Cedar Valley Divide
Cedar Valley Divide 2025
Kirkwood Community College’s
Art & Literary Magazine
Dear Generous Readers,
Our deepest appreciation to you for selecting an issue of Kirkwood Community College’s art and literary magazine, the Cedar Valley Divide. Once again, we are grateful for the staggering amount of participation we received in this trip around the sun. The amount we received even surpassed last year with a grand total of 136 submissions, an impressive feat. By choosing this publication, you are accepting responsibility for spreading the creative spirit. We hope you find the art and literature in this magazine as breathtaking and mind-opening as we do.
For an hour every seven days, we argued for and against various pieces of non-fiction, fiction, poetry, and art. Our debates were not severe, but they were fruitful. We had many stimulating pieces of art and literature, but in the end, we had to make challenging sacrifices. Our hope is that we have made a publication that is enduring and genuine.
To give you a taste, here are a couple of selected pieces. In “Feathered Pillows,” you are suggested to contemplate where your place is in this world. How will you be remembered when it’s your time? In “Sober,” follow a broken man with a bottle of fireball and take a stroll in the rain. You never know who you might meet. In “Again,” watch a woman take back control of her happiness. In “Those Hands,” there is a special recognition for our handy appendages. Rotten, Red, is a unique piece where you can stare into a maw that’s shattered and oppressed. For art, take a stroll through the woods used by the ancient fae. Listen to the Knight’s song of woe, gaze at the majestic phoenix, and dip your toes in the lake if you want to call the Nix.
Vulnerability can be harsh, bitter, and, yet very rewarding. We give our thanks to anyone and everyone who had the valor to submit their work but did not make the cut. Whatever you choose to do next, please remember to continue creating and think of us again next year.
Sincerely,
Student Staff:
Janis Rockstad
Will Sullivan
Jesse Schwiebert
Faculty Staff:
Lisa Angelella
Danny Plunkett
Table of Contents
Poetry:
Hometown
At Todd’s House, 1987
Eternity
A Courtyard Wild Rotten, Red
Pace upon the Monotone Religion
Driving Back from the Funeral Wrecked
Those Hands
The Sound
Fiction:
Sunshine in a Bottle, Dust in the Field
Sober
Again
The Mourners
Non-fiction:
The Day the World Should Have Stopped
Feather Pillows
Oktoberfest
Ollie Black
Sondra Gates
Camilla Starr
Timothy Stammeyer
Kaydence Habeger
Nicole Rosanelli
Rustin Larson
Timothy Stammeyer
Christen Tack
Carmen Harrington
Rustin Larson
Sharon Falduto
Todd Case
Abigail
Noelle Diedrichs
Stammeyer Olivia Schanz
Art:
The Flight of the Phoenix
The Rockies
Art of True Beauty and Communication
The Vastness of Beauty
Eldritch Star
Free Flowing Jelly
Bridge to the Unknown
Speckled Beauty
Forever Sprouted Vase
Rotten, Red
Hollowed Violinist
Banking at Night
Shiner
Age Is Beauty
The Yellow Wallpaper
Digital Portrait of Mythological Beauty
Flower Study
Greenfield
After the Storm
The Stillness of Eternity
Jewels Holladay
Glenesha Tai Smith
Christine Song
Andria Pic
Dominick Peart
Jewels Holladay
Kota Winterboer
Jade Heth
Glenesha Tai Smith
Eliza Link-Jha
Kadence Habeger
Dominick Peart
Isabella Rhodes
Jake Panek
Liz Schultz
Paige Wilkinson
Camilla Starr
Payton Schwiebert
Marloe Spencer
Marloe Spencer
Kota Winterboer
The Rockies
Glenesha Tai Smith
Hometown
Ollie Black
When he was 12, my cousin crashed his bike. Flipped over the handlebars, caught his leg in barbed wire. Never lived it down. That same year he taught me how to watch the clouds moving through the sky by laying under the still edge of the barn’s tin roof. Contrast makes things clear.
We always got there at dusk, and there were always deer in the spur. I sat awake in the bed by the window upstairs listening through the walls and watching the stars flicker on. In the morning we got up early for chores. The kitchen smelled like milk, the bottle lambs pushed and cried.
The wildfires came when I was eight. We stood on the road outside and watched the sweet wood burn over the horizon. The sky turned orange in the middle of the night. All those stars obscured. The hills scarred black. That math professor went missing after the fire was over, sometime in the fall. People started locking their doors.
I went to a new school with my hair in loose French braids, played in empty ditches and looked for rattlesnakes with a long stick. Rode along in that dusty old beater on the mail route, back roads lined so thick with sunflowers the fields behind disappeared. Tipped my bike into a gravel ditch and, beaming, wore my scraped up face to church.
Ponderosa pines almost like butterscotch, wet alfalfa hay, fields of yellow clover–the air got richer, then colder. We bought wood pellets for the stove and burned them. Papa’s rocking chair wasn’t empty yet. I laid out my snow clothes in the back room and myself by the fire, listened to the grown-ups, let the heat radiate through me.
The professor reappeared. There were lots of rumors, you know–“Well, I heard he was a queer.” Vicious little barbs. They found him in a field somewhere, tied to a tree and burned, and ruled it suicide.
Art of True Beauty and Communication
Christine Song
Sunshine in a Bottle, Dust in the Field
Sharon Falduto
Good Christian women don’t turn away strangers, even snake oil salesmen with elixirs of dubious provenance. On a Dust Bowl Iowa day, Katherine begrudges the presence of a flim-flam man, and takes him into her confidence.
Katherine squinted at the Packard, taking some malignant pleasure in its beautiful curves being coated in Iowa farm dust as it rattled its way up the rutted drive. The land hadn’t taken on any water for months, the drought choking the farmland, killing the crops, drying up the animals and the milk in her own body. She held the baby, fractious and hungry, as she watched the car approach. No one in Guthrie County drove a car so ostentatious, not even her sister’s husband.
The car stopped and a city man in a brown suit emerged, crisp and clean, in stark contrast to the dying corn in the field behind him. He plastered on a smile and approached, sharp knocks rattling the screened-in porch door. She wanted to ignore him, but that wasn’t the Iowa way. You never knew when you would be entertaining an angel unawares; that’s what Pastor said last Sunday, but surely the itinerant men weren’t all Jesus in disguise.
Katherine shifted the baby, eight months old but weak. Decent suppers were for people in town, who hadn’t placed all their hopes and money into the land that betrayed them. She opened the door to the man, who embarked upon his spiel before she had a chance at a “No, thank you.”
“Mrs. Willkommen?” he asked, assuming a family name from the ancient German-language “Welcome” sign on the clapboard house. Her name was Peterson, changed from Fyodorson back when her husband’s Papa emigrated. “I can see you’ve got a lovely farm here!” the salesman continued, “And what a beautiful child,” a sweeping gesture of his arm indicating the farm, the squalling babe, “Why, you must have all the ingredients of a perfect life here in Iowa!”
Katherine’s life was far from perfect, ever since her Ralph passed months ago, but the man left no time for interjections.
“I bet there’s just one thing missing. Maybe you’ve heard—it’s been on the radio, in the papers, even the Des Moines Register—vitamins! That’s why I’ve come here today, Mrs. Willkommen! I’ve brought an elixir that contains all the vitamins to keep your family healthy, happy, and thriving. Why, Vitamin C is just sunshine in a bottle, Mrs. Willkommen! Today only I’m running a special.”
He leaned closer to her now, mindless of the personal space Iowans liked to keep even among friends.
“See, my boss told me I can’t come back to Indianapolis until I sell out my very last case, and I’ve got a wife back home ready to give birth to our own little stranger. I need to get back to her, but I’ve still got twenty vials to go! I’m willing to let them out of my hands for a mere sawbuck, Mrs. Willkommen. A bargain! These vials usually go for one dollar a piece! But what price can you put on the health and happiness of your brood? Ten dollars to pep up this little angel right here, and to help out every other member of your family, too! How many bottles do you need, Mrs. Willkommen?”
“It’s not ‘Willkommen,’ it’s ‘Peterson,’ Katherine retorted. “And I no more have ten dollars than I have wings to fly to the moon.”
The salesman’s smile faltered only slightly, his tactic altered. “Why, that’s all right, Mrs. Will–Mrs. Peterson! I could sell you just one vial for the low, low price of one dollar. You can’t put a price tag on the good health of your family!”
“Sir, I don’t have five dollars, I don’t have one dollar, the only thing I have are those chickens and the eggs they lay, and I’ll be lucky if I get twelve cents for them at market next week.”
Katherine made to close the screen door and walk away, but at the moment of her obstinance in the face of this
blowhard, she spied beyond him rapidly darkening skies. In the West, the sky had deepened from a bright blue to a dark slate in a matter of minutes, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees in the time the man had been jawing at her. The chickens had ceased their scratching at the insects on the dusty field and made for their coop, strange behavior at midday.
Tornado weather.
She didn’t much like the man, and Lord knew she couldn’t afford his snake oil, but she also couldn’t let him die on her farm. Too much death here already, ever since her Ralph put his shotgun to use five months ago. “You know the story,” was all his note said.
“Mister,” Katherine insisted, “There’s a powerful storm brewing out there. We’d best get down in the storm cellar quick.”
“I’ll just be on my way into town; I don’t want to trouble you.”
“I don’t want to trouble you, neither, Mister, but you ain’t making it into town. Storm cellar’s right there; we’re going in right now and I’m not hearing no.” She grabbed the stranger’s hand, pulled the babe tighter to her side, and hauled them both towards the wooden door on the side of the hill. The threesome climbed down a rickety ladder into the earthen cellar, crude shelves laden with preserves lining the dirt walls. Katherine handed the baby to the salesman and fought against a powerful wind, finally closing the cellar doors and latching them just as dust from the weatherbeaten fields drifted in.
“Too bad none of your sunshine in a jar made it down here with you,” Katherine opined, lighting a kerosene lamp against the cellar’s blackness. She pulled her thin cardigan tighter, retrieved her child from the salesman. The baby seemed to have perked up from the storm, the relief of something different than the mundane life of the farm piquing his interest. He stopped fussing and started to coo, a rare happy sound from the hungry babe.
“I did bring one bottle with me,” the salesman admitted, “Had it in my breast pocket. Looks like it came down unscathed,” he demonstrated, pulling out a dark glass medicine bottle. “I can let this one go for a mere fifty cents, Mrs. Peterson, it’ll help your boy grow up big and strong, just like his dada. Going to be a big man, Baby Peterson? Why yes, I bet you’re going to be the pride of Guthrie County by 1955, all grown up and helping out your old man on the farm!”
“His da’s dead, stranger. Ain’t going to be no farm for him to help on, the bank’s about to foreclose. Ralph Junior and me got nothing but each other left in this world, and I’m not so sure he doesn’t deserve a better ma than me.”
Wind howled above the cellar, rattling at the wooden slats on the doors. Nothing would shake the unearned confidence of this salesman.
“I’m really sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs. Peterson, but I’m sure you’re a fine mother. Why, this is just a bump on the road to prosperity, I’m sure of it.”
“Prosperity? You Herbert Hoover? Ain’t no prosperity coming for us on the farms, Mister. Just dust and ruin.”
The deadly storm loosened Katherine’s tongue, made her want to give her life story to someone, even this stranger, before she maybe blew away. He weren’t no Jesus, but he was present. She mumbled her story to her son, and the salesman just happened to be in earshot as well.
“I wasn’t always like this. I used to be the prettiest girl in Guthrie County, you can ask my sister Edith. Lord she was jealous. Her and me courted all the fellas at the barn dances. Back in ’23 we had dated nearly all the eligibles and narrowed it down to two, Teddy for me and Ralph for her. My man was handsome indeed, and rich too. Her Ralph was a farmer. I wasn’t about to get married to no farmer, saw how bad it hit my own pa when a hailstorm ruined the crops.”
“Mrs. Peterson, didn’t you call your baby ‘Ralph Junior’?”
“You remember 1923, stranger. We had made it through the war, lived through a pandemic, airplanes doing acrobatics in the sky. It was a great time to be a young woman on the verge of gettin’ married. But I guess it was a great year for man-stealin’ too, because Edith was fancying herself as Mrs. Teddy Moore, even though he was my beau.”
“Why, the absolute gall,” the stranger cut in. “How’s your sister set for vitamins?”
Katherine’s story pressed on, punctuated by a strong wind rattling the cellar doors. “Edith dressed up in my best gingham and lured him out to the bower. She bewitched him with her mouth! Why, after that, I knew that Teddy would never be mine. So I did what I had to do. I snatched up her man Ralph, married her man just so she couldn’t have him.”
“I can tell you’re a woman who gets what she wants, Mrs. Peterson.”
“I don’t know if I get what I want or what I deserve, Sir. Guess I was always destined to be a farm wife. Worked out real well for me for a bit, too! Right after the crash, Teddy was flat broke, him and Edith had to move in with his mother in town. That woman flat-out hated me, but she hated Edith worse. Ralph’s farm had a bumper crop that year, and we was about to start a family. But six years gone by and Teddy’s mama has passed, so him and Edith get to keep the house in town, and no meddling mother-in-law. Edith kept having babies, four beautiful girls and two sons, and I couldn’t keep a baby in me till this one come along twelve years later. Teddy’s mother had some cash socked away that went to her only son. Then wouldn’t you know, right this year, this whole country has dust covering it from Oklahoma to President Roosevelt’s desk out in his fancy white house, and my Ralph took the coward’s way out.”
Mr. Salesman had no answer to that tale, and Ralph Junior had fallen asleep to the sound of his mother’s story. Outside the wind calmed, and Katherine heard the chickens clucking as they emerged from their coop.
“Reckon that storm passed,” Katherine said, handing the baby over and opening the cellar doors. The sky had reverted to a brilliant blue, the clouds had scuttled on East, and the only evidence that a storm had passed was the barn, collapsed to the ground, and row after row of broken corn stalks.
“Maybe this property won’t look so tempting to that banker now,” Katherine sighed, stepping through yard debris.
“I am sorry for your troubles, Mrs. Peterson,” the salesman said. “I’m going to let some bottles go, free of charge. I need to get back to the Missus, and see if we’ve got ourselves a Joe Junior or a Joannie.”
“Mister, I don’t need your fake vitamins; what I need is a stay of foreclosure.”
“I’m not saying these bottles will help with that, Ma’am, but if that banker comes by, give him a tumbler full. Don’t let on my trade secrets, but there’s nothing in these bottles but Templeton Rye. Purely medicinal, of course! Still liable to muddle up a banker’s thoughts enough that maybe he takes a second chance on a farm widow in need, especially one whose barn was decimated by a cyclone.”
The salesman took a case out of the backseat and set three bottles on the screen porch.
“Take care of yourself, ma’am. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Ain’t nothing, Mister. Why don’t you take the rest of your bottles over to Edith in town? She can afford the change to get yourself gas back to Indy.”
The stranger’s Packard backed down the drive, wheels now flinging fresh Iowa mud onto its shiny dark exterior. Katherine picked up a bottle of the elixir and took a swig, and she resolved to press on through another Iowa day.
The Vastness of Beauty
Andria Pic
At Todd’s House, 1987
Sondra Gates
Ann rests her cigarette on a windowsill, turns over a cardboard box, I drag over a couple milk crates, find a paper cup for an ashtray, and we can play cards while we wait, gin, double solitaire, speed, kings in the corner, every two-person game we know. We wear winter coats since there’s no heat but shed gloves after one failed attempt to shuffle, and even then our frozen fingers slip against the cards and bend stiffly so that aces, fives, jacks are always falling on the wood floor, face-up. No one’s here but us. The loudest noise is the arms of my down-filled polyester coat swishing against my body, and with only one bulb for light even the smoke from Ann’s cigarette and from our icy exhales can obscure our faces, though it doesn’t matter— we know our faces and don’t need to look, know our talk and don’t need to talk. Todd said he’d be here, but it’s only seven o’clock, so we settle ourselves into our crates and our coats. The mattress in Todd’s bedroom is softer but less suited for cards, there’s no kitchen I’ve ever seen, let alone kitchen table, and the only other room upstairs is the bathroom, which I’ve entered twice, when the urge was bad, to risk the mustard-spotted toilet and skip touching faucets crusted white above the crusted sink, sprinkled with Todd’s sparkling beard stubble, like fairy dust.
Laughter from the walk hours later announces Todd and the guys, who enter with stamping, blowing on hands, and shaking snow out of hair, which in Todd’s case is the color of old carrots and stands straight up, thick.
Eric is still alive and leans behind the others against the door like he always does since he hasn’t yet grown (and won’t) into his height. Todd’s laugh is a shy giggle, and when he greets you he seems bashful and embarrassed but so glad to see you, which is why Todd brings a party wherever he goes, not just here where we can drink since his dad never lives in this house. He kisses Ann, whom he’s dating now, and who’s not mad that the quiet evening has grown to a noisy crowd like it always does, while the guys pull bottles from under their black wool coats and for a while perch on crates and lean in doorways and against walls. Then Steph and Jen show up, and we all laugh because Jen had sex for the first time last night, and we all know it. Steph leans against Eric leaning in the doorway because they’re dating now, and none of us predict that she’ll some day marry Todd and give birth to Kent’s daughter. Then Tim and Bevan and the other legal-age guys show up with booze, and upstairs gets quiet while everyone but me, Ann, Dave, and Stu tumble to the basement, the illicit rooms I’ve never entered but saw once from the fourth step while trying to catch sight of
which Dan and Nick say holds up the whole house, that all would collapse if it opened. Ann follows Todd finally, so I try to make sense of what Dave is saying, but he’s too stoned for sense (though I don’t realize that now, or that he loves me, that the babble about death and resurrection is a ruse). Cowboy boots come pounding up the stairs, Bevan chasing a squealing girl I don’t know into the bedroom. “Spirit in my soul, visions of light after death, life, you know, life, do you know what I mean?”
Midnight now, so Steve leads the guys on an expedition to the Wall: site of bonding and sacred alcoholic rituals, or so I’ve heard (but won’t see until I go there with Tim after Eric dies and Tim gets out of jail, when the Wall holds up only a cliff above the scenic drive). After the laughing, jostling, scarf-adjusting wave rolls past me to the door, Ann and I work a crossword with a scratchy, black rollerball pen that says Stuarts Landscaping.
Eldritch Star
Dominick Peart
The Day the World Should Have Stopped
Noelle Diedrichs
I was nine years old when I knew my mom was going to die. She was diagnosed with stage-four triple-negative metastatic breast cancer, and at the time we found out I selfishly thought it was the best cancer because it’s associated with the color pink. I started to notice things, a lot of strange things, like the book my mom hastily moved off the kitchen table when she saw I was looking, called Helping Children Cope with the Death of a Parent: A Guide for the First Year. I told myself I didn’t know if she was going to make it or not, but that didn’t stop me from turning to her one day and asking, “What is one piece of advice you want me to know before you die?”
I quickly learned that my no nonsense questions shocked the adults in my life, all the adults, except for my mom. She answered all of my questions and even asked me a few of her own. Away from the prying ears of my five-year-old sister she whispered, “Do you want me to die at home or at the hospital?” I told her I wanted her to die at home; this was our house and that is where she belonged, but despite my wishes she was placed into hospice at the Boone County Hospital.
The cancer crept into her brain and started to shut down her body. I cried often because I couldn’t remember the last words she said to me before she slipped into a coma. I overheard the doctors tell my dad that it would be any day now, and that we should set out some clothes to be able to leave at a moment’s notice if she happened to pass at night. We went home and laid out a set of clothes on the couch where my mom and I made so many memories. I pretended I didn’t know why we were doing this; I pretended it didn’t break my heart.
In the early hours of the next morning, my dad shook me awake and told me to put on the clothes we had laid out. Half-awake, I completed the task before my brain turned on, and we got into the car. I only remember fragments of the drive, like someone was shutting on and off the TV of my life. I looked out the window and saw the moon. It was full and bright, and it felt like its beauty was meant for my mom, so I saved a snapshot of it in my mind. I wanted to be able to come back to it everyday. I had a few more moments to pretend like I didn’t know if she was going to make it or not.
I don’t remember getting out of the car or walking to the hospice room, but my senses turned back on when I walked in and saw my cousin, aunts, grandmas, and grandpa all standing around my mom’s bed. I ran to her bedside and held her right hand as we all cried. This was crying as I had never experienced it; I had never seen adults cry so loudly, and I did not care as rivers of snot came pouring out of both my nostrils to mix with the tears.
“Say goodbye to your mom,” my grandma said in between sobs. I realized she didn’t know I fully comprehended exactly what was happening. I had left the hope that my mom was going to make it in the car. Instead of informing my grandma of this, I choked out, “Goodbye, Mommy.” I clung to her hand and memorized the features of her face. Since I wasn’t going to be seeing her every day anymore, I worried I would forget what she looked like, so I committed every detail to memory.
The moment was almost upon us, and we could all sense it. We stared at the nurse who was holding a stethoscope to her heart, and a few moments later she looked up at us and shook her head. Days passed, or maybe it was only a few minutes, as I stood there with the knowledge that my mom was gone. Dead bodies scared me, but I found myself wanting to climb into her bed, wrap myself around her, and never let her go. I came to the conclusion that dead bodies are different when you love them. Before I was able to act on those thoughts, an unknown family member steered me out of the room, across the hallway kitchen, and into the private sitting room that was a part of the hospice setting.
Someone turned on Pixar Shorts for me and my sister to watch, and for a few glorious minutes, my mind was able to pause the thought that my mom was lying dead in the other room. We laughed at the show and played on the floor while everyone
else had whispered conversations or was silent. My dad stayed in the room with my mom, so I knew she was safe and nothing bad was going to happen. Eventually my dad rejoined us, and we all decided to re-enter the room as a family.
I passed the moon on the way through the kitchen and smiled, but when I saw my mom the grief punched me in the stomach and I could barely breathe. The doctor came in and said, “We will get started on removing her corneas.” My heart stopped and I immediately said, “Her eyes?” The doctor confirmed corneas are a part of the eyes and I promptly and forcefully informed him that that was not going to happen. “You can’t take my mom’s eyes!” I screamed at him. He tried to explain to me that my mom was an organ donor, and this was the only part of her body they could take because it wasn’t contaminated with cancer.
I was taken from the room while I thought about what my mom would look like with no eyes and I wondered how my dad could let this happen. I knew I was signed up as an organ donor, but that didn’t bother me because I wouldn’t know if they took my eyes. It’s at this point I expected the world to stop. This would only be logical because how could it go on now that my mom wasn’t here?
But it didn’t stop, and I was left on my own to figure out why. If only everyone else knew how amazing she was, they would feel the same way and everything would stop. School would be canceled, there would be no more appointments and activities, everyone would just curl up in a ball and wait for their turn to die. This is how it should be; nothing could be good anymore without my mom in the world.
Life kept going, and I didn’t want a part of it. I spent time in my room alone on the few days we had off before returning to school. On the first day back, my friends ran up to me and told me how sorry they were. With a blank expression, all I could say was, “Thank you.” I was removed from class for an hour so the guidance counselor could tell the other fourth-graders my mom had passed away and ask them not to pester me about it.
I stopped going to recess or talking to anyone; instead I chose to read books while Mrs. Olson ate her lunch at her desk, and I started classifying myself as an introvert. Life moved around me, even though I didn’t move with it. Grief became my new best friend, and I could tell it would stick with me for the rest of my life.
Free Flowing Jelly
Jewels Holladay
Eternity
Camilla Starr
Like lightning bolts that meet each other in the sky, The turning of the clock, The burning of the hours. Does time exist? Does it even matter— All that is made of matter? When I have always been Forever yours, Bent like a prism, Ancient relics’ golden dust. Today I am this, Tomorrow, atomless. The void— You’d know it, If you really listened to The unbearable lightness of eternal being. Here is to Kafka, cats, and the magic of the midnight kiss, While we had bodies to embody All gold, All light, All bliss.
Bridge to the Unknown
Kota Winterboer
Feather Pillows
Timothy Stammeyer
“Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn’t, so he flew off to tell the others.”
-A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh
In 1997, New York City police stabbed Barney, America’s favorite purple dinosaur, to death. Hundreds of bystanders, including women and children, witnessed the gruesome horror of homicide. What’s worse—Barney’s murder happened on site of a sacred American tradition: the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. According to the autopsy, the anamorphic creature was taken down by high winds. It didn’t take long for the conspiracy theorists to blame the fundamentalist dinosaur deniers, who at the time, represented a sizable percentage of Christian evangelicals. All I remember is the theropod spilling helium all over the sticky streets of New York.
It turns out the Macy’s parade has a history of animals muddying the fowl affair. For instance, the first parade featured live residents from the Central Park Zoo, bringing a wildness long practiced by the citizens of the city. Now, thanks to insurance, lions are forbidden to parade down Sixth Avenue—at least they aren’t allowed to legally. I won’t lie—I look forward to the kitsch affair that is the Thanksgiving parade, mostly thanks to pre-Musk Twitter. If there is one principle that binds the tweeters, it’s this: lip syncing is a mortal sin. Confident in their understanding of audio equipment, they reel against the perceived lack of musical integrity. Doesn’t Mariah Carey owe us more? This is Thanksgiving after all! In America. We don’t turn on the TV, ignore our kids, and watch gargantuan balloons float down the street for fun. Who do you think we are? Canadians?
The appeal of the Macy’s parade is far-reaching, especially in the Midwest. And trust me, small town folk know a good parade when they see it. For being America’s most confused fly-over state, Iowa is all about Thanksgiving—raising twelve million turkeys a year, according to the state’s turkey federation, not including the undisclosed number we hit with our cars. As a fifth-generation Iowan, I learned quickly that family Thanksgiving gatherings demand tradition, all the way down to who cuts the turkey. It’s my grandfather’s responsibility, and before gender roles get brought into this, I’d like to point out that he is a master carpenter and a master marksman. Precision is his raison d’être. Besides, my family has a fascination with stuffing and being stuffed—bread in the bird, Sunday stomachs, kitchen junk-drawers, and mall teddy bears. Being stuffed means being full, and it isn’t in our Irish-Italian nature to be empty.
Like many celebrations worth remembering, Thanksgiving centers around the biological marvel of mastication. Undeniably, food, and the history attached to it, matters—ask any Chicagoan if it’s okay to put ketchup on a hot dog. You’ll find out that Elwood Blues didn’t evade the Illinois State Patrol so you could slather Heinz on your buns. Even meals that seem lackluster on the day-to-day hold power in certain contexts. Ham sandwiches and cheesy potatoes aren’t all that remarkable, but the meal becomes more memorable at your aunt’s funeral luncheon.
Trying to distract from the melancholy I adore to entertain around the holidays, my wife suggested we spend a morning at the University of Iowa’s Natural History Museum. I agreed to go, swayed by the promise of a giant sloth replica named Rusty, who, it turns out, was used by students as a prehistoric mannequin. Besides Tubby Faux Fur, a standout exhibit at the museum is the Bird Hall. In the spirit of transparency, I believe birds are beneficial to the environment, bring much needed beauty into our drab suburbia, and, despite the conspiracies, are real. Still, I never thought I’d be a bird person. Annoyingly, the Instagram pundits are right—one day you’re drinking until shitfaced at three in the morning, and the next you’re up early, crouched in the woods, straining to identify what looks awfully like a red-breasted nuthatch.
Inside the Bird Hall, it only took a glance down the shelves of clear display cases to realize what I’d failed to consider— this was a museum, not a zoo. All the birds, lined in neat rows by the dozen, were dead. They’d been stuffed, their little hearts replaced with fluff until they were the stupidest looking pillows I’d ever seen. The collection of our ill-feathered friends was exhaustive, carefully cataloged, and marked by species and type. The taxidermist posed them—some head-cocked on a fake stick, others mid-flight, and a predator or two chasing a field mouse who, rather insultingly, had to scurry from the hawk even in death. This place was a graveyard, which, naturally, made me think of my family.
My paternal relatives, most of them from western Europe, had a habit of taking photos of dead family members in their caskets. Honestly, I adore this ritual, mostly because of the contrast. Having a wedding picture next to a funeral picture is a magnificent cross-section of decay. Keeping with Catholic cultural tradition, my dad and I took the bi-annual trip to our family cemetery in St. Lucas, Iowa. Although we have relative casket pictures at home, compiled into what I like to call the Scrapbook of the Dead, we made the three-hour trip as an act of love and penance. It was filled with the same elements—embellished memories of those who had died, pointing out the gravestones of favorite loved ones, and, after we left, Oreo milkshakes from the drive-in. On this particular trip, though, the tone seemed increasingly somber and reserved. For an easy-going man who claims he’s calm because after kidney surgery they only left one adrenal gland, he stayed unusually quiet. Through his misty eyes, these jagged rows of graves held memories, the story of his life. It’s not that the memories had died; rather, his sadness stemmed from the sober reality that in death there are no new memories, unless, of course, you have a shovel.
I walked with him to the grave of my grandfather. My dad told the story of when they built houses together and when one of the split levels burned from a meth lab explosion. He recalled the beer cans found with my uncle, stuffed in the walls by old builders, along with a row of suspiciously crooked screws. Up the hill, he pointed to the grave of his aunt who was funny for a nun and her older brother she lived with in their old age. As we left, he took the loop around the backside of the cemetery, shouting at me to roll down the window. He wanted to take inventory of the new graves planted since the last time we came.
In an ironic cross-species mysticism, we became scavengers in that cemetery, taking note of all the decay. Perhaps this is why my visit to the Bird Hall felt familiar, accompanied by an acute loss of appetite. Among the hundreds of tiny aviators buckled into the eternal airplane to nowhere, a young boy zipped between the cases, stopping in front of the jays. His sticky fingers painted the glass, leaving behind smudges laced with grape jelly. His grandmother, sturdy and austere, walked toward him in no noticeable hurry, anticipating it would be only a moment before he dashed to the hummingbirds. But his hands were tight against the case, his breath fogging the gate to the graveyard.
“You have those, grandma,” he said to her, pointing. “Those blue ones are yours.”
Even in a mortuary this large, he was sure. Blue jays have a complex migration system, sometimes flying states away in the winter, and other times opting for a shorter staycation in their state of residence. The boy, though, didn’t give a flying feather about the biology of it all. What he knew is there were blue birds in the tree out front of his grandma’s townhome, which, by the legal precedent of Finders Keepers, meant they belonged to her.
Turning from the case, the boy, suddenly quizzical and skeptical, asked his grandma, “Are the birds real?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Are they sleeping?” he asked back, confident that she is old enough to know anything there is to know. At this, she softened, suddenly aware it was her job to field the existential questions.
“Yes,” she finally replied. “They’re all sleeping.” And what could she say? Stuffed animal had a whole new meaning here.
The boy, insistent, pressed on: “When do they wake up?”
“They’re napping now,” she said. “They’ll fly around later.”
The boy, satisfied enough with her answer, darted around the corner of cases, drifting out into the hallway and far away from the dead birds he didn’t know were dead. I replaced him and shifted my focus to a jay with white and gray feathers, plump as a honeycrisp. She looked at peace, staring toward a cloud, or a bug, or who the hell knows. The bird was dead. They were all dead
and all of us dying.
Looking back, maybe all I really knew about death is it happens. Dead humans are the same as those birds. They aren’t sleeping. Dead things don’t wake up. We know this, but that doesn’t mean we believe it. Perhaps, the reason we stuff things is to make them whole again. That, by tricking ourselves, we can illusion what we can never avoid. Instead of obsessing about funeral size, the sexiness of decomposition, and the number of visitors parading around our rotting bodies, I suggest we face an essential part of what it means to be alive—that death, come when she may, is coming. But we desire wholeness, a life story that resolves, nice and ready for the acknowledgement page. If we’re honest, though, the root of our longing is to be preserved, and through this preservation, remembered. We want to make our mark at all costs. As a Boy Scout, I was constantly reminded to leave no trace when I went camping. In other words, enjoy the beauty of the world, participate fully, and then, when it’s time to go, leave the land even better than you found it. This philosophy has the power, if we let it, to help us live a little wiser, a little humbler, and a little more whole.
Or, maybe, it’s all just a red-breasted nuthatch.
Speckled Beauty
Jade Heth
A Courtyard Wild
Timothy Stammeyer
A swarm of riding mowers
Invade the courtyard grass
Which can only mean summer
Even before I look outside, I know the birds are pissed, Their frenzied territorial calls
Chatting up the lone oak. There are no more units to rent But that doesn’t stop their beaks
From bark-breaking, building a stack Of condominiums. My landlord loathes What these passerine praise—tall grass
Out of compliance, the invasion of Foreign beetles, dandelions daring you to Bathe them in poison. I’m tempted
To conspire with the moonlight And seed bomb the shell leaf Out of the yard. The birds will cover
For the clover and alibi the blue-eye, Until the bees evict the mowers, Filling the vacancies with butterflies.
Forever
Glenesha Tai Smith
Sober
Todd Case
Sometimes the door sticks. “Push hard,” the sign said, so I did and I walked out of the downtown library. It was spring and after a cold, windy week of rain, the food vendors had rolled out their carts for the first time since the previous fall. Three musicians had thrown down a hat in front of the jewelry store and were banging out Grateful Dead covers. I’d been sober eleven months and three days. Sparrows bobbed mechanically from bread crumb to bread crumb, like the old-time, tin, wind-up toys I had seen years ago in the home of my grandparents. A dozen children danced barefoot in the fountain at the center of town, and I thought about my own child, three years old at the time, living in another city with his mother.
I recalled Jack as he trailed Cindy through that hundred-year-old house in What Cheer, singing songs about ducks and dinosaurs while she and her girlfriends broke down the beds and stacked mattresses into the back of a blue El Camino. The old four-square sat at the top of a modest hill and looked down on what was left of the town, buildings leaning at various angles from the downward pull o time and disappointment. Cindy and I had been together almost ten years, six of them married, but it hadn’t worked out. I lifted the boy to my chest as the women packed utensils, shoes and children’s books into boxes, and his mother and I hashed out the final details of that chapter in our lives.
And I thought about my friend, Nora, who I had visited with that morning at the Sunflower Cafe down on Bowery where she worked. She told me her boyfriend, who had been away for almost a year living in Los Angeles, was returning later that day to see if they could work out their differences.
A man with a stump for an arm juggled three balls for money. Imagine what you have to tell yourself every morning when you wake up with part of your body missing. Years ago, before urban renewal, when they’d torn down buildings and permanently closed the street to traffic, he would have been standing in the intersection of College and Dubuque. I’ve seen the old photographs to prove it. Now, for whatever reason, they were constructing a fourteen story building made of steel and glass dreams one block over. As if the earth could stand one more hole. As if the earth could bear any more weight. As if the earth wasn’t plotting its revenge, twisting and bellowing beneath us.
Before he died, my father warned me that if you don’t pay attention, your life becomes a list of things that happened to you. Cindy and I had created one of those lists, including, in no particular order, the birth of our son, and reading poems aloud to each other riding backwards on a train to Seattle, and breaking through the ice on Clear Lake at 2 AM; a three-month trip to Europe, and a marriage, and cooking with and fighting for and lying to and worrying about each other for almost a decade. And the holidays, Christmas at her parents and the Fourth of July at mine, and the suicide of a mutual friend, and birthdays, and a brief affair thrown in for good measure, and once, at the very beginning, an abortion.
The soffits of that antique house in What Cheer were rotted out, and nuthatches had nested there. On the best days, we woke to the sound of them fluttering and singing in the walls. On the last day, Jack chased after paper airplanes that Cindy and her friends had made for his amusement. I locked myself in the bathroom and polished off three mini bottles of Fireball, closed my eyes and pictured a fleet of them, paper airplanes, sailing out the window, looping down past the long abandoned opera house, skimming over a meadow of purple clover and gliding to rest on the cool, damp bank of Coal Creek.
Large, singular drops of rain suddenly splashed on the walk, weirdly illuminated by the sun, one after the next opening like petals. I heard the rumble of thunder somewhere to the west. A middle-aged woman walked past me wearing a tattered, yellow sundress cut too high on her hips, something you’d expect a younger woman to wear. Her graying hair was pulled back in a loose knot, and I remembered what Cindy had told me once after we’d fought and she’d threatened to leave me. This was in
Montana, before Jack, before we’d moved back to Iowa, before everything went completely haywire: The worse someone feels, the worse she is treated.
I wanted to see them, Nora and her boyfriend, together. I imagined them grocery shopping later that day at Aldi’s, assessing the asparagus, zucchini, and red peppers, casually passing the apples and pears to each other, comparing prices and brands of canned goods, brushing up against each other’s bodies shoulder-to-shoulder as they planned their first meal together in nearly a year.
They want you to believe that love isn’t a feeling, that it’s a decision or a behavior or an action. I’ve heard it on the talk shows, and I’ve read it online. Don’t believe them. It couldn’t be further from the truth.
The air was rain-fresh, and the sidewalk and the red brick of the old Jefferson Hotel glistened. The vendors wheeled away their carts as the rain picked up. The children had disappeared from the fountain, and the one-armed man had taken his leave. I blinked, swear to god, and the woman in the yellow dress stood in front of me as if in a trance. Black threads of mascara stained her cheeks. I guided her out of the rain and under a store awning. She took me by the wrist then and deliberately pulled me toward her until I could hear her whispering the names of women: Mary. Sara. Ruth. A thing of beauty, I thought, my hand cupped in her hands like a bird, and on the last day of April, 2023, I asked her for forgiveness.
Sprouted Vase
Eilza Link-Jha
Rotten, Red
Kaydence Habeger
To be loved is to be considered, or consumed.
Choke me down; I can be smaller— like this? Broken into pieces to fit just right. She clutches the pieces with whitened knuckles and she bleeds.
But never tells. Sharks smell blood from Miles away.
Miles a w a y.
M i l e s a w a y.
Grateful. Graceful. Smile. Red: He paints her mouth, full of , rotten teeth
As if no one would notice. because he does not see.
Again
Abigail Scheppmann
The Snow
The snow wasn’t shoveled when she got home. Her car crept up the driveway, tires spinning nervously while she struggled to get into the garage.
She’d asked him to shovel before she got home.
“Please,” she’d pleaded into her phone in a corner of the office so no one would hear her begging, “just make my life a little easier tonight.”
Sunday
She was sick of watching football. And then watching the football debriefing after the game. It always seemed to drag on for hours and hours and hours, and the sun would set on the most beautiful day while an anchor talked about rushing yards.
The Haircut
“What is that?”
That wasn’t the greeting she’d been expecting. “What? My hair?”
“Yeah. Why’d you cut it?” He wasn’t trying to be mean about it. He reached over and tussled her hair like she was a little brother. “You look like a lesbian.”
Her Grandmother
After she died, he held her for hours and wiped the tears off of her cheeks and kissed her forehead when she finally fell asleep.
Three weeks later he made her laugh for the first time since they’d lost her. She couldn’t stop it either. Both of them started to laugh. They laughed in their little living room, and she could feel the sun warming her through the great big window she loved so much.
Galena,
Illinois
“What the fuck are we doing here?”
“Enjoying ourselves, Jamie. Fuck, can’t you just have fun for once?”
She had fun all the time. It usually happened when he wasn’t there. Or when they weren’t vacationing in some touristtrap town. They couldn’t even go skiing, because he was afraid of it.
She shut her mouth and tried not to complain for the rest of the trip.
The Doorbell
It broke through a Friday night movie. They were watching Dunkirk because he wanted to. The doorbell gave her an excuse to get up. “I’ll get it.”
“I’ll get the next one,” Danny promised.
Someone needing help in the snow would be a nice distraction. A good excuse to slip out into the blizzard outside and
revel in the way the world was dark but the blanketing snow provided a reflection of the glow of the moon that lit everything up just so.
She pulled the door open to the snow, to the wild wind, and to a face so familiar she thought that she might be in a dream and this was all the result of her consciousness pulling Lila to the forefront of her mind once more.
“Jamie.” Her name. Spoken from those lips again. As if she had any right. “I’m so sorry, I would have called ahead, but I didn’t have your number. And I just got back into town, and your mom only gave me your address.”
“What are you doing here?” It was meant to be an accusation, but Jamie’s voice was weak, and for a reason she couldn’t put a name to she didn’t want Danny to hear the shock that rang through her words.
The Ex
It had been that long. Jamie thought she’d healed from this by now, as if their parting had been a particularly festering wound in her flesh that had finally scabbed over. But just the sight of those eyes, bright and sparkling under the porch light, brought back memories she’d long since locked away. Those eyes she’d stared into for hours, the face she’d mapped out in every inch.
It was funny. She’d thought of that face every single day for four years until finally, slowly, it had started to fade. Jamie had let the pain of it fade too, choosing to not think about her for as long as she could help it.
But here, on her own porch that she was going to sneak away to smoke on later, the pain returned as a living, breathing being.
“What are you doing here?” It seemed to be all she could say. What was she doing here? What right did she have to be here? This was a new life without her. You can’t control people, Jamie. The words came back to her in the same sudden rush that this face did. Everyone around you has their own thoughts, their own feelings, you can’t control people, Jamie.
“I’m here to see you.” Honey-warm eyes blinked at her. Jamie could only stare back. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” she continued, “About some mistakes I made. And I just—I had to see you while I’m back in town.” She said it all on Jamie’s own front porch.
The porch wasn’t a place to be having this conversation. In all her fantasies about it, this conversation had taken place in a crowded café, or the back of a taxi, or behind the curtains of an intimate, sun-soaked cabana on some far-away island.
The Car
Jamie insisted that they have this conversation in the running car parked in front of her house. Where no one would be able to hear them.
Shame
Once, it had ruled Jamie’s life. Now, it was no more than a distant memory buried beneath the constant judgment of coworkers who were nothing but bugs on the walls, buzzing about a haircut that she really liked.
“I was hoping when I came back, I guess, that you still felt that same way about me. That whatever it was that drove us apart—”
“You leaving.”
“—that it, goddamn, okay. That whatever animosity is between us is less than whatever sort of love we still have.”
“Don’t speak to me in riddles.” They couldn’t do all of this in a car spitting out exhaust on a snow-lined street in front of the townhome she rented out with her boyfriend. “I loved you, and you left me.”
Lila’s head tilted. She still looked so gorgeous. She looked even more gorgeous, really. Life had been kind to her, had let her bloom in early spring and let her keep on blooming through a wet winter.
“You weren’t even able to say that when we were together,” she said, gentle despite her accusation. “I grew up. And I know it now, and I can say it.”
The Front Door
It stayed closed while they talked. Danny never came to look for her, not even after they’d been talking for twenty minutes. Not even when she told Lila to turn the car off and get in the backseat.
January 1, 2024
A song with heavy brass burst out of the speakers when Lila started the car. “Sorry,” she said, reaching out to turn it down.
Jamie brushed her hand away. “Leave it for the drive,” she yelled over the noise. It beat through her body and buzzed at the speakers. Some of the zippers on her bags in the back rattled around too, but she didn’t mind. She cracked the window. A bit of fresh air cleared her mind.
Turning out of the neighborhood reminded her that the world was opening up in front of her once more. Blooming, like Lila.
She didn’t believe in superstitions or the false sense of newness that came with a new year that was, realistically, just another day dawning. The only new change was her own knowledge that the world was the same and she was the same. It was only the future that held the promise of change.
The Highway
The headlights cut through the dusky fog of the morning. It was the first time in years she’d been up before the sunrise. As it rose, the sunlight cut through her in return. Clarity rushed forward and around them in the form of the melting frost on the green hills that flew by them.
She grabbed Lila’s hand and smiled.
Hollowed Violinist
Dominick Peart
Banking at Night
Isabella Rhodes
Pace upon the Monotone
Nicole Rosanelli
We are each a universe, packaged with emerging and dying galaxies of both planets and voids. Ideas, emotions, experiences, longing. The joy of new discoveries and the pain of leaving one world behind for the next.
With all of the chaos packaged tightly into something so messy and so beautiful comes random creation and eventual devastation. We were born into a reality that dreams to be something different, the longing forcing expansion of thought and dirt until the wrinkles droop from our empty mouths. And we loop into meaningless loop until the loop is all there is. The inevitable blackness consuming the leftovers without another universe ever gaining the knowledge of another’s existence.
We pace upon the monotone surface, barely exposing all that bubbles beneath. Worlds upon worlds cast silently underneath into the abyss of longing and pain, tripped intermittently by joyful radiation that fades faster than its dark light.
Oktoberfest
Olivia Schanz
It is pickling day. I know this as soon as I enter the restaurant through the winding hallway at the back of the building. The air is polluted with the sharp, tangy smell of sauerbraten, so strong you can feel it stinging the back of your throat and nose until drawing in a full breath becomes nearly impossible, and your eyes sting until they water. In the kitchen, plates clatter and bang as they’re ungently set down on shiny stainless-steel surfaces and plastic cutting boards. The sprayers in the sinks ring with the sound of water hitting metal as the dishwashers hose down pots and pans, spraying chunks of meat and vegetables into the square colander in the sink, where the leftovers pile up until someone on dishline draws the short straw and has to scoop out the unappetizing salad of cabbage, beets, roast beef, and other unidentifiable foods into the trash. All mixing together in a way that suggested some half-digested meal, which turned out to be disagreeable with whoever ate it. Disgruntled cooks yell the names of servers to alert them that their food is ready to be taken out, and the fryers bubble whenever a basket of chicken or fries gets lowered into a bath of soy oil. The massive grill sizzles whenever a pork chop is slapped onto the surface, and plumes of steam roar into the overhead vents whenever a bag of wet, uncooked potatoes is cut open and dumped onto the top of the grill.
The din of clattering pans and utensils is louder than usual, and the yells of servers and cooks are more frantic and urgent. It is Saturday on Oktoberfest, the busiest day of the year, and this restaurant is one of the only four restaurants in the town. My job is to clear tables of their dirty dishes and trash, then wipe them down.
I dragged my finger across the glossy, reflective screen of the POS system as I clock in to work a healthy four minutes late. I am standing at the back of the kitchen in a sea of scattered paper and napkins that had been blown off the counter by the massive industrial-sized fan sitting behind the dishline. Draped from a pipe on the ceiling above me is an ancient slice of fossilized Swiss cheese that had been placed there by one of the cooks out of boredom. The boss had taken it down in anticipation of a sanitary inspection, but the cooks, affronted by the blatant disrespect of their liberty to place cheese wherever they desired, threw another slice up, and it has since been hanging from that pipe, now rock-solid for almost a year. Laura is preparing an order at one of the counters; she is in charge of cutting the fresh fruit, which she guards with intensity. When I had first started working here, I nearly made the mistake of eating Laura’s safeguarded fruit before a server warned me of the dangers, but so long as her territory over the fruit isn’t challenged, Laura is quite nice. She loves animals, and on her shifts, she scoops leftover meat and bread into plastic bags, which she then takes home to feed to the families of deer and raccoons in her backyard. She also loves cats—a little too much, as she has over seventy of them. I have never ventured to ask if they were indoor or outdoor cats, but I don’t think I want to know.
I move out of the kitchen and into the waitress station, where I put my bag into one of the two cabinets under the counter. One of the doors had fallen off its hinges last week, but instead of expending the cost of what was likely twenty bucks for a new pair of cheap hinges, the boss had simply screwed it tightly shut on all sides, thus “repairing” it, and had in the process completely baffled the employees by the sheer ridiculousness of it.
The carpet in the first dining room, the ‘Bavarian,’ had evidently been cleaned, if the fresh smell of Lysol and carpet cleaner was anything to go by. It no longer reeked of the characteristic scent of grease and fried food; the years’ worth of soggy, skillet-fried potatoes, green beans, gravy, and spilled sodas that had been ground into and soaked up by the carpet were now gone and replaced by a clean scent I would never have dreamed I would smell in this restaurant. But today would be the last day the carpet would smell this nice; by the time this breakfast shift is through, the room will go back to smelling like grease and bacon. That’s the surrealness of it all—working at a restaurant. No matter what changes—who gets fired, who moves away, what gets
cleaned, what gets broken, what is new—it will all fall back into the same rhythm as if no change had ever taken place. I work at the Sisyphean task of wiping off and sanitizing plastic tablecloths destined to get dirty, washing the porcelain dishes of their leftover foods, even though moments later I know they will be used to plate yet another customer’s meal. All my work is doomed to be undone. Again and again, the boulder is rolled up only to roll back down. The carpet is clean, but it is brief and passing. Dropped plates, spilled glasses, children in highchairs, and adults incapable of the simple task of keeping the food on their plates—all of it will unravel whatever progress has been accomplished.
Emma, my favorite waitress, moved to Virginia just two days ago. I had grown close to her over the year she worked with me. Every day she would come in wearing a new set of earrings, many of them festive in accordance with whatever holiday was next on the calendar. We had shared many interests, and it was less boring at work when I had someone to talk with about crocheting and baking. But it’s not even two days since she left, and the workplace remains completely unchanged in her absence. The gaps her shifts made in the schedule were filled, and nothing of her exists here anymore. The same thing will happen when I leave for college.
At the time I was scheduled to come in, I had already missed half of the breakfast rush, and lunch and dinner bled into each other as more people came in through the cherry-red doors at the front of the building. There is so much to do and to take in that my vision feels blurry, as if my eyes can’t fully focus on anything. I am squeezing between chairs and customers as I rush from table to table, clearing them of their stacks of dishes and wiping chunks of pork and pools of gravy from checkered plastic tablecloths. There is so much sensory input that it is impossible for my eyes to take everything in—the sea of bodies and faces all laughing and speaking at raucous volumes, all in different conversations. The clanking of knives and forks against plates, the sticky feeling of cold potatoes and gravy under my fingernails and up my arms. These conditions do nothing to make my scramble to clear tables as fast as possible any easier. Worst of all, I am hungry and my stomach aches, but the cooks are swamped, so I can’t ask for anything unless I want to invite an irritable line cook to yell at me.
In the waitress station, Tammy is peering through the blinds separating the station from the dining room. She looks completely absurd, with her nose pressed up to the poorly painted wooden blinds, head at an angle to get the best view of a table on the far side of the room. She was “checking out this hot guy,” she had told me when I asked her what she was doing. Whatever Tammy thought, good or bad, would eventually find its way out of her mouth, regardless of who was there to hear it. Every Saturday she would bring us a new diatribe against the boss, often expressing her pervasive desire to “wring his little neck and stuff em’ in a hole” to the hilarity of the staff. She busted her knee at the beginning of the summer, and now she walks with a limp whenever customers aren’t looking. She is going to be sixty soon, and she is beginning to feel the weight of the heavy trays, but she can’t retire; she has been a waitress all her life, but there is simply nothing else left for her.
The unholy sound of polka emanating from the front lawn outside the bar is relentlessly assaulting my senses, and the ear-bleeding union of accordion and tuba is inescapable no matter where you go in the restaurant. The nasally grating vocals of Barefoot Becky rattle in the back of my head until it starts to ache. I know every single song because I have heard it looped on the restaurant speaker system enough times it could qualify as abuse. The “Too Fat Polka,” “Roll Out the Barrel,” “Next Door to Alice,” “No Beer on Sunday,” “Ein Prosit,” “IHA IHA IHA OH,” and, worst of all, “The Chicken Dance,” have all been cruelly etched into the makeup of my brain, so much that I know, even after I clock out for the day and I escape the abusive sound of what is too generous to consider music, the 2/4 tempo will continue to haunt me. Needless to say, I don’t like polka that much.
There is a massive pool of syrup in the middle of the kitchen floor that has been there since breakfast; it had only been partially wiped up, and the stickiness still clung to the floor and whoever was unlucky enough to tread through it. Every time I lift my shoes, the faint velcro-y sound of my soles sticking to the concrete floor makes my skin crawl with physically overwhelming irritation and annoyance. Ky on dish line is peeling the shiny golden foil from the single-portion butter packets, scooping out the contents with her finger and flinging it to the ceiling where it sticks, joining the already existing globs of butter littering the space above. There is evidently a sort of thrill amongst the employees to vandalize any available surface with dairy products.
The sound of a plate slamming onto the metal dishline island makes me turn my head. One of the waitresses is storming through the kitchen and yelling at the cooks because the last batch of chicken they cooked was raw. Everyone is stressed. Della, another waitress, is working to pay off the debt she accumulated after the third death in her family this year; last Saturday it had been her sister. When she clocked into her shift, her eyes were pinkish and swollen. She had been crying. But when she walked up to her tables, she was as cheerful and happy as ever, rattling off the usual welcoming mantra she gave every customer. The people she serves crack jokes and exchange cheery conversation, completely unaware of what her life is like, with no clue that she only gets paid four dollars an hour. They don’t know the tip they left on her table is going to pay for someone’s funeral.
People are filing out the door, which is relieving since the cheerful personality I wear for the not-so-special occasion of a customer asking a stupid question has been strained from overuse and is hanging by a thread. Sitting still for the first time today, I become suddenly and painfully aware of every physical sensation in my body there is to be aware of. Beads of sweat are rolling down my chest, and my heart is thumping from under my ribs so hard I can feel its pulse carrying the blood up my neck and into my ears. I did not feel any of this all day, as if the body that was running from room to room and the voice answering the questions of confused customers were not my own. Now, I am aware of the sharp pain running down my spine and in between my shoulder blades from carrying heavy trays stacked with towers of porcelain plates. There is a lack of adequate words to describe the deep and exhausting ache in my legs and feet; every tendon and muscle is pulled tight, and every step I take risks crashing to the ground. I count down the minutes, now the seconds, until I finally get home and collapse into my bed.
Every time I type the familiar pattern that is my employee pin to clock out for work, all recollection of my time spent there dissipates, and what I can remember comes to me in hazy memories, like waking up from a dream with the sense that I’m not quite remembering it the way it really happened, that there’s something I’m forgetting. All the time spent there gets eaten up; all the hours swallowed and turned into a little green check I put into the bank. All I do there is wipe plastic tablecloths over and over again. When I leave this place for good, it will only take a minute to train whatever new hire comes next, because that’s how ridiculously simple my job is. The only thing here that keeps me from quitting is the people, even though I am often confounded by the lack of common sense shared between them. Just like the customers, I would never have cared to know them if our names were not placed next to each other on the schedule, but I do know them, and that’s what makes working with them a breath of fresh air in the otherwise stagnant atmosphere of the restaurant. The carpet may be stuck in the unending cycle of clean and dirty, but people are not like that. We change; the girl on dishline dyed her hair red; Emma lives in Virginia now; Tammy has a busted knee; one of the waiters tells me he can finally afford a house; Della buried a sister last week. Every day, their lives change just a little bit, and I watch them change with it. It makes the polka a little more bearable.
Shiner
Jake Panek
Religion
Rustin Larson
Notre Dame Cathedral burned yesterday. Rich people donated serious numbers to rebuild it before the ashes were even cool.
In Paris, I’m sure someone is poor and hungry. When hillbillies sing in unison, it’s really pretty, like fog on the mountains.
The techno band sings that their koala has swag. The Snap-On tool truck rolls in. My car goes “pop” and “hiss” in the repair garage. It’s all amazing.
Age Is Beauty
Liz Schultz
Driving Back from the Funeral
Timothy Stammeyer
The burrowing owl returns to night Hunting, fertile mice tracing mazes
Through the sodden suburban lawns.
I watch the home-body birds
Dive, barbarous and hungry, To the pothole feeding grounds
Replenished by the evening rain. They’re still flitting mad
About the others leaving this mess
Of a town, this god-damn town, Viny with sublets and cemeteries, A canvas for the bony silhouettes
Of ravens and magpies, finches
Flirting with the storm gutters
Like boys who haven’t learned
The hollowness of sex. Nothing remains Of summer nests but caked mud
Baked into the balcony rails,
A Passover sparing the memory
That something good was here, And that something good was her.
What is left for me but to drive And drift in this stiffening breeze
Until all that’s left is mourning?
The Yellow Wallpaper
Paige Wilkinson
The Mourners
Jesse Schwiebert
There are about a hundred different things I would rather be doing right now. I could be at home with Elizabeth, watching a movie, or dining at our favorite restaurant. Instead, I’m sitting in this creaky wooden chair, in a dusty lobby, in an even dustier rotting church. I wonder if the weather has cleared yet. My weather app tells me the mad storms should be dissipating soon. My clothes are finally dried off from the whipping rain before. I run my fingertips over my charcoal single-breasted suit, wool trousers, and light brown derbies shoes to make sure. While feeling my shoes, I glance at the sepia briefcase lying against my chair. For years I was under the impression that the rest of my family was extinct; then a couple of days ago I received a letter (honest paper, not digital) that a surprise cousin had just passed. Even though her name was foreign to me, she was some New York Times bestselling author, pen name June Valentine. I almost threw away the letter, and the briefcase that came with it; Elizabeth convinced me to come.
The preacher asked me if I could greet everyone who came to the service since I was the only blood relative. That was hours ago, and not a single soul had even cast a shadow at the door. I wasn’t going to, but the wait was killing me; I pull out my pen from my breast pocket and have a satisfying draw. Suddenly the oak entrance creaks open to my right and a figure in a trench coat steps through. I push my pen back into my pocket and try to wave the clouds away. “Hi, I’m Richard.” The figure removes their burgundy fedora with a thick black glove, letting dark cherry locks flow. Her onyx eyes feel like they could see through me and view my darkest secrets without having to utter a syllable.
“Is this it?” she asks with a gravelly yet somber voice.
“If you mean the funeral, then yes.” She takes a cigar out of her pocket. “Need a light? There are candles around.” She takes off a glove and snaps her fingers. Wisps of light burst from her hand. She snaps a couple of times before a small flame ignites her thumb. She puffs her cigar as her other hand puts the glove back on. I have no words; all I can think to say is “Do you mind if I take your coat for you?”
“I do,” is all she mumbles. She gives me an inquisitive glance before brushing past me toward the sanctuary, leaving a trail of smoke like a steam engine. The door opens again with a more forceful bang. A cloaked figure ducks under the door frame. They hang their woolly brown cloak up on a rack that completely engulfs it. This unveils a man with a body built like a weapon of mass destruction and tapestries scrawled on his arms. He looks like he just came from a very serious Renaissance fair. Leather shoes, an almond-shaded tunic, a cyan shirt, and a domed helmet with golden ram horns scraping the ceiling. I gulp when the behemoth stomps up to me. He raises his hands.
“Heill ok sæll!” The Viking’s voice carries like thunder after lightning.
“Pardon?”
“Ah, an Englishman. I said hail and hello.” His demeanor is friendly enough. “So.” He claps his meaty hands together. “When is the Sjaund?” I stare up at his shredded carrot beard and violet eyes.
“The what?”
“The Sjaund. This is where we are sending her to Valhalla, yes? Should we not be near the sea?” I realize what he is talking about.
“Ah, yes this is but I believe we are not placing her in a boat or the flaming arrows. Think we’re just burying her.” He seems disappointed as his hand starts tapping on a huge axe resting on his belt. I don’t want to but I say it anyway.
“Can you please leave the axe here? Don’t believe it would be respectful.” He squints at me.
“Alright. Just be careful with her.” He took it out and dropped it for me to catch. I barely do since it dwarfs my arm. I can’t help but marvel at the exquisite craftsmanship of the tool. I think to myself that he must have paid some serious dough for his costume. The handle has a reddish hue and the blade is silver with stains covering a depiction of a wolf breaking out of chains. I am about to examine the stains when the blade starts to glow. The same violet color as the Viking’s eyes is emanating, and I swear that the wolf’s head turns to me.
The door opens once again, startling me into putting the axe down on a nearby table. This time four figures step in. Two adults and two kids but none of them appear to be wearing any kind of coat. The adults are men, one wearing what looks like a curtain wrapped around his waist and shoulder and the other a large blanket over his shoulder. Also, one of them has the head of a bull; the other has only one eye and small horns. The twin children are wearing satin black sheets wrapped over their shoulders and around their nether regions. They are normal enough.
“The party is here! Sorry, dear, I’m just kidding, my name is Taylor,” The bull announces, holding out a very thick and hairy hand. I hesitantly shake it.
“Oh, will you stop Taylor! Must you embarrass us everywhere? At her funeral no doubt. Sorry about my husband, he’s a bit high-strung. My name is Maud.” The cyclops raises a three-fingered hand and gives a tusked smile.
“It’s alright. The sanctuary is over there.”
“Of course, will there be refreshments?” asks Maud.
“Yes, I believe there’s coffee and donuts.”
“That will be fine for us, but it’s good we brought something for the kiddies,” says Taylor as he pulls out a zip lock bag from a pouch. I was expecting something like apple slices or crackers. I was not expecting what appeared to be dead rats.
“That’s for the kids?” I can’t hide my surprise. Maud’s eyebrow rises.
“Well of course, Darling, what else do you feed a Gorgon?” answered Taylor. I look at the children and their eyes turn yellow in unison, pupils narrow, fangs spring and their forked tongues shoot out. They make me jump and stumble back into my chair. The family just giggles to themselves and walk toward the sanctuary.
For hours I watch as all manner of persons from every race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, even other species, fill up the pews. I close the sanctuary door and pull out my flask from my inner pocket. I take a swig and go somewhere to be alone. I find a shadowy library, illuminated by moonlight, and collapse against a bookcase. What is this? Was my cousin just some huge fantasy nerd? Are they all cosplayers taking it too seriously? If that’s true, then how did that ginger woman light her bare finger, better yet how could Maud blink? How did my cousin know these people? I take another swig and knock the back of my head against the shelf. A book falls on my lap. Before I can chuck the book in frustration the cover shimmers in the moonlight, catching my attention. By June Valentine, The Fire Within: A Story of a Hot Head Private Eye with Pyrotechnic Abilities. I take the book over to the window to get a better look. The picture is of a red-haired woman who looks exactly like the first attendee. Not just in the wardrobe…but the face as well. In a fit of buzzed nerves, I switch on the lights and start flipping through more novels: Rune: The Axe of Fenrir, with an image of the Viking who gave me the creepy axe, and Behold, the Eye, with the cross-species couple and their twins grinning at me.
Digital Portrait of Mythological Beauty
Camilla Starr
Wrecked
Christen Tack
Grains of salt were many on the bottom of the sea
With that shipwreck so desolate and bare
Divers searched for signs of life
Nothing living was to be found
In that shipwreck so desolate and bare.
No hope of reverie
No hope of recitation
No recuperation
No rescue
Nothing.
No signs of hope were there, on the bottom of the sea
The shipwreck so desolate and bare?
It was forgotten there
On the bottom of the sea
Buried there for all of time
To hide the pain, the loss of life
Time covered, with many more grains of salt
No hope for rescue
On the bottom of the sea, so desolate and bare
Flower Study
Payton Schwiebert
Those Hands
Carmen Delgado Harrington
Those hands, that carried water, pounded masa, and made tortillas, folded as she prayed de rodillas for her loved ones.
Esas manos, that maintained churches, ruled relatives, and led religiosas, clapped proudly when I played the piano.
Those hands, that sewed my dresses, cleaned up messes, and brushed my tresses, held la Biblia as she taught me to read.
Esas manos, that cared for the elderly, fed the hungry, and housed the homeless, wrapped me in fierce protectiveness.
Those hands, that crossed in anger, raised in wonder, and gave nalgasdas, held babies tenderly.
Esas manos, that wiped my tears, settled my fears, and cherished my child, wrinkled with time, withered, and—forever—folded.
Greenfield
Marloe Spencer
After the Storm
Marloe Spencer
The Sound
Rustin Larson
I hear it often in my favorite spot where I’m propped up by pillows in bed.
I see it often too, a bright eye gliding through the bare trees
on the northeast horizon, its engine humming steadily like an iron aquarium full of whales and deep-sea dragons. It is often my only companion, my god, the machine who created my body from the fires of the sun and the dust of deposed planets.
The Stillness of Eternity
Kota Winterboer
Contributors
Ollie Black, Kirkwood engineering student, wrote their poem “Hometown” about life in the Nebraska panhandle and says the math professor in the poem is Steven Haataja. Of their own life, Ollie says, “I have one dog, one daughter, and one ugly garden.”
Todd Case, author of “Sober,” is a real estate broker in Iowa City and an avid reader of fiction. This is his second time appearing in the Cedar Valley Divide.
Carmen Delgado Harrington, the poet behind “Those Hands,” is a Kirkwood ESL teacher and freelance Spanish/English translator. Her dream is to inspire others to preserve nature, reduce bias, appreciate family, and break down barriers to peace and goodwill, through her writing and teaching. Her poetry, prose, and short stories have appeared in the Mt. Mercy Paha Review and Mercy Creative Review, the UNI Inner Weather, and in previous editions of the Cedar Valley Divide. She writes, “a lot of my poetry is inspired by my beloved mother, Enriqueta, my family’s matriarch and my maternal model.”
Noelle Diedrichs, Kirkwood business student, has always loved reading and decided to try writing after taking a composition class at Kirkwood. On her essay “The Day the World Should Have Stopped,” she says, “I wrote this piece to shed light on the unique experience of childhood grief. I would never wish anyone to experience the emotions I tried to demonstrate in this short story, but I hope I was able to provide a perspective that encourages everyone to connect and support children who have experienced loss. This is also a reminder to be thankful for the people in your life and cherish all the time you have with them. Together truly is the most wonderful place to be!” In her free time, she enjoys ringing handbells, crocheting, volunteering, and going to the gym. She also says “I love my job at Green State Credit Union!”
Sharon Falduto, a student advisor for English language learners at Kirkwood, says of her story “Sunshine in a Bottle, Dust in the Field”: “This piece was a historical fiction assignment; elements were taken from my own family life, including names and the setting of the piece in Guthrie County, Iowa.” Much of Sharon’s other fiction is inspired by pop culture, and she also writes non-fiction, often about her own and her daughters’ lives. In her spare time, Sharon volunteers with the Iowa Radio Reading Information Service, reading the newspaper and providing audio description for live theatrical events. She is a founding member of Iowa City’s Dreamwell Theatre. She also really likes The Monkees.
Sondra Gates, who teaches writing and literature at Kirkwood, says of her poem “At Todd’s House, 1987”: “I wrote this poem during my first year of college, describing an ordinary night with my high school friends, before we all graduated or, in some cases, didn’t make it that far. I had completely forgotten about this piece, but when I came across it recently, it transported me viscerally to that night in 1987.”
Kaydence Habeger, Kirkwood student and future art teacher, created Rotten Red, which is a sheet glass mosaic with multimedia sculptural elements accompanied by a poem. She writes, “Lately, I have been feeling inspired by the women in my life, the shared experience of girlhood and how it ties us all together and binds us as individuals. In using glass to represent this, it struck me how appropriate the medium was. Every piece that glitters and shines is also jagged and sharp and hard and fragile and meticulously chosen yet miraculously broken. I really wanted to capture the beauty of womanhood and the pain that it hides. I wrote a poem to speak for this piece, because I truly felt it needed a voice the more I paid attention to what the glass was saying. This piece feels
more like a self-portrait than anything I have ever created.”
Jade Heth, construction management student at Kirkwood and the photographer behind Speckled Beauty, has always been drawn to the arts in many forms—whether it’s drawing, painting, designing, or photography. She finds deep meaning in both the art of capturing and the art of noticing, believing that photography is not just about taking an image but about preserving the essence and emotion of a moment. “I took this photo while appreciating the beauty of Backbone State Park, one of my favorite places. To me, nature is everything—it teaches us the wisdom of life,” Jade reflects. Through her lens, she expresses her reality and the profound connection she feels to the world around her.
Jewels Holladay, counselor and student academic support coordinator at Kirkwood, is the artist behind our cover image, Flight of the Phoenix. She writes of it: “This watercolor was inspired by a fairytale about a phoenix bird embarking on its life journey, symbolizing resilience and renewal. Created during a time when wildfires ravaged Colorado foothills, the piece reflects my deep concern for nature and its cyclical ability to grow and heal amid destruction. Through vibrant imagery, it captures the duality of loss and regeneration, drawing parallels between the mythical bird and the enduring spirit of the natural world.” Of her second piece in this issue, Free Flowing Jelly, she says: “This watercolor was inspired by the quote, ‘the one thing that remains constant is change’ After reading about the fascinating biological cycle of jellyfish, I was struck by their incredible resilience and adaptability throughout evolution. Jellyfish, with their fluid movements and ability to thrive through ever-changing environments, serve as a reminder to remain flexible and adaptable in life, embracing transformation as a natural and essential part of growth.” Jewels grew up in Washington D.C. surrounded by art museums. She also has a master’s in science education.
Rustin Larson, who wrote “Religion” and “The Sound,” is a frequent contributor to the Cedar Valley Divide. He says, “Most of my poems are written while listening to classical music with my cat Fred.” His writing appears in the anthologies Wild Gods (New Rivers Press, 2021) and Wapsipinicon Almanac: Selections from Thirty Years (University of Iowa Press, 2023) and in periodicals including The New Yorker, The Iowa Review, Puerto Del Sol, The Penn Review, North American Review, and Poetry East. His latest collection is Russian Lullaby for Brother Donkey (Alien Buddha Press, 2024).
Eliza Link-Jha, ceramist and lead studio technician in 3D arts at Kirkwood, says her work is inspired by the prairies and forests of Iowa. Of Sprouted Vase she writes: “This ceramic vase is made by pinching the clay into shape and finished in a 48-hour wood kiln firing. The horizontal segmentations on the form are derived from the thought of layers of soil used in dating archaeological finds. Added embellishments of leaves, seemingly growing out of the pot, are indicative of the ever-changing world that sprouts up from the foundations of the past. Natural ash glaze formed during the wood firing process accentuates the protrusions on the vessel, adding contrast and grit in the gentle patterns of passing flame.”
Jake Panek, an art and design student at Kirkwood, prides himself in portraying drama and tension in his work. He is inspired by photographers such as Robert Mapplethorpe, Robert Frank, and Cindy Sherman. Of Shiner he says, “I wanted to showcase the damaging effects of alcohol misuse in young adults.” In his free time, he enjoys playing guitar, hanging out with friends in Iowa City, watching TV, listening to music, and of course taking photos.
Dominick Peart is a Kirkwood student who plans to go into psychology and social work. He enjoys fantasy and sci-fi, and his journey with art began with storytelling. Of Eldritch Star, he writes, “This abstract piece takes a lot of inspiration from science fiction media, cosmic horror and surrealism. Through integrating different movies, series and stories, I aimed to create an otherworldly, abstract alien landscape.” Of Hollowed Violinist, he writes, “The inspiration for this piece came from a series of
character designs inspired by different cultures and time periods. It’s a combination of my love for fantasy, with my fascination for history and learning about different cultures through the lens of art, mythology and folklore. The character in the Hollowed Violinist takes inspiration from the Irish banshee who is said to signal death by wailing or shrieking. This is re-imagined through somber notes of a violin. It also takes cues from medieval Europe gilded armor and stories like King Midas that highlights themes of fragility, wealth, greed and vanity.”
Andria Pic is a proud Kirkwood Community College alumnus whose passion for photography began with an elective in high school. Of The Vastness of Beauty, she writes: “I shot this photograph in May of last year while visiting Arches National Park for the very first time. I was immediately blown away by the immense beauty of the red rock and formations. Every trail provided a new perspective of the vastness and beauty of this park.” She says she loves combining her passions of travel and photography.
Isabella Rhodes studies art at Kirkwood and hopes to ultimately get a bachelor’s in 3-D animation. While she primarily makes traditional arts, she recently discovered a love of street photography. She also enjoys video games, particularly Baldur’s Gate III. About Banking at Night, she says: “I was experimenting with night photography in downtown Iowa City after I got off my shift at work when a gentleman happened to walk into my shot. He did not acknowledge me so I just continued to shoot.”
Nicole Rosanelli is a business student at Kirkwood who plans to get an economics degree at The University of Iowa. She says, “I want to help create financial policy that helps the masses and not the few, from a democratic socialist bent, to help move the needle toward community and not selfish individualism.” Of her poem “Pace upon the Monotone,” she writes: “Each of us is a thousand lives, but we hold it in, because the community has been beaten from us. When we share instead of hoard our knowledge and experience, it can only help each other.” In her spare time, she coaches youth soccer.
Olivia Schanz, a home-schooled high school senior, is in the Kirkwood dual-enrollment program. Her interests include art, reading, writing, crochet, and anything creative. Of her essay “Oktoberfest,” she writes: “The piece I wrote is inspired by my part-time job at a restaurant. Throughout my essay, I write about my perceived experience, which focuses on the people and the environment around me. I write about my feelings of being burned out and alienated from my job, yet at the same time I recognize the empathy that those feelings have fostered towards my co-workers, who I know are in a similar situation as me. My goal for this essay is to show a side of the food service industry that not a lot of people get to see and encourage people to think beyond their own experiences.”
Abigail Scheppmann is an adult basic education instructor at Kirkwood and a union organizer with Starbucks Workers United. She spends almost all of her free time reading and writing and believes “that every worker should have an abundance of time to read and write as much as they please.” She wrote her story “Again” while in college and says, “I learned a lot while in school for writing, and I want to encourage everyone to pour their heart and soul into every assignment they have.”
Liz Schultz recently received her AA from Kirkwood and is now seeking a journalism and mass communication degree at the University of Iowa. She has a multitude of experience in journalism, including radio, print news, and broadcast. She says her photograph Age Is Beauty was “inspired by a mutual friend who approached me asking to capture life through the camera lens. A woman hosted her 80th birthday party themed “Fairy Goddess” with her three sisters she had not seen in decades. After finally reconnecting, they enjoyed an afternoon of drinks and snacks and celebrated how lovely life is.”
Jesse Schwiebert, Kirkwood student and two-time Cedar Valley Divide staff member, wrote “The Mourners” in response to a
prompt he saw on Instagram. He and his brother have published a collection of stories from their grandfather’s life titled City Kids Don’t Look Down and are working on a children’s book about the monsters that make Halloween.
Payton Schwiebert graduated from Kirkwood in 2022 and went on to get a bachelor’s from the University of Northern Iowa. While his art mostly consists of story illustration and abstract painting, he has been practicing his skills of naturalist rendering. Of Flower Study, he says, “I have been using watercolors for years and always wanted to learn to render the world I see. I have been creating a series of naturalistic flower paintings inspired by the roses of my mother’s garden.”
Glenesha Tai Smith, the photographer behind The Rockies and Forever, is a returning student at Kirkwood, studying psychology and Spanish. She writes, “I find beauty in all forms of art, especially in nature and architectural photography. I am a wanderer, a wife, a mother, and a queer black woman with a pessimistic mind but an optimistic heart.” In her free time, she enjoys reading, horror movies, anime and video games.
Christine Song is a local fashion artist currently exploring the world of ceramics. Of Art of True Beauty and Communication, she writes, “The jewelry box I am submitting is inspired by the idea that true beauty lies within the heart and that this beauty is revealed through meaningful communication. The design of this piece is based on the silhouette of a woman in a tube-top dress, symbolizing elegance and grace. Elements such as the hidden drawer and ear-shaped handles carry distinct meanings, representing vulnerability, sincerity, and the importance of listening. This piece goes beyond functionality, serving as a metaphor for life and relationships, capturing the transformative power of inner beauty and authentic communication. By combining functionality with storytelling, I sought to create a piece that resonates both emotionally and intellectually.” More of her work can be seen at www.christinesong.org
Marloe Spencer is a dedicated parent and loving husband who balances his family life with his studies as a student majoring in digital art at Kirkwood. He works for the school newspaper as both a photographer and writer. Of Greenfield he writes, “On May 21, 2024, a well-forecasted and significant tornado outbreak had the potential to occur. Knowing that the day could be historic, a dear friend of mine, a seasoned storm chaser based in Texas, allowed me and my camera to tag along...we didn’t see just one tornado, we saw six. The strongest tornado of the day hit the small town of Greenfield in Adair County, Iowa. With wind speeds estimated to have reached between 309-318 miles per hour ...the tornado in this photograph was one of the top three most violent tornadoes ever recorded. Four lives were lost and over 35 were injured. My heart goes out to the families impacted.” Of After the Storm, taken later that same day, he says, “This verdant field rippled in the breeze as remaining convection could only build into fluffy clouds…I found four four-leaf clovers in that field, and in that moment it felt like the Earth was extending an offering of peace after all that I had witnessed in the hours before.”
Timothy Stammeyer is a writer and musician with an MFA from Lindenwood University. His work has been published in DMACC’s Expressions and previous issues of Cedar Valley Divide. A play of his was published by Pioneer Drama Services and has been performed internationally. He lives with his wife, Emma, and their two cats, Finn and Mars. He serves as the program coordinator for Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in North Liberty. Of his essay “Feather Pillows,” he says, “While many of us want to be remembered, it can often be for the wrong reasons. I was wondering, “Do we really want to be like these birds?” He wrote “A Courtyard Wild” “as a reflection on our community’s obsession with perfect lawns. I was imagining how beautiful it would be to let the wild flowers and insects back into a space they used to own.” And he says “Driving Back from the Funeral” “follows my experience after attending the funeral of a dear friend and mentor who died suddenly of cancer. I observed that, even with her gone, the world moved on. I saw the birds and the town in a different light.”
Camilla Starr, born and raised in Russia, came to the USA to pursue her dream of being a chef. She received her culinary degree and is now majoring in nursing at Kirkwood. She writes, “I am inspired by the beauty of this world: flowers, smells, places, colors. I love how rich human existence is. I soak up every drop of it.” And “I feel people’s emotions like my own; I am connected to everything around me…Life in itself inspires me the most, the feeling of being in love, the feeling of deep grief or sorrow. All different shades and hues. Life has so many layers similar to the cakes that I love to bake.” She wrote “Eternity” shortly after she met her soulmate, her best friend. And of her visual art piece on our pages, Digital Portrait of Mythological Beauty, she says, “I was inspired by female beauty and my own female energy. Women are mysterious sorcerers. They are mystery and magic. I believe nature is a female force on this planet.”
Christen Tack, a Kirkwood student, first started writing poetry inspired by Jessica Walker, a young poet on Instagram, and now has a whole poetry collection she hopes to one day publish. She wrote the base of her poem “Wrecked” when she seven but says “18-year-old me found inspiration to make it a poem symbolizing the grains of salt as victims of suicide, the shipwreck their mental health, and the divers their medical care providers and loved ones, only to be forgotten and buried to hide the tragedy of what’s happened to them.” She says, “I believe that highlighting the struggles of mental health is very important because it can help people feel more accepted and like they’re seen. I’ve shared some of my poems with various people all of whom said it made them feel less alone because someone else out there is struggling just the same as they are.”
Paige Wilkinson is an MFA candidate at the University of Iowa’s Center for the Book, who also studies hot and warm glass art at Kirkwood. She writes, “For me, every book is a portal, and every sheet of paper is a window into that portal. I like to push paper towards being glass as well as glass being paper. For both materials, the magic happens when you hold them into the light.” Her The Yellow Wallpaper is handbound book with handmade paper with glass covers. She says, “I work with Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” through a visual exploration on confinement and psychological descent. Drawn from Gilman’s semi-autobiographical account of a late 19th-century woman diagnosed with ‘hysteria’ during her postpartum depression and confined to a room, I created a leaded glass design on overbeaten abaca pulp using the cotton blowout technique. As the protagonist becomes trapped within the wallpaper’s oppressive pattern, my design mirrors her psychological fracturing, transforming the page into a window of constraint and inner turmoil. The design echoes the protagonist’s psychological experience, with elements creating a sensation of peering through her barred windows. The abaca and cotton perform a kind of visual erasure, allowing glimpses of the narrative to emerge and recede.”
Kota Winterboer studies the digital arts at Kirkwood and found a passion for photography after taking ART-184 with Christine Flavin. They love revealing the hidden beauty in the macabre and strange. Their sculptural ceramics and graphite drawings have been displayed at Lowe Park, Veridian Credit Union, and Marion High School. They have won awards at the WAMAC Art Competition. Of Bridge to the Unknown, they write, “The scenery at Hickory Hill, when everything is full and green, is gorgeous. So many of the paths feel like you’re walking through another realm or a fairy tale.” And they note that “The Stillness of Eternity is a 35mm film photograph print with sepia toning. I’m a huge horror fanatic, so much of my work draws from my love for spooky and eerie subject matter. Cemeteries fit into this category, and the 35mm film just adds that extra layer of eerie you get with old, rustic things and places.”
Submit to next year’s magazine: https://www.kirkwood.edu/cedarvalley
Kirkwood Community College