2022 Kiosk: Vol. 84 by Kiosk

THE ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE UNIVERSITY

VOLUME 84 2022

Scan to visit the Kiosk online at wordpress.morningside.edu/kiosk

On The Cover: Patchwork Gracie Eli

digital illustration

“We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world.” -Helen Keller

John and Robin Reynders A Dedication

Dedication written by Stephen Coyne: John’s involvement with the Kiosk began in 2006, when the Editor-in-Chief, Cliff Thompson, showed him an example of how added support for the magazine could help transform it from a literary booklet with a sprinkling of black and white art into a four-color literary and arts magazine that provided a vivid visual experience as well as thoughtful literary exploration. John’s financial backing for the magazine began with that 2006 issue and continued for the rest of his tenure. Every year he shared the new issue of Kiosk with all the members of the Morningside Board of Directors. Perhaps most notably, he generously supported the celebration of Kiosk’s 75th anniversary by sponsoring legendary editor and writer, James Autry, author of Love and Profit and former CEO of Meredith Corporation’s magazine group, to visit campus for readings, lectures, and consultations with students. John was always there for Kiosk, never missing an opportunity to celebrate and improve it.

The 2022 issue of the Kiosk is dedicated to John Reynders and his wife Robin. John served as the president of Morningside for twenty-two years and oversaw a period of extreme change and improvement during his time here.

THE ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE UNIVERSITY

VOLUME 84

Staff: EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Payton Sauerbrei

ART DIRECTOR

Rachel Steinkamp

DIGITAL EDITOR

Devyn Reilly

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Joshua Miller Jr., Lukas Knudson, Kennedy Skinner, & Madeline Keating

FICTION

NONFICTION

POETRY

Kennedy Skinner

Lukas Knudson

Joshua Miller Jr.

Ashley Duncan Julianna Baker Sarah Brown

Camrie Miranda Marco Cabrera

Alex Inskeep Abby Langseth

ASSOCIATE ART DIRECTORS

COPY EDITOR

Associate Editor

Board Members

VISUAL ART

Board Members

Gracie Eli Giuseppe Del Rio Broggi

Associate Editor

Madeline Keating Board Members

Haylie Folsom Kyle Gundersen Payton Miller

Associate Editor Board Members

Jennifer Peterson

FACULTY ADVISORS Jeff Gordon Brendan Todt Leslie Werden

About Our Judges: Stephen Coyne (Literature Judge) taught creative writing and American literature at Morningside for thirty years. His book of linked stories, It Turns Out Like This, was named 2016 Book of the Year by the Midwest Independent Publishing Association. Retired, now, and living just south of Eden, North Carolina, he continues to write stories and poems and to revise the old house he and his wife have bought. Aaron C. Packard (Art Judge) is a mad scientist who manipulates the aesthetic of personal perception; in other words, he is an innovative artist who specializes in traditional and alternative photography in order to create epic compositions. Despite earning his MFA in Photography and teaching at the University of South Dakota, Aaron’s adventures influence his work: scuba-diving in the desert, lost and found in Tokyo, living on room service and airplane food for years, and more. Aaron began his photographic career in the time of film, Polaroid, and chemistry, moving with the industry into the digital world. Since 2002, he’s been a working commercial and editorial photographer based in Southeast South Dakota, specializing in photographing corporate/editorial portraits and lifestyle, as well as product based still-life imagery. He employs the latest in digital capture technology and enjoys combining traditional analog photographic processes with digital production, creating unique images in his commercial work. Aaron has regularly produced award-winning projects for clients including Jackalope, the University of South Dakota, Black Hills Ammunition, Avera Health, and Moon House Studio.

Letters From The Editors: EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

ART DIRECTOR

Payton Sauerbrei

Rachel Steinkamp

Readers of Volume 84 of Kiosk, it has truly been a pleasure to work on such a highly esteemed literary and arts magazine. In considering the theme for this year’s publication, we decided to wait and see what kinds of images came to light in the art and writing. We noticed that many of the submissions revealed powerful emotions in regards to recent social and political events. Dealing with adversity is not a concept unique to any of us here at Morningside, but it is fascinating to observe the similarities in emotion in many of this year’s accepted submissions. Several of the poems, prose, and art work in this year’s publication expose the hardship and challenge that we have endured in the past few years. 2022 has certainly been a year of pivotal change in the world. As things are constantly changing globally, this publication is, too, always changing. We have experienced some challenging moments and we are still trying to stand up right and figure out where to go next. This year’s Kiosk echoes this idea.

The 2022 Kiosk brought me so much enjoyment and I am incredibly proud of what the team created. I have always loved this publication ever since I started at Morningside and always thought of it as a beautiful representation of what the campus can create. Payton gave me a lot of creative freedom with notes and recommendations to create something the Kiosk had never seen. With the yearning to create something mature and professional, the goal was modern and editorial with a colorful flare. I started with a mood board that got broken into pieces to see specific features through the finished publication. The black cover with the peeking eye speaks to the audience to draw them into the dynamic interior. Once we saw the submissions, it was clear that the Morningside family of authors and artists were dealing with adversity and struggle. The submissions easily flowed with the mature and editorial feel we originally planned.

First and foremost, I would like to thank my art director, Rachel Steinkamp for her incredible work putting this magazine together. Her creativity with the layout and design of the publication has left us with a final product that I am very proud to share with everyone. Also, thanks to Devyn Reilly for taking up the job of recreating our Kiosk website. Both of them have been crucial in this whole process and I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work with them. I would also like to thank my associate editors for their time and effort: Kennedy Skinner, Josh Miller, Lukas Knudson, and Madeline Keating. Thank you Kiosk advisors– Leslie Werden, Brendan Todt, and Jeff Gordon– for guiding me through this process and giving me the opportunity to work on such a huge project. Your mentorship has been invaluable.

I would like to thank my team of associate art directors: Gracie Eli and Giuseppe Del Rio Broggi, who put immense effort and time into the 84th edition. Thank you also to Jeff Gordon for advising my team and me to create this year’s Kiosk. Overall, I hope you enjoy this year’s Kiosk as much as I did; it is something I find truly wonderful.

Finally, thank you readers of Kiosk, whether you’re faculty, alumni, students, or community members, we appreciate your support. We are all extremely excited to share this unique edition of the Kiosk with you. Payton Sauerbrei

Rachel Steinkamp

Contents: LITERATURE At Thirteen

poetry

Abigail Langseth

Mother

fiction

Samantha Giesen

Safe Haven

creative nonfiction

Haylie Folsom

I Called You on the Hospital Phone

poetry

Samantha Giesen

Insecurities

poetry

Michael Sprague

Paper Cranes

fiction

Elaine Morgan

Carl

poetry

Sophia Sansone

She Tells Stories with Her Hands

creative nonfiction

Elaine Morgan

Brain Dead

poetry

Elaine Morgan

The Globe

fiction

Elaine Morgan

single story.

poetry

Mari Pizzini

Cellophane

creative nonfiction

Abigail Langseth

A Friend of Mine

poetry

Maeve Shaeffer

Jazz

poetry

Sophia Sansone

The Savvy Ghost’s Survival Guide

fiction

Haylie Folsom

Cyclone

poetry

Samantha Giesen

Hold your Tongue

poetry

Mari Pizzini

Trafalgar Road

poetry

Lex Wurth

Old Love

poetry

Alexa Noonan

Human Anatomy

creative nonfiction

Abigail Langseth

What If I Said I Loved a Woman?

poetry

Samantha Giesen

While They Were Gone

creative nonfiction

Karlie Reagan

Dead Girl Walking

poetry

Maeve Shaeffer

ART Under the Night Sky

photography

Payton Miller

In the Distance

photography

Faustino Barroso

Look at Me

photography

Rachel Steinkamp

Smudge

watercolor

Haylie Folsom

Overlooking the El

photography

Mitch Keller

La historia de mi vida

multimedia

Maria Jose Zorrilla Rodriguez

In the Style of E. Munch

oil on canvas

Calissa Hanson

Beauty in Light

photography

Devyn Reilly

Metallic I

ceramics

Shelby Prindaville

Free Fall

acrylic on canvas

Haylie Folsom

Homestead

photography

Joshua Miller Jr.

Esequiel De La Torre Lomeli

acrylic gouache and silver flake on canvas

Cristal De La Torre

Old Bones

intaglio

Haylie Folsom

Perching Peter

acrylic on canvas

Madeline Keating

Milky Way from Mars

photography

Mitch Keller

Rock Paper Scissors

rocks and paper

Laura Greene

Pablo

paint on canvas

Madeline Keating

At Thirteen

Abigail Langseth poetry

I found Jesus hiding in the dirt of a worn out campground. He asked to be washed off, so I held him in my palm and carried him to the bathroom sink, lying to my grandmother about where I was going.

I didn’t know you had metal skin, I told him. He didn’t know either. After rubbing him clean, he asked if we could keep this a secret, and I never thought to wonder why.

When there was a knock on the door, he fell silent. And I never heard his voice again.

And, God, I love not having to pray anymore.

Under the Night Sky Payton Miller photography

Mother

Samantha Giesen fiction

“Leave then!” I yelled. “I never needed you anyways!” The door slammed shut as I watched her walk out into the freezing rain and get in the car. I took a big swig of beer and sank to the floor. Stupid girl. I finished off the beer and chucked the empty bottle at the wall. On impact it shattered into millions of little pieces. I watched the pieces scatter to the floor. In a way it reminded me of the night sky or of the ocean sparkling under the moonlight. Both of those things were for idiots to admire. The real world had no place for shiny things. The real world grabbed you by the throat with its veiny, calloused hands and held you under that shiny sparkling water. It’d tease you occasionally, let you come up for air and get a few minutes of bliss but then it’d shove you right back down. I stumbled to my feet and wandered over to the glass. I picked up a piece with a sharp edge and peered into it. I stared back at myself with disheveled, matted hair. Disgusted by myself, I fiddled with the glass a little before I dragged it across my wrist. I watched as the blood started to gush and run down my arm before dripping to the floor. The more I cut, the more the tension and pain disappeared. There was something so fragile about the skin. It kept the inside of the body safe but in turn it was given scars and wounds. I wondered if it ever got to the point where it couldn’t handle it anymore. I know I certainly would. I dropped the glass and made my way over to the fridge. I grabbed another beer.

The perfect way to drown out the world was to get blackout drunk. That way, I wouldn’t have to think about that girl anymore. I should have aborted her when I had the chance. All she did was complain and bug me about my unhealthy lifestyle. She went on and on about how I needed to go to rehab and see professionals for my addiction. There was nothing wrong with me and there never has been. They all just needed to leave me alone. I didn’t even know why she cared anymore. I’d never given a shit about myself or her. If I did, I wouldn’t be living in this shit hole. Maybe in another life I could have had a nice house for just her and me. We could have nice holidays and presents every year. We would go to a Christmas tree farm and pick out the biggest tree there is. We’d shove it into our tiny little car like we were clowns. But that bullshit will never happen. It’s all just for the lucky, the people who were born into a good life. For us, the past was irreversible, and the future is set in stone. At least she’s living an okay life. She just got engaged and has a stable job. But of course, she had a failure of a mother. I wished things were different. I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek. It felt as though it was burning my skin. I quickly wiped it away. There was no need for crying, there was nothing that could change. Crying is a sign of weakness, and I was sure as hell not weak. I can still remember the sting of the belt against my back, the way the cool leather did nothing to cure my hot skin. There was a knock on the door, interrupting my thoughts.

As the door swung open, I saw a familiar face. “Delilah. Your daughter called again.” “Ah. Hello, sheriff. Nice of you to stop by,” I responded with a drunken curtsy. He leaned on the doorframe. “How ya been?” “I’d be better if that girl of mine would stop calling you to come check up on me. As I’ve told her a thousand times, I’m fine.” He surveyed me with those cold eyes of his. “I can very much see that you’re fine, seeing as you’re in another drunken stupor.” “Well, you’re one to talk. Still cheating on that sweet, pregnant wife of yours, Liam?” “Ya know, you’d have a lot more friends if you shut ya trap.” I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off.” He tipped his hat and started to make his way back to his car. “Always nice chattin’ with ya, Delilah.” I stood in the doorway for a bit and watched his car go down the road. It was still raining. Part of me wished that his car would crash so I didn’t have to deal with his checking up on me anymore. I slammed the door shut and went over to the counter. There was the little orange prescription bottle the doctor prescribed me for the nightmares I’d been having recently. The ones where I was being chased by either my dad or my ex. I could never tell; either way, they made it impossible to sleep. I stared at it for a few moments before deciding that this time I could finally rest in peace. I emptied the bottle onto the counter and

grabbed a half empty can of beer. Beer and drugs, the perfect way to go out. I swept the pills into my hand and plopped them in my mouth and washed them down with the beer. I stumbled over to the couch. It was full of my dirty clothes and various wrappers, as well as empty beer cans and bottles. I shoved everything to the ground and made myself comfortable. Just as I was going to say goodnight to this godforsaken world, there was another knock on the door. I grumbled as I stood up and made my way to the door. “Hey, mama. Sheriff Harris said that you were drunk. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” There she was. In all of her golden hair glory. She was perfect. Everything that I ever wanted to be: pretty, smart, successful, driven, and happy. How did she come out the way she was when I’m such a fuck up? “I’m fine and I’d be better if you’d leave me alone,” I replied. Her bottom lip was trembling. “Please don’t do that. Please don’t push me away. Mom, I’m here for you.” “You don’t need me. Just look at you, you’re better off without me. And how many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine? I’m perfectly fine.” I made sure to tug my sleeve over the cuts I made earlier. “Look, I’m sorry we fought earlier but I’m not mad.” “I just wish you’d listen! Take a good look in the mirror, mom! Look at your fucking house,” She picked up an empty beer bottle. “Do you really fucking think that this is fine?”

“No! I don’t! I know I’m a fuckup! You don’t have to constantly remind me by always checking up on me and asking me if I’m okay! This is just how it is! This is how it will always be.” “This isn’t how it has to be, mom! We can get you help! Just like I did! I’ve been reaching out to rehab centers and therapists who can help you. All you have to do is say yes.” Tears were starting to prick my eyes, and my anger only got stronger. Who was this insolent little brat to say that all I need is help? “That is enough, Alexandra. I’ve tried. I’ve tried to get better and it never fucking works. I get out and there’s so much pain I need to get rid of and I go right back to the drugs. I go right back to the alcohol. I go right back to the cutting. You may have done it but I can’t. You just need to accept that this is how it’s always going to be. You have two choices here, watch my downfall and say absolutely nothing or you can leave and live a better life without me. You have a future. I don’t.” I paused and examined her face, the face that I watched grow into the one it is today. There were already wrinkles where her face used to be smooth. They weren’t the smile lines that I always wished she’d grow up to have. They were frown lines. The same exact ones that I have. I couldn’t let her live like this anymore. I grabbed her face and said my final words. “Baby. I love you so much. I know I was a horrible mother, but I love you more than anything in this world. I am so proud of who you’ve become. I can’t let you keep suffering because of me. I know you want to save me so we can have that mother

daughter relationship you’ve always wanted but there’s no changing me. There’s no saving me. So, go. Go to your fiancé and live your life. Don’t let me hold you back.” By this point there was no use in trying to hide my tears. I rested my forehead against hers and let myself cry. “I love you, too, mom.” And with that she walked out the door and into the rain. I watched her get into her car and drive away. I stepped into the rain and let it blend with my tears. The flesh that was always hot was cooled by the rain. Basking in the glory of the rain, I decided that it was time. I went back inside and gently shut the door.

In the Distance Faustino Barroso photography

Safe Haven Haylie Folsom

creative nonfiction Swimming is marvelously simple. Of course, the technique is complicated. It takes years to really get it down. But once you know what you’re doing, it’s easy. Well, not easy. Certainly not easy. There are definitely days when it hurts. But it’s predictable. Reliable. You always know what’s expected of you. You get in the water, you swim the sets. That’s it. Follow the black line, turn at the wall. That’s it. The water is always the same. The pool is always the same length and the same depth. You always know exactly what you need to do at practice. Whether or not you are able to do it is of little consequence. You are there. You are trying. No one will hold it against you if you fail from time to time. School is so much different. Every teacher expects something different of you. Different assignments, different instructions, different expectations. Sometimes you follow the instructions exactly and the teacher is still not pleased with the outcome. Unlike in swim practice, there are serious consequences for failure. Life is the same way. Complicated. Messy. Instructions not clear. But swimming is not. Swimming is safe, repetitive and reliable. Marvelously simple. A little safe haven in a chaotic world.

I Called You on the Hospital Phone Samantha Giesen poetry

Two minutes was all we got.

For the first time in a while,

I missed you.

There was peace within the chaos.

They sent me 5 hours away, And the ride there was terribly uncomfortable.

For some reason,

The paramedic joked with me on the way.

The lady who threw her plastic chair

I’ll never forget how she made me smile.

And the man who talked to invisible people Weren’t so scary.

It was scary,

Rather,

I was alone with my thoughts.

We found comfort in knowing

But I was safe.

That maybe we weren’t so alone.

And that was what mattered. (We were all a special kind of crazy.) The hospital wasn’t so bad, I made friends.

I told you on the phone

There was that one girl,

That my head was clear for the first time in a while.

Who slid her snapchat over to me,

That the constant thoughts had

In a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book.

Not gone away but

And that alcoholic in his 20s

Cleared just enough so

Who seemed to be a regular there.

I could see not only the past But the future as well.

They told me to draw my demon, I asked if I had to. They told me I didn’t, but it would help, And I could tear up the drawing and Throw it away.

Look at Me Rachel Steinkamp photography

Insecurities

Michael Sprague poetry

I feel like a frog Pinned to a table With a scalpel dissecting My every word

My writing under a fluorescent light Examined by people I can’t see Taking notes on my biology Mentioning my background

I have been cut open No one bothered to sew me up My guts are left on the table My poems thrown aside

Paper Cranes Elaine Morgan fiction

My fist was having such a hard time holding up my face that the skin was all scrunched up around my eye. You’d think if our church wanted a youth program, they’d have found a better pastor than a 70-year-old man with the most monotone voice I’d ever heard. Not to mention there were only, like, seven of us. It was a small town, Hulmer, way up in Michigan, where it was always cold. Unfortunately, the young population wasn’t very large. It mostly consisted of older people… you know, like the “youth pastor.” I wasn’t going to pay any more attention here than I did in the main service, sitting between my two perfectly poised parents. Liars. All three of us knew they refused to talk to each other at home and would make me pick favorites. Isn’t one of those ten commandments, “Thou shalt not lie”? They were all pretending to be better than they were. And I knew it. We all knew it. We just pretended we didn’t. I knew everyone in that room with the youth pastor; none of us were listening. The three snotty girls in the corner with a dozen layers of makeup were snickering, whispering stupid little secrets behind painted fingernails. Tapping his fingers on the table, the boy next to me had a bruise on his face from the last fight he’d gotten into at school. Those fights were becoming a regular occurrence. Next to me, another boy who I never really noticed, with his hood up so I could see only the tips of his hair and nose, was playing around with the pamphlet we were given. So far, at least none of them were liars. Except for the daughter of the pastor, scrawny neck holding her head higher than it should’ve been, acting all modest and wallflower-y when everyone knew she’d slept with half the athletes in our school.

I was folding and unfolding the corners of the pamphlet when I glanced over at the quiet kid. Sitting right in front of his criss-crossed legs on the floor was a clean, sharp-edged paper crane. A smile lifted the left corner of my lip. Then the youth pastor prayed some “blessing” on us, and we could leave. I left with my parents, flawlessly clad in their Sunday best, but I wasn’t looking at them. I watched the quiet boy walk, head down, toward his parents, tossing that paper crane in the trash. His parents barely even looked at him, certainly didn’t say a word to him. I never noticed that the boy was in most of my classes at school. But there he was on Monday, in the back of the class, hood up, fiddling and folding his notebook paper into a thousand tiny paper cranes before tossing them away into the trash can on his way out. Sometimes my algebra teacher would yell at him for having his hood up –we weren’t allowed to in school– and when he took it down you could see the bruise or little cut on his face from a new day of kids messing with him in the halls. The teachers never asked what was wrong with him. They already knew. They just didn’t care. They pretended to care but they didn’t. Not one bit. More liars. There were liars all over the school, athletes who all boasted the highest body count when we all knew they all just slept with the same people interchangeably. Preppy girls, like the three in youth group, who prided themselves on being the prettiest, when I’d seen them in the bathroom, coercing each other to stick their fingers down their throats. The teachers and coaches, who went out of their way to say that they cared about the wellbeing of students, yet turned a blind eye to everything that went on in that hellhole. Then they came to church on Sunday

mornings, said “Amen” to the sermons about helping those in need, and turned right around and ignored their amens in everyday life. They ignored the boy, especially. Everyone did. Even me. He sat all alone at lunchtime. Sometimes he didn’t even try to eat in the cafeteria and would instead just hide away in the halls. I saw him sometimes when I walked by. He was there on Thursday afternoon. And I sat next to him. He didn’t say a word, he hardly even looked up. The paper he was folding was rustling beneath his fingertips. “Why do you fold so many of those?” I asked after the silence got to be too annoying for me. He shrugged. “Like ‘em.” “But you throw them away.” He shrugged again. “Yeah.” Not the greatest conversationalist, really. Didn’t know what I really expected, though, since I’d never heard him talk before, ever. His voice was soft, raspy. When the bell rang, signaling we had to go to class again, he gently set the paper crane he’d folded on my knee before standing up and walking away. I carried it with me to class, and made eye contact with him when I put it in my backpack to take home. Sunday morning, church rolled around again. I woke up early, squeezed myself into my Sunday best once more, and got into the car with my parents who strategically refused to speak to each other and instead spoke through me. Church wasn’t much different. Everyone “spoke” to each other, talking about nothing more than how peculiar it was we hadn’t gotten any snow yet and “How is work?” “Good, good.” I could hardly be glad to get away, walking into the youth group room once more. The youth pastor didn’t say hi, just grunted as I walked through the door. The

snotty girls were huddled in the corner, and I caught a glimpse of incredibly bright purple eyeshadow smeared across the tallest one’s eyelids. That purple was similar to the color on the eye of another boy, who’d gotten a fresh bruise on his left eye from yet another fight. And the pastor’s daughter was there in her demure Sunday skirt with ditsy flower print, a stark contrast from the tube top she’d gotten in trouble at school for wearing on Friday. The boy wasn’t there yet, but I sat next to the chair he’d sat in last week, hoping he’d sit there again. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a possibility, because the pastor’s daughter slipped right into that seat. As the youth pastor called us all to our seats, she leaned over till her pointy chin was almost touching my shoulder. “Did you hear about what happened?” she asked. I didn’t say a word, tapping my fingers on the underside of the table. Unable to handle my silence, she went on without my prompting. “Sam Gregory hung himself with his father’s belt last night.” The boy. “It’s just awful, I think,” she continued, and I listened vaguely, in shock, “His father called my dad this morning after they found him.” Then she raised her hand. “Can we pray for Sam Gregory?” As my youth pastor bowed his graying head and prayed in his monotone voice, I drowned him out. I didn’t want to hear him pray for a boy he didn’t even care about. He didn’t even know him. The pastor’s daughter didn’t care till after hearing his death– she’d probably talk about it all day Monday. No one bothered to get to know the boy, not till it was too late, and now they pretended like they were praying for his dead-and-gone soul. Liars. I wondered impulsively, repulsively, if he’d folded his note into a paper crane.

Carl

Sophia Sansone poetry

The way I Remember your pleasure To see us In the attic playing With the once-untouched tea Set perfect for our miniature Hands in the pistachio jar always Digging for the easy ones to Open arms for hellos and goodbyes Are always hard to hand Out the white door Of the barn overtaken by cats Rubbing against our bare legs Too short to reach the Nilla wafers in cabinets Filled with pills You had to take All the time Has gone Bye.

Smudge

Haylie Folsom watercolor

She Tells Stories with Her Hands Elaine Morgan creative nonfiction

The baby’s first word is milk. Of course, it is. She’s hungry, after all. Her little fist clenches and unclenches to the obvious delight of her Momma. Those little fists snag Momma’s brown curls, always a bit tangled, and Momma says ouch, pointing her index fingers together. The baby is in a little onesie, feet kicking and hands exploring, with a gummy smile. While the baby pulls herself along on her belly, much like the Very Hungry Caterpillar in that board book the baby will love for years to come, Momma gives the baby a special word, “I love you.” Her thumb and index finger and pinky are pointed up, while her middle and ring fingers are pointed down. Momma tells stories with her hands, much to the toddler’s fascination. Momma points to the mouse who hides a strawberry from a big, hungry bear and traces the toddler’s finger across the silver scales of a rainbow fish who will give all those scales away. The toddler’s mind is limited, still developing, but rapidly, and the more colors and pictures she sees as Momma turns the pages, the more a world of stories opens up. The toddler knows more words now. She can say dog, patting her knee, and kitty, mimicking the whiskers that Bandit has. She can say Daddy, an outstretched hand with her thumb against her forehead, and she can say Momma, with an outstretched hand and a thumb against her chin, and she can say “I love you” back, when Momma holds up her pinky and thumb and index finger, leaving the other two down. The toddler never wonders if Momma wishes she could hear her baby gurgles and toddler babbles. She doesn’t understand yet. She thinks it’s normal, normal to talk with your hands. 28

Baby turns to toddler and toddler turns to kindergartner. In kindergarten, nobody talks with their hands. The kindergartner sucks her thumb and doesn’t talk much at all. Till Momma talks to her about being a big girl, and then she stops sucking her thumb abruptly, stubborn as she is. Because she is a big girl now. She can form simple sentences, with her mouth and with her hands. She’s hungry, she says, and pulls a cupped hand down her chest. She’s thirsty, and she drags a finger across her throat. She always points at herself, because of course, the whole universe is hers, it all revolves around her. Grandpa and Grandma say she’s very intelligent. She just likes to explore, and explore. Much like that little boy that journeys to where the wild things are, except she can’t put those wild things to pages yet. Momma wants to teach the big girl at home now and allows the girl a chance at the computer. A chance at creating adventures, putting wild things to pages. Her first adventure is choppy, with lots of stock photos, and a rat in the kitchen. But Momma loves it, and the girl creates adventures, especially unfinished ones, almost every day. Now Momma teaches the girl true stories, about men who went sailing with no destination, about inventions that could fly, about gruesome knives that plunge into necks of royalty, about a woman arrested for sitting on a bus. So, so many stories, with a myriad of characters, but too few that talked with their hands. The big girl wonders now if Momma is sorry that she can’t hear the girl tell her stories.

In middle school, the girl watches the fascination people have when she talks with her hands. The lady in the supermarket who stares unabashedly, the children who talk gibberish in their pretending, the teammates and travelmates who ask about talking with their own hands, and learn stumbling. How rare it is for her to have friends that can talk with their hands, too. Yet when they come around, they like to trick the others. In Mexico, the girl’s friend replaces one word with the word “constipation,” and by God, was that funny… Now the girl wonders if that boy they taught ever learned the right word for truck. Momma is patient with all the people who talk very slow and don’t know many words. The girl supposes it’s been like this for all Momma’s life, but the thoughts come often: is it lonely to only talk with your hands? The girl isn’t lonely, and her head is always up in space with the stories and the characters she holds dear. Her own life is becoming like a storybook, like all her favorites in The Babysitter’s Club, a series in which Grandma has every single book. Momma used to read those books too. The girl hates the word “young woman,” and hopes someday they’ll come up with a better way to talk about high-school-aged girls. For now, it’ll have to do. High school is hard, and the young woman knows that. No amount of stories could have prepared her for what the young woman could call “the depths of despair,” but she knows that’s just too cliche for her taste. All she knows is that these depths hurt and break the skin. Yet as much as she feels it, she’s not alone, because Momma is always there with her thumb and pinky and index finger pointed up, “I love you.” The young woman’s eyes are opened wide when Momma combats the pastor,

who cannot integrate new kinds of people into his Sunday services. The young woman will never understand how difficult it is for Momma to only talk with her hands, but she knows now that Momma isn’t lonely, not one bit. The people and culture that Momma is surrounded by are rich, with loving people who translate words and with silly children’s shows, all for people who can only talk with their hands. Momma and these others tell stories so differently than the young woman does, with bubbling lips and eyes half-shut, hands swirling and reaching big and wide, like a whirlpool that sucks you deep down, down, down, into the world they know. The young woman has never heard or told a story that captures that whirlpool just quite right, and she wonders if she ever will. Big girl turns to young woman, and young woman turns to woman. Maybe. The woman thinks she’s maybe still a young woman. After all, she’s only eighteen. Every day the world opens up more and more with new adventures, and she doesn’t see Momma every day anymore. She thinks about Momma all the time, and there’s always someone new who doesn’t know that the woman can talk with her hands. The woman has done her research and has asked Momma so many questions, and knows that no one should feel sorry for Momma. Because nothing will ever quite compare to a toddler learning to talk with her hands, to teaching friends silly words, to a whirlpool of stories, to the feeling when the woman sees Momma over video call and they can both say “I love you,” with their middle and ring fingers pointed down, and index fingers and thumbs and pinkies pointed up.

Brain Dead Elaine Morgan poetry

Twisting and tumbling Turning in circles The world around her Is like a load in the washing machine Desperately waiting for the ding So the machine will stop But it won’t It can’t Can’t Can’t She doesn’t scream Someone will hear Tugging on amber strands of hair Fingernails turn to claws Pulling at her scalp Till it comes off Claws reach into the skull Pull out a greyish organ Wrinkly and odious Set it on the table And she takes a gun Points it at her brain Finger resting on the trigger.

Bang. 30

Overlooking the El

Mitch Keller photography

The Globe

Elaine Morgan fiction

Howell had a huge globe in the corner of his office. Like, it was bigger than a small child, and came up to my collarbone when I stood next to it. The faded colors on the globe matched the vintage vibe that his office had, with his bronze-colored lamp emitting a golden glow across the room and the old couches with a maroon and gold pattern that reminded me of something my grandmother would buy. I wanted to lie down on that old couch so badly. But that would just be cliche, wouldn’t it? Howell was a middle-aged white man with a big belly that he rested his notepad on and a thick reddish-brown beard. The polo shirts he always wore with jeans never hinted at the master’s degree he had hanging on the wall over his desk. Some days he’d wear glasses, but some other days I came to see him he had his contacts in instead. These were the things I focused on, rather than the task at hand. “Daniel,” he interrupted my focus, “Your mother’s paying quite a bit of money for you to be here. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about anything?” I shrugged, tapping one sneaker on the floor. “How was your day at school?” Howell asked. I knew what he was doing, poking and prodding. I didn’t mind… I knew it was just his job. “It was fine,” I replied. “Just fine?” “Yep.” “How are your classes going?” “I’m doing okay in them.” “Yeah? Define ‘doing okay.’” After an annoyed sigh, I did explain. Like I said, it wasn’t him I was mad at. He was just doing what my mother paid him to do. It’s not his fault she thinks there’s something wrong with me. 32

“You seem agitated today,” Howell said “Do you know why?” I nodded. “Do you mind sharing?” “I’m mad at my mom,” I said, “for making me come here. There’s nothing wrong with me.” “Now, no one said that.” I scoffed. “Yeah, right. Everyone knows that anyone who comes here is screwy.” “Screwy?” “Yeah. Messed up in the head.” “Everyone knows that?” God, sometimes his collected, professional voice made me want to strangle him. “Yeah. You know what my friends would say if they knew my mom made me come here?” “I can’t say I do,” Howell said. “What would they say?” “They’d ask what was wrong with me,” I said. “They’d ask if I was okay. I don’t want that.” “I see. And you don’t like that because there’s nothing wrong with you.” I nodded. Now he was getting it. “Yeah.” “So if you know nothing’s wrong, why does your mom make you come?” “Because she thinks there is,” I sighed. “I already told you.” “What does she think is wrong with you?” We somehow always ended up here. He asked a question that was too penetrating and the question would take a shovel to my gut, creating itself a little pit in my stomach. And that was when I’d look back at the globe and wish I was anywhere but here. “You know what she thinks is wrong,” I said. “You were there when she explained it.”

“I know,” Howell replied, “but I want to hear you tell me.” “Fine,” I sighed, clasping and unclasping my hands in my lap. “She thinks I have, like, trauma, or something.” “And why does she think that?” “She thinks I was just really sad,” I explained shortly. “So she looked it up on the internet and decided I was traumatized. It’s stupid.” “You don’t think you experienced trauma, then?” I made eye contact with Howell for a second. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today, which meant there was no barrier between me and his pervasive, questioning stare. And I didn’t answer, simply glancing back down at my hands, fidgeting with my fingers and tapping my foot. “I’m not going to force you to talk to me, Daniel,” Howell said after waiting for an answer that never came. “But I am here to help you. You can tell me anything. It’s all confidential.” Yeah, except for if I told him I was going to hurt myself or someone else. I knew how this worked. he’d explained it to me on the first day. So how the hell was I supposed to tell him anything? “I’m going to ask a question that you don’t have to answer,” Howell continued, “but it would be good for you if you did. Can you tell me what trauma your mother thinks you experienced?” I watched as my foot started to tap faster, and my hands clasped tighter together, creating white spots on my skin. Quickly, I moved my eyes away, focusing on the globe again. “You know the answer to that, too,” I said finally. I had to say something. So he’d know. Nothing was wrong with me. “You’re right,” Howell said. “But I think it would be… beneficial if you told me yourself.”

Australia was a pink color on the globe. Didn’t want to go there, don’t like spiders. Africa was green. Africa seems really cool, I’d like to go there someday. My eyes avoided Europe. He’d always wanted to go, Liam did. France, in particular. I messed up just then, looked at Europe. It was purple, and you could see the borders of France outlined there. I’d promised to take Liam there someday. He said he wanted to get a portrait painted in front of the Eiffel Tower and try snails. “Ew, no,” I’d said, making a face at him from behind the steering wheel. “Yeah!” Liam laughed. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” I guess I’d made that face for too long. Because I watched his expression turn from one of amusement to one of terror. I’d drifted to the other side of the road, and there was a red truck that started honking. I overcorrected. I was going too fast to begin with. I swerved too hard. My eyes shut, so I couldn’t see the globe. Too bad I couldn’t turn off my ears. The clanging of metal and shattering of glass and Liam’s shout reverberated across the walls of my mind, over and over and over again. I barely heard Howell bringing me back. “Daniel?” My eyes finally snapped open, and I looked at Howell for a second. His concerned face made me look down again. My hands were stained with fingernail imprints. “Are you okay? Do you need to talk about what happened?” I couldn’t put it into words. Something in me said I wanted to talk. But I knew I didn’t. I shook my head. “I’m fine.” 33

single story. Mari Pizzini poetry

We tend to attach anecdotes to anyone. Descriptions derived and drawn from detailed diaries not their own. We must stop. 34

La historia de mi vida

Maria Jose Zorrilla Rodriguez multimedia

Cellophane

Abigail Langseth creative nonfiction

There’s something about a quiet room that irks me. The way it’s silent and deafening at the same time pulls my thoughts into a ball. I’m supposed to be writing a story, but all of the words are lying before me. All of them wrapped around one another like a wad of cellophane. My mother loved when people did their presents like that. One year for the adult white elephant exchange at my grandmother’s she arranged hers in that way. I can’t remember who ended up with it, but I can still see everyone laughing as the floor became covered in red-tinted plastic wrap. And how, one at a time, shooters and scratchers came to the surface, finally able to be seen. It amazes me sometimes how I’m still not allowed to participate in that. It’s not like I don’t have access to twenty dollars to buy a gift. It’s a confusing paradox how being one of the oldest cousins keeps you at the kid’s table. It’s almost like I’m more adult than the parents. I’m the unpaid babysitter who involuntarily watches their children while they eat Christmas dinner at a real dining table. I do a service for them, but it’s just not enough. I’ll sit on the ground and hand them the presents they choose. I’ll sit and watch as they unwrap and unravel.

Maybe that’s when I need the quiet room, to just be alone. But of course, there’s another paradox: when I need a place to be alone there is none and when I feel trapped I’m stuck in one. I’m beginning to discover lately that some balances are near impossible to achieve. And there’s a devastating truth in realizing that I’m the one to blame. When I was a little girl, I would spend hours in my bedroom doing whatever I wanted. I laid out all of my toys and crafts and books all around like miniature stations. I would pass afternoons by rolling about on the floor from place to place, enjoying it all. I’m not sure where it happened, but I’ve become wound up. All of the good moments and the things I enjoy have gotten wrapped up so many times that I can barely see through the cellophane. From where I’m sitting, I begin to hear bits of the room come to life: the fan’s white noise, the fridge’s slow hums. They let me in on the secret of it all. It’s time to come undone.

A Friend of Mine Maeve Shaeffer poetry

Tied to a fence overlooking a beautiful Wyoming prairie, the lone cowboy faces His last few moments alone. His body beaten, skull caved, He lay there with haggard Breathing. Hours pass And the lonesome cowboy continues on. Looking to the wide-open Navy star-studded sky, the Cowboy realizes that only now is he Free. Tears stream down the blood And grit on his face as he lies below The stars and asks for forgiveness.

Jazz

Sophia Sansone poetry

A brass genesis, Keen to individuality, Never unbalanced, yet you go unnoticed. Trumpet, tuba, keys, Built for the spotlight. Bring you all together to Create a silver-tongued substance Just for our enjoyment. Solo, you are schmaltz. Together you are one. You are jazz.

In the Style of E. Munch Calissa Hanson oil on canvas

The Savvy Ghost’s Survival Guide Haylie Folsom fiction

Every culture has its legends. Tales whispered in the dark to hushed rooms. Men and beasts and legends too strange to be spoken by daylight. This is a very old story. Ancient humans around a campfire. Dancing flames and whispered words. Have you ever whispered “ghost” to your shadow? Has it ever whispered back? Mine has. It was many years ago that I died. Try not to worry yourself about it. It was so long ago, and as it just so happens, one doesn’t need a body or a breath to exist. I still see, still wander, still float endlessly through these winding halls. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen here. Eppley, Dearest, you are quite haunted, aren’t you? Your shadows are darker than the witching hour and deeper than the trench. I pray for students who happen upon you after dark. It is for this very reason that I write this guide. We ghosts may not be able to leave, but most of you students can. If, of course, you follow my simple advice. 1. The hooded figures are quite unnerving, but they prefer to keep to themselves. If you do the same, you’ll be fine. Stay far away when they perform their nightly rituals. Try not to think too much about that red liquid on the floor or the mysterious box that they carry with them. 2. The Mangled Man is, admittedly, terrifying to look at. Don’t comment on his appearance, as he is very sensitive about it. If you listen carefully around 2:35 each morning, you can hear him playing piano. It is sublime. 3. Stay far, far away from the paintings at night. They may look harmless, but the creature who lives in them is hungry. If you wander too near, she may drag you into her acrylic prison. 4. The boy in the auditorium is quite harmless. Sing to him, if you like. If he enjoys it, he may present you with a balloon. 5. Plug your ears if you hear any high-pitched screeching. Drop to your knees and pray if you hear low-pitched humming. Never speak of either one if you make it out alive. 6. The sounds coming from the basement are not your imagination and you should absolutely not investigate them. 7. Whatever you do, DO NOT write your name anywhere on the walls unless you want to be permanently bound to the building. Trust me, I’ve seen many a student meet this fate. Not a fun way to go. I do enjoy their company though.

8. Eliza is a safe and permanent resident of Eppley. Treat her kindly. She would appreciate it if you would leave a sandwich or two in the ceramics room, as she gets hungry. Eliza is not a ghost, but an old woman who lives in the walls, and you should not look for her. 9. Tread softly at night, lest you wake The Beast. Don’t ask me what The Beast is. I don’t know. Nobody knows. Stop asking me. 10. Don’t study in the Eppley at night. Just don’t. It’s a little known fact that the word ‘studying’ is actually a combination of the words ‘student’ and ‘dying.’ If you want to find out why, study in the Eppley after dark. 11. THIS STEP IS VERY IMPORTANT. Talk to my portrait when you pass it, or at least say hi. I like to feel seen. It’s been so long since someone living has been able to see me. Of course, all of these should be common sense, but I suppose wisdom would be wasted on the young. That’s why I’m here. Well. That, and a faulty ladder, but that’s besides the point. I give you this advice in the interest of keeping you safe during your stay at Morningside University. What? No one ever said I was an unkind ghost. That’s a stereotype, and frankly, it’s offensive to ghosts. Regardless, you can choose whether or not to take my advice, but I warn you that, should you ignore it, the consequences may be deadly. Good luck and happy studying, Mustangs.

Beauty in Light Devyn Reilly photography

Metallic I

Shelby Prindaville ceramics

Cyclone

Samantha Giesen poetry

The day you drove away it was raining. I always loved the rain. That day, the rain loved me a little harder. It caressed me in the ways you never did. It cooled my flushed skin. It seemed to say that everything would be okay. I cupped my hands and watched the water puddle. The rain did what I always wanted it to do. It soothed me in a way you never did. The rain seemed to whisper, It seemed to say that it could give me everything. It asked for what I wanted most. I smiled. It already knew what I wanted. The rain was what killed you.

Hold your Tongue Mari Pizzini poetry

if silence can be deafening, I think words can be mute.

Free Fall

Haylie Folsom acrylic on canvas

Trafalgar Road Lex Wurth poetry

The street bloomed in summer And Via’s backyard came alive The peach tree dropped from the weight of the fruit, Begging to be plucked from its branches Sweet juice trailed down my chin As I made child-sized bites into its ripe body, I caressed the too-green strawberries with chubby fingers And kneeled into the soil picking cherry tomatoes, pretending to like the taste

The pool at Nana’s house was quenching To us and the neighbor kids Pretending to be cannon balls, we jumped into the deep, Like we were in a warfare against running out of sun I made leaves into ambulances, And rescued drowning June beetles

We hopped the fence past the fig tree, To eat cranberry oatmeal cookies at Deanna’s house She tucked us in, as we tried to fit every stuffed toy in the bed, Leaving no room for ourselves

Homestead Joshua Miller photography

Old Love

Alexa Noonan poetry

Her joints creak in time with her leather recliner, singing the song of age. He joins her chorus, two snow-white mugs filled with coffee in hand. The blacker the better, he knows just how she likes it. After a brief intermission of television, the chorus begins again. Now he kneels in front of her with two cotton socks in hand. Left foot. Right foot. Later, she leans on the counter as she cooks dinner, burdened by many years of sadness and joy. Once she dishes his plate, she places it in the microwave for another minute. She knows he likes it scalding hot. The silence as muted commercials scroll across the screen is just loud enough that one could hear “I love you.” 50

Esequiel De La Torre Lomeli Cristal De La Torre

acrylic gouache and silver flake on canvas

Old Bones

Haylie Folsom intaglio

Human Anatomy Abigail Langseth creative nonfiction

I’m not really sure what else the cafeteria serves at lunch because I always get a wrap. Usually it’s the spinach kind, and I’ll get turkey and salami and onions and banana peppers and.. more spinach. I just have a hard time believing they could fit much spinach in the wrap itself, so I get more. I started adding it after my second appointment at the plasma donation center. The woman taking my vitals told me my iron levels were low, but not low enough to start licking rocks. I think that’s a thing. She recommended that I start taking some supplements along with my slight dietary adjustment. I try to take the pills every other day. I put them in my weekly organizer, but I usually forget about them and they get moved to the next week. I haven’t had a problem with it since.

In Anatomy it was easier for me to think of the human body as anyone else’s. Being that mindful of myself and my functions and parts has to jinx something. What if it stopped. If I think too much about my own heart, I can feel it beat all over. So, I think about someone else having the same problems as me. Jane Doe’s heart doesn’t sit snugly between her lungs. Her heart is small and sunken and does not conform to her lung’s cardiac notch. Her poor heart, beating away and subject to every little stimulus. Something happened, go faster now, faster. Give us 100, Jane’s heart. Give us all you’ve got. Then give us more.

I do have a problem with my heart though. It beats too fucking fast. I consistently have a pulse rate above 100, which is beyond the acceptable range to donate plasma. They say women’s hearts beat faster than men’s because women’s hearts are smaller. I must have a damn small heart.

What if I said I Loved a Woman? Samantha Giesen poetry

Would I still get texts asking how I’m doing? Would I be loved as you said, no matter what? I’ve been hinting at it, I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it. The bracelets and pins colored pink, purple, and blue. Every time I’m going over to see you, I tell myself, “This is the day; this is the day I stop pretending to be someone I’m not.” Every time I look you in the eyes, I see how proud you are, Your first born, The first one to go to college, The first one to leave home. Would that gaze change If I said I loved a woman? I can’t bear to see it change, Not after I worked so hard to win your approval. And so, I stay quiet. And I ask myself, 54

Perching Peter Madeline Keating

acrylic paint on canvas

Milky Way From Mars

Mitch Keller photography

While They Were Gone Karlie Reagan

creative nonfiction A long time passed before the words came back. During that time, events occurred, day passed to night. Things changed. At once, I was a new person-the wires in my brain crossed, my body functioned differently. Neurologists can tell us now a little more about the science of the brain. As we grow into our twenties, synapses confront their final development. Essentially, this is the last frenzy of synapse development in my life. The last first impression of the world. Maybe that’s why the words came back. There’s nothing like the pressure of a deadline. While the words were gone, I felt myself age. There’s a distinct character of growing older. A strange sensation when an old joke is no longer funny. A food I loved tastes like ash. And through it all, the sneaking feeling of maturity saturating the body and brain. To feel oneself change and be unable to control that change makes you think. As we get older, days grow shorter and time becomes more and more of an illusion. Our foundations the very composition of ourselves-dissolve. So, no control and no time. Apparently, this is what being twenty is like. Maybe the words left because I couldn’t control them anymore. Or maybe I just realized that I never could. The void the words left behind was hard to fill and even harder to ignore. Who could I be, without the words? Worse, who could I be without the desire for them? Because that’s what happened. They didn’t leave. They were left. Forgotten. For a while there wasn’t anyone. I went to class, to sports, to friends, to life. A vague notion tells me I was there. Photographs, maybe. But in a lot of ways, I was very far away and the distance between myself and the world became a distance of language.

I could talk, but I could not write. That crucial disconnect, that postmodern break between what is and what is signified had become all too real. There was the thing, the life, the memory, the experience, but there were no words. To live in the space between the thing and the word was the worst sensation I’d ever experienced. So, for a while there was Nobody. I was not running from one-eyed giants, and I was not a hero. But I was Nobody. Just for a while. But then I adjusted and moulded and changed and figured it out and got a grip. The space grew smaller and the world stopped looking like superimposed images. Like an old school 3-D movie without the glasses. Still, in my newly cemented red-and-blue world, the words did not come. I could not figure out where they had disappeared to. The apathy was gone, I had re-tethered myself to the ground. It was like clouds lifting in my head; I had spent weeks upon weeks in a mental daze. When the light finally returned, I could think and process and understand. And most importantly, I could see. And I saw. I saw the world and the foundations of history and civilization. I saw beauty in Sicilian mountains and looked at the edge of the ocean and felt a close unity with the earth. Maybe it was this closeness that brings back the romantic spirit of many a writer; surely the majesty of a world you have never seen can inspire the greatest of words. I saw the Roman City-the world which came before mine, which determined the course of history–and saw the green haven of a land my predecessors could never have reached. I healed my heart and grew close to others and felt human again. But still, the words did not come. Before, the words were more than easy.

They were uncontrollable, unstoppable. I could sit for hours and create. Words and stories with no purpose, no readers, nothing for anyone but myself. Words had been fun, then, too. Words without meaning. Words of fiction. Those words had been fun. Maybe the words were forgotten because they were no longer fun. Words were no longer just words and then they were no longer fun. Even the fiction, the stories, it all became real. The pain of characters was not just two dimensional, flat on a page and playing tricks on the reader. Their pain was mine and suddenly writer was no longer writer, but character. Then, all at once, the character seemed more real than the writer and there was nowhere left to turn. Words became real and then I forgot them. And in their absence, I had to learn to become real, too. From there, a battle of wills commenced. The character and the words fought for recognition, smashing against reality and beating the writer down. “No,” the writer said strongly, “I control you, not the other way around.” And for once, the words had no reply. In the ringing absence of an answer, I felt at once strong and afraid. How the heart pounds when facing one’s fears-the spectre of a wordless world dancing before me. And thus, the choice arrived. For in the end, I remembered the key to it all. The words belonged to me. I alone can control and weave and bind and break and twist. This is the role of the writer-to bend the will of the names of our world to ourselves. So, I chose. From the bottomless pit of blankness-the terrible writer’s block which plagued me for months and months-I found the words to describe the veil which fell over me. The silence and fear turned to adjectives, verbs, 58

and nouns to comprise the story of my loss and return. I picked “disassociation,” and “depression,” and “darkness” to describe the words’ absence. The experiences of the weeks without words suddenly were there before me, flowing from my fingers as ink from a pen. Others could see, then, too, the previously invisible scars across my mind and heart from the terrible neglect I had let myself sink into. And perhaps that is the mission of the words, in the end. Our words connect us to our world, to each other, and to ourselves. Letting them go - abandoning them - is to abandon the world itself. And the cost of doing so had sunk into my bones, blood, and everlasting memory. The words are slowly returning. They have crawled their way from under the surface with raw and torn fingers, bone protruding from wrecked flesh. Their journey through the debris of shattered mental glass in my head has left them exhausted and worn but triumphant nonetheless. A long time passed before the words came back. During that time, I learned of their very interconnectedness to my own soul, spirit, and survival. Without them, I floated above the earth and my very life and felt the force slip away. Now, the words have come back, and with them, the drive to express all which happened while they were gone.

Rock Paper Scissors

Laura Greene rocks and paper

Pablo

Madeline Keating paint on canvas

Dead Girl Walking Maeve Shaeffer poetry

It’s as if you’re doing what you always saw yourself doing: Living in the dirt amongst the flowers and insects. Your brown hair dries as the earth removes your nutrients And you return to where you belong. Before you ended up in the ground, when you were Walking places, talking, living It was as if you were dead all along. Life wasn’t for you, the awkwardness and absurdness Didn’t fit into your narrative. How was a girl meant for the grave to get along with the likes of The Living? So, as you regress into the grass and Rot under that sycamore tree, I hope your bones settle into the groove They should’ve been in the moment you graced my Earth.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospect.” -Anais Nin

LITERATURE Abigail Langseth is a first year nursing major from Omaha, NE. Throughout her life, she has had a love for poetry and literature. Abby is excited to say that her writings have been published in Kiosk.

Alexa Noonan is a freshman English secondary education major with a minor in special education from Minburn, IA. She has enjoyed reading since she was very young but found her affinity for writing during her first semester of college. At Morningside she is involved in ISEA and the Morningside Choir. She hopes that you enjoy her first published poem. Elaine Morgan is a freshman at Morningside University. She is involved with the Morningside swim team, Active Minds and FCA.

Haylie Folsom is a senior counseling psychology and studio art major from Atchison, KS. At Morningside, she is a captain on the women’s swim team and a DJ at Morningside’s radio station. She has always loved reading, writing, and drawing, and is excited to see her work featured in this year’s Kiosk. Karlie Reagan is a senior history and political science major with a minor in English set to graduate in May of 2022. She was born and raised in Rapid City, SD. She loves to write and has participated in ALD, PAT, and ODK Honors Societies. Her favorite colors are grey and dark green. Lex Wurth is a poet, graphic designer, and senior at Morningside University. She is passionate about writing poetry and creating artwork based on family and her childhood.

Maeve Shaeffer is a biology major with a goal to work in conservation or wildlife biology.

Mari Pizzini is a student in ASU’s Master of Communication program. She was born and raised in Montana, but now calls Nebraska and the Midwest home. She has always loved reading and writing and is excited to be a part of another edition of Kiosk. Michael Sprague is an adventurous person; he does things on a whim. Although spontaneous, he is also indecisive and may hesitate when it comes to some decisions. He may not always want to, but he will sympathize with others around him. Samantha Giesen is a freshman double majoring in counseling psychology and English from Belle Plaine, MN. She enjoys reading and spending time with her cat, Eva. Her pronouns are she/they. At Morningside she is involved in Active Minds and the Writing Day Committee. She is excited to continue exploring her passion for writing and hopes you enjoy her pieces. Sophia Sansone is a sophomore English secondary education major from Milan, MI. She has always had a love for writing and has taken this love into her education at Morningside University. At Morningside, she is involved in Sigma Tau Delta. She is very grateful for her first publication in the Kiosk.

ART Calissa Hanson is a senior graphic design major with minors in studio art and advertising. She creates colorful art and is inspired by a variety of different styles. A member of the Morningside Choir, Morningside Activities Council, and president of Morningside Anime Division, how she has time for anything is a mystery, yet here she is. This is her second published artwork in the Kiosk. Cristal De La Torre of South Sioux City, NE is a senior with a major in biology and a minor in psychology. Always having had a passion for creating art, originality is always expected of her pieces. During her time at Morningside she has been a part of the Women’s Soccer Team. Honored to have her piece featured in this year’s edition of Kiosk, Cristal’s piece holds a special place in her heart as it features an individual who was not only a father figure for her but also her biggest fan when it came to anything and everything she did and pursued. Devyn Reilly is a junior majoring in graphic design with minors in business administration and photography from Fountain, CO. At Morningside, she is involved in ODK, MSAA, and is the Digital Design Editor for the Kiosk this year.

Faustino Barroso is a Senior, majoring in applied agriculture and food studies. He is from Orange County, CA. During the Spring break of 2021, he went on a trip to Florida and Georgia and is very excited to share a few pictures of that experience.

Gracie Eli is a senior at Morningside University and majors in graphic design with minors in business administration and religious studies. She has been involved in the the construction of both Volume 83 and 84 of the Kiosk as well as been an active member of Morningside Student Advertising Agency (MSAA).

Joshua Miller Jr. is a Junior biology major from Lincoln, NE. He has always had a love for reading literature and writing poetry. At Morningside, he is involved in Pre-Professional Health Club as its Secretary, Tri-BBB, the Morningside Review, the Kiosk, and the football team. He is excited to have his first picture published in the Kiosk.

Laura Greene is a freshman at Morningside University. She is currently double majoring in Studio Art and Art Administration with the hopes to one day become a freelance artist. She is also part of the track team. Art has always been, and will continue to be, Laura’s greatest passion.

Madeline Keating is a senior double majoring in history and studio art with a minor in English. She is originally from Overland Park, KS. She has always had a love for art in all forms of media ranging from painting to intaglio. At Morningside, she is involved in Sigma Tau Delta and the swim team. She is thrilled to have the opportunity for her artwork to be published in the Kiosk. Maria Jose Zorrilla Rodriguez is an international student-athlete from Mexico. She is a business administration and marketing major and recently started working on her digital portfolio. Maria loves to golf, bake, and hang out with her friends.

Mitch Keller is an Associate Professor of Mathematics at Morningside University. Travel photography has been his primary hobby for nearly a decade, and he looks forward to resuming international travel. He lives in Sioux City with his two cats, who are named after characters from the television series The West Wing. Payton Miller is a sophomore at Morningside University majoring in mass communications and general psychology with minors in criminal justice and photography. She is from Rock Springs, WY. Photography has been a part of her life for so long and she is excited for the opportunity to share some of her work in the Kiosk. She is involved with the Morningside women’s swim team, CEO Group, campus media, and Residence life. Rachel Steinkamp is a junior at Morningside majoring in graphic design and photography and minoring in advertising and religious studies. Along with being the art director of the 2022 Kiosk, Rachel is also involved in cheerleading, ODK, The Connie Wimer Women’s Leadership Group, MSAA, Palmer Research Symposium and more. Shelby Prindaville is the Art Department Head and an Associate Professor of Art at Morningside University. Her interdisciplinary studio practice focuses on the human/nature balance and combines her interests in the sciences and art.

ABOUT THE KIOSK

“Subject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed.” This quotation first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the predecessor of the Kiosk. In the early years of Morningside, student satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, student and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and poems, which has undergone a screening process; only pieces of “sufficient literary merit” made it to readings, recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor. That fall, South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine, and so on December 7, 1938, Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping chapel to go to an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during chapel. Over the next several years, students were motivated to submit their work and have their words read and their voices heard. The group published sixteen issues until Manuscript disappeared in 1952. The magazine resumed publication under the name Perspectives in 1955. Students changed the name to Kiosk in 1971 and have continued publications nearly every year since. Advisers over the years have included Donald Stefanson, Carole Van Wyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge, Jason Murray, Stephen Coyne, and currently Leslie Werden and Brendan Todt.

While the Kiosk has included cover art in many of its publications, the format of the magazine was revamped in 2006 to include student and alumni-created art of various media. Art advisers John Kolbo, Terri McGaffin, and Dolie Thompson have assisted student editors in allowing these artistic pieces take a more central role in the magazine. With the continued support of President John Reynders and the Morningside community, this publication continues to grow and evolve. Since 2006, the Kiosk has won multiple awards from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and Associated Collegiate Press, including a Silver Medalist Award, a Silver Crown Award, six Gold Medalist Awards, and three Magazine Pacemaker Finalist Awards. Submissions are accepted in the spring semester of each academic year. Literature and artwork are then reviewed by the editorial boards, and recommendations are forwarded to the editor-in-chief, who then forwards accepted pieces for judging. Winners are objectively chosen anonymously by judges with no special considerations for any piece. Those interested in working for and/or submitting to the magazine may contact Professor Leslie Werden by email at werden@morningside.edu. The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside University and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni.

83 years of the Kiosk 1938 First literary magazine on campus.

1956 Name changes to Perspectives.

1971 Name changed again, to Kiosk.

2006 Format changed to introduce more artwork.

2020 Cover format changed.

RECENT AWARDS 2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Assocation Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007