born and raised in Belgium. He now studies English literature in the UK. Simon will read and write anything, but his preferred genres are horror, poetry, and nonfiction. He lives in Brighton. His Instagram is @bookishsimon. HMF Jenkins is a fourth-year student at Durham University studying liberal arts. They can mostly be found reading books or listening to weird music on long walks. They have been known to produce poetry and plays as well as fiction. They probably write so much about the world of tomorrow because they stay up past midnight too often. Mortis Jennings is a third-year University of Iowa English and creative writing student. Xe spend most of xer time writing poetry and playing video games. Xe get xer inspiration from night walks through Iowa City. Quinn Kamberos is a second-year English and creative writing major at the University of Iowa. A self-proclaimed expert on all things nerd and pop culture, when she’s not focused on school, she can usually be found yelling about the newest Marvel content on Twitter. She finds her inspiration in between her weekly Dungeons and Dragons games as well as the city around her, and what might be just out of the corner of her eye. Quincy Kelly is a second-year student at South Plains Community College, looking to transfer to University of Colorado. Writing is a passion of his and he spends the majority of his time brainstorming ideas for fantastical realms or plotting new poems. However, he always leaves time for a little bartending and a lot of video games. Cheyenne Mann is a second-year chemistry and English and creative writing double major. She is a double Gemini and really likes frogs. Her written work can be found in Fools Magazine, Foolish, earthwords: the undergraduate literary review, Ink Lit Mag, New Moon Magazine, Horizon Magazine, sanct literary magazine, and patchwork lit mag. Productions of her plays can be found at The Rich Heritage Theatre of Cedar Rapids and The University of Iowa TenMinute-Play Festival. Meg Mechelke is a second-year theatre and English student at the University of Iowa. She is physically incapable of keeping plants alive.

Miranda Miller is a freshman at the University of Iowa. She’s an avid reader of fantasy and science fiction, and a participant in National Novel Writing Month. She’s a passionate French horn player and enjoys spending time with her friends. Maura O’Dea (she/her) is a sophomore studying creative writing and Spanish at the University of Iowa. She is a poet first and foremost, but will try just about anything creative including illustration, bread-making, and metalworking. You can find more of her work and her very cute dog @maura.odea on Instagram. Elsa Richardson-Bach is currently a student at the University of Iowa. When she’s at school, she misses her pets and her car. When she’s at home, she misses her dorm and the local cupcake shop. She can recite ninety percent of Pacific Rim on command like a trained dolphin, except instead of cool backflips, she just nerds out. She doesn’t have a nemesis but thinks one would be cool. Applications are open. Emma Rosenberg is a junior at the University of Iowa studying English. In her free time, she enjoys reading the works of Stephen King, William Shakespeare, and Margaret Atwood. She also enjoys watching movies and drinking coffee. Nicholas Runyon is a junior studying English and creative writing at the University of Iowa. He is the editor-in-chief of New Moon Magazine and a fiction editor at earthwords: the undergraduate literary review. He grew up in Martinsville, New Jersey, but he possesses an accent that people have a hard time pinning down no matter where he goes. Marriah Talbott-Malone is a third-year student at the University of Iowa and is studying creative writing and publishing. Marriah is the managing editor for Body Without Organs online journal and is a current writing assistant for Fools Magazine. When she doesn’t have her nose tucked into a book, she can be found on the couch eating chocolate covered almonds and watching reruns of Love Island. Harper Truog is a fourth-year student at the University of Iowa. When she is not doing schoolwork, she is knitting while watching movies or writing her next short story. She is a big fan of Star Wars and Good Omens, and gets inspiration from her friends. Mikey Waller (she/her) is a second-year student at the University of Iowa studying English and creative writing. She is learning to embrace the curiosities of being a person and evolve with her work. She feels the most at peace when looking at pictures of frogs (if anyone was wondering).

SPECIAL THANKS

Daniel Khalastchi

Director, Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing

University of Iowa Student Government Our Comrades in Publishing

Zenith Lit Mag, Horizon Magazine, Patchwork Lit Mag, Ink Lit Mag @zenithlitmag, @iowahorizonmagazine, @patchworklitmag, @inklitmagazine

You, Dear Reader Yes—you.

Wilder Things will be opening staff applications in the late spring, early summer of 2021. Follow us @wilderthingsmag on our Instagram or our Twitter for more information. And, as always: stay speculative.