Horizon Issue 2 by Horizonmagazineiowa

horizon

Iowa Horizon Magazine is a University of Iowa student run magazine. This issue was open to all University of Iowa students and each submission was subject to an anonymous reading and voting process. The views and opinions expressed herein are not representative of the Iowa Horizon staff or its affiliates. Horizon’s mission is to explore and express happiness in the world with curated pieces centered on the optimistic side of literature. The magazine takes the form of a saddle-stitched, print publication, released once a semester. Horizon is focused on providing University of Iowa students not currently on the staff of another literary magazine on campus the opportunity to gain experience and enhance professional workplace skills. While prior experience is allowed, Horizon gives preference when hiring staff members to students who do not currently have an editorial position on campus or within the greater publishing industry. Staff member terms are limited to one academic year to give opportunities to other students who have a curiosity in the community. Iowa Horizon logo design by Sam Miskowski ;typesetting and cover by Elizabeth Muncy. Pages created using the Adobe Creative Cloud; type set in either the Perpetua, Javanese and Alternate Gothic families. Printed in the United States of America. Iowa Horizon, No. 2 The University of Iowa Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing Iowa City, Iowa 52242 Copyright © 2021 by the University of Iowa, College of Liberal Arts and Sciences All Rights Reserved

editorial board

Allyson Stoops

Signe Nettum

assistant editor

Olivia Tonelli

editor-in-cheif

Jenny Eikre senior pr manager

pr manager

Elizabeth Muncy

non-fiction editor

Morgan Corbett Anna Weckerlin fiction editor

Stella Tarlin poetry editor

designer

Paige Wolf

Sarah Coval fiction editor

Sophia Kilburg poetry editor

table of contents clairvoyance............................................................. 1

from berlin. .............................................................. 2 short supply.............................................................. 3 a new helium subscription.......................................... 4 you gave me............................................................... 5 and the grass rise...................................................... 9 caltula, the city of pennants.................................... 10 angel hair................................................................. 11 dark blue. ................................................................. 13 september.................................................................. 15 the tale of dawn. ...................................................... 16 sweet tooth.............................................................. 17

clairvoyance

claire graham a love so strong it catches in your throat and turns your eyes all shiny shades of purple glassy and brilliant, starstruck your lips open in a wow it’s a tearing feeling, because the heart has ripped free of its arteries, shackles loosed from within the garage of your mind the door opens faster than it hits you, freedom, you will run away to a brighter place where grasses bow further than you can stretch your tongue

poetry

from berlin

marriah talbott–malone i wonder how vladimir was ever able to part from vera. for i crave you so strongly, i’ve begun to feel an ache in my bones, and i long for you with such severity, that my heart has acquired an anomalous sort of beat. distance between us expands, and your lack of presence has made it harder to breathe. but in my next letter, you’ll be oblivious to these grim actualities, unaware of the way my skin bleeds when it’s suffered the absence of your touch, for just a bit too long. for my words will be careful and particular signed in indelible ink, your grand ciel rose.

poetry

Short Supply # 14

nicholas runyon Hey, have I told you? Somewhere there’s a street that’s paved with deckled crimson brick, and all the houses look like gingerbread, spiced sweet and rolled thin, iced thick greens and reds. In fall and winter windows there grow frost in fronds, and through their frigid teeming you can see the will-o-whisps, in guise of lamposts, gone as soon as dawn in argon-hissing glee. And there’s a river there where eagles crowd the maples and the water waits in wounds split open on the ice. The bridge is bowed— it shimmies at your step, all strung and tuned. Now I’ve told you! That place is just over there: past fallow soybean fields and turnpike fare.

poetry

New Helium ca barnett The wires on around my brain Have stratospheres for shoes, All’s dead that flatters stars; The wind is howling madrigals And I am on my couch, Pouring silver from black eyes. The rock opens its door, Throughout the dusty beam I sip and lap the stream A world too wonderful again; Could it be, I’ve learned to see What life has only been?

poetry

You Gave Me kylie boksa

You gave me a jar before you left. Inside of it, you left me little slivers of paper that contained everything I needed to hear: little reminders that there’s good in the world when I was too blind to see it.You gave it to me about a month before you left us. I went through every affirmation in that month— the month before you gave up on the world—and hung them up on my wall where I could read them before bed. I thought I knew what sadness was then. I thought my problems were bigger than everyone else’s, and that your life was perfect—only later would I find out that that wasn’t the case.Your affirmations always managed to bring a small smile to my lips; they made me feel closer to you when, in reality, I could never reach you. In reality, I would never be close to you again. When I first heard the news, I sobbed uncontrollably until no more tears would fall; the horrible emotions that came with that knowledge made me numb to anything else. I tore the affirmations from my wall and picked up the jar and saw the asymmetrical heart you painted on the glass, my vision blurred with tears. I remember, in my grief, I considered smashing the jar against the ground. All it was to me then was a cruel reminder. But then I remembered your smile, and I set the mason jar down with a final sob and I laid in my bed for several hours. It took me days before I could finally bring myself to collect the ripped scraps of paper off the floor. Now, I hug the glass mason jar close to my chest. The colorful affirmations are nestled inside; many of them had torn in half during my desperate attempt to hide them from sight. I spent an hour lining up the pieces and taping the messages back together. The tape holds them together like a bandage, and I can’t help but wish I had something to keep me from falling apart now. I stand in a small coffee shop a block from where you once lived—you used to love it here, and as I glance around, it’s hard not to see you in every detail of the place. The bright, abstract paintings on the walls look like something you would stare at for hours, struggling to shape the swirls of color into a story. The drooping plants that sat in the windowsills, I remember you had names for all of them. And up there, on the small raised platform, you would speak at every open mic. I slowly walk through the quaint café, taking in the people that talk quietly amongst each other and eyeing the dust that dances in the sunbeams. The shop smells so strongly of ground coffee beans that I can almost taste it on my tongue. The woman behind the counter watches me, and I give her a small nod; I can tell she recognizes

fiction

me by the sympathetic look in her eyes. I never really noticed her much before—I know she usually served us, but it was you who always started conversations with her.You were the one who always addressed her by her name as if you were childhood friends, always greeted her with a cheerful “Hi, Evelyn!” The only time I used her name was when I saw her at your funeral. It was strange seeing her wearing something that wasn’t the white shirt and blue apron she wears at work. The black clothes she wore seemed wrong, and they didn’t fit the bright image I had developed of Evelyn in my head. Seeing her there with so much sadness in her eyes made me realize just how much you meant to people. I’m not the only one you mattered to. I wave to her politely before turning my back. Suddenly, my gaze falls on an empty table in the corner of the coffee shop, right by the window. That was our seat. Whenever something interesting happened in one of our lives, we would sit here and catch up. It would’ve been easier to just call, but we both agreed it was more fun to meet in person.You would stare absently out the window from time to time, and when I asked what was on your mind, you would simply grin and shake your head. Nothing, that was always the answer. Why did you never tell me what was on your mind? The feeling of defeat that weighs in my chest is overwhelming, and I have to force it aside as I approach the table. I look down at the jar clutched in my hands, then back at the worn-down table. Before I can convince myself otherwise—that parting with your gift would mean giving up a part of you—I reach my hand into the jar and pull out the first slip of paper that brushes my fingers. With a shaky breath, I then flatten out the slip against the table, letting the words written in black ink reveal themselves to me: “You are stronger than you realize.” The last “e” in “realize” is still smudged from when my tears hit the paper, and I have to take a deep breath to keep myself from crying now. I read that sentence so many times, repeated it over and over trying to accept the fact that you’re gone. I leave the affirmation on the wooden tabletop and step away. Instantly, I’m overcome with the urge to swipe the scrap of paper back and keep it safe in its jar. Yet a small voice in the back of my mind tells me I shouldn’t. Other people should hear what you had to say. The affirmations were meant to spark happiness, not stay in their jar to collect dust and be forgotten. I tell myself this as I force myself to turn around and walk out of the coffee shop, leaving the small note for another person to find. You gave me strength. … I instinctively wander to my next destination. Fortunately, I don’t have far to go; I walk only about a block down the street before pivoting down a small alleyway, my hand grazing a rough brick wall. The jar remains cradled in my arm.

Once in the alley way, it’s hard to miss what I’m looking for. A gorgeous mural stretches up on one side of me: a painting of a young girl beneath a starry night sky, her one hand outstretched as if trying to snatch the little lights overhead. I remember you took a picture of me here while I imitated the girl’s pose. I can still picture you standing on the adjacent pile of loose bricks, laughing as you tried to get a better angle with your new camera. Running my fingers along the grooves of the wall, I feel my fingers catch in a notch toward the base of the mural. I smile. You and I used to find crazy stuff hidden here—gum wrappers, cigarettes, even a coupon to that crappy restaurant you loved to hate. I remember it as if it were yesterday, and for a second, I almost imagine I’ll see you again, sitting in the window of that restaurant because you “couldn’t let the coupon go to waste”. The sound of your laughter echoes in my head. I have to blink back the tears that threaten to spill as I pull out the next slip of paper and read it: “Lights can’t shine without darkness.” I fold the paper back up, a distant look in my eyes. Then I slip the paper in the notch in the wall. Walking away still hurts, but it’s easier than last time. You gave me light. … I make my way to several of your favorite spots throughout the city, leaving your words littered about until darkness begins to creep into the sky. Some I leave in distinct places, others I let flutter away like birds on the breeze, hoping the wind will take them to where they need to be. Now the jar is nearly empty; only one lonesome sliver of paper remains, curled at the bottom of the glass. Once again, my heart leads me to this place almost against my will. It’s only natural to me that I end my journey here. It’s the same place you ended yours. I find myself standing on a bridge overlooking the glistening river. The warm summer breeze tosses my hair around my face, gentle and calming my pounding heart. I sigh in content, taking in the sound of bird cries and watching as the setting sun turns the water to fire right before my eyes. I squint against the brilliant scarlet glow reflected on the river’s rippling surface. My hands grip the railing, and for a moment, I just look out at everything. How long did you stand here? Something inside me breaks with this thought. You were so good at easing my pain that I didn’t even realize you were hurting. I feel dampness on my cheek; I don’t know when I started crying, but I soon find that I can’t stop. All I can think is why? Why, why, why? Why did you do it? Why didn’t you talk to me? Why do I have to live in a world where I can’t ever be with the person I loved most? These questions play on a torturous loop in my head, and it’s so overwhelming that I suddenly slam my fist against the metal railing. The sound of it rings out over the water, breaking me from my thoughts. I force myself to take a deep breath. I know there’s another reason my heart led me here to complete my task. Not only is it the place where your life ended. It’s also the place where we began.

That night is still so fresh in my memory, I struggle believing that it took place several months ago. I remember being so undeniably happy then. How is it that one place can be tied to both my happiest memory and my saddest? You took my hands in yours. I remember being confused; I thought you were going to tell me that you were pregnant or that you were moving halfway across the world—you looked so nervous, something I wasn’t used to seeing when it came to you. You told me you had something you needed to confess. After a deep breath, you said the words I so badly wanted to hear, admitting that the way you felt for me went beyond being friends. I remember the relief visible on your face when I told you I felt the same. I contemplated kissing you then, but I think we can both agree we were too awkward at the time to be so bold. So instead we just sat here, in this same spot, looking out over the water and being content with each other’s company. I never had a night like that before. And I’m reminded how I’ll never have a night like that again. Blinking away the memory, I swipe away at the tears streaming down my face. I open the jar one last time and take the piece of paper between my fingers.Then I fish for something in my pocket, pulling out a small pink ribbon. I bunch the ribbon in my hand before slowly unraveling the last affirmation. “Take a deep breath. Everything’s going to be OK.” I no longer try to hold back my sobs anymore. Leaning my head in my hands, I cry until the sun finally disappears behind the horizon.You gave me so much pain when you left, don’t you see? How can you say it’s going to be OK when you’re no longer here? I want to scream out into the night, but I don’t. I let myself cry it out. I let myself focus on nothing but the cool railing on my elbows and the hot tears that dampen my skin. Then, when I physically can’t cry anymore, I do as you say—I take a deep breath. I tell myself it’s going to be okay. You made me see that, countless times over; even now that you’re gone, I still tell myself that, because it’s the only thing that keeps me from falling apart. Swallowing tightly, I take the last of your messages and press it to the railing, tying it there with the ribbon. My eyes linger on it for a while; a piece of tape holds it together at the middle, connecting the two jagged edges. There’s something beautiful about how imperfect it is, broken yet still whole. Just like you were. Just like I am now. Turning away feels like letting go, but I know deep down that that’s not the case. Everything you ever said is still with me. I will never forget. I promise. I don’t know what gives me the strength, but I finally manage to tear myself away. I take one step back, two, three, and before I know it, I find myself walking away from the bridge. You gave me so many things in the time I had with you. You gave me hope.

And The Grass Rise claire graham

I want for nothing more than to look knowingly at stars calling each one by name awake under a moon dripping onto the sky’s blue skirt glistening milk dot unsoaked. I would like to feel grass smooth my skin, comb me o slim green strands. Bugs bounce beneath me in their smallish ways, skating through the air kissing spaces, valleys between my fingerprints. I will press lightly the heads on the smallest of creatures, softly gesturing a signal of Alive, I am, so is the bug, we are present, we may even be thinking the same thought. Air is so pure it melts on my tongue pulses through my veins, fueling me. I would like to roll down a hill and not worry about the fabric of my dress. It is flowing and so are we, The two gladdest things under the sun*.

poetry

Caltula, the City of Pennants nicholas runyon After Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities I will now tell you about Caltula, the city of pennants. In Caltula, long strings hang from the eaves of the bowed roofs and from casement ledges in second story windows and from the tops of tall, thin flagstaffs towering above waving yellow grasses, and pennants hang from the strings and flap stiffly in the breeze. The pennants are dyed solid colors or embroidered with patterns of crisscrossing lines and interlocking shapes, folkloric illustrations, miniature nature scenes, the sigils of gods local and foreign, the likenesses and campaign slogans of politicians, advertisements for nearby shops, or many other things. Despite their variety, they are all the same size and the same thin-pointed triangular shape, the standard dimensions for pennants having been established and legally codified in antiquity. In Caltula, next-door-over neighbors are not nearly so friendly as across-the-street neighbors, because they depend on one another to keep their mutual strings of pennants aloft. The daily maintenance of the strings is in fact a matter of neighborly courtesy, and so at various times one can see shopkeepers and househusbands poking out of their secondstory windows and retightening knots with performative concentration, or vigorously rehammering the nails on which the knots are tied. When the pennants become soiled or soaked after rain, they’re plucked from their strings and brought inside to be washed in vats of boiling lye water, then put out on clotheslines to dry. Sometimes the freshly laundered pennants will be taken down and hung again on the line they previously occupied, but it’s just as likely that whoever is in charge of the laundry will mistake their clothesline for a proper string of pennants and leave it where it hangs, the small banners curling and snapping in the wind.

fiction

Angel Hair

cheyenne mann He tells me he can trace the stars With his pointer finger, And they will follow. I want to ask him, Which constellation is your favourite? Is it Gemini? Is it Orion? Is it Cancer? Capricorn? Aquarius? Scorpio? Is it year of the dragon? Or year of the snake? He wants to eat astronaut food Under the stars. (Spaghetti most of all) I want to tell him that black holes have a process (Called spaghettification) Where they pull matter into long, thin strips, Like the yellow, peeling wallpaper by my bed, Like the holes ripped in my black sheets, Where I imagine him, cupping my body in dying starlight. 11

poetry

But intimacy, I’ve found, Is a thousand times scarier In the morning, When the sunrise shines, And the reality of permanence, Pulls us Down, with a gravitational force so strong, We are nothing but long, thin strips of matter.

Dark Blue

signe nettum Althea’s jaw dropped when she opened the door to the rooftop. “Okay, now you have to admit it, Lyssa.Your aunt is freaking rich.” Lyssa followed after her, face burning with shame and embarrassment. At least it was too dark for Althea to see her red cheeks. Only a half-moon in the night sky illuminating the edges of the small pool on the top of her aunt’s “she-shed”—the first floor was basically an efficiency apartment, the second floor was all of the mechanical things for the pool that rested on the roof. Lyssa did not listen to her uncle’s lengthy explanation; she was too busy watching Althea’s reaction in learning how loaded her extended family was compared to how she expressed herself. Althea stepped across the small pool deck, setting her swim bag down on the table. Lyssa spotted that Althea once again overpacked for the adventure. She even brought her sunscreen and bug repellent—they were night swimming in an enclosed space. Before she joined Althea at the side of the pool, Lyssa peered at the light blue liquid in the non-aerosol bottle. She sprayed a bit on her inner wrist and smelled it. Her eyes widened as she recognized the smell of—well, Althea. When she would lean over Lyssa’s shoulder and peer at her laptop; when she would brush past her in the dorm hallway. That smell always lingered where she went. Althea laughed when she caught Lyssa smelling her wrist. “Ah, you found my stupid bug spray. It’s from the same company as my deodorant and shampoo—it’s supposed to smell like one of them. I don’t remember,” she giggled. “Stop lookin’ at it and get over here.” She waltzed over to Lyssa, all brilliant in the moonlight. Her short brown hair had the same dazzling aura as Lyssa’s long blond hair—at least when she actually put in the effort. Althea grabbed Lyssa’s hand and started tugging her toward the pool. “C’mon, I want to get my pool fix in at some point tonight,” she joked, laughing. “You take forever at everything, even standing.” “It’s not even a full pool, Althea. It’s basically a glorified hot tub without the heat.” “There’s enough room to race you into the deepest part!” She released Lyssa’s hand and took one step toward the pool before bounding into it with the glee of a child in a candy store. Lyssa rolled her eyes and jumped in as well. She welcomed the muffled sound of the water in her ears and basked in what little moonlight shone into the water. She tried to calm her beating heart by the time she too resurfaced. Althea had to tread water in the deep end of the pool at her stout five foot zero. Lyssa envied her short stature. She was the tallest girl in the friend group at almost six feet. She stood on her toes as Althea swam around her, grinning brightly. 13

fiction

“Gosh, I’ve missed night swimming. I only get to do it, like, twice a year.” Althea said, her voice slightly strained as she kept her head above water. “I don’t travel out here that much. Besides, I like the beach more than this tiny thing.” Althea stuck her tongue out, then spluttered when water got in her mouth. Lyssa reached out an arm and Althea easily traversed across and latched onto her back like a toddler for a piggyback ride. “Onward!” Lyssa laughed, feeling her chest loosen and tighten as her emotions ran rampant. She tiptoed around the deep end while Althea leaned her head back and gazed up at the stars. The water lapped at the edges of the pool, the only sound outside of Lyssa’s beating heart. Now was as good a time as any. “So, uh, Althea,” Lyssa started. “Hm?” She answered, still looking up at the sky. “There’s a jazz concert at the Barn this next Thursday night. I was wondering if you’d like to come?” She pondered for a moment. Lyssa’s heart pounded, “Sure. Are the others coming?” Lyssa let out a strained chuckle, “I-uh, I’m asking you out on a date, Tea.” In the few heartbeats of Althea’s silence, Lyssa burst into her ramble. “I mean, if you’re okay with it being that. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of me in that way; you’ve mentioned dating girls in the past. If you don’t want that it’s fine—” Lyssa broke her own heart saying that, “—I’m just trying to—” Althea interrupted her slew of words. “Lyssa, I thought this was a date.” Lyssa paused her walk around the deep end. She stepped toward the shallow end and Althea disembarked from her back, holding onto the side with one hand. Lyssa turned around, facing Althea. She stood there with her illuminated wet hair, looking at ease in the water like a mermaid, while Lyssa floundered with lanky arms. “I-uh,” Lyssa laughed, “I guess this is one.” She did not meet Althea’s gaze. Althea reached up with her free hand and cupped Lyssa’s face. Lyssa’s throat went dry at the action. Althea gave her a bright smile, and Lyssa fell in love all over again. She first fell in love when Althea went out of her way to care for Lyssa when she had the stomach flu and could not crawl up the second flight of stairs to her own dorm. Lyssa instead collapsed onto Althea’s bed while she slept on the floor of her dorm in a sleeping bag. The way Althea looked in the rising sun that morning made Lyssa’s heart ache for the future. Althea let out a laugh, leaning in. “Yes, Lyssa, I’d like to go on a date with you. I’d like to date you.” Lyssa nodded, her face flushing red hot. “Good, cool. Cool, good.” As Althea tried to lean in for a kiss, Lyssa bent her knees and slowly sunk to the bottom of the pool in embarrassment. She needed to process this.

September

meg mechelke

Last night I had a dream, and you were there—remember?

Looking down from the sky, side by side, we sat in the grass. The sky was blue, and you were too. Like a cloud, opaque, I couldn’t see your face I asked what was wrong— You didn’t speak. But you turned to me, soft, eyes closed beside me, and we breathed together until the morning.

poetry

The Taste of Dawn emma scintu

A velvet morning, stimulates one stronger than any shade of blistering coffee

where the sun is a satin stranger kissing convoluted lovers from your lips where God’s grace lingers over the syllable plague of devil’s verbal contagions where their names are no longer fluent to your native tongue I attempt to savor all of its taste before the waking moon.

poetry

The Sweet Tooth signe nettum

It did not dawn on me until my freshman year of college that they were officially called mug cakes. My grandfather called them Crazy Cakes. My grandmother once delivered a leftover ziplock container filled with brown powder and a recipe scribbled on a notecard taped to the top: 3-2-1 cake. Three tablespoons of the mix, two spoonfuls of water (or milk), and one minute in the microwave. I used angel food cake mix and choco mix. It was meant for my mother for Mother’s day. I ended up using it all within a few weeks. At college, freshman year, all I had was a plain white mug snagged from home and cinnamon coffee cake mix to brighten a terrible day—just add water and it’ll all be okay. A year later, I had a different mug and a different mix. A white mug with a chip on the bottom, Leverage: Consulting and Assoc. stamped on the front. Instead of a mix sent in a care package or storage container, I went out and bought my own: Peanut Butter Chocolate Brownie. Bad for my health, but oh-so-comforting. I was raised with a sweet tooth. I even thought that it was an actual tooth in my mouth, and I was so worried about losing it before my mom explained it to my adolescent brain. It was a concept, not the real thing. Memories and feelings shaped the tooth. I ate Debbie cakes in the morning when eggs and pancakes took too much time to make—just keep them in the fridge so you didn’t make a mess at your desk. Ben and Jerry’s ice cream at night—I had to make sure to put it in a separate bowl, otherwise, I would eat an entire pint in one sitting, as my father could do. I also resorted to writing my name on my favorite pints so that no one would steal them from me. Like that ever worked. It felt like a game in my family. Who would eat this ice cream tonight? Can we share it? The topic of ice cream brings us closer and also tears us apart when someone—dad—would eat an ice cream you were saving for a special day. Sweets enveloped my childhood. Each birthday, celebration, or even a mundane day, some sort of sweet could appear in the house. With each one, another connection to others. At the end of the swimming lesson season as a kid, I would carry a tray of Rice Krispies in my arms for all of the staff to take. After three weeks of teaching kids how to swim the guards deserved the treat. They cleared the container in five minutes—some lifeguards grabbed three at a time to savor while others gobbled them down before dashing up into their lifeguard chairs, still chewing their prize. My mother’s history as a lifeguard connected her to the community, and soon I joined it as a fellow guard. She sent me off with Rice Krispies on my first day of guarding, which quickly earned me a spot on the team as “treat bringer”.

non-fiction

Rice Krispies were a staple in my house. I never thought of them as special treats like a birthday cake or a large cookie. I always treasured the visit to the small bakery down the street, Lane’s Bakery, with cookies as big as my face and whipped cream cakes topped with intricate drawings of balloons and flowers. I used to press my face against the glass, smudgy fingers splayed as I stared at the bright colors on the cookies. Clouds, flowers, and smiley faces were always ripe for the picking, but the bakers crafted specialty cookies for the season. Owls and multi-colored leaves for the fall; pumpkins, eyeballs, and mummies near Halloween. All bigger than they needed to be and sweet enough to make you sick. A child’s dream to bite into the beautiful creation. Endlessly begging to mom won me a cookie of my choice, but I had to share it with the entire family. Sharing was caring, after all. The other timeless store we would visit—every Sunday, my father would drive down before work, and once he retired from working Sundays, he would buy them sparingly— would be the doughnut shop down the street, next to a pizza place. It was tradition to wake up and thud down the stairs and greet dad just before he left for work, thanking him with a hug for the doughnuts. Something to think about while he was gone at work, something to remind us of him. He once tried to get an apple fritter for my mother on Mother’s Day, but every husband seemed to have the same idea, and they ran out before dad would snag one. The bakery had doughnuts for a dollar, and if you bought one of their shirts and wore it when you entered, you would get a doughnut from your order for free. Open from six a.m to three a.m just off campus for college students pulling all-nighters who needed the sugary break. The one time I visited late at night—I could not even last staying awake past 11 p.m.—I brought a friend who had never been there and he gobbled down two doughnuts. Sugar and crumbs fell on his scarf and he struggled to wipe them off in the night. It gave me a taste of what life in teen dramas were like—driving late at night on a whim, laughing with friends while eating unhealthy food, not thinking about tests or projects for once during the semester. Growing up, I was a messy child in itself, but I can count on at least two hands how many clothes I ruined due to chocolate ice cream. Even now, as a twenty-year-old, I shy away from chocolate if I am wearing a nice outfit. The few times I would get chocolate ice cream would be at Michael’s Frozen Custard, which was softer and easier to handle than normal ice cream. While on the expensive side, the size of the smallest order could be split between two people with little fuss. Throughout the years the building sat near lake Wingra and I would spend afternoons sitting on hot white benches, trying to balance all of the toppings on my order before it melted in my hands after a week at boating or fishing camp. Sometimes the entire camp would go as a group and scatter across the park and lakeside, each in their own group, sharing laughs while eating the custard. When I was a bit older, I spent hours with friends across the table and we described what we were writing or drawing. Or sometimes listening to the philosophical debates between friends about the dumbest things, all while trying to speak with hot fudge and peanut butter in our mouths.

The store closed this last fall and an apartment complex will soon replace it.The nearest one is quite a drive across town, instead of walking along the bike path. My friends are too busy to carve out time anymore to hang out with each other. While I enjoyed eating sweets and experiencing the memories with them, I also tried to help with making them. The act of baking sometimes felt as satisfying as a warm chocolate chip cookie. My mother would let me lick the spatula after sliding the pan of brownies into the oven; we would dine on half a batch of cookie dough before realizing that we needed to bake the cookies for an even the next day—salmonella be damned. When entering college, and I had to barge into my boyfriend’s apartment to use his oven, I took great pleasure in watching him eat his first raw Pillsbury doughboy cookie. He grimaced as he bit halfway into the pumpkin printed on the face of the cookie and thought it was weird I would like to eat it in its raw form. No matter, more for me. It was my own little rebellion toward proper baking techniques. My favorite dessert to help make was dirt cake with my mother. Vanilla and chocolate pudding with crushed up Oreos and nilla wafers, cream cheese mixed in for consistency. No gummy worms—we never liked them in my family, even my cousins. Mom’s dirt cake was always requested at family get-togethers, but she had to make enough for people to go back more than twice. She finally put her foot down when she caught my cousins going back for thirds and fourths—their excuses were that they grabbed small portions every time—she made all of them their own containers filled with dirt cake. They were designed to have it as a leftover from the event that they could enjoy when they went home. Right before my family left for the evening, each cousin gave her back their containers, practically licked clean of the contents. Two servings in each container, gone in one afternoon. My mother’s eye-rolling was dismissed by their wide smiles. It was not just my immediate family who enjoyed the sweeter things in life. Our family gatherings—sometimes so big that we have to rent out a church—had more desserts than vegetables or side dishes. What are you bringing, Aunt Viki? A veggie tray? Again? We embraced our Dutch heritage so hard, we practically had a slice of pie or cake at every meal or when visiting relatives. Family recipes of scotcheroos and Butterfinger pie rotated between groups of cousins, each adding their own twist to the dessert to present at the next gathering. Sometimes, the change would be appreciated and they were congratulated. Other times, hushed whispers bounced between tables as people ate their slices, dismayed at the slight difference in texture or taste. Heads of houses denied trying the new dish, vowing never to eat outside their comfort zone. The younger generation did not care at the change of cooks—a sweet was a sweet, and we were too occupied with each other’s antics to fully understand the transfer of recipes from the heads of households to their children, or their children’s children.

Sadly, in college, I could not replicate any of the desserts and memories I treasured. I didn’t have family members down the hall with a plate of scotcheroos or a container of dirt cake in their fridge. Nor did I have an oven to make from mix brownies to share with my little sister. All I had was a mug and ready-made packets. But I had many of them. I just needed to add water (or milk) and some company, to make new memories.

contributors Claire Graham is a first-year student majoring in English and art. She is very excited to be here! Marriah Talbott-Malone is a third-year student at the University of Iowa. She is and English and creative writing major on the publishing track. Marriah loves almond chocolate bars, books, and girl-bands. Nicholas Runyon is a junior studying English and creative writing at the University of Iowa; he is the editor-in-chief of New Moon Magazine and a fiction editor at Earthwords: the undergraduate literary review. He grew up in Martinsville, New Jersey, but he possesses an accent that people have a hard time pinning down no matter where he goes. CA Barnett is a second-year English and creative writing major on the publishing track at the University. He enjoys reading, and writing, and long walks. Kylie Boksa is a second-year student double–majoring in English and creative writing and communications. She enjoys writing fantasy and has too many stuffed animals. Cheyenne Mann is a 2nd-year chemistry and English/creative writing double major. Her favorite movie is It Chapter Two and in DnD she plays as a tiefling cleric. Her written work can be found in Fools. Foolish, Earthwoods, Ink Lit, New Moon, Horizons, sanct, Elementia, the Iowa Chapbook Prize, and Patchwork. Productions of her plays can be found at The Rich Heritage Theatre of Cedar Rapids and The University of Iowa TenMinute-Play Festival. Signe Nettum is a junior double majoring in English and creative writing; Journalism and mass communication. She’s an amateur friendship bracelet maker—her biggest accomplishment was a 72 thick tapestry. Meg Mechelke is a second-year student studying theatre and English. Her work has previously appeared in Horizons, Earthwords, and Foolish magazines. Emma Scintu is finishing her last year at Iowa studying English and creative writing on the publishing track, with a minor in communications. She believes laughing is the best medicine, so she lives satirically for those around her. .

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