Table of Contents
2. Letter from the Director -------------- Brianna Rau
4. The Cleaning ---------------------------- Lauren Pickel
6. Discovery --------------------------------- Eve Lazarski
8. At Rivers Edge -------------------------- Nina Hekmat
11. Little Bugs ------------------------------ Steven Koss
12. In Your Size, I See --------------------- Sophie Schultz
14. Notes ------------------------------------- Emma Altschul
15. Dancing in the Margins -------------- Sophia Tourdot
16. Reading Snack ------------------------- Allie Armstrong
17. Green Eggs and Ham ----------------- Jessie Polson
23. Memoria Mint -------------------------- Sophie Schultz
24. Committee Collage
26. Family Tree ------------------------------ Libby Koss
27. Gapped Vision -------------------------- Alice Van Haaften
28. Best Creative Spaces on Campus --- Lacey Brooks
31. Storytime -------------------------------- Emma Altschul
32. Roots of Another Kind --------------- Alice Van Haaften
34. Midnight Piano ------------------------ Steven Koss
35. Rooftop Sight -------------------------- Sophie Schultz
36. Echoes of Silence ---------------------- Fatemeh Fani
37. Divine Doors --------------------------- Madison Barnes
38. Penny Lost in a Gutter -------------- Sophia Tourdot
39. The Past and the Protected --------- Evan Randle
40. The Wateringhole -------------------- Dominic LeRose
Letter from the Director
Dear Reader:
One of the first questions I was asked when I began my term as WUD Lit Director was what word I want to be the focus of my time in the role. Immediately I thought about the word “community”, what that word means to me personally, and how that could be conveyed through WUD Lit’s committee programming. As our committee has grown and undergone its own metamorphosis (throwback to last year’s community issue!!), the core tenant of why we do all that we do remains the same: helping to provide opportunities where UW-Madison students can build and find their own pockets of community. The community issue—aptly named, in my opinion—is just one of the ways we do that, by coming together as a collective to create something and form connections with one another.
The theme of this year’s issue is between the lines and is all about acknowledging the subtext, the hidden, the indirect. While I was thinking about this theme and how it connects to WUD Lit this year, I thought about the acts of annotation and literary analysis; the way that scholars and casual viewers alike tend to pick art apart, attempting to unearth the deepest and truest intentions of the author. Sometimes the curtains are, in fact, just blue. But more often than not, when digging a little deeper into a piece, reading a little further between the lines, the pattern on the wallpaper is more than just florals.
I have truly been forever changed by the process of creating this issue. I hope that you too will love the works that lay within these pages. Before we get to those pieces, I absolutely must thank all of the amazing people involved in making this issue a reality.
First and foremost, I want to thank all of our incredible contributors. Thank you for trusting us with your art, your creativity, pieces of your souls. This magazine would simply not exist without you, and I am forever grateful that you chose to share your work with the world (or at the very least with the UW-Madison campus) through us.
I also want to thank my entire wonderful WUD Lit executive team, along with Tony and Robin. You are all some of the best and most creative people I know. Thank you for being silly with me, thinking outside the box with me, and being the driving force behind this committee with me. Each one of you is a rockstar and I would not be half the director I am without you.
My last and hands-down most important “thank you” goes out to you, the one reading this. Wherever you are, however you found our little community, I hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as I do.
And with that, I officially welcome you to the Fall 2024 WUD Lit Community Issue!!
With so much love, Brianna
The Cleaning
Lauren Pickel
We meet on Mondays for The Cleaning at 6:30. She totters in, welcomed by the untimely dust and the solitary desks. My thoughts, the secret music of the wordless air, Interrupted.
The timeless tics of the clock and a cough downstairs. Her labored breaths punctuate the sheath environing her lips, a guarded greeting to the gentle stories that blanket the shelves. I watch, careful not to lift my eyes preemptively lest she had not anticipated my gaze. She says hello.
As do I.
And in this moment, a simple How are you transforms into a spoken tradition in tales of old. For the telling of a story of generations, Of life ephemeral and hearts prolonged. I listen to her speak, intently absorbing her history as ink to a page, blood to a blade. And though I cannot tell the difference between six or sixteen years of passing time,
she laughs and shares tokens of her culture with me.
A sailboat that rows steadily past the golden beehive of luck and wealth promised. She gives me faith when the last time I believed in God was through a whisper of thin walls at eleven. And in that moment
When it had only been my words among the books,
Amidst the silence of the sunset, I had been awaiting her assured arrival. She had informed me of her return. And though I cannot see her smile
Amongst an empty mouth, a softened brow, I know its presence and its tenderness.
I know her name and her story.
I am a part of it, too. She is here for nothing but the trash. She leaves with nothing but the trash. I am here for her.
I leave knowing life.
Discovery
At Rivers Edge
Nina Hekmat
the thought of you makes my skin crawl that kind of deep, inaccessible itch that festers obsession desperate picking, pulling, scratching, digging trying in vain to bury the guilt of my submission i feel your residual presence interlaced in the fabric of my skin, of memory witnessing you eclipse me, fixating on the violent sun we’re burned behind my eyelids like an afterimage i remember vividly how your impatient fingers embroidered dread as they traced my seams unapologetic, composed, unrelenting though years have elapsed, my silence still haunts me i pick away at the stitches of my sandbag limbs woefully amused at the thought of unraveling
Little Bugs
Steven Koss
Little bugs who creep and crawl
Through mound of dirt and tree so tall.
From most you only court disgust,
By one swift stroke you are but dust.
Yet guided by some force unseen,
Determined still: for Hive and Queen.
Never mind how many fall, You march on still with legs so small, And never flinch from any horror Hungry giant or weaving torturer.
Do you know, little bug, that my heart salutes you?
You’ve more than a man, in all that you do.
In your size, I see
Dancing in the Margins
Sophia Tourdot
What is Annotating?
To annotate is to start a conversation with the text you are reading. It takes the one-dimensionality of a fiction piece and lets the reader engage with it in ways that are outside of the written page. Writing that first word in between the neat lines of printed art can be daunting and seem sacrilegious but once you break that barrier you can begin to understand the work better than ever before. Annotating provides the reader with the opportunity to interact with the reading and with other readers. Whether you are discussing a work face to face or loaning a friend your copy, an annotated version is so much more personal and enlightening. You leave a part of you on the page just as the author did and oftentimes because of this you feel closer to and have a better understanding of the piece.
How Do You Annotate?
It is way easier to start annotating than you might believe. The first step is realizing you don’t always have to write something super insightful or interesting. You could simply write the emotion you are feeling reading it, questions that arise, or other works that remind you of the current reading. By connecting these things in your mind you may find the reading makes more sense to you and you find a greater appreciation for the art that it is.
Conclusion
There is no true boundary to what annotation can be because it is whatever you make it. It is words, it is pictures, it is thoughts but most importantly it is yours. Annotating allows you to claim art and make it your own. It is such a beautiful and simple thing that takes a passive participant and gives them their own space to be creative.
Best Reading Snack
Ranch Seasoned Oyster Crackers
Allie Armstrong
Need something quick, easy, and clean to snack on while turning the pages of your newest book?
This recipe will certainly do the trick! My mother and I first made these crackers last winter to enjoy during a Northern Wisconsin wilderness hike, but they soon solidified their place on our snack roster. Now, we make them for almost every occasion because they are, truly, just that tasty!
What you need
- 1 large sheet pan
- 1 large bowl
Ingredients
- 1 9 oz bag of oyster crackers
- 1 packet of ranch seasoning mix (add until desired taste)
- ¼ cup of vegetable/canola oil
- 1 tsp of garlic powder
Instructions
- Preheat oven to 350.
- Pour the oyster crackers into a large bowl. Add the oil and garlic powder. Mix together, careful not to crush the oyster crackers.
- Add the ranch seasoning, sprinkling a little at a time until the desired taste is achieved.
- Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and pour the seasoned oyster crackers onto the pan. Spread evenly.
- Bake for 15 minutes, stirring every 5.
- Remove from the oven and let the crackers cool for 1 minute.
- Serve and enjoy!
Green Eggs and Ham
Jessie Polson
Green Eggs and Ham is a classic children’s book written by Dr. Seuss, published in 1960. The story follows a character named Sam-I-Am, who persistently encourages another unnamed character to try a dish of green eggs and ham. The character repeatedly refuses, claiming he does not like green eggs and ham, regardless of where or how they’re offered. The message is about being open to new experiences and not dismissing something before giving it a chance. It emphasizes the importance of trying new things, even if they seem strange or unappealing at first. By the end, the character discovers that he actually likes green eggs and ham, reinforcing the idea that sometimes we can surprise ourselves by enjoying things we didn’t expect to!
I personally love this message, and wanted to create my own version of “green eggs and ham.” Traditionally, green eggs and ham are creamy scrambled eggs with a spinach sauce served with ham, or scrambled with ham in it. My twist on this recipe is to make the eggs green using pesto, not a spinach sauce. Additionally, to use prosciutto instead of ham as almost an Italian spin. Enjoy this delicious take on green eggs and ham!
Ingredients:
- 2eggs
- 1-2 tablespoons of your favorite pesto! (I use the kale vegan pesto from trader joes)
- Parmesan
- Salt, pepper, and garlic
- Prosciutto
- Your favorite bread
- Balsamic glaze
Assembly:
- First, combine your eggs, pesto, and seasonings in a bowl
- Next, turn your pan to medium heat
- Then, toast your bread
- Pour eggs onto pan, add your parmesan, and stir until scrambled (about 3-5 minutes)
- Place prosciutto on top of toasted bread, and place eggs on top
- Lastly, drizzle with balsamic glaze!
Memoria Mint
Sophie Schultz
The mint is sprouting back in the lawn.
I wonder what you will do.
Am I just something in Madison you found.
Will you visit after you move. We ride the same stallions.
Is there a we that will go.
All these questions, Please don’t go.
I pluck the lawn’s mint. And make tea of what comes back.
Will you visit.
What happens if you come back.
Arts Committee
Family Tree
Libby Koss
Alice Van Haaften
Gapped Vision
One Thursday evening, I remember AJ was being extra fussy, so I scooped him out of his high-chair and slipped on his sweater, with the intention of wearing him out. As we stepped out into the short porch, AJ giggled at the puffs of air that fogged out of my mouth, reaching upward towards them. His attention quickly switched to the mud trails and puddles that crisscrossed the sidewalk. While we walked, his little legs ran in short bursts, following a firefly, the uprooted grass, and the long shadows till they were gone. He then stopped, looked up and cried:
“Look!” He pointed to the brilliant red glow that smeared over the open expanse and the backs of tree leaves, “Firetruck sky!”
As we started to reach the neat memorial cemetery, rows of flags and flowers darkened till the evening sun jumped off the horizon. Neighbors would tell me to avoid walking by the tree-lined cemetery in the dark. I would say it’s still light out.
AJ was splashing in puddles loudly behind me. As I reached the corner, I turned to him. “AJ the puddles will be there tomorrow,” I said. A minute passed, then his stomping suddenly stopped. Instead of turning to me, AJ looked intently into the graveyard. I started walking over. He reached out, stumbling towards the trees. “AJ, baby, it’s time to go home.” It felt like my heart was climbing up my neck.
He stopped and pointed into the trees. “Tree man.” My eyes narrowed on the trees as he spoke quietly. I quickly closed the distance and grasped his arm, snatching a look from his perspective –
The trees stood sentinel, silent. The cold air felt prickly on my skin. I kept my eyes level with the trees as I scooped him in my arms. Suddenly, my legs were running home. Someone must be there, I thought, leaving the mud for the concrete, then the porch. I paused at the door and looked back.
No animals appeared. No people stepped out of the lengthening shadow. I thought for a split second—Why did I run?— but I didn’t stop. I swiftly pulled out the keys and opened the door. I locked it quickly. My hand shook against the door handle, unmoving. AJ was dazed in my arms. It took a while to raise that hand and move the curtain on the door window. Still. Nothing. I took in a crisp breath of air.
AJ, still staring in the direction of the graveyard mesmerized, finally looked up and giggled with the most childish grin.
“What’d you see baby?” my words tremored. “Daddy!” AJ screeched. I smiled a bit. It felt like a stupid argument suddenly, a childish joke, and yet...my body remained—tense and staring—beyond the gap in the trees.
Best Creative Spaces on Campus
Memorial Union:
Union South:
The Chazen:
College Library:
Historical Society:
The SAC:
Education Building:
Discovery Building: Proximity to Food Productivity Aesthetics
5 4 3 2 1
Storytime
Emma Altschul
Roots of Another Kind
Alice Van Haaften
Midnight Piano
Steven Koss
A piano begins to play in the moonlight silent madness
Soft and barely heard, perhaps an angel is up past her bedtime
Playing a secret little song beautiful enough to scorn justice.
Every now and then feigning an accident—too loud!
Now something changes about a tree swaying in the wind
Or the way the light scatters off the damp morning streets
Or maybe in that questioning gaze of a little squirrel
Seeing more than humans see, maybe.
For all we can do is wonder.
Echoes of Silence
Fatemeh Fani
A Penny Dropped in a Gutter
Sophia Tourdot
Lost in commotion
Fallen through the cracks
Lost again
Unimportant
Thrown away
Found Lucky Make a wish
When will I be lucky enough to be important enough to be important enough to be lucky again
Divine Doors
Madison Barnes
found my keys beneath my blanket-am I more than lucky? biked home in the dreary dark-I might be more than lucky. nearly drowned, but I was saved–so I looked for a sign. I waited ten seconds for a sign, a door creaked and opened wide. I ignored it and I sighed. prayed for the job woke up with the job my brother’s well again his spirit’s no longer overridden eternal fatigue has gone away ill by night, healed by day ran inside from the kidnapper’s mind as he pulled steel from his sachet I live while feeling clean and I’m blessed with eyes, so I can see that someone is protecting me. I’ll take that as a sign, and open the divine doors. what was I waiting for?
The Past and the Protected
Evan Randle
“You know the rumors are just that — rumors. It’s only a forest. I’ll be fine.”
Hanley Reese waved away the concerned remarks of his mother as he stepped outside of two ivory doors, a clean notebook attached to his hip. With an annoyed sigh, he looked back to his home — a mansion painted in the thirties, bearing the French style of the period (in other words, a yellow that may have once seared his eyes like the sun) — before stepping into his wellmanicured front yard. His home was barred from the surrounding forests by a similarly flaxen wall and a few freshly-replaced gates. The largest of them led to his driveway, which coiled around the tall hill his residence was perched on and into the city below. Today, however, Hanley pushed open one of the house’s side gates – scattering away dust that had accrued in the two months since it had been installed – and stepped into the forest beyond.
Having moved to this far-east country for the sake of his dad — father — ‘s business, Hanley found himself thoroughly exasperated with the state of his new home. While the mansion was nice enough, his joy was obstructed by the humid and sweltering forest circling it for a half mile, and especially by the noisy, rancid, joyless city surrounding his home like a marsh of unfamiliarity. His school was infested with crude thugs who thought his upbringing deserved mockery instead of respect, entirely dissimilar from his friends back home who did nothing but admire him. At least, Hanley conceded, the school didn’t force him to learn the country’s language — though, as he narrowly avoided tripping on a vine, he found himself wishing that it had instead of forcing him to go through this farce.
“Sure, just write about your surroundings. As though there’s anything to write about!”
The thought of his teacher’s vague prompt to compose an essay about one’s ‘natural habitat,’ caused Hanley to exclaim in the middle of his path. He was met only by the ancient, silently judging trees.
“Just get it over with…” Embarrassed by his caving into habit, Hanley massaged his forehead and wiped away some of the sweat that had already accumulated. Then – not without great effort – he took the time to observe his locale, idly flipping his pen between his fingers. The scent of dew, gathered over an hour of heavy rain, mixed with that of the endemic herbs. Hanley didn’t know what those herbs were called, but he supposed that the scent was preferable to the city’s smog. Chirps and calls from various animals (trespassers) rang out intermittently, only small hints as to the creatures’ lives. Hanley’s shrewd eyes, clouded by his Cartier glasses, glanced over the trees; Maple, he knew, though he did not recall the names of the others. Different as each tree was, their leaves melded together in a dense mixture, preventing the young man from being scorched by and even seeing the sun.
“...”
An exasperated sigh escaped Hanley’s throat, and his fingers moved to rub his eyes in annoyance. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He didn’t care about the wildlife back home, and he definitely didn’t care for it here. The teachers said the culture of this country was interesting, the locales mystifying, the history tragically compelling. To him, it was just another backwater that wore the veneer of modernity.
The teacher wouldn’t be able to know if Hanley just made up a story, wouldn’t he? He wasn’t so uninspired as to use AI, so something moderately interesting could get him an A. Or a B. It wasn’t a big difference. “...Yeah, sure.”
With a self-indulgent nod, Hanley tilted his head back and looked past the organic, green leaves to his stark yellow home. He blinked a few times over his glasses – the contrast was straining. His foot tapped against the ground a few times as he attempted to devise a convincing enough argument to his mother. Otherwise she’d tell him to go outside and to ‘do it legitimately’. Legitimately. Like how his dad made his money. Or how his home tried to help this country. God bless. Hey, he thought, I guess I do know that much about this dump’s history. Still, a bit of tangential knowledge wouldn’t convince his mother.
“Mmm…”
Hanley hummed as he checked his Rolex. 5:45. He could wander around, write some surface-level things, return to his mom at nightfall, and maintain his supposed resolution to not cheat.
And so, after ensuring he had Google Maps up (for as long as the hick internet would allow him), Hanley continued through the forest. He absentmindedly scribbled a few bullet points every now and then: “Trees are pretty”, “I am stupefied by beauty”, “Wonderful screeching”, and so on. Otherwise, though, his mind wandered to other thoughts: lazing under his wellcrafted quilt, eating some salted meat, driving his new car at home. It was only when the cemetery came into view that he was roused from his indolence.
The gate was rusted, clearly not remotely taken care of for at least a decade. It widened into an enclosure of similar disrepair, flanked by weeds that had been allowed – willingly or otherwise – to take root and force themselves into the environment. Inside the enclosure itself stood a series of sticks forced into the ground. Hasty as their placements appeared, the wooden markers stood upright, solidly, and almost with a vague sense of resolve.
“A cemetery…impressive.” Hanley murmured aloud, though his sarcastic words belied a raised brow. He glanced over the enclosure itself. The heavily deteriorated nature of its exterior seemed to predate the
slightly rotted but still upright markers by at least some time, and his now-engaged eyes were unable to detect any writing, legible would it have been to him or not. If it was a cemetery, it was a shoddily constructed one without care for presentation or posterity. Yet, out of a curiosity that he preferred to label boredom, Hanley soon stepped through the decrepit gate, pen tightly held in his fist.
Kicking away blades of overgrown grass, Hanley’s gaze wandered over the patchwork collection of markers, unable to detect anything of note. The sticks seemed completely average by his estimations; a few possessed dark stains that he assumed came from rain or decay. He walked around in circles, looking between the rusted yet isolating bars of the fence, hoping to come across some sudden discovery that did not require additional effort. When a few more minutes of cursory examination failed to reveal any secrets, all the young man was left with was the lingering and embarrassing feeling that he had gotten his hopes up for nothing of particular value.
“The least they could’ve done was leave writing or … or anything to look at,” He grumbled, handkerchief rubbing against his glasses as he moved to depart the scene-
“Tại sao bạn nghĩ đó là mục đích?”
Clatter.
The glasses fell to the ground, their pristine edges now shrouded by dank weeds. Hanley’s scrawny body trembled, and he tried his utmost to stifle his breathing. It wasn’t the sudden noise that scared him. Or the fact that the words were foreign to him.
It was the voice. The raspy, sullen voice sounded as though it had been dragged through mud, flame, and thorns, losing piece after piece of its whole with every painful moment. The voice that, despite its shaky and painful nature, somehow bore a sense of confidence. No, not confidence. Pride.
At Waterhole
Dominic LeRose
Contributors
Committee Director: Brianna Rau
Programing Associate Director: Allie Armstrong
Access and Outreach Associate Director: Emma Altschul
Marketing Associate Director: Beatrice Lazarski
Emmie Editor-in-Chief: Easton Parks
Dish Editor-in-Chief: Natasha Davis
Illumination Editor-in-Chief: Alice Van Haaften
Huge thanks to our advisors Robin Schmoldt and Tony Wise
Coloring sheets by Clare Ryan and Beatrice Lazarski
