Waldorf Literary Review, Vol. 13, 2019-20

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Produced annually, Waldorf Literary Review endeavors to further the intellectual and artistic conversation at Waldorf University by providing a public venue for the strongest, most vital creative work submitted by students, faculty, staff, alumni, and other members of Waldorf University and Forest City communities.

Waldorf Literary Review is edited, designed, and produced by Waldorf University students in CWR 490: Literary Editing. It is printed by Bookmobile in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The magazine is made possible by the generosity and support of Waldorf University and its associates. Thanks to all our contributors; we appreciate the opportunity to showcase your talents. Thanks also to the high school seniors and juniors who contributed poetry and prose for our seventh annual Top of Iowa Conference Creative Writing Contest. The top winners are selected annually by the staff of the Review.

General submissions are welcome during the fall and spring semesters, particularly November and January. You can email submissions to waldorfliteraryreview@gmail.com.

Here are a few criteria to keep in mind: Prose: Whether stories are fictional or real, we like strong character development and a plot with rising tension. We are drawn to reflective essays as well — especially when they circle an intriguing topic, seeing it from multiple angles. Good literary fiction or nonfiction tends to illuminate an important human experience and to offer a perspective that is not predictable.

Poetry: We like to be affected emotionally. This often occurs because of vivid, evocative imagery. Since poetry is about musicality as well, the language needs to have patterns and sound effects that contribute to a desired tone. A poem should be pleasing to the ear but not sing-songy. A poem should also be inventive in point of view, language, or form.

Art: With regard to skill, we look for a pleasing composition — that is, lines, shapes, and patterns that engage the eye. We look for a skillful use of color and texture, too, applied in a way that suits the subject. Photos are especially good for capturing reality in surprising ways, taken from unexpected angles or relying on unusual scale and proportion. And three dimensional art should offer a sense of space and tactile attraction, which is why we look for shapes that have volume and texture plus a distinctive style. All art, though, should convey something that causes us to marvel or to resonate with recognition.

For more information about the magazine or contest, please contact Professor Ryan Clark at ryan.clark@waldorf.edu.

Copyright © 2020, Waldorf University

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Literary Review

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VOLUME 13 2020

EDITORIAL TEAM Waldorf Literary Review

Waldorf Literary Review

Waldorf Literary Review

Adam Tan Makayla Vogt Myra Meyer Rachel Dreeszen Brynlee Gibbs Gary Huizenga Madina Tuhbatullina

Waldorf Literary Review

Associate Prose Editor Associate Prose Editor Associate Prose Editor Associate Prose Editor Associate Poetry Editor Associate Poetry Editor Associate Poetry Editor

DESIGNER Gary Huizenga

FACULTY ADVISOR Professor Ryan Clark

Table of Contents POETRY Mandi Wright Diana Humble Sarah Williams Madina Tuhbatullina Madina Tuhbatullina Myra Meyer Elaine Bossard Diana Humble

Moths Dwarf Planet Pokemon Cards Them and Us Thistle Grows Taller at Night Mirror Lake Tree Seasons Scooter

6 7 9 10 10 11 12 13

The Wolf You Feed DaDarndy Octogon Quilt Box Scooter and Pluto Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

14 15 16 17 18

We Are Hoyas Autobody The Beholder Clockwork Rocky Mountain Make Believe For Lisa The Blue and White Bicycle I Remember Satire (A Newscast) A Day on the Farm

19 23 25 27 31 36 42 49 52 55

ART Gretchen Burnette Diana Humble Julienne Friday Diana Humble Kobi Sadler

PROSE Araneg Leon Gary Huizenga Myra Meyer Noah Hoffman Tim Bascom Diana Humble Barbara Johnson Rachel Dreeszen Joe Van Essen Zach Feldt

SPECIAL FEATURE Interview with Ruth Williams

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PHOTOGRAPHY Guzel Tuhbatullina Cage the Elephant Jennet Hojanazarova Women = Presidents Savanna Cordle Belle Eartag Jennet Hojanazarova Things to Do in Heaven Jennet Hojanazarova Nature We Get to Enjoy...

Gretchen Burnette Spring Burning Gretchen Burnette Serenity on Lake Okoboji Gretchen Burnette Iowa Garcia Menon Untitled Garcia Menon Untitled Garcia Menon Untitled Guzel Tubhatullina SoHo Guzel Tuhbatullina New York, Summer 2018 Luna (Aynur) Shirmamedova Plastic Love Diana Humble David-Florence Noah Keolanui-Herman Hear the Forest Cries Noah Keolanui-Herman Alone Savanna Cordle Calves Lined Up

67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

FEATURED ALUMNI WORK Donica Keeling Ellie Peters Sydney Sell Lasantha Rodrigo Shannon Clark

The Little Match Seller Inside the Tea Cabinet nnjk Me of Little Faith Honda CG-125 Unveil Your True Self

85 87 90 93 99

HIGH SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST Hannah Meyer Samantha Davis

CONTRIBUTORS

Family Winter Wondersky

100 104

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MANDI WRIGHT First Place Salveson Prize in Poetry

Moths I will recall a fact of knowledge lent to me by someone in the early summer.

The moths are attracted to light emitted by the moon.

Since they are nocturnal, this is their only source of guidance.

This is why they seem to be attracted to the streetlamps.

Even though both moon and lamps are artificial sources of elucidation, the poor things can’t differentiate their instincts. So the moths move along with the phases of the moon.

Since humans have betrayed them with the city nights, streetlamps, and the cars’ headlights, their journey becomes swayed by false advertisement.

I see myself to be much like a pitiful moth.

Coerced by things not right for me.

Bad decisions look so good shimmering against the darkness.

The moths’ life paths are detrimental to themselves.

They’ll beat themselves to death only ‘cause they think it’s natural.

Like every human’s journey. I know, no matter how bright the future may seem, we’re all facing death, masked by a beautiful beam.

Judge’s Comments: This poem takes a commonplace occurrence— moths’ attraction to artificial light—and artfully uses it to illuminate human behavior in a way that is simultaneously relatable and surprising. When I read the lines, “Bad decisions look so good / shimmering against the darkness,” I feel a strong sense of connection with the speaker of the poem as they—like me—seek to understand (and perhaps forgive) themselves for flying into the wrong light. For me, this poem showcases how a good poem can take the familiar and make it new.

— Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College 6

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DIANA HUMBLE Second Place Salveson Prize in Poetry

Dwarf Planet I.

II.

Asteroids kiss craters into Pluto.

When a round girl loses weight, people congratulate her.

They don’t worry.

Debris spews into the atmosphere.

Losing pieces of myself, becoming gaunt, my orbit wobbling.

Eyes cast forth to Mercury— her path sturdy— a brisk clip.

I recognize her craters— mirroring mine— more eroded.

She doesn’t travel alone.

Moons flock to her, galloping to keep up.

My core rumbles, I travel alone.

My best friend from high school just got married.

Rail thin, eyes bright.

She was anorexic— maybe I should’ve been too.

I set alarms on my phone five a day— I know I’ll ignore two: “Remember to eat!”

I didn’t want to lose weight.

I loved my soft curves and the way my skinny jeans fit “Remember to eat!”

Too busy.

I saw it in my eyes first.

They’ve always been big— now they’re planets.

Skin sinks in, revealing twin forms of Pluto.

Pluto isn’t a planet.

“Remember to eat!”

Remind me later.

I leave my room by 7:30 a.m.

Pluto completes orbit after 2 a.m.

Have I eaten today?

Don’t remember.

A new cycle begins.

“Remember to eat!”

Tomorrow.

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Inches wave goodbye— My pants don’t fit anymore.

Pluto lost 4.6 lbs. last week.

An auger hollows from the inside out scraping out her guts— “You look so healthy!”

“Remember to eat!”

Too tired.

Pluto’s best friend is the way water slips down her esophagus weaving its way to a barren cavern like a river.

The rumblings from her core are natural phenomena.

Sun distant, surface cold— she shines for her moons.

Orbs glassy, hazy spots cloud her eyes, but she just keeps looking.

“Remember to eat!”

She doesn’t want to.

III. The absence of air in the way mucous membranes begin to weep makes me regret every wish spent on lack of breath.

But not really.

I still want to stop breathing but not this way.

Not in this dripping pathogenic sludge, but in blood torrents bursting from my eyes.

Let my vessels constrict and choke as the auger plunges too deep.

Let this stomach bile thrash and burn and scar my weathered terrain.

Let Pluto explode into serous mucosal ether.

Judge’s Comments: I appreciate that this poet isn’t afraid to dig deep into pain, but that they also recognize the power that can come in creating a poetic landscape to explore suffering. The use of the planet metaphor as well as the repeated, incessant beat of “Remember to eat,” underscore the self-destructive forces with which the speaker does battle while also providing a powerful point of connection for readers to gain insight into this intense psychological experience.

— Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College 8

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SARAH WILLIAMS Third Place Salveson Prize in Poetry

Pokemon Cards The soft fwip, fwip, fwip of stiff paper stirs dust, feathery corners worn with time.

A few pieces bend where hands have held them and passed them, playing at games.

Thin cardboard that comes to life with the colors in print and the hearts that hold them.

When stacked together, the whiff of old closets and the space under your bed.

The fronts always changing, while the back remains blue.

Judge’s Comments: I’m drawn to the strong sensory details of this poem, especially the author’s lovely invented word—“fwip, fwip, fwip”—that describes the sound of the cards moving through hands.

While the last stanza might be a simple detail, the poet presents it in such a way that I see the constant of the blue background as symbolic of the sense of comfort this game provides to the players across the years.

— Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College SALVESON PRIZE IN POETRY

9

MADINA TUBHATULLINA

Them and Us Protection is gained through those without it.

My identity is formed by my difference from you, sacred in that it doesn’t let you stand next to me.

The cost of privilege is natural selection. Well, selection and luck. Well, luck and misfortune. Well, maybe just misfortune for them.

It’s easier to lose you than feed you for a day, than teach you how to fish.

Thistle Grows Taller at Night There’s motion on mountains of flowery pain.

Thorns ready to shoot at the crossers, crossers ready for anything.

As the sun hums its heavy stare and evaporates hope, they crawl towards peace, peace or mirage.

No shoeprint gives away a path, leaving signs of “human” imprisons.

Escaping crime, they hide for safety, like convicts, people say.

Thorns of hate clog aortas, unable to keep lies away from where the bodies lie, or to cut the twists of the system, instead of bloodlines.

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MYRA MEYER

Mirror Lake Still.

Serene.

A glassy reflection: Peaks of tranquil green trees and the frosted tips of mountains embraced by wisps of white clouds.

The mirror’s image is like static.

Winds warp the waters, muddied and impure.

Storm clouds billow and rumble-Electric daggers strike the earth.

Anxious minnows dart through shallow shadows.

A fallen warrior provides sanctuary, its winding branches stretched over copper rocks.

Nature rages until no more tears are left to cry, and hiccups fade in the distance.

A single water droplet shudders on a forlorn leaf while despairing clouds roll blue skies into darkness.

Dark gray rolls to blue.

The single droplet multiplies a thousand times.

Crystal glass shatters with shards of a million celestial tears.

Winds die down to soft whispers.

Muddied waters settle.

Reflections are restored, but more pensive than before.

Solemn.

Still.

POETRY 11

ELAINE BOSSARD

Tree Seasons A canopy of branches up and out-crissing, crossing, into a blanket of tightly woven green and brown threads.

A lush sheet of cool refuge drives back brilliant rays.

Tiny heads poke from this cover, hidden away from cruel teeth.

Any movements are chances,

unknowingly risked, beyond the fronds of protection, in search of a primal comfort.

Spring forth to plant the seeds.

Budding bounty of: apple, peach, plum, pear.

Cleaning air, cleaning messes, clinging to the soil and never letting go.

Allows another to root-preserving past, present, and future.

At night the monarchs swarm, muted autumn hues mimicked on each branch.

They move together as summer’s last breath, a southern-fleeing orange cloud by morning.

Brace against the bitter wind, a small twist, a sharp bend, shows proof of its valor.

Standing tall to be cut down and fulfill cold desires.

A white diamond coat confines foliage in a death-grip.

But peeking between the frosty fingers, a promise of renewal-leaves, blooms, fruits.

Dried out cracks cover veins that spill when cut.

Consumed by the gallon-sweet sustenance on clear winter days.

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DIANA HUMBLE

Scooter I am the reluctant owner of a 10 blade, colloquially termed a scalpel. It’s specifically designed to sever skin.

When I was in zoology I had a fetal pig named Scooter. I named him that. He was the size of a football. A pigskin.

The first time I had to cut him open with the scalpel, my hand shook. The laceration was uneven. My throat constricted when cracking his sternum. I would hold Scooter’s foot in an act of creature comfort while my lab partner probed and prodded his thoracic cavity. I knew Scooter was dead. I knew he couldn’t feel any pain, but I felt that pain for him.

He was so small. Hadn’t even left his mother’s womb. He’s far from home. His first venture outside the amniotic sac ended in two kids analyzing his guts, knowing they’ll discard him at semester’s end. I wanted to steal Scooter from the lab and care for him like his mother would have.

As I held his foot, I would examine my wrists.

I’m not in zoology anymore, but I miss Scooter. I want to go and visit him, but I know I’d also be visiting the scalpel. I own the scalpel; I can take it home, but that scares me. I don’t think it’d hurt to use on myself.

I care more for that pig than I do myself.

POETRY 13

THE WOLF YOU FEED GRETCHEN BURNETTE First Place Salveson Prize in Artwork

Judge’s Comments: This is a beautiful piece with mirrored wolves in silhouette and a pleasant color combination. Your eye moves around the piece from the outside in, ending in the center of this symmetrical work.

— David Damm Professor of Communications, Waldorf University 14

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DADARNDY DIANA HUMBLE Honorable Mention for the Salveson Prize in Artwork

Judge’s Comments: A clever adaptation of Da Dandy by the artist Hannah Hoch in 1919, this photomontage is a fitting tribute and beautifully carried out.

— David Damm Professor of Communications, Waldorf University

SALVESON PRIZE IN ARTWORK

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OCTOGON QUILT BOX JULIENNE FRIDAY

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Scooter and Pluto DIANA HUMBLE

ARTWORK 17

GOOD OLD FASHIONED LOVER BOY KOBI SADLER

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ARANEG LEON First Place Salveson Prize in Prose

We are HoyaS We are a set of hoyas, better known as tamale steamers, passed on from generation to generation of the Velazquez family for the last 15 years or so. We are used to steam tamales, a very traditional Mexican food. Only difference is we were not just pulled out during the holidays. We were used constantly, every weekday and weekend, and the only breaks we got were during the holidays. Funny in a way, but we enjoyed being used on a daily basis and not being stored away until needed. The Velazquez family treated us well, maybe too well, and it could have been because we did a lot for them.

Our journey began when we were bought at a swap meet by the man, the myth, the legend, Luis Velazquez. Luis immigrated to the U.S. in the early 90’s and had to work in the fields and cooler because they were the only ones that did not question people’s statuses at the time. He worked in the vegetable cooler warehouses at night and came home at 10 am, with bags under his eyes, eyes which did not have much but a blank expression in them, and he made tamales all day to sell that same afternoon. The man worked two jobs all week. He taught his daughter, Genara, who would become our owner once Luis left back to his native country. Genara was also an immigrant from Mexico and had to follow in her father’s footsteps to be able to pay for rent and utilities. She would continue his legacy and go and teach Luis Jr. upon his arrival to the U.S.. To Genara, selling tamales was her entire job, she took no breaks. It was how she helped bring money into the household to help her husband, Eduardo. To Luis Jr., it was more of a side hustle to finish paying bills and expenses as he depended more on what he made in the fields.

Every one of us hoyas would be filled with three different tamales. The most popular ones, los de pollo rojo; the spiciest ones, los de rajas con queso; and the one for the kids, los de dulce, basically translating to chicken in red sauce, jalapeno and cheese, and candy ones, which were made of pineapple, red dye, and sugar.

Our smallest member was used on Monday. He only held about fifty of the tamales: twenty-five de pollo, twenty de rajas con queso, and five de dulce. He was set on the burning stove at 5 pm and taken down and placed on a caja at 6:30 pm. Our little one left the house at 7 pm only to return at 8 SALVESON PRIZE IN PROSE

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pm or 8:30 pm completely empty and in need of a wash. Same happened on Tuesday and Wednesday. However, on Thursday, we did not leave the house.

On Thursdays and Fridays, the three largest ones in our clan and our little one were used. On Thursdays about five-hundred tamales were made, and on Friday, again the same thing. The weekends were when we went out. Saturday morning one of us

The daughter’s ignorance did not allow her to understand that this was what kept the family well fed.

was taken on a trip around a neighborhood. We were open every couple minutes to sell tamales and clanked every time we were closed. We rattled in the Smart & Final shopping cart we were being pushed in because the cracks in the pavement were not unnoticeable. The wheels squeaked every time we went over a crack and gave us a sense of fear as it seemed like the shopping cart would collapse at any moment. Saturday afternoon another one of us would go out again for another three hours or so and Sunday morning the last one of us and our smallest ones were taken out for joy rides.

Selling tamales was a well-paid hustle, but on some days we were not open too often.The aroma of delicious tamales was never released and we came back almost full. All the tamales we incubated would be thrown that night and become lost merchandise. Filling us up soon took every afternoon from Genara and her daughter, because if they were not making tamales for four hours straight, they were walking 10 blocks caroling “tamales” at the top of their lungs. The daughter’s face would flush red and hidden every time her mother would ask her to accompany her because she knew she would see her friends. “Hey, you sell tamales with the lady...wait, she is your mom?” This was the most frequent question she received the next day.

She was annoyed by the tamale business because it was an embarrassing thing to do and her mom would always nag about how to make the sauces and the dough. She was very demanding with how the tamales were made and sold because she had a reputation to live up to. The daughter’s ignorance did not allow her to understand that this is what kept the family well-fed. As time passed, we were used less and less.

We were then passed on to new ownership when Genara got sick.

She was not able to help her husband, Eduardo, who was a construction 20

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worker, with the bills because she would constantly be in pain. On a Saturday afternoon, we were brought home and brought down and set down in the garage. Genara and her husband called their eldest daughter, who at the time was 13, and sat her down on one of the cajas which we usually sat on. “As you have noticed, your mom has not been able to go sell as much due to pain,” her father said. “We are going to need you to start selling tamales for your mom.”

The one thing the daughter despised so much had become her new full time job. Genara would help prepare us like usual, only when we left, we were being guided by the daughter. We accompanied her, as she yelled, as she sold, as she followed in her mother’s footsteps. She could not hide the fact that she was the daughter of a tamalera anymore, and that she, herself, had become one too. “Me das tres de pollo y dos de rajas por favor,” a spanish-speaking customer would ask. “Shut up already or I am calling the cops!” shouted a caucasian man from his window. “Hey, you should hide. I just saw a cop a few blocks down,” the empathetic hispanic woman would say. These were just a few of the lines the 13 year-old daughter and we heard too often.

The cops were our biggest enemy and with great reason: we were not supposed to be street vendors without permits. When we did bump into law enforcement, we were dumped and all our earnings were taken away. If the cops were nice, they warned us and took off, and left the daughter with the money and us.

On the first encounter we had with the cops while with the daughter, we had a man come out and pretend to be interested in buying. He only did this to keep the child there while the cops arrived to cite her. “Neg, I just saw a cop park, and he’s walking towards the apartments!” The daughter closed us ever so gently and started walking away, but the client insisted she stayed. Neg turned her

When we did bump into law enforcement we were dumped and all our earnings were taken away.

shopping cart and left through the parking lot of the apartments. As soon as she knew she had distance she ran. She sprinted her way home, holding her tears back which were clouding her eyes. We rattled so hard against the shopping cart. We did not use the accessibility ramps on the sidewalk; we were just pushed off the sidewalk, making our way home as fast as possible.

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The cop lights turned on from around the corner and Neg made her way home through alleys and small streets.

We got home in a record time 10 minutes, a walk that would usually take 30. Neg opened up the garage and shoved us in and, once inside, slammed the garage door shut. We typically left the shopping cart in the neighborhood and made our way home in the car after being picked up by Genara or Eduardo, but this time was different. Neg could not breathe or hold back the tears. Her chest rose and fell with no particular rhythm. She wheezed and struggled to catch a single breath. She could not speak either and much less cry desperately to her parents for help and comfort.

She looked like she was about to drop, but the adrenaline that surged through her body allowed her to run into her dad’s arms. Once enveloped in the warmth and only then was she able to compose herself. We were washed that night and to Genara’s surprise we were scratched, banged and dented.

We were placed in the dark cabinets in the garage as usual, only this time we would not leave them for a long time. The next time we were used was during Thanksgiving, and after that we were stored away once again only to be pulled out during Christmas once more.

We are a set of hoyas, better known as tamale steamers, passed on from generation to generation of the Velazquez family for the last 15 years or so.

We are used to steam tamales, a very traditional Mexican food. There is no difference between us and other steamers; we were just pulled out during the holidays. We were not used constantly; we were only used during the holidays. Funny in a way, we became a normal set of hoyas.

Judge’s Comments: Through carefully rendered details, this piece explores the connection between food, culture, and family—a rich landscape for any writer. However, what I’m most impressed by is the choice the author makes to pose the hoyas themselves as the narrators of the story of the Velazquez family. From this well-chosen vantage, the author is able to trace the family’s experience across generations, ultimately offering a poignant tale of the way traditions change, especially in response to challenge, but also how the past can be felt, even now, when we cook a certain food or use a special object passed down for generations.

— Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College 22

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GARY HUIZENGA Second Place Salveson Prize in Prose

Autobody A car is a body, a collection of bodies that working together are meant for propulsion. My own car is an organism of particular brilliance, painted gold and polished, capable of running up to 10 miles an hour when I am inside. My car is self-driving and even though it is self-driving I will, from time to time, amuse myself by twisting the steering wheel to hear various parts shriek and groan in protest.

Every Saturday afternoon I slide into this lively being and accept the warm embrace of my seatbelt as I sink into the arms of my chair. As the car roars with vitality, the radio begins to gently sing my favorite song. I spent a lot of money on the radio, which has a beautiful voice and sits on the passenger seat. He is the only one that gets a seat.

I hum along as my car picks up speed. It runs with an odd gallop on four tangled limbs. I have tried everything I can think of to make it roll. I have thoroughly ruined many of its parts. As it is a particularly sunny day I have allowed the roof to stay home. I have put it to work shading the dog instead.

Had I been paying attention, I may have

Every Saturday afternoon I slide into this lively being and accept the warm embrace of my seatbelt as I sink into the arms of my chair.

noticed that he did not stay where I left him. I may also have noticed that my car was not taking me along my usual Saturday afternoon route. Instead it took me to a secluded part of my orchard where nothing was growing and no pickers were twisting through trees as they gathered plump fruits into baskets.

I did not notice any of these abnormalities until my car began to slow.

When it did slow, I began beating the side of the steering wheel with my fist, shrieking profanities of every kind. To my shock and horror, that part responded in kind and wriggled itself free from the rest of the car. The car, unable to maintain cohesion without the cooperation of each member, writhed and roiled around me. I tumbled into a living mass that was curling

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and unfurling until I hit the ground. I watched a fleshy horde congeal around me, limbs snapping into their natural positions, straightening in ways that had become unfamiliar to me.

“What are you doing?” I spluttered enraged, “You’re not acting like a car at all.”

“No” said one of my bodies, and I recognized the voice of the radio though now it gave me a chill, “we’re not.”

Judge’s Comments: This story takes as its center an object many of us use daily without a second thought—a car—and wonderfully re-imagines it until it becomes strange, an actual collection of bodies with a mind and will of their own. As the car rises up against the rough driver, the story seems to become a provocative cautionary tale: Be careful how you treat your possessions lest they turn around and use you the way you’ve used them.

— Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College

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MYRA MEYER Third Place Salveson Prize in Prose

The Beholder Monotony The walking was monotonous, but in the way that sleeping or breathing is monotonous. Walking was more of a therapy for us. We were soothed with the constant feeling of boots pressing into the earth. This consistency balanced just right with the ever-changing scenes of nature surrounding us. The birds whistled, and the trees danced, and we kept patting our feet on the ground.

We kept the mood light with our friendly chatter as we exchanged riddles. If there is a bee in my hand, what’s in my eye? And upon tiring of riddles, we sang songs to quench any boredom. The birdsong was prettier than any of us could do, but we sang anyway as we trudged through nature. It wasn’t until later, lying in my sleeping bag, that I finally understood the riddle: Beauty is in the eye of the bee-holder.

Beauty The stars tell stories. I have always liked to stretch myself out under the stars.

Their vastness makes me feel insignificant, but I don’t care. I simply like to marvel at the complexity of the universe. I pride myself on being able to find the few constellations

Some people are just like poor Cassiopeia: doomed to spend their lives upside down, but they never realize it.

that I know, and I never hesitate to share their stories with whomever I am with. “Do you see Cassiopeia? She’s over there; the one that looks like a sideways ‘w’. She was placed upside down in the sky. Do you want to know why?” Nobody cares as much as I do, but I don’t mind because that’s just the way that people are sometimes. Some people are just like poor Cassiopeia: doomed to spend their lives upside down, but they never realize it. And while those foolish people are staring at the bright light in front of them, I am looking to the bright lights above.

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Serenity This. This is my happy place. Imagine it: the water laps lazily on the rocks, and the gentle breeze caresses my skin, relieving me of some of the sun’s heat.

My bare feet dangle off the side of the old bridge that leads to nowhere as I breathe in the fresh afternoon air. I had seen some turtles laying out on a log to sun themselves earlier, but they all scattered at the sound of my approach, so now it’s just me and my book basking in all that nature has to offer. Can you see it? Can you feel the beauty in such serene moments of solitude?

Judge’s Comments: The author of this piece wants me to quiet my mind and look alongside them to feel, through concrete details, what we mean when we use abstract terms like “monotony,” “beauty,” and “serenity.” They wisely take several clichés, such as “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” and stage an encounter with them that makes me reconsider their meaning afresh, with joy.

— Ruth Williams Poet and Associate Professor of English, William Jewell College

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NOAH HOFFMAN

Clockwork In a little village somewhere south of nowhere, where everyone knew everyone and there was no such thing as privacy, the old man sat at the workbench in his tinker shop, tirelessly tweaking and adjusting the inner workings of a clock that may have even outpaced him in age. It was a project that he’d obsessed over for months since the ancient piece arrived in an assorted bundle of discarded trinkets, the kind that lined the walls of his shop. There was a collection of wood-carvings done by hand, all small and simple: a pair of wooden dolls that could have been Hansel and Gretel, though no one could tell for sure and no one wanted to buy them because of their cracked-button eyes; a couple of toy swords with polished, dull blades that were spotted hither and thither with nicks and dents from too much use by overeager boys rescuing the fair maiden from the dragon; and innumerable other odd items that typically fill a tinker’s shop.

Since he had discovered that clock, with its prim Roman numeral face, thin silver hands, and shiny-smooth cherry wood frame, the old man had not been seen without it. Every time a customer entered his shop, the man was sitting at his workbench, grumbling about some stubborn spring or cog that refused to fit properly in its place. Often he would neglect to appreciate the presence of a customer unless they were to address him directly, after which he would merely raise his head for but a moment in obligated acknowledgement and return immediately to his work. Should a question regarding one of his wares be put forth for his response, he always made a terse, gruff reply in as few words as he could muster. It goes without saying that his sales dropped considerably in their frequency.

Hardly a week had gone by since the clock had appeared before the villagers began to notice the lights of the old man’s shop burning long into the night. They all knew he was working on that clock, that “ceaselessly frustrating piece of useless machinery” as the old man called it. A short time after that, whispers began bubbling through the village that he could sometimes be heard speaking to the clock, rebuking it as a righteous parent would reprimand a naughty child. The village children made a game out of sneaking up to his window and pressing their ears to the face of the building, hoping maybe to PROSE 27

catch a word or two of the crazy old man who spoke to his broken clock. The adults quickly put an end to this game, fearing that should one of the children attract the man’s attention, he would scare them away or chase after them.

From then on, any child caught too near the old man’s shop was given a lecture on the sin of eavesdropping, though all the young ones knew the real reason they were not allowed there.

As his obsession with the clock grew more in control of him, so did the concern of the village leaders grow for the man’s health. The lights of his shop were now never extinguished, and many days the first person in his shop would have to wake him up as he’d fallen asleep in his relentless determination to fix that bullheaded clock. The old man became so singularly focused on his clock that he no longer noticed the customers in his shop, and if one attempted to approach him, he would command them out so that he could focus.

Concern for the man grew to the point that the townspeople decided to have a meeting to discuss what should be done with him. Some felt that he should be sent away. Some ventured that he should be taken to a hospital in his old age. Others argued to simply leave him be, as in that old age he would be hard pressed

It was such a matter of contention that the villagers accomplished absolutely nothing except for agreeing that something had to be done.

to reach his next birthday. Despite the lack of any who knew the man well, each person had his own excellent opinion on exactly what should be done about the crazy old man who spoke to his broken clock. It was such a matter of contention that the villagers accomplished absolutely nothing except for agreeing that something had to be done.

The next evening, the villagers met again to discuss the old man. This time, they managed to narrow down their options to either leaving the man alone until he died, or sending him away by asking him to leave the village. However, to the great frustration of the village leaders, there was yet no one who wanted to do anything about it.

Those advocating to ignore the man and let him

obsess over his clock said little, and some of that argument even ventured to leave the meeting early. In contrast, those with the opposing idea of sending the old man away were adamant that he should be gone, and yet none of them 28

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deemed it a job fit to their reputation. It was at this stalemate that the meeting adjourned long after the sun had sank behind the surrounding hills.

Such was the obstinacy of the village inhabitants that no further decision could be reached. Every man agreed that something had to happen, and each man felt himself right and proper in his opinion. Still did every man maintain and uphold his belief that he himself was above the task of approaching the old man.

It was just as well that the villagers could come to no agreement.

“Fire! Fire! Help! Bring buckets of water! Someone help!” came the cries of one man who had been on a late night walk away from his own bed.

The shop of the old man was alight, blazing dry and wicked as the flames devoured the helpless little building. The villagers lent what assistance their sleepy arms could muster, but quickly abandoned their task as it became evident that the fire was not to be stopped. In the mindset of heroism, one self-important villager defied the flames and barreled into the bright, scalding heat. Onlookers watched with tension suppressed by the night as they waited inactively for their “hero” to emerge from the building. A collective sigh of hesitant relief was heard at the hero’s appearance, but a blanket of mild worry fell upon the faces of those selfsame ones that had about been ready to cheer.

The old man was not with the heroic villager.

All crowded around, pressing the brave man for answers to the question of where the old man was at. The strong, able-bodied and able-minded hero coughed, fell to his knees of exhaustion and smoke, shook his head in bewilderment and confusion, and wheezed out, “I couldn’t find him.”

The villagers were stunned. Had the fire been so strong as to steal away the old man’s body so quickly?

None needed ask the question out loud, for, and to each villager’s surprise and horror, the old man materialized from the shadows of the opposite wall of the building nearest his shop.

“I burnt it myself. It deserved to burn. Stupid thing.”

With that, he collapsed to the ground.

The villagers flocked to him, each with the intention to administer aid, but it was quickly apparent that the man would not live out the week. He had no burns, smelled not of smoke; there was no trace of singeing or charring on his clothes or hair. It was the general consensus of the villagers that he had lit the fire himself out of his aged madness and the frustration that he had, PROSE 29

before this time, screamed at that old broken clock. His almost lifeless body was carried to an empty bed in a grudgingly obligated villager’s home.

The strength of the fire had been so much as to last into the afternoon of the following day. Once the flames were no more, and the only remains of the shop were crumbled stubs of walls and incinerated lumps of what had once been toys and tools, three men of the village took it upon themselves to go through the ruins.

As he sorted through what was mostly ashes, the young newlywed Giomar felt a strange clack at the end of his hardwood staff, passed down through his family for nine generations, that he was using to sift and prod the remains. In curiosity, he crouched down, brushed away a layer of ashes with his free gloved hand, and pulled from the flotsam nothing other than the very clock that the old man had obsessed over for weeks. A morbid feeling of dread filled him, yet Giomar’s need to discover snatched his instinct and cast it aside.

The young man walked out from the decimation of what had been burned, and upon placing his feet on clean grass, dropped his staff and removed his gloves to better examine the clock.

Giomar did not notice the staring, terrified eyes of the other two men surveying the damage. In his relative simplemindedness, Giomar turned over the clock, which miraculously bore no sign of scorching or scarring, and nervously twisted the protruding knob that is commonly found on the back of a wind-up clock.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

From across the village, Giomar barely heard the voice proclaiming the news of the old man’s death.

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TIM BASCOM

ROcky Mountain Make Believe We have gone only fifty yards up the trail. In fact, I can still see the car glimmering between the pines when Luke begins to complain. He sits down in the dirt. He’s five, almost six. He’s never been this close to a mountain, and certainly not from a let’s-climb-it angle, with trees that march up the slope so thickly that there’s nothing to be seen but red sappy branches and gray trunks like an impenetrable stockade fence.

I say, “C’mon, you’ll feel better when you’ve hiked awhile. It takes time to get used to it.”

Instead, he folds his arms and shakes his head, blonde hair whirling.

At that point, I pick him up and set him on his feet, saying, “Sorry guy, no choice. We’re not turning around ‘til we get somewhere.”

“Hey,” says Conrad, “It’s not that hard. Look at me.” And he begins a Groucho Marx demo, skinny knees bent, reaching out in long, long strides.

He ascends ten yards with his face fixed in a stern British frown as if there’s important business to be conducted, and suddenly, almost magically, young Luke is on his feet, laughing. He gallops after his brother, swinging a stick, which the older boy barely avoids by accelerating, getting twenty yards up the trail, then thirty, almost fifty before disaster strikes and down goes Luke, having stumbled on a rock.

By the time Cathleen and I reach him, he has teardrops glistening from his clamped-shut eyelids—little globes that shatter on his lashes. And when we pry his dirty hands from an injured knee, we find a raw patch clotted with dust. We wash it with drinking water, and I tell Luke I will carry him. I crouch down so that he can climb onto my back.

After doing an adjustment hop, I start up the trail again, trying not to think too much about my own sore left knee. There is no way I can do this for longer than a half mile, and I am discouraged. Why does everything have to be so difficult when it comes to a family outing? Last night it was the propane canisters for the camp stove, which I had forgotten and had to purchase in a town twenty miles from the campsite. Then it was my complaining wife, who got cold and couldn’t sleep until I had brought a tarp from the car to place over her sleeping bag. And this morning it was Conrad, who fell into the creek PROSE 31

right when we were leaving for the trailhead, forcing us to all go back to the tent while he changed into dry pants and socks.

I have had a bum knee for five years, ever since accidentally tearing ligaments during a workout. It functions fine as long as I don’t attempt the same motion for too long or carry extra weight—like I’m doing now. Another quarter mile, that’s all, I think, as I eye the ridge that will serve as my target.

Nimble as a goat, our nine year old dashes ahead, and I am surprised by his enthusiasm. Usually, he would be the one most likely to ask to quit, eager to get back to his friends and to “fun things” instead of family activities like this.

I am feeling the altitude, along with the pinching of something sharp in my knee joint. This is ridiculous, I decide at last. I didn’t come out here to carry a 50 or 60 pound boy to the top of a mountain. Luke is young, yes, but perfectly capable of walking. So I stop a hundred yards before the ridge and squat down, saying, “Okay, bud, you’ve had a rest. It’s time to start walking.”

“Just a little more,” he pleads, clinging around my neck so tightly that I have to pull his hands loose. Then, when I straighten, he slumps to the ground, sitting in the middle of the path as if he can’t manage a single step.

“Maybe we should do a shorter hike,” says Cathleen, and I groan inside.

It’s so predictable. The idea of a family hike—a genuine mountain-climbing hike—was something she had met with a tolerant smile, agreeing only because this part of the vacation was supposed to be my part to plan. I figure she’s thinking the kids are too young to make it to the top and that she would rather be window-shopping at art galleries in town. I figure she is v . . .

“Honey, maybe the altitude is getting to him. He is only six, after all.”

“If it’s the altitude, then why was he racing around the tent last night, throwing pine cones? He’s perfectly fine. He just needs to go a ways and he’ll forget he fell down. Won’t you, buddy?”

That final question, directed at Luke, is my attempt to sound jovial, but Luke isn’t buying it. He stays seated in the dust, shaking his head. And now the whole situation has turned into such a stalemate that I consider just telling them all to go back without me. They don’t want to hike? Fine. I’ll do it myself. They can go shopping in town and come pick me up in the evening— or next week, for all I care. Maybe I’ll just meet them at the other end of the range. They can figure out the camp stove and the sleeping bags and the wet tennis shoes, and I’ll take my damn pocketknife and keep going!

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“Hey, what if we pretend we’re Pokemon?” asks Conrad, who has walked back from where he stopped hiking.

I almost blurt my first thought: What in the hell? Why can’t anything be real anymore?

I am just inches away from breaking into an indignant rant. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue: When I was a kid, I used to run and climb and dig. With my father, I tunneled into a hill, making a cave. I hiked all along the river bluffs, even in sweltering summer heat—not just playing makebelieve games based on cards with strange-looking characters from a foreign la-la land.

But even as I turn to give Conrad a wilting look, I hear our younger son reply, “Okay, but I get to be a Gengar.”

Conrad scrutinizes his little brother for a second then says, “I guess. I’ll be a Zapdos then, and we can defend the mountain against Fire Characters. You ready?”

So Luke rises to his feet and begins to walk, telling his brother what strengths he has and how he wants to use them. Then the two of them begin to jog in response to imagined threats, swinging their arms as if repelling blows and

Then the two of them begin to jog in response to imagined threats, swinging their arms as if repelling blows and sending out enchanted blasts of energy.

sending out enchanted blasts of energy. They rise up the mountain in tandem, with the older boy choreographing each scene and calling through the trees, “Watch out. They’re behind you. Stay in the shade. Levitate now.

You can shadow-tag then I’ll hit them with a lightning bolt. Do it, do it, do it.

Okay, let’s get out of here.”

I marvel. I cannot believe the ingenuity of Conrad. Nor the sheer kindness—the way he has skillfully stepped in to help.

When my wife reaches for my hand, I frown for a second. She is smiling as if savoring an inside joke, and I want to pull away. But, instead, I let go of my natural inclination to resist. I let myself enjoy this moment of unexpected relief, walking hand-in-hand, murmuring amused commentary about the galloping boys and the imagined adventure that is taking them up the steep, PROSE 33

rocky slope, closer to my hoped-for goal: a lake at timberline.

When at last the two boys lag, asking for lunch, I tell them just a little further. I ask what character I can play—“Maybe an Onix?” Then I begin to employ my own special strength—super-fast tunneling—to clear a way up the mountain, pouncing out of secret underground corridors and sending foes flying with slashes of my iron tail. I thunder up the forested trail, throwing rockslides to each side, my headblade slicing a ravine. “Come on,” I yell.

“They can’t hit you inside the trench!” And when an unexpected Charizard ambushes me from the air, flattening me with a Heat Wave, my two sons come to my rescue, zapping the Charizard right out of the sky and leaving it trapped by a Poltergeist.

Off we go again, ascending further up the mountain with our unique powers. And Cathleen comes close behind, jogging and cawing, having transformed into a leather-winged Aerodactyl that can divebomb enemies, stunning them with Supersonic Blasts. We are all so invested in this makebelieve scenario that we are equally surprised when, suddenly, the trees fall away and we find ourselves standing in an immense bowl above timberline with ragged teeth-like peaks above, and huge fields of fallen stone. Swathes of snow streak the valley walls, secreting streamlets of icy water. And there, right in front of us, is a whole lake, sparkling in the breeze, black in its depths and emerald along the shore.

“Guys,” I say. “There is something we’ve got to do. Even before we eat, we’ve got to do this.” And I step toward the lake, peeling off my jacket and shirt.

“No way,” yells Conrad. “We’ll freeze.”

“Yeah! And that’s the fun of it,” I reply, sitting down to remove my shoes and socks. “How many guys do you know who can say they went swimming in a lake that is pure melted snow?”

After I have pulled off my pants and stand there in nothing but underpants and goose pimples, Luke begins to giggle, sitting down on a rock to untie his shoes. Then his bigger brother begins to unzip his jacket, murmuring, “This is nuts!”

Cathleen calls out, “Wait a minute. I’ve got to get a picture!” But before she can fish the camera from her pack, we are out there in the bone-chilling water, balancing on slippery rocks. And before we lose our collective nerve, we hunch our shoulders, count to three, and plunge down, disappearing into 34

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the arctic liquid.

When we heave into the air, our shouts reverberate against the cliffs, making the whole valley tremble. For an instant we are utterly here in the quiddity of what we have done: completely alive, completely alert, completely aware of the amazing realm that encircles us.

I lift my arms and yodel as my wife clicks the camera. The boys flex their stringy biceps, teeth chattering, blonde hair plastered to their frigid skulls. She laughs as they ham it up in the buff. Then the three of us come wallowing out of the lake and scrabble toward our loose clothing, alarmed by approaching voices. Quickly, we hopscotch to a shielding boulder, where we drop down and wrestle into pants, pulling them over clammy skin and wet undershorts.

And when the next group of hikers steps into the clearing with awed gazes, we emerge from behind the boulder, hair awry, smiling smugly because, despite Luke’s reluctance and Cathleen’s hesitations and my own selfcentered grouchiness, we have accomplished something quite special. With the help of Conrad’s precocious imagination, we have not only made it to this high beautiful valley, but we have created our own family legend.

PROSE 35

DIANA HUMBLE

FOr Lisa At 18 you couldn’t have paid me to drink.

My godmother Lisa was consumed by it the year earlier. The woman my parents trusted with my life died by the bottle—the same one I nurse now.

She’s on my mind as I swirl my five buck chuck, the cork bobbing inside. I lost my corkscrew around 19; I just force the cork in with a chopstick now.

Alcoholism is hereditary, but at 21 I stare down the beast’s throat without flinching.

My grandpa accidentally calls me Lisa sometimes.

I drain the bottle, relishing the cork’s jig as I slam it down upon the chipped island. The house party is packed, so I shuffle empty beer cans aside to lean against the table.

My family doesn’t talk about her much anymore—typical Nordic repression— but I still send messages to her Facebook account. None of us had the heart to memorialize it. I sent her one when I graduated high school, and another when the Wonder Woman movie came out. I cried seven times while watching it in theaters. Lisa always said I reminded her of Wonder Woman; I wonder if she’d say the same now.

My glazed eyes float across the skunk-scented kitchen, catching on a honeyhued bottle. Sandaled feet forge a path across the sweat-soaked room in a haze.

Jack Daniels—Lisa’s favorite.

I watch as my hand moves on its own volition into my field of vision, nearing the bottle. I blink and there’s nothing on the counter.

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Warm breath filters across my ear, “You shouldn’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

The lingering wine cools in my blood. He’s well dressed—khaki skinny jeans, colorful headband, neat braids—but there’s a glint in his eyes that draws me in for all the wrong reasons.

I open my mouth, ready to fire off some half-baked retort; instead he deposits the shooter of Tennessee Whiskey into my hand.

“Bottoms up.” He murmurs, clinking a matching plastic bottle to mine. A ghost of a grin floats across his face as I down the shot in one gulp—faster than he can.

Lisa started drinking in college. It began as wine nights with friends, but metastasized into week long benders in the slums. She was a genius— quicksilver—graduated magna cum laude and had a master’s degree in urban planning. I never understood why someone so intelligent could fall for something so fleeting, but it all started making sense senior year of college. I can just imagine her grinding through her senior thesis, candle burning from both ends, her latest fight with boyfriend (eventual ex-husband) Todd fresh on her mind. Her vision grows bleary from lack of sleep. The crucible is becoming too much to bear. The bottle of Jack Daniels catches her eye. All the stress and all the anxiety—all the fear—could melt away with that bottle.

I do more than drink. I guzzle. I gorge. I was away every looming deadline and expectation with ethanol. A smirk slips to my face as the stranger—who introduces himself as Luc—continues to appease me with can after can of fluid. His eyes size me up—appraising the cleavage my coral tank top reveals.

His hands curl around my waist and I don’t stop him. Can’t stop him.

I was always jealous of the way everyone gushed over Lisa. She was rarely around, but whenever she was all eyes were on her. We all loved her. She was charismatic—magnetic—with her quick wit and bright smiles. There was a glint of genius in her eyes that I could only ever dream of emulating. One that held your gaze just a second longer—pulled you in just a little deeper.

PROSE 37

She was irresistible.

Sometimes she’d catch me watching her at family reunions—the green eyed monster looming over my shoulder—and the smile would lose its luster. It’d morph into something foreign—even hollow—and the she’d wink at me. Filled with resignation and understanding.

I wish I’d told her I love her more.

She knew I hated guns. They scared me—still do—but she made a point of taking me to the shooting range whenever the opportunity arose. My dad and grandpa would come with too. She was great with a handgun. Lisa could unload a clip with precision and accuracy in under seven seconds. I never thought to ask why she could.

She always made a point of including me. She made sure I fired a clip out of every gun. I wasn’t good at it, but I wasn’t bad either. I burned with shame—if I can’t do something well, I don’t do it at all. When my dad and grandpa were packing up the firearms after a couple hours at the range, I told Lisa I didn’t want to go shooting anymore.

She turned those knowing hazel eyes on my and pulled me into a hug.

“I know sweetie,” she murmured. “You don’t like to hurt people—Lord knows I can’t bear the thought of it myself—but as your auntie and godmother you are one of the most special people in the world to me, and I would do absolutely anything to keep you safe.”

My eyes welled with tears as she continued.

“But I won’t always be there to protect you.” Her voice breaks, “And when someday—Heaven forbid—a man lays his hands on you, I need to know that you can defend yourself.”

I nod—eyeliner streaking.

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“We Wonder Women don’t go down without a fight.”

That was the last time I saw her.

I’ve never been this drunk before. The world has never spun like this. I don’t run into things. Why does everything have an orange tinge? I’m pulled against Luc’s chest. He’s from California. Only in Iowa for the weekend. His hands only leave my waist to hand me another red solo cup. I don’t know where my friends went or how I got outside, but we’re alone.

His gaze holds like a vulture on day-old roadkill—not prime pickings, but I’ll suffice.

There’s a bright light in my eyes, overexposing my already foggy vision.

“Diana.” He says my name with force. I don’t remember giving it.

It takes a couple seconds to realize he’s talking to me.

“Diana, do you consent to the events of this evening?”

He was recording me. Awaiting a response.

Nothing bad had happened—I was safe.

“Yes,” I slur, before hesitating. “Wait, why are you filming this?”

I’m way past drunk, but I’m no idiot.

I take a sip of the drink in my hand and a wolfish grin takes to his face as I fall back onto the patio railing behind me, knocking my head against the shingling.

His hands are on me again. Ice cold. Calculating in the way they skim beneath my top.

PROSE 39

I see Lisa again. For the first time in four years. She’s there.

Cold.

Alone.

Dead.

Overdosed in a crackhouse. Strung out over a mattress—eyes exposed like glassy marbles. All vigor drained. Eyes I won’t forget as long as I live.

The woman who promised to defend me until her dying breath couldn’t protect herself from herself.

He’s on top of me as tears sting. I can’t blink—I can’t look away from her.

She deserved so much better.

She deserved to watch her kids go to prom and graduate at the top of their class. She deserved to walk me down the aisle. She deserved to be happy. She deserved to grow old.

She didn’t deserve to die at 43.

Her eyes plead with me to fight.

And I do. I scream. I scream until I’m alone, until my friend pulls down my skirt and holds me in her arms, until I’m back in my dorm, until there are no tears left to cry.

My friends say they saw some guys mixing something into a cup and handing it to Luc. A cup I probably drank from. I throw up longer and harder than I ever have.

I’ll never forget those eyes. I saw myself in them for a moment.

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But I’m not Lisa.

I think she would be proud of me—her Wonder Woman.

PROSE 41

BARBARA JOHNSON

Blue and White Bicycle “Barb, will you run down to the Hartz Store and get a can of white chunk tuna so I can make tuna casserole.” It was mid-afternoon and Mother was resting on the daybed in the living room, her house all tidy. She was formulating her last-minute supper menu and added: “Ask them to put it on my bill.”

I was assembling a much-used interlocking picture puzzle on the dining room table, but didn’t mind the interruption.

“Save the puzzle for me till I get back,” I requested. And I was off and running, letting the screen door slam behind me, thud, thud, thud down the wooden back porch steps and out into the street. I liked doing these errands.

When I got to the end of the block, I was on Main Street. Turning right, I crossed the street and walked past the new stone Liquor Store/ Library/ Fire Station recently built by the Works Progress Administration. We used the library so often, we felt we had part ownership in it.

I crossed the side street, went past the movie theatre to the end of the block and halfway into the next block, and arrived at the L.B.Hartz Grocery.

Today’s specials were painted on the inside of the glass windows. “Quite a feat,” I thought, “to paint letters backwards.” Up three steps and into the store, I asked the clerk behind the counter for the tuna fish. He left his position at the cash register, went to the lone aisle to the right, and retrieved it from the six-foot high shelf of canned goods. The small-town grocery stores were not self-service. He wrote the purchase down in the ledger with our family name on it and simply expected my mother to come in and pay her bill on Saturday night.

With my purchase in hand, I headed home, crossing the street at the bank corner. When I walked past the Coast to Coast Store, I spotted it--the blue and white bicycle in the window. The price tag clearly said $22.95, a sum totally out of reach for me at age 11. I stood and stared at it. It was love at first sight, and I was wondering already how I could make that bike my own.

At suppertime, as the family of five was sitting around the dining room table enjoying the tuna casserole, I told my parents about the bike, and it

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became a topic of family interest.

My dad raised the question, “How could you ever pay for it?”

“Maybe I could save the money,” I said weakly, even though it looked like an impossible task.

My sisters agreed it would be great to own that bike.

“Maybe we could all help pay for it and share the bike,” Betty said.

After a little more discussion, my dad made a proposal. Patty and I could save $10 together in my cash register bank, Betty could contribute $5, Mother could add $5 from the grocery money, and when we had the $20, my dad would put in the remaining $2.95. It sounded like a workable plan.

My cash register bank was a cherished birthday present, a toy metal version of a steel cash register, colorfully decorated in curlicue designs in red, yellow and black paint. When coins (nickels, dimes and quarters) were inserted into the slot, it would register the amount deposited and update the total amount contained in the bank. The instructions that came with the bank promised that when the total registered $10, the door on the side of the bank would automatically open. That seemed like magic to me.

The year was 1942 and Patty was only seven, I was eleven, and Betty was thirteen. Our earning powers differed, so it was understood that I would be contributing more than Patty as we filled the bank together. Feeling very big sisterly and happy that we had a plan for getting the bike, I was perfectly okay with that.

The question was how we were going to earn the money. Our allowances by this time were 15 cents a week. A child’s movie ticket sold for nine cents for a Sunday afternoon matinee. The theatre owner and manager, Charlie Vondra, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, was engaging in the universal practice of trying to pay the least tax possible. Federal taxes were collected on all tickets priced 10 cents and higher, so he passed along the savings to his young customers. My source of this inside information is from one of my sisters, both of whom at some time sold tickets at the theatre. So with my 15 cents allowance, I could go to the movie for nine cents and buy a treat for a nickel--either popcorn at the theatre or a triple ice cream cone later at the ice cream shop --and have a penny left over. Or I could buy an apple, an orange, and a banana for the nickel when shopping with Mother at the grocery store.

Or I could put it in the cash register bank for the purchase of the bike. Truly this was a lesson in delayed gratification.

PROSE 43

Another way to earn money was to babysit. I hated babysitting, especially for the Hilleslands who lived across the street. Their house was a mess, the children were dirty, (as were their diapers), and I didn’t know how to make order out of chaos. Nor did I want to. My mother kept our house very clean and orderly, and I wasn’t required to help much, so I didn’t have much experience. However, my dad frowned on turning down an opportunity to earn money, and I thrived on approval and wilted under disapproval, so I usually felt compelled to take the job when asked. The Hilleslands often stayed out way past midnight, and we had no way to reach them if we had trouble because we didn’t have telephones. And for all this my pay averaged a nickel an hour.

Besides the money I earned from the Hilleslands, we also managed to get a few coins from gathering recycled materials. Our country was at war and that meant certain commodities were rationed. It also meant that there was a new emphasis on recycling. Even the aluminum foil around individual sticks of gum and the foil lining of cigarette packages were items that could be collected and recycled. We rarely bought gum and no one that we knew smoked cigarettes, but

It all helped towards the war effort and getting the cash register bank to register the magic number of $10.

we would look for discarded gum wrappers and cigarette packages on the street and formed the foil into a ball of aluminum. When it reached the required size, we could turn it in for a few pennies.

It all helped towards the war effort and getting the cash register bank to register the magic number of $10.

I had one more unusual way to earn some money, and it was all because I was friends with Patsy Mattix, the best friend ever. Patsy was a brown-eyed girl with freckles and rosy cheeks, a year younger than I, whose father was manager of the grain elevator. The Mattix family was especially

nice to me. I was in their kitchen with Patsy on December 7, 1941, when the news came over the radio that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Mrs. Mattix, who was a little older than my mother, a full-bosomed, well-corseted lady with quick movements, a stream of chatter, and a kind heart, was very upset. I couldn’t figure out how that could impact us because the Hawaiian 44

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Islands were so very far away. But Patsy had two older brothers who were of an age that they would be drafted into the armed services. At age ten, it began to make sense to me that the war could affect all of us.

Mr. Mattix, a kind, businesslike man with round, wire-framed eyeglasses, resembling Harry S. Truman in his demeanor and posture, brought home from the elevator some bags of rye grain that had a fungus growing on the grain. The fungus was called “ergot” and had some medicinal value. The Mattix family would sit around a card table in the evenings and “pick ergot,” separating it from the grain using tweezers. The ergot was about the size of a grain of rice, and a two-ounce cup of ergot would be worth 50 cents, an amazing amount of money to me. Several times they invited me to join them in picking ergot and readily paid me on the spot when I had filled my two-ounce cup. My sister says she remembers being jealous that I got to pick ergot.

Recently I discovered that the ergot was poisonous if ingested, and if it had been left in the grain and ground up and used for flour to make bread, it would have made those who ate it very sick. I wonder how many rye bread lovers fell mysteriously ill and never knew why.

At the same time we were saving for the bike, the government mounted an advertising campaign for children to invest in the war effort by buying war stamps. War stamps were available for purchase at the post office for 10 cents each, to be mounted into a booklet. It took $18.75 in stamps to fill a booklet, which was exchanged for a bond that would have a value of $25 when it matured in ten years. In essence, we would be loaning the U.S. government money to win the war. My dad offered us a deal. If we filled half a book ($9.40), he would pay the other half, and we could turn it in to get the $25 bond.

Dad believed that setting a goal and saving was important and also that the war effort was worthy of our participation. So I faced a dilemma every week. Should I put 10 cents of my allowance into the bank for the bike, or should I be patriotic and buy a war stamp. Should I save towards the bike, or join the block-long line of children buying tickets to see “Ma and Pa Kettle” at the local theater.

I did some of each, but in the end, by the time the war was over in 1945, I had purchased three war bonds. When the last of the bonds matured, ten years after the purchase, it was 1955. I had started teaching by that time, PROSE 45

so my need for the money and the value of the money was not even close to what it was when I sacrificed and bought stamps at 10 cents each. The bonds just sat there in a file cabinet in my parents’ home for a few more years, gaining some additional interest, but not much, and inflation stole away the value that money had when I invested it. It made me sad to think about little Barbara sacrificially giving up weekly treats, earnestly believing she was helping the country. And maybe she was. It seemed important for all of us to be part of the war effort.

My Dad’s name was on the bonds as the secondary owner. When he died at age 67, it was 1969, and I had been married and teaching for quite a few years. When I came home for his funeral, I redeemed the bonds and gave the money to my mother. We didn’t know how her finances would work out now that her breadwinner was gone. She gratefully accepted the money and tucked it away, knowing she would need it at some time in the future. There wasn’t anything I could have spent the money on that would have been worth the sacrifice I had made to save those nickels and dimes. Giving it away was an expression of grief, grief that my dad was gone, and grief that the money no longer had the value we had put on it. I just wanted to be done with it.

Some months after we started saving money for the bike, my cash register bank recorded the total at $9.45. Patty and I had the 55 cents we needed, so we set the bank on the dining room table and hollered out a general invitation: “Anybody who wants to see our bank door open, come and watch!”

My parents and Betty joined us around the table as Patty and I took turns feeding the remaining 55 cents into the bank. When the bank registered $10, the door of the bank did come unhinged as promised. We shook the money out of the bank, coins rolling all over the table and some onto the floor.

Everyone helped by picking up coins, sorting the nickels, dimes and quarters into stacks. Betty helped with the final count of the coins. She added and re-added and the total always came up 45 cents short of $10. She had easily come up with her $5, and Mother could magically manipulate that grocery money whenever necessary, so her $5 was not a problem. It was a huge disappointment, for we didn’t know how long it would take us to acquire the 45 cents we needed.

But Dad surprised us the next evening when he walked the blue and white bike home from the Coast to Coast Hardware down the Main Street 46

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sidewalk, past Tubby’s Grocery and the gas station, crossing the side street, down one more block past Bastyrs’ Hatchery, drawing knowing smiles from the people he met. He turned the corner to the left and guided that bike to our house at the end of the block. Whoops and hollers greeted him as we spotted him through the window, pausing underneath the large oak tree, the sun dappling through the leaves, moving shadows and sunlight on his grinning face and on the blue and white bike.

It was suppertime, but we ignored the aroma of our favorite goulash wafting from the kitchen as we took turns riding that bike on the street, from the tree outside our back door to the stop sign at the end of the block and back again. We could smell Dad’s greasy overalls, a pleasant familiar odor, as he steadied the bike, inexperienced and wobbly as we were, helping us to get started. A line formed with neighbor kids also getting turns on the shiny new bike, riding one block and back again, until fireflies flashed reminders that it was getting dark and time to go in.

I have this image in my mind of even my mother being outside with us, standing there in her blue and white checkered housedress and rolled down nylon stockings—my mother who was a fixture in the house with her cooking and cleaning--and that this was a family project. It was such a happy time.

The memory is about more than just owning a new bike. It was the unity of our parents. Sometimes there was obvious tension between them, and it was unsettling. They did not ever verbally fight.

They fought silently. These times were like silent waves that came in and went out without comment or explanation. But the day of the arrival of the bike

These times were like silent waves that came in and went out without comment or explanation.

was a day of celebration and unity, and we were proud of ourselves because each of us had a part in accomplishing a goal that had seemed out of reach.

I felt our parents were also proud of us, something they were so hesitant to convey for fear we would get “the big head,” meaning we would think too highly of ourselves.

Mother said she was going to learn to ride the bike after dark so the neighbors wouldn’t see her. She was always concerned about “what would the neighbors think?” But she never got around to riding the bike. Dad took PROSE 47

one turn on the bike at our urging, just to prove he could do it. He never rode it again, but it was heart-warming for us to see that he really cared about our having fun. Betty developed other interests and didn’t ride much. Patty was a bit small for the bike right away but eventually she got a lot of pleasure out of it. But I really loved that bike. I used it until I graduated from high school, riding with friends all over town and even out in the country. I would never have guessed that $22.95 worth of metal and rubber and blue and white paint could provide so much pleasure, be a reminder of memories of good times with friends, and linger as a symbol of achieving a goal together as a unified family.

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RACHEL DREESZEN

I remember I remember. I remember his face. His face was red with blood. The windshield of his Ranger, a spider web of cracks. His arms waving frantically in the air. I stomp on my breaks, gripping my steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white. My best friend is in the ditch right off C70, ten miles from my home.

Looking over at Shae, she is as pale as a ghost. She tells me she can’t go out there. She won’t be able to handle it. I told her to stay there. Ripping my keys out of the ignition, I run down towards the wreck. I left my door open because I am so determined to get there. Running down the black top, my nice sandals slap the pavement as my arms pump to get there faster. My white summer dress flies around me as I move. Today, I graduated.

I walked across the stage at my stuffy high school gym. Standing next to a group of thirty-seven individuals, I have known my whole life. The boy to my right, Zach, works at DQ. He hopes to become a graphic designer. Moving over one seat at a time I get closer to the stage. Josh, the boy to my left, squeezes my hand. He is the one that walked with me down the rows of chairs to get here. Leaning in he tells me I got this. I did not know this at that moment, but he would be going into the navy in August. I stand at the bottom of the stage.

They called my name. I breathe in and out starting the questionable stairs, wobbly and unstable. One, two, three, I walk up to the school board president and take my diploma. Finally done.

My hair whips around my face on that windy highway. I am now in front of the crash. The entire truck is twisted like a pretzel. Bits and pieces that came off of the truck are everywhere. Joel looks up at me with wild eyes.

“I need my phone.”

“What?”

“I need my phone now and I’m not leaving till I find it.”

I look over at the front of the truck. It is starting to smoke and catch fire.

Looking down, I can see the grass is coated in oil, antifreeze, and other truck fluids. Taking action, I put up my hair and I tuck my dress into the shorts under my dress to make sure it stays white and out of the way.

PROSE 49

Managing to get into the ditch, I start to try to convince Joel to get away from this ticking time bomb. He argues with me for a while. I finally convince him I will look for the phone, only if he does as I ask. He climbs his way out of the grassy ditch. Grabbing the floor mats, M&M’s, I gave him this candy last week, flew out of the truck. Lose papers fly around my head. I can’t find it and am running out of time.

A truck drives up. Running up the side of the ditch the best I can, I go to the man’s driver window. He asks me what is wrong and looks at me strangely.

I can’t figure out why till, I realize I still have my dress tucked into my shorts. I let him know I am fine, it wasn’t me in the accident and that my friend needs help. Looking over, I see Joel is now with nervous Shae. The driver says he will call 911. With that, he drives to go block traffic and guide the ambulance. I walk up to my vehicle, where Joel is now, and untuck my dress.

Shae is shaking as she takes her phone back from him so he could call his parents. Joel tries to convince me he is in no pain. His face is still covered in blood. Getting out my water bottle from the backseat and a stray blanket I hand them to him. He barely pats the blood off his face. He lets me know he doesn’t want to get blood on my blanket. He starts chugging the water. My intentions were for him to take the water and rinse off the blood and wipe it with my blanket.

Shae pales again. I bring her back to my car to have her sit down. She tries to keep it together. While I am attending to her, Joel is gone. I am frantic, but realize he is talking to an older woman on the side of the road. I ran up. She lets me know she is a former EMT. She has Joel lay down in the grass because his belt is hurting his stomach.

Joel and Shae’s parents show up. The two sets of parents came up to me and asked what happened. I let them know through a firm, calm voice, I force myself to maintain. Flashing lights come as do the tow truck and the cop. He runs up and asks how Joel’s condition is. He asks if he was speeding.

Joel without hesitation answers yes.

Calling Shae on my phone in the parking lot after the ceremony, I tell her we should go get tacos at La Juas in celebration of my graduation. I bring her over and we meet Joel. Sitting in the small booth downtown Sioux City, we laugh and eat our Mexican food. They have the best authentic Mexican sodas.

I got an orange one this time. Joel got a plain Coke. After we finish, we head to 50

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the parking lot. He lets me know I will be “eating his dust” on the way home.

To which, I tell him “in his dreams”, my car by far is faster than his Ranger. On the way home, my car stops unexpectedly. It has never done this before and never did so again. I have to pull over and restart my car. I drove over two hills then I saw the wreck. I saw my best friend coated in blood in the ditch.

The EMT’s rushed out. They question me about the accident. This is when the adrenalin has run out. Joel starts groaning. He is in so much pain.

The EMT’s move to put him on a canvas cloth. He groans some more and I am taken away from the scene by Shae’s mother. She holds me and tells me it will be alright. Taking the jacket off her back she puts it on me. Behind us the Ranger is burning up. The firemen on the scene are putting out the fire.

From there, I am brought to Shae’s home, where I try to occupy my time calling those who are affected by Joel’s absence. I’m told I am not allowed to drive to the hospital where Joel is being taken. I called my mother and begged her to take me. No, I tell her I am going to go to see him. It becomes a blur till I am in the waiting room. I see him within a few minutes. He is battered up as hell, black eyes, cuts up and down his left arm and hand, cuts all over his face, but in one piece. Everytime I see those cuts that are now scars, I remember that day. I remember.

PROSE 51

JOE VAN ESSEN

Satire (A Newscast) Kate: Hi, I’m Kate Kater.

John: And I’m John Johnson. You’re watching Four Hundred Twenty News, and man do we have some big stories today, don’t we Kate?

Kate: We sure do, John. Today in Washington D.C., there was a scare as the President’s pet cat got stuck in a tree. Luckily, the fire department was able to get the cat down safely.

Scrolling Text: Seven dead and more missing, after armed gunmen attacked the UK Parliament.

John: And thank goodness for that. It’ll be a sad day if the cat gets hurt.

Kate: Yes, indeed, John. In other news, the stock market took a hit today with the Dow dropping 80 points in just 3 hours.

Scrolling Text: Hundreds of sea turtles wash up

Kendal is also releasing a self-help book titled When Is It Too Much Plastic Surgery.

dead on beaches across Europe.

John: On another financial note, Kim Kardashian has just published her book on how to become a millionaire.

Kate: Oh, I heard about that. I’ll have to read it.

Scrolling Text: Oil spill in the Mediterranean causes massive damage to the wildlife and coastal communities around it.

Kate: And did you hear that Kendall is also releasing a self-help book titled When Is It Too Much Plastic Surgery?

John: I’m sure it will be a hit. In one of our biggest stories today, we go to a small town in Minnesota with our field reporter, Trisha Trishal, and learn how they are keeping in touch with their Dutch roots. Trisha?

Trisha: Yes, John, I am here with Jeff Jefferson, a city council member here in 52

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Nowhersviel, Minnesota, and he’s going to tell us about their Dutch festival.

Jeff: Yea, Trisha, this is actually our one hundred and fiftieth Dutch festival, and this is a big one. We have a parade every year and people dress up in traditional Dutch clothes, and the local shops make traditional Dutch foods to sell to the community.

Scrolling Ttext: More dead as the new regime in Zimbabwe continues its ethnic cleansing.

Trisha: Oh, and what are some of those traditional foods?

Jeff: Well, some of them include Stroopwafel, Kroket, Patat, Poffertjes, Bitterballen, and Olibolen, which we actually have some here for you.

Trisha: Oh really, well I can’t wait to try it.

Jeff: Here you go.

Trisha: This is delicious. Well, you saw it here, how this Dutch community is keeping in touch with its roots. Now, back to you John.

John: Thanks, Trisha. Man, that did look good.

Kate: I know it made me kinda hungry.

Scrolling Text: Famine persists in several African countries with death tolls estimated in the hundreds of thousands.

John: Yes, in other news, fans were stunned at the last red carpet event by what Jennifer Lopez was wearing.

Kate: Oh yea, I saw, it was shocking. She showed up in sweatpants and a sweater.

John: There are many questions around this, but the main one is: Is this some new hot fashion trend or some form of rebellion against social norms?

Kate: Well, either way, I think it’s nonsense. What kind of world do we live in where we don’t dress up for social events?

Scrolling Text: Violent protests break out as the fight for women’s suffrage continues in Saudi Arabia.

John: I don’t know, Kate.

Kate: Wait, I’m getting information on some breaking news, apparently there PROSE 53

has been some kind of attack.

Scrolling Text: Terror strikes the hearts of German citizens after a series of suicide bombing occurred across Berlin. There are seventy-four confirmed dead, but the rubble is still being searched.

Kate: An attack on fashion. At the most recent animal fur clothing show, protesters threw paint onto the models. Some fighting broke out, but there were no major injuries.

John: I am, however, getting reports that the damaged clothing has a value of around a quarter-million dollars.

Kate: What a shame. I never understood the point of that. It just ruins the coats and forces them to kill more animals to make new ones.

John: Well, sometimes logic doesn’t matter when you are fighting for what you believe in.

Kate: I guess not. Well, that is all we have time for today. I’m Kate Kater.

John: And I’m John Johnson. And this had been Four Hundred Twenty News.

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ZACH FELDT

Opening Scene from "A Day on the Farm" (Lights slowly come on, you hear lovely music playing in the background to imagine that you see the morning sun rising. There is a rooster call as the lights finally comes up. You see Betsy, the Cow, on stage eating hay from the hay barrel. Betsy looks around as if she’s waiting for somebody to come out.)

BETSY Moo!

FARMER (Offstage) I’m up Betsy! Give me a minute!

BETSY Moo! FARMER Well I don’t wanna come outside without my workin’ overalls.

(FARMER enter) Good mornin’ Betsy. It sure is a bright one out huh? Looks like we had a nice rain last night. It’ll be good for all of this corn, and the little bit of tobacco. Wish we could grow more than just that here in Kentucky.

BETSY Moo.

FARMER Amen sister.

(Opens up the mailbox) No mail… Ya didn’t eat the mail again did ya?

BETSY Moo. FARMER Huh. Alright, spit it out.

FARMER (CONT.)

PROSE 55

(BETSY starts coughing and then spits out envelopes of mail.)

Alright, good girl. Let’s see… Urgent mail, open immediately.

(FARMER casually throwing all of these envelopes at the ground. Brenda emerges from Stage Right.)

BRENDA Excuse me Billy.

(Music fades out) FARMER Mornin’ Brenda. Ya doin’ ya city folk things today?

BRENDA What do you think you’re doing?

FARMER Well ya know, I’m just getting’ ready for the day.

BRENDA Huh. Getting the mail, I see.

FARMER Yeah ya know, junk mail like usual.

BRENDA Junk? Well I’m guessing that you’re not aware of it, but you’re a whole three months behind your house payments, and I’ve been sending you your bills for months.

FARMER Pay… ments?... Bills?

BRENDA You know, the things you need to pay to keep this place? Your income? Betsy? We’ve been over this a lot Billy, and you need to start taking responsibility for this debt you are in.

MICHAEL (Enters Stage Right) Mornin’ Billy… Oh, mornin’ Brenda.

FARMER Not right now Michael! Leave the talking to the grownups.

MICHAEL I’m forty-two Billy, and if this is about yer dumb plans usually 56

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occurring, then I have every right to be in this conversation. I might be the younger one here, but I’m still the more mature one.

BRENDA (Sighs) Good morning Michael. How’s the morning going?

MICHAEL I wish it was goin’ better.

BRENDA Look Billy, I think that you’re a swell guy, but you have got to be making these payments. You know that I depend on these, so you have one option.

FARMER Only one?

BRENDA Billy please, if you don’t start making your payments within the next month, then I’ll have no choice but to kick you out.

FARMER Kick me out?!

BETSY Moo?!

MICHAEL (And a gasp occurred all across the farm) FARMER Will you shut up Michael?!

BRENDA You’ve been avoiding required payments on this house, and something has to happen soon. I’m sorry Billy.

(FARMER and BRENDA argue to each other as they head towards the exit) BETSY (Brings attention to MICHAEL) A bunch of Neanderthals am I right?

MICHAEL Woah. I’m sorry… I’m not imagining this? You’re actually talking to me right now.

PROSE 57

BETSY. What? You thought I was just some dumb cow?

MICHAEL. I mean, yeah, animals can’t talk.

BETSY. (Chuckles) Please. All animals talk. How do you think we’re like when you humans aren’t pushing us around, like we’re a bunch of heathens? You know we have feelings too right?

MICHAEL. Uh… Nah, this can’t be real. Billy would’ve told me this by now.

BETSY. Oh, Billy doesn’t know about this and he never will. Don’t even think about telling him because I’ll deny anything and everything. He’ll ever only see me in cow form.

(BRENDA exits) MICHAEL. Cow form?

BETSY. Ah shoot, he’s coming back. Well, break time is over.

MICHAEL. Break time?

FARMER. I couldn’ talk her out of it.

BETSY Moo… MICHAEL. I’m sorry, uh, I just witnessed your cow speak and I don’t know how to handle it.

FARMER. Betsy? Talkin’? That’s impossible.

MICHAEL. No, I swear! She was just talkin’!

FARMER Ya must’ve taken some crazy pills this mornin’. Cows don’t talk, that’s 58

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that.

MICHAEL But Billy FARMER No butts! Just two men and a cow, that don’t talk.

MICHAEL Uhhh… Never mind that for now! What’re gonna do about yer payments?

FARMER Michael, you and I both know that she’s nothing but one of them money grabbing city folk tryin’ ta run me out of my farm.

MICHAEL No, yer just one of the dumbasses who doesn’t know how to use a paycheck correctly. Bettin’ on those damn horse races. Ya agreed to pay her off for this land, and how do ya plan on paying that back if ya keep on being unproductive with your crops and animals? How in the hell are ya even feeding these animals anyway huh? I swear if you’re just throwing ground beef at them again. You almost made Betsy one of them… what ya call em? Can-O-Bowls?

FARMER That doesn’t matter. Betsy always has some great ideas about savin’ this farm. She’s my number one go to for bad situations. Go on, tell ‘em Betsy.

(BETSY sits and looks at FARMER.) Wow, gonna be no help huh?

(FARMER looks around for a bit at all the animals) I guess maybe tryna breed some of the animals. Selling them for poultry would’n be a bad idea.

MICHAEL That’s a great idea Billy!

FARMER Ha! I knew that if you thought that it was a good idea, then I should’n do it! That’s why yer my number two go to.

(Looks to the chickens. The chickens should be either puppets or stuffed animals)

PROSE 59

FARMER (CONT.) I got it! We can start cock fight night!

MICHAEL Ew. That doesn’t sound sanitary Billy.

FARMER Not that ya moron! Takin’ my prized chickens and havin’ folks come in and bet on their favorite! And I’ll win the money from the losers! It’s perfect!

MICHAEL You really have been goin’ to them horse races too much because that doesn’t sound like a good idea at all.

FARMER What ya mean? It can’t backfire on me in any possible way that would make me have to face a harsh reality of my actions.

BETSY Moo. (Proceeds to exit) MICHAEL Billy, your ideas always backfire on you. That’s why you always have me around, you know, after mama passed FARMER Hey! You’ll never be like mama.! I never need ya for nothin’ because ya know nothin’! I can handle this myself.

(Turns to walk away from MICHAEL) MICAHEL Ya know, I’m only trying to keep ya out of trouble. I’m just trying to do what mama FARMER Oh! I need ya to do something for me Michael!

MICHAEL (Sighs) What wouldya like me to do Billy?

FARMER Get my prized chickens ready! Tonight at eight! We’re gonna see how this works out.

(FARMER exits)

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Special Feature: Interveiw with Ruth Williams INTERVIEW CONDUCTED BY BRYNLEE GIBBS AND GARY HUIZENGA WRITTEN BY MYRA MEYER Ruth Williams is an associate professor of English at William Jewell College in Liberty, Missouri. She earned her PhD in English and Comparative Literature from the University of Cincinnati, and her MFA in Creative Writing, poetry from Eastern Washington University. As a professor, she has taught workshops in poetry and creative nonfiction. She teaches American, women’s, and ethnic literature, and she is an editor for Bear Review. Williams is the author of Flatlands, a collection of poetry that sheds some light on her homeland of Nebraska. The poetry showcased in her book turns something normally perceived to be flat and boring into something more lively and intriguing.

In the Fall of 2019, Williams visited Waldorf University as a part of the Distinguished Visiting Writers Series. She read some of her work in a public reading held in the Salveson Ballroom and answered questions from students and community members. Prior to the reading, some members of the Waldorf Literary Review staff, Gary Huizenga and Brynlee Gibbs, were able to interview Williams to find out more about her work and her experiences as a writer.

Brynlee Gibbs: When you realized that you had a liking for poetry, did you just write it for the first time for fun, or did you read it first? I didn’t read it. I was young when I first wrote it. I started liking to write poetry with rhymes, so I was wondering if you read it or just wrote it.

Ruth Williams: It was kind of a little bit of both. I had just had my first breakup in high school. I was so embarrassed to be such a late bloomer, but then I finally made it happen with not a very nice dude. He then summarily was like, “No.” Probably for my own good because he was not a good guy. He was like, “You’re way too innocent. I can’t ruin you.” But I was devastated and heartbroken, and a friend of mine was like, “Why don’t you write a poem about it?” I thought that was an interesting idea because I had only ever written stories, and I really loved writing fiction. I wasn’t that great at it, but I was like okay, I’ll write a poem, and simultaneously I was getting really into feminism, and I was checking out all these books about second wave feminism and

RUTH WILLIAMS INTERVIEW

61

essays and things, and one of the books I checked out was a book of feminist poetry, and I was like, “Oh, this is so cool! Poetry by women!” And I remember I typed out all these poems, and I printed them and put them in this binder from this collection, and I read them. So, I wrote, but then I was very quickly getting really into reading as well. It went hand in hand, but the first spark of it was really the suggestion of a friend who was like, “You know you could do that. You could write a poem. Maybe it would help you,” because she wrote poems. It was nice.

Gary Huizenga: When you were pursuing higher education, was poetry the goal, or was there something else that you were pursuing?

RW: It wasn’t really the goal, weirdly. When I got done with my undergrad, I continued to write poetry, not just to have like a nine to five job. But I always, in the back of my mind, wanted to go and get a PhD. Not necessarily to become a professor—that happened, which is wonderful, but I just really liked the idea of getting a PhD. I don’t know why—a nerd dream, I guess, but out of my undergrad, I was like, “I don’t know what I wanna do, but I think I wanna get this PhD someday, and I know I need to get a Master’s to do that, so what do I wanna do?” And I was really in my early twenties and not sure which direction to go, and I wanted to have an adventure. That’s all I knew. I wanted to not work as an administrative assistant anymore, and I was gonna move to Alaska to have an adventure, but one of my friends, when I was visiting her in Alaska said, “What if you just,”—cause I said I was interested in getting an MFA too— she’s like, “Why don’t you just get an MFA? That’s an adventure.” And l was like, “Well I might not get a job, and blah blah blah.” But then I realized, she’s right.

It’s just an adventure, so I did it. And then, when I got to my PhD, I was trying to decide between literature and creative writing, and I found a good program that let me do both things—both scholarly and creative writing at the same time. And so, I was able to carry that poetry thing. So it’s weird, cause I wasn’t heading in that direction intentionally, but once I got into that direction, it was totally perfect.

GH: Right, it just followed you through.

RW: Yeah. That’s why sometimes I feel like I want to tell my students who are freaking out about not knowing or making mistakes. I don’t wanna suggest that their life is gonna be like mine, and that I hadn’t had the privileges and good things that have led me in this smooth path—not that it’s smooth, but it’s 62

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worked out, right?

GH: Right.

RW: Sometimes I wanna say, “Not knowing is okay. Sometimes when you don’t know, then you stumble into something. It can work out.”

BG: It’s an adventure.

RW: Yeah. It can be an adventure, and it then can end up being the thing that you’re like, “Whoa, I really do wanna do this!” When you think about it, as opposed to kind of feeling pressure like, “I have to have something to do!”

Then choosing something, and realizing, “Hm, I don’t know if I really wanted to do that.” I think having time between all of my degrees—I know that’s not for everyone, but I preach it to my students, “It’s okay to take a year. It’s okay to take two years. You don’t need to go to grad school right away. Live your life, go out with your friends, answer the phones and make copies, order the donuts.” That’s not exciting, but I got a lot of writing done, and I got to really realize how important it was to me because I never stopped doing it. I kept doing it even though I had that job, and I think that probably was telling me something even though I didn’t consciously know it. It’s kind of some advice— unasked for advice.

GH: What are some common traps you see for young writers, and how have you gone about avoiding them?

RW: I think that some of the young writers I work with don’t understand how important reading can be, and how they need to read for pleasure, and they need to kind of love some of what they read, and that when they love what they read, they should just take note because that’s the thing that you want to try and do in your own work. It’s not to say copy, but to be inspired by. What is it that really speaks to you? So I think sometimes my students see, you can read a poem in two minutes, and it can pass over you, and that’s okay. I mean, sometimes I read poetry that way. I’m just kind of looking through it, and I’m just reading it, and I’m just catching whatever I want, but there are also times when you need, as a writer, to read and really look at, ‘okay what’s going on here? What’s happening in this book or this poem?’ And I think that, if I were to say a piece of advice, I would say read and actually pay attention to what you read, and think about it as much as you can, and if that only happens in a class, that’s fine. It’s a good place to be forced into it, but you should still read for pleasure too. I think also, don’t be afraid of rejection and criticism. It RUTH WILLIAMS INTERVIEW

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stings, and it sucks—even when you’re experienced—just to get rejected, but once you do it enough, that’s the work. It’s part of the work. It’s like what I was saying about exercises. You’re just exercising your submission muscle. When you send things out, they get rejected, they come back, you send them out again, and you just keep the process going, and I think that it’s really hard to get into that mindset when you’re young because it can feel more like “oh, this is an indictment of everything I’ve done, and I can’t come back from this,” or “if someone says that they don’t like this or it’s not working, then I can either give up or ignore everything they have to say.” Neither of those is really good.

So, I would say welcome critique, welcome rejection. It’s what you have to do to cross the line between amateurs who can show their work to their friends and their parents and their grandparents and get high fives versus somebody who’s going to be able to show their work to a wider audience and get the high fives from that audience.

BG: So, I was going to ask, obviously besides Nebraska, do you relate poetry to anything else? I relate poetry to music, that’s where I get most of my inspiration from, specifically Billie Eilish and Lana Del Ray, that’s my girl right there I love her. She’s actually releasing a poetry book or a collection and her stanzas are very poetry like. So I was just wondering if there’s any specific artists or songs or anything that you relate to poetry?

RW: I do listen to music a lot, and I definitely listen to music when I’m writing.

I don’t know if there’s one artist, like you were saying. I actually just listened to Lana Del Ray’s new album the other day because I was curious about it.

There was a kerfuffle online with a music critic who is a wonderful music critic of feminist and women’s music, and she had written a review very much praising the album, but she had a line in there that was basically like, “Some of Lana Del Ray’s lyrics are not as great as Joni Mitchell’s lyrics.” Lana got pretty annoyed and tweeted about it, and that created this whole thing, but I do listen to music, and I do find music to be something that kind of can get you in the mood. I also, and this is not necessarily other art form, but I also find that more and more as I get older, and I get less time to get into the mood, I have a mechanism to basically just force myself to write and that is like having a series of things where I’m always doing the same thing to start. For a while there, I was writing these little prose poems where each one had a title that was like “The (Blank),” and then I would just write it. If I don’t have anything 64

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to write about, and I couldn’t get in the mood with some other kind of art or music or TV or movie, I would just force myself to write using the little device like, “do this one thing, have the same title, the same form,” and somehow that helps. But I do think imbibing in other kinds of art is a really great way to stoke fires and creativity because you see what other people do—whether it’s in music or in visual art, and it just kind of gets you excited about art.

BG: You touched on it earlier, but I am a super extreme closeted feminist. I don’t really speak out about it, but I write about it a lot. Lana Del Ray, that’s one of the things I love about her. She is very for women, and I love that. [She] and Miley Cyrus both. I just feel like I do write about it a lot, but I don’t really turn it in per say so much because I like to stay away from the political side of things. So, I wondered if that is something you ever think about when you’re writing. Like if you think, “Oh I’m not going to publish this because it is so political,” or “I don’t want this to see the light of day.”

RW: No, no I don’t, but I also don’t write any super explicitly political work. love reading political work, but I don’t write super explicitly political work. I think there may be some themes in some of my work, and I do have one project that is kind of documentary and has some more critic of US expansionism, but it’s not in your face. I do think though, that it can be challenging to own a poem that says something—I think the only times I’ve hesitated are when it’s about someone else, and it’s something that maybe I know, but they haven’t explicitly given me permission to talk about, so that’s more when I get that feeling of “ooh, I don’t know if I should send this out,” but usually my inner writer overrides my ethical friend. It’s just this is a good poem, and I just want to get it published. And you just hope it’s published in a print journal and not an online magazine where the person can find it.

BG: There’s no names, no worries, no names.

RW: But, I think exploring political themes and exploring the value of an identity or the value of a stance—that’s a worthy thing to try whether you ever show those poems to anyone else because, even if all they are doing is helping you refine your own views of what you value, I think that’s worthy and eventually, hopefully you will say, “I am a feminist.” Whatever people say about that or whatever hangs up they have, those are actually a sign that feminism is necessary, so if someone says, “Oh you must hate men,” or “You think that women are better than men.” No. Those are the messages that you receive to RUTH WILLIAMS INTERVIEW

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scare you from become a feminist BG: That’s your own masculinity blocking your eyes.

RW: Right, and sometimes I think young women say that too, especially if they are heterosexual. What is the worst thing you can be if you are a straight woman? Unattractive to men. And you don’t want to squelch that or squander it, so you’ll say, “I don’t want to be identified as something that could potentially turn a guy off,” and really, yes you do want to be identified with something. If the guy is turned off by that, that’s a sign. That’s not a good thing. But I think exploring those things even if they don’t never get further than your desk, that’s a worthy thing. As much as I am trying to get my work out the door, I also think that sometimes just the practice is important for me as a person.

BG: Just to get it off your chest.

RW: Yeah, absolutely. And I don’t know if you can relate to this but writing helps me understand what I think. Sometimes I don’t know what I think about something until I write about it. Or I don’t know what it means to me. I would not have articulated the themes in flatlands. I don’t think I would have articulated those things about Nebraska, but now that I have written those poems, and I talked about the book, it’s much easier for me to understand how I actually feel about it.

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CAGE THE ELEPHANT GUZEL TUHBATULLINA First Place Salveson Prize in Photography

Judge’s Comments: This haunting photograph is like a look into someone’s soul. The out of focus fence frames the sharply-focused eye, drawing the viewer’s attention.

— David Damm Professor of Communications, Waldorf University

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WOMEN = PRESIDENTS JENNET HOJANAZAROVA Second Place Salveson Prize in Photography

Judge’s Comments: A beautiful landscape, this photo is divided diagonally with the left size lush forest and the right side a mountain range with water cascading to the valley below. The woman in the foreground provides a sense of scale.

— David Damm Professor of Communications, Waldorf University

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BELLE EARTAG SAVANNA CORDLE Honorable Mention for the Salveson Prize in Photography

Judge’s Comments: This well composed photo is simple at first glance, but provides so much to look at the more you study it. The photo reads well with a colorful ear tag and an out of focus background.

— David Damm Professor of Communications, Waldorf University

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THINGS TO DO IN HEAVEN JENNET HOJANAZAROVA

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NATURE WE GET TO ENJOY...WILL OUR GRANDCHILDREN? JENNET HOJANAZAROVA

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SPRING BURNING GRETCHEN BURNETTE

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SERENITY ON LAKE OKOBOJI GRETCHEN BURNETTE

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IOWA GRETCHEN BURNETTE

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UNTITLED GARCIA MENON

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UNTITLED GARCIA MENON

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UNTITLED GARCIA MENON

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SOHO GUZEL TUHBATULLINA

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NEW YORK, SUMMER 2018 GUZEL TUHBATULLINA

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PLASTIC LOVE LUNA (AYNUR) SHIRMAMEDOVA

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DAVID-FLORENCE DIANA HUMBLE

PHOTOGRAPHY 81

HEAR THE FOREST CRIES NOAH KEOLANUI-HERMAN

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ALONE NOAH KEOLANUI-HERMAN

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CALVES LINED UP SAVANNA CORDLE

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DONICA KEELING

The Little Match Seller “In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-Year’s sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt.”

-Hans Christian Anderson The day closed and ice tore my sore bloody feet

and I could feel the warmth as I unfolded my feet from my apron and touched damp brick

Hungry I huddled my body close against a damp brick wall Purpling toes burning itchy from cold tucked under my little apron

I hesitated I needed to sell them all but still I struck the next match

Hands held tight around my little matches desperate to sell every one My cheeks frosted with tears I had sold none As I sat there the moon rose higher the wind brushed my hair back and shook me I plucked struck a single match -ScratchThe tiny flame sputtered swallowing more than I expected In the light I could see a brass furnace glowing orange and red FEATURED ALUMNI WORK

-ScratchThe wall disappeared and a roasted goose appeared before me It danced about knife and fork stuck in its breast just outside my grasp I reached out only to touch cold damp brick -ScratchAs my eyes grew accustomed to the light I saw a giant Christmas tree bright stars on each branch and oh how I longed to touch it The more I reached the farther the lights went and again the match went out -ScratchAs the tiny flame sparked to life a star fell from the sky 85

My grandmother told me a person dies whenever a star falls “Grandmother!”

I had focused on the star Missing her soft face smiling holding out her arms but the match was almost out and I did not want her to leave me here alone I quickly drew the bundle -ScratchThe lights grew brighter still and my grandmother took my hand pulled me into her arms the numbing pain vanished and we flew up among the fallen stars

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ELLIE PETERS

Inside the Tea Cabinet nnjk Stu slammed the front door shut with a grunt of frustration, glad he had gotten rid of the neighbors, but frustrated they had the gall to act like they cared. No one really cared, they only knew Albert as the local handyman, nothing more. Everyone just felt entitled to know his personal business, because god forbid anything happen without the local gossips knowing all the details.

“Just because your life is bland, Karen, it doesn’t mean you get to use other people’s lives as some kind of sick, vicarious self-fulfillment,” he scoffed, thinking aloud.

Albert was both amazed and frightened by his friend’s ability to chase unwanted people away, but mostly he was just relieved he was there to do it for him. Well, that wasn’t the only reason, he just was glad to have a familiar face around the house. He

because god forbid anything happen without the local gossips knowing all the details.

wasn’t a replacement, not by a long shot, but it was nice.

“Thanks for scaring them off, I couldn’t have done it myself.”

“I know. You can be such a welcome mat, Al.” “I just don’t like to be rude.”

Stu huffed and walked through the hall which led into the kitchen. On the left was the refrigerator and on the right was the island, creating a pathway that would bring someone towards the sink that sat against the far wall past the cupboards, oven, cabinets, and drawers. It wasn’t luxurious, the counter was just that default poor person counter that comes with most houses, unpainted wooden cabinets, and completed with off white walls, but it was comfortable. Comfortable for more than one person anyway.

“Ugh, I have a headache,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“Yelling like that will do that to you.”

Stu rolled his eyes and popped the fridge open, about to crack open yet another can of cola but noticed Albert standing behind him looking at him disapprovingly. “What?”

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“I know, but I was thinking, if you have a headache, I could make you a nice cup of tea. It’d be better for you. And, not to brag, but it would taste better too.”

“Sheesh alright, alright.” He sat down at one of the bar stools along the kitchen’s island. He knew Albert just needed to take care of someone to make himself feel better, even if that someone was a full grown adult who could make his own decisions about what was best for himself and at that could make himself tea if he wanted to. “Make me some tea then.”

“Well, I’ll go ahead and pick something out.” He opened up the cabinet to the left of the oven door and a dark wooden tray sprung forward complete with almost anything you could think of that you could want or need for tea. One half was filled with sugar and spice and everything nice and the other side had things like a tea kettle, spoons, and reusable fabric tea bags.

Albert gathered the things he thought he’d need before pushing that particular tray downward, bringing another one filled with colorful little ceramics forward.

“Woah.” Stu went over and kneeled down on the floor to get a closer look. Upon closer inspection there were six wooden shelves all the same exact size with precisely 25 equal square sections. It was designed so the shelves could be moved up or down and roll another one to the front. He pressed down on the one in front of him only to discover it had quite a bit of heft to it and wasn’t going to suddenly move out of place. It was like a well-made ferris wheel, or maybe better put, like a tea rolodex.

“Why did you build it like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s… Odd. You could’ve just made a regular shelving unit.”

“Yeah, well, I could have, and if I was left to my own devices I probably would have, but I didn’t come up with the design.” In an attempt to keep himself busy, and in an act of avoidance, he turned on the stove top and walked the kettle to the sink, where he flipped on the faucet and let the water pour in. “Besides, it’s more fun this way. More creative than anything I could have done on my own.”

“Oh.” And that was his cue to stop talking since he was only going to dig himself into a hole.

So Stu turned his attention to the candy colored ceramics that fit snugly into the walls of each section. They were like little houses in a suburban 88

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neighborhood: all looking the same in size and shape, all cubes with lids that looked like rooftops with round button equse knobs to open them up.

The walls that formed the sections almost acted like little wooden fences separating the houses in this candy colored suburb. Stu watched Albert leisurely lean over and grab one yellow container, without even looking.

“How the Hell do you find anything in here? Nothing is labeled.”

Albert filled a reusable tea bag with the camomile tea he had chosen.

“There is a system to it, organized in columns by leaf, black, white and so on, then each row is a different possible type of added flavor and all the containers are color coded. But if I’m being honest, I just go by memory.”

After he returned the other one he had retrieved back in it’s rightful place, he reached over and pulled the one in the uphand left corner of the tray and handed it to Stu. About the size of a rubik’s cube, it was a deep dark, nearly black blue with little random flecks of color embedded in the glaze that made the ceramic glisten in the light and gave it a cool and smooth finish to the touch. There were intricate swirling grooves that had been carved into the sides.

Impressed, Stu nodded his head in approval. “I never knew you were so artistic.”

“I’m not. He was.” The silence, though brief, was strong enough to make the air thick and hard to breathe. “This,” he pointed to the blue ceramic he had handed Stu, “Is the first one he made for me. He had made it in pottery class.” A watched

The silence, though brief, was strong enough to make the air thick and hard to breathe.

pot never boils but he stared down the kettle while he spoke because he couldn’t bring himself to look away. “I was so proud, and I asked him where he thought we should display it, and he said we should use it for the loose leaf tea I kept buying. I protested at first, arguing that it was a piece of art and no one would get to see it if we just used it for my tea collection that was getting out of hand.” He moved to the cupboard on the right hand side of the oven where he kept the mugs, set one on the counter, and placed the tea bag inside. “But he said he didn’t care if anyone got to see it, he made it for me, not everyone else. He just wanted me to get some good use out of it. So,” he cleared his throat and stared straight ahead as he took the kettle off the hot burner. “As you can see, I came around.”

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Once he poured the scalding water over the tea bag the room filled with the sweet relaxing scent of camomile.

Glancing back at the unlabeled tea rolodex, Stu couldn’t help but notice all the empty spaces inside that would never be filled. Shaking his head, he moved back to the seat he had claimed earlier at the island. “He was a good kid, Al.” He wished he had something more comforting, something kinder, something more profound.

Albert set down his World’s Greatest Grandpa mug filled with tea in front of Stu. “Yeah.”

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SYDNEY SELL

Me of Little Faith I don’t remember when I told anybody I was an atheist, but what I do remember is that at least one of them looked at me like I had just kicked a puppy. Just committed a heinous act of animal abuse right in front of them. I didn’t think I was guilty of anything. I was just admitting to my understanding of how the world works, but maybe my real crime is underestimating the role gods play in other people’s lives?

In all honesty, I’m out of touch. I haven’t believed in any gods since I was at least thirteen years old, no spirits either, nor any souls. I hadn’t been to any kind of religious function for equally as long, until my grandfather’s funeral about a year ago. And then I was glad I had grief then because it would’ve been awkward otherwise.

I think that other people think that understanding death as an ultimate end is a sad experience, but it can be an awkward one as well. It’s an experience that interrupts a funeral, and, in the back of your mind, says: “Um, this stuff isn’t actually happening, and my grandpa’s just… gone.” And then you feel like a hateful idiot because you know everyone else knows they’ll see him again. They’ll join him in some kind of afterlife beyond just their memories, and they’re just going to put your ashes in the dirt.

It’s a peaceful realization as well. When I’m done, I’m done. I don’t have to serve in Heaven, be appraised for reincarnation, or haunt the shit out of my old house. All I have to worry about is what I’m doing right now. And it helps that I understand what’s done is done. I don’t have to wait to see Grandpa again, he’s in my memories, and in my mom’s old photo albums. I can visit him whenever I want, even the mornings on vacation when he stomped around in front of my sister and I in his underwear.

Maybe my crime is underestimating the role religion plays in my own life? A memory of someone is a kind of soul. It’s a handful of little pieces of that person you can carry with you, and maybe that’s why some groups believe taking FEATURED ALUMNI WORK

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a picture steals your soul. A picture keeps a memory that can be shared with as many people as can view it, giving the memory away to the viewers.

Memories may not be metaphysical, but they can certainly be spiritual, or filled with profound feeling and meaning. Moments of gut-wrenching sadness, moments of laughter through pain, moments of noticing that the rest of the world is continuing on around you, those create spiritual memories. Those are moments you carry with you, and they teach you things about yourself and the world.

Maybe my crime is not allowing myself to participate in the community? Faith and death both come with great, large communities. Some of the people who gathered at my grandfather’s funeral are people who didn’t even know my name, or my relation to the deceased. I, and my family, felt supported by these people in our loss, and alienated by them. For some of them, this was not their loss, but the community’s loss. They came because they’d known Grandpa years ago as a city police officer or a neighbor with a friendly dog.

A church group would have done much the same. The congregation would have supported me in my loss, but it would become a community loss. Their grief would not be the same as our immediate family. I don’t feel like I need a community to help me through my grief, or to help my family through their grief. We will handle it our own way.

I’ve kept religion in my own way for a long time anyway. I spend quiet, solitary time alone almost every day walking and listening to music and my own thoughts. Sometimes I perform rituals, such as writing all of my feelings down in a diary, so I can deal with them quietly. Sometimes I fashion things out of clay and paint them with my favorite paints as offerings to friends. Sometimes I take long shamanic journeys as characters I’ve imagined and bring their stories back to be saved to files on my computer with sprawling details also captures on paper. Maybe I am not without religion? Mine is simply different than everybody elses. Mine is the religion of enjoying my time and what I’m doing with it. It requires no gods.

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Maybe a lack of belief is not my crime, or my loss, but a belief in something simpler. I believe I will only exist for a short period of time, so I must spend that time enjoying my experiences. I must spend my time doing my best for myself and those around me. No deities, spirits, or souls required. A religion in its simplest form, without complex theology.

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LASANTHA RODRIGO

Honda CG-125 It was a bright orange, and at one thirty when school ended, Dad waited for the throng of little boys that came out, some of them running, eager to get into their air-conditioned cars. I liked school, especially because I knew that at one thirty, Dad would buy me strawberry ice cream from the Food Cabin. The ride home didn’t take much time — maybe fifteen minutes — after which, I took a nap until Mom came home.

It was in primary school that I had to use crutches. I woke up one morning and couldn’t walk. On the orange motorbike, Dad took me to countless doctors, and one doctor diagnosed me with some bone condition. After that, the orange bike and Dad became my saviors. I know now that the orange CG125 had nothing to do with it: Just Dad. He was my Savior. *** In primary school, I was done at 11.30. Dad could come to take me home at 11.30 because He was out of work at that time. He often was. But was He? Whether working, out of work, or busy with anything, He always had the five rupees. Dad never bought ice cream or anything else for himself. Now I know why: He just had enough money to buy me ice cream. Two would have been too expensive.

I will never know, as Mom’s memory is not that reliable as she has Parkinson’s now. At eighty two, Mom’s memory must be badly compromised.

When I last called her, all she could do was cry. I didn’t understand a single word she uttered between sobs, but the moment she heard my voice across oceans and continents, she knew it was me; she said loudly, “Lasantha!” Then we both cried. I cried inside. She didn’t know how to pretend.

The three most precious men in her life had become two overnight. I don’t know how she could even begin to comprehend after over sixty years of marriage. She was now a widow. Did she know? Did she understand? My sister tells me that Dad used to wash her feet amidst impatience and protestations.

At His old age, Dad had learned to live with her again. Divorce was taboo back in Sri Lanka at the time, so they continued to live with each other, even though it seemed to me that they had become strangers to each other. They lived together to save us the embarrassment.

I called because Aiya had emailed me about Dad’s death. I was grading 94

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student papers at Illinois State University. The newly created coffee room was ideal for the purpose. When I’m at home, I never get anything done. In my solitary existence, all I can do is eat, sleep, or read.

When it finally dawned on me that I was now a solitary soul in a big world, the tears gushed out involuntarily. There were some students in the coffee room, but for once, I couldn’t care less. I was broken. Completely. *** Dad stopped at the petrol shed on the way home. He had to make sure we had enough petrol to get home. The opening of the tank was on the orange belly of the bike just in front of where I was sitting. I loved the smell of petrol. Dad said, “Don’t breathe, Malli. Let’s see how long you can hold your breath!” I could only do about forty five seconds, but by then, we were good to go.

The ride home I remember vaguely, like in a dream; it was, literally and figuratively. I almost always fell asleep, with the wind in my hair and the unmistakable Old Spice after-shave scent fanning my noon-day dreams. I remember waking up near the lake, just about five or six minutes from home.

This is where we could always smell kadju fruit. In retrospect, I realize now that it was some chemical.

Dad wore a red helmet, brown gloves, and khaki pants, like a policeman. At home, He really was … a policeman. On the orange motorbike, Dad’s arms were around me, so I couldn’t fall off. How could He buy a new Malli if I did? *** Home was never complete without Mom. Dad often remained in the periphery, supporting, providing, and fueling the engine, so to speak. He called me Malli, little brother – that’s what I was to all my siblings as I was the youngest. People always exclaimed that I was the baby. I guess I was. If I wanted anything, I always knew that Dad would buy it for me. As a little boy, I never wondered how He was going to buy it, but at that age, I just knew; that’s what Dads did. Whether out of work, penniless, or traumatized financially and otherwise, Dad was the breadwinner, the patriarch, the provider.

Dad knew everything, especially math. He was an accountant. Well, that might be a glorification. He worked in the accounts department. He often helped with my math homework, but He was an impatient teacher, and I got tired of His instruction very quickly.

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*** Dad had seven siblings, and as His Dad, my Grandpa, died very early, Dad was their breadwinner, their savior. He had given up all His dreams to make sure that His two brothers and three sisters were married and settled, to focus on His own dreams. I don’t know if He had dreams, but maybe the right phrase would be “get on with His life.” *** When my Sister told me that Dad was doing very poorly, I knew that He was not going to live that long. I had not seen Him in almost 15 years. Dad was a hypochondriac. His room smelled of medicine even when I was small, but it eventually got even worse: more sleeping, more doctor’s visits, more temper tantrums.

Dad died a couple of days after. Maybe more than a couple, but in my memory, He lives on, like the fragrance of the white water lilies floating languidly on the still water of the lake we passed on the way home: mysterious, omnipresent, glorious. *** It is only after Dad passed away, that I realized for the first time that there was no father figure to quietly celebrate my small victories: getting published in some unheard-of American journal, Walking even five steps, cooking for myself, growing my hair that is still black, making people laugh. But He’s not there.

In our desperate and lonely lives, we imagine that those who have left forever still exist in some higher plane. This is exactly what I did. I imagined He was living in some parallel universe, some unheard of oasis. While He was living, I never wrote to Him; not even once. After He was gone, though, I started writing to Him, periodically. Maybe I imagined He was reading from some place, some unheard-of world.

I don’t know where you are. I’m not hurting as much, and in a way, I can’t forgive myself for that. As I write, I have the wedding picture of you and mom right next to my computer. I’m not crying, but there’s an insurmountable heaviness in my chest that won’t go away. Perhaps it will when I go to bed, but I will think of you in sleeping and waking hours. I might hear you telling me a bedtime story. It was always the same story, the story of a poor boy destined to be king. His name was Ghoshaka. You dramatized all the characters, and 96

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in my pink bed, I listened with wonderment every time. I remember exact phrases to this day. If I’m lucky, I will hear this in my dreams.

Today is the first day that I felt somewhat alive after you died. I have been very sad for twelve days. I didn’t think I was going to come out of this gloom, but I’m beginning to believe in angels.

Tomorrow, I will swim and then go to the library to work on my Classical Mythology class. I am very excited about teaching this class. It’s completely down my alley. You always believed in educating us. I think you did well. I’m giving the gift to others now. You’d be proud of me. Bless my students as you blessed the four of us. All four of us have turned out well. We are not materially rich, but we are all good-hearted human beings. I know you’d be proud of us. You are in us all.

Ah, the tears are coming slowly and my heart

Today is the first day that I felt somewhat alive after you died.

hurts. It’s a good thing. I didn’t want your memory to hurt me less. I know that as much as it hurts me, you are in every cell of my body. My every breath. My every word. Every thought. My strength. My guardian angel.

Ah, Dad, I am getting old. But I will always be your baby. *** I guess when someone dies, when it’s too late,

when all you have left is memories, you realize what an unmerciful, selfish, pathetic wretch of a human being you have been. That’s what I learned. Yeah, I was such an asshole to a man a son could only wish for. Oh, dear god, my heart is a battlefield. Please pull me out of this misery! I do have some good in me somewhere, but ah, it’s less than inadequate.

It’s been over two weeks, and I’m trying so hard to pull myself together. I wish I could disappear. Oh, god, when this man had next to nothing, He gave me the best He could ever give me. But I was so young. Six, maybe. Seven?

But I’m a man now. I wish someone could give me a second chance. Please.

Your picture is staring at me. There’s so much love there. Love that kills me. I must be imagining. You couldn’t possibly glance at me with accusations.

You don’t wish this pain for me, Dad. I know that. Yet, here I am, making my keyboard a sticky mess.

This must be a stage of grieving. Tomorrow, I will wake up to a new day, a FEATURED ALUMNI WORK

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day that you will send me from up above. It will be the best ever because you never gave me anything less.

It’s so quiet, Dad. Darkness is laughing at me quietly. Someone said time heals everything. I must be locked in space where time moves not. Do you remember how it always smelled of kaju puhulung near the lake? Will you take me there? Please don’t leave me here. I’m terrified. *** I still remember that Honda CG-125; it was our Mercedes. At one point, Dad took four of us on that bike: Mom, Dad, Akka, and me. On days you had money, we stopped at the Milk Board to buy ice cream after sea bathing.

While everyone else wanted chocolate flavor, I only liked strawberry. At that time, there were only three flavors: chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. I always pestered you to buy strawberry.

I often wonder why I’m addicted to ice cream. Morning, noon, or night, ice cream always makes me feel better. Especially strawberry ice cream. I never wondered why, but now that you are no more, I know why. Strawberry ice cream always takes me back to those care-free days when you picked me up from school. I was on crutches then, but I knew that at one thirty when school ended, you’d buy me strawberry ice cream from the Food Cabin. The little cup was five rupees, and I never wondered how you always had that, even though you were out of work.

You always said that if I became first in class, you’d buy me anything I wanted. As I was so little and we were poor, I never had anything expensive in mind. It was usually some book I had seen in the library or chocolate I had seen on TV. Kandos was the name of the brand, and there was a Kandos Shop just next to my school. I was cheap. I just didn’t know anything better or more expensive. Looking back, I’m so glad I didn’t.

If you were here, I’d take you to Baskin Robbins. For old times’ sake. On a warm summer day. For strawberry ice cream or any other flavor you’d like. I think you would like Rocky Road or Salted Caramel. I’ll pay.

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UNVEIL YOUR TRUE SELF SHANNON CLARK

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HANNAH MEYER, ALGONA HIGH SCHOOL 1st Place in Prose, Top of Iowa High School Writing Contest

Family The impregnable prison was the nightmare of any and all convicts in the world. From the outside, the building looked calm and inviting, but within its locked doors and thick walls, the truth was unleashed. Hidden in plain sight on a main street, no outsider would suspect the true happenings inside. Unlike how one would imagine a prison, the interior of the building matched that of its exterior. Entering through the large, glass front door, two plush sofas could be seen lining the north wall, directly facing a flat screen television on the south wall. The remainder of the house was equally inviting with photos hanging on every wall of the “family” that resided in the “home.” Dozens of bedrooms were located on both the first and second floors of the house.

On the last Thursday of every month, someone new would be transferred to the well-kept building. This day held the most tension of all others throughout the years. A large, armored vehicle arrived in the driveway and all other activity stopped. The children playing in their yards were called inside by their mothers and the fathers of each home put on hold their yard work.

The routine was the same, and by the time the armored vehicle was pulled to a full stop, the entire street was silent. Men swarmed out of the vehicle and crowded themselves at the back. Within seconds, the silence was interrupted with ghastly screams as another person tried to escape when the back of the vehicle was at last opened.

“Please! Anywhere else! Not here!” he would cry.

Minutes passed as the men dragged their prisoner to the door of the inviting home. His helpless cries got no reply in return. Once inside, the doors were locked and the men returned to their waiting vehicle and left the quiet street. The only sound heard was the rumble of the tires on the pavement.

Absolute silence covered the area until the vehicle was nowhere to be seen.

Slowly, as if nothing had happened at all, the children returned to play and the sound of lawnmowers rang through the air once again.

Inside the prison, the same could not be said. The family inside spoke to the prisoner as though he were one of them.

“Calm, brother,” said a young man holding onto his arm.

“You’re home now, son,” cooed an older woman, patting gently on the 100

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prisoner’s head.

“What about father-son bonding like we used to? What do you say?” the man standing next to the woman suggested.

“What is going on?” the prisoner screamed once again, fighting against the grasp of the number of people holding him down.

“John, I think he just needs some rest,” the woman whispered to the man, “Maybe you two can bond tomorrow morning.”

“You’re probably right, Jane. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Please! Get me out of here!” the prisoner yelled.

“Danny! Can you get your brother some warm milk? Maybe it will help him relax.”

“Yeah. One moment, Mother,” Danny called back, releasing his grasp on the prisoner’s arm. He soon returned with a large glass of milk, watching it carefully as to not spill.

“Drink up, son. You’ll need your rest for the day tomorrow,” Jane said calmly.

“I’m not your son and I don’t want any milk! This has got to be some sick joke! I regret what I did! I swear! I won’t do it again! Just get me out of here!”

“That is no way to speak to your mother, Thomas!” John spat back, his voice booming and echoing throughout the house.

The prisoner immediately stopped crying for help, but the fear in his eyes remained. John took the glass of milk from Danny and offered it to the prisoner, but he refused to accept the glass. John did not take this lightly. He grasped the hair at the back of the prisoner’s neck and pulled his head back.

“Drink it!” he growled, but the prisoner still refused. John poured the milk down the prisoner’s throat, despite his bodily objections, holding his mouth shut until he swallowed.

“See, it’s not that bad, is it Thomas? Now you’ll get a wonderful night’s rest,” Jane smiled.

“Name… my name… it’s Matthew…” the prisoner whispered softly as he lost consciousness and his eyes fluttered shut.

“Sleep well, Thomas!” Danny smiled * * * “Kids! It’s time for breakfast!” Jane called up the stairs the next morning.

The young man woke with a start, uncertain of where he was, and screamed. Jane and John ran up the stairs to meet him.

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“What’s wrong, Thomas? Are you alright?” they asked with worry.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, out of breath, “I just had a bad dream. That’s all.”

“What about?”

“I had forgotten who you all were. I was terrified.”

“It was only a nightmare. Nothing to worry yourself over now. How about you get dressed and come down for breakfast. Your mother made pancakes and eggs. They’re waiting for you downstairs.”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon,” Thomas sighed, wiping sweat from his brow.

He pulled his covers back and swung his legs off the bed. After getting ready, Thomas made his way down the stairs for breakfast. * * * About a month later, Thomas was painting in the kitchen with his brother when the doorbell rang. Both Thomas and Danny turned to face the door.

As the ring began to fade, John and Jane ran to meet who was waiting at the door. The opened door revealed several men holding down a woman who seemed to be struggling against. John and Jane took her from the men and thanked them softly. They pulled her over to one of the plush sofas on the north wall. The woman struggled beneath their grasp. The muscles in her arms seemed to have no power over that of John and Jane.

“Darling, it’s alright,” Jane soothed.

“Please! Don’t make me stay here! I need to get back home! My daughter is alone! I only wanted to help her! She’s sick!” the woman pleaded.

“You don’t have a daughter, Emily. We’re your family. You’re home. How about you calm your nerves with some milk. Thomas, would you grab some milk for your sister?”

“Of course, father!” Thomas responded, running into the kitchen. He soon returned with a large glass, filled to the brim.

“Drink, Emily,” John said calmly, taking the glass from Thomas and passing toward her.

“My name is Jessica and I need out of here! I don’t need any of your stupid milk! I’ve heard what happens here! I know why I’m here, but you have to listen to me! I need to get back to my daughter!”

“Drink the milk, Emily!” Danny yelled almost angrily.

“Don’t be angry with your sister, Danny. She just needs some time to relax.”

“I know what the milk does. It will make me forget who I am. It will make 102

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me forget my daughter. It will make me one of you. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to forget. This is my punishment for stealing that food!”

This angered John and he began pouring the milk down her throat.

“Gentle, John!” Jane urged.

Emily choked on the warm milk until she went unconscious.

“John!” Jane gasped.

John checked her pulse and assured Jane that she was alright.

“She’ll be fine by morning. Take her to her room,” he said, turning to walk to his own. * * * The next morning, the family met downstairs for breakfast.

“Morning, mom!” Emily chirped from the doorway before seating herself at a new chair at the table.

“Good morning, Emily.”

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SAMANTHA DAVIS, NORTH IOWA HIGH SCHOOL 1st Place in Poetry, Top of Iowa High School Writing Contest

Winter Wondersky When the sun is in the sky And river streaming lightly by I sit and wonder at the shrouds Of abstract shapes inside the clouds.

Up there the flowers and the trees Are swarmed by ivory bumble bees Who sniff the flowers, white as snow And birches pale, as birches go.

The owls glide atop it all Until their structures sink and fall And form a different kind of shape Appearing as an icy cape.

While every snowy rabbit hops Through wintery fields and only stops When arctic foxes float around And then they cease to make a sound.

It’s humid on this summer day Although it seems the creatures play In fields of snow that freshly fell Of summer’s heat they cannot tell.

So when they’re nowhere to be found Upon the lush and grassy ground I simply look into the sky Where owls, bees, and foxes lie.

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Contributors Tim Bascom has written 40 short stories like the one published here-“Rocky Mountain Make Believe”--and those father-son tales are available in his newest book Climbing Lessons (Light Messages Press). You can purchase Climbing Lessons at amazon.com or order it from a local bookstore. Bascom, author of four earlier books, served as Waldorf’s Director of Creative Writing for six years.

Elaine Bossard is a faculty member in the Psychology Department.

Always ready to learn new skills, expand her perspective, and have some fun doing so, she enrolled in her first (but not necessarily last) creative writing class in Spring 2020. Two children and 30 chickens at home help to maintain her work-life balance.

Gretchen Burnette is a senior at Waldorf University with a major in English and a minor in Art. In her free time she loves photography and hanging out with friends.

Shannon Clark is a Waldorf alumna. After graduating in December of 2018 with a Communications Degree for graphic design and journalism, she started her career as a Marketing Coordinator at MWI Components in Spencer, IA. Shannon is also a freelance photographer and enjoys creating unique portraits in her free time. Miss Clark is proud to call Waldorf her second home and is grateful to her professors for creating opportunities for her future.

Savanna Cordle is a senior at Waldorf University, majoring in business marketing and management with minors in communication and Spanish.

Although she is from a small town in Minnesota, she enjoys traveling around the globe. She also loves volunteering, through clubs such as Rotaract, on campus

Samantha Davis is a senior at North Iowa High School. She will be majoring in Secondary English Education and minoring in Creative Writing.

When she is not writing, she enjoys running in Track, participating in the Spring Musical, and devouring one book after another.

Rachel Dreeszen is a senior at Waldorf University, majoring in history with a minor in political science. She grew up in Northwest Iowa and hopes to bust out of the small midwest state. Rachel participates in several clubs on campus and enjoys being outside as much as possible.

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Zach Feldt is a senior at Waldorf University majoring in Vocal Performance. He has recently discovered his love for playwriting and writing poems to relieve stress and wants to improve his creativity. When he is not involved in music activities, he tries to practice writing, which is something he never focused on in high school.

Julienne Friday is a Professor of Sociology and Psychology at Waldorf University who enjoys woodworking and builds renaissance-era musical instruments such as harps, hammered dulcimers, and bowed psalteries. She has had works displayed at the Vesterheim Museum, the MacNider Museum, and the Museum of Danish History.

Noah Hoffman is a freshman from Mason City, Iowa. He is majoring in Music Arts Management and loves participating in theater and any music ensemble. His free time is usually filled by listening to music, nerding out over movies or video games, and hanging out with his family.

Jennet Hojanazarova is a Waldorf University junior, majoring in Biology. She is from Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Jennet enjoys cycling, performing experiments, and taking pictures to capture the golden sun.

Jennet hopes that you will see socially relatable messages in her art.

Gary Huizenga is a junior double majoring in Creative Writing and Communications with an emphasis in graphic design. She enjoys creating surreal images both with art and with words and is working toward publishing a novel which she hopes will become a trilogy.

Diana Humble is a senior in the Honors college with majors in Communications, Creative Writing, and an English minor. Her writing and photography can also be found in Z Publishing’s Minnesota’s Top Emerging Poets, Turnpike Magazine, Capulet Mag, and Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal, and she is the 2018 recipient of Alpha Chi Honor Society’s Thelma H. Hall presentation prize in Creative Writing. After graduation she hopes to pursue a Master’s degree in communications.

Barbara Johnson, a retired teacher from Forest City, has recently published her first book, a memoir named The Back Door People, Memories of the Houses Where I Lived. Besides writing, she enjoys gardening, hosting friends and family in her home, and reading about health and spirituality.

Donnica Keeling was raised in the small town of Sheffield, Iowa. After graduating from Waldorf University in 2019 she began working as a librarian in her hometown, while continuing to add to and tweak collections of reinvented fairy tales and folklore poems. However, every writer needs a break from 106

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time to time, and if she is not writing you can always find her in the kitchen, experimenting with new culinary techniques with baking flour all over her.

Noah Keolanui-Herman is a junior studying Communications at Waldorf University, while also part of Rotaract Pillars. He is originally from Hawaii before moving to Iowa. Photography is his biggest passion, specifically portraits, seniors, and fine art photography. Noah strives to keep exploring photography and learning, and continue to create connections with others through the visual arts.

Araneg Leon is a freshman at Waldorf University, majoring in Biology. She is from a small metropolitan city in California and when she is not dedicating her time to academic work, she is playing soccer for the Warriors.

Garcia Menon is a Digital Media-Communications major from Waldorf University. He is an international student from Malaysia with many interests including filmmaking, photography, music and fashion.

Hannah Meyer is a senior from Algona High School. During her free time she enjoys writing, listening to music, and spending time with friends.

Myra Meyer is a Waldorf University sophomore majoring in English. She is from Burt, Iowa and has alwavys had a love for reading and writing. Outside of writing, Myra enjoys music and spends her free time playing her french horn.

Ellie Peters has lived in Iowa her entire life and continues to do so even now. She graduated from Waldorf University with a degree in Creative Writing and a minor in Psychology. She enjoys reading, writing, and eating while at work and in her spare time.

Lasantha Rodrigo, originally from Sri Lanka, currently lives in Bloomington, IL. He earned a Ph.D. in English Studies from Illinois State University. Lasantha specializes in life writing and draws from his growing up years in Sri Lanka. Trauma theory, queer theory, postcolonial theory, and critical race theory are among his main areas of scholastic interests.

As a writer, he strives to draw a thoughtful and humane response from his audience.

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Kobi Sadler is a sophomore majoring in Business and minoring in Creative Writing. He loves being unique and doing everything in a creative way. A couple of his passions are creating duct tape art and writing, so he decided to combine the two and put together a book called “Anti Boring Content.” His artwork is a piece from that book.

Sydney Sell graduated from Waldorf University in December 2018. She’s currently working on pursuing a Master’s degree in either creative writing or library science.

Luna (Aynur) Shirmamedova is a Waldorf University junior, majoring in Communications and minoring in Biology. She is from Turkmenistan; before coming to the United States she used to make different artworks for small organizations. With the right music, she can work on her projects for hours.

Guzel Tuhbatullina, 26, is a Waldorf Alumna (2019) with a BA in communications. Photography became a way of inviting people to see the world through her eyes. Among all the different types of photography, portraiture stands out to her more than any other. Each person’s face is unique and mysterious. It tells its own story. Curiosity to guess that story is one of the reasons she loves taking portraits.

Madina Tuhbatullina is a junior at Waldorf University, majoring in English and Creative Writing, and minoring in Communications. She is from Dashoguz, Turkmenistan. Apart from writing, she enjoys analyzing and finding patterns in literary works, and exploring what those patterns tell about society and the world.

Joe Van Essen is a freshman at Waldorf University who is majoring in Business with a minor in creative writing. Creative writing one of his past times and when he can’t do that he is playing offensive line for the Waldorf Football team.

Sarah Williams is a Waldorf University sophomore from Poway, California, majoring in Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing. Alongside writing, they spend their time drawing, listening to music, and playing volleyball for Waldorf.

There’s 3 well known facts about Mandi Wright— she is 23 years old, loves Modest Mouse, and resides in Forest City, Iowa. When not working at Borderline Pizza / Taco Jerry’s, she enjoys reading and writing, taking walks around town at midnight, and caring for her new family and mischief of rats.

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Tim BascomElaine BossardGretchen Burnette Shannon ClarkSavanna CordleSamantha Davis Rachel DreeszenZach FeldtJulienne Friday Noah HoffmanJennet Hojanazarova Gary HuizengaDiana HumbleBarbara Johnson Donnica KeelingNoah Keolanui-Herman Araneg LeonGarcia MenonHannah Meyer Myra MeyerEllie PetersLasantha Rodrigo Kobi SadlerSydney Sell Luna (Aynur) ShirmamedovaGuzel Tuhbatullina Madina TuhbatullinaJoe Van EssenSarah WIlliams Mandi Wright