PROSE

Mirrors

by Payton Ganzer

There is a certain angle at which water begins to look back.

Not when it is restless. Not when it is stirred by wind or interrupted by a thrown stone.
It requires an agreement between the body and whatever lies beneath it.

A pause.

A careful leaning.

A willingness to see something that might not stay.

How long can an image survive within water before it becomes something else? A blur. A
shadow. A suggestion. Does the mouth dissolve first, or maybe the eyes? It depends on
the light.

Is it possible that the earliest reflections were no discoveries but accidents? A person
bending to drink. A forehead caught in the dark. A shape that moved when they moved.
Something so small and meaningless with no reason to be held down as a memory.

ater does not explain itself. It does not insist. It offers an outline and then takes it
back. And I wonder, not urgently, just quietly…what it means to see something only
briefly. What does it mean when it refuses to stay?

There are other surfaces now that do not tremble. Those that do not require patience.
They hold what they are given and refuse to ripple. The image may not be dissolved
without consent.

What happens when a face does not disappear? When it stays long enough to be
studied?

Long enough to be compared?

Long enough to be corrected?

I have stood in front of these ‘other surfaces’ quite often and felt something shift inside
me. Not recognition exactly. Something closer to evaluation. A narrowing of the eyes. A
cataloging. A quiet negotiation between who I see and what is staring back at me.

Water never asked for that.

It never allowed enough time to memorize the curve of a mouth or the unevenness of
skin. It never lingered long enough to invite revision. Unable to be rearranged.

Was that mercy?

Water could not hold me still long enough to study. Water doesn’t allow me to memorize
myself. In water, the self was an event…something that happened and then dissolved.

Now it feels more like an object. I know the exact angle of my own mouth.

I am not sure that knowledge has made me kinder.

I am not sure what it has made me at all.

On Spanish

by Selena Constanza-Chavez

I do not think Spanish could ever be separated from my being. It is the safety of my family’s
bloodline wrapped tightly around me. It is the rich, melodic sound my parents use to convey their
love for me.

Ever since I have been away from home, I reach for Spanish like a lifeline. I look for it every
time I turn a corner, and in each and every conversation I overhear as a passerby. I look forward
to the daily calls with my Mother just so I can steal a piece of home and carry it around with me.

“No te vas a morir pronto,” My Mother says as she answers the phone on the first ring.
You’re not going to die soon.
A phrase uttered only when you had already been thinking about the other person before they
called.
A sentiment I have been hearing my entire life. These words feel like a motherly kiss on the
forehead, they remind me that home is just one call away.

Spanish is also the windows rolled down in my car and the feeling of the wind blowing strongly
in my hair. Surrounded by my friends as we shout the lyrics of our favorite childhood songs,
Spanish is like the thread tying us all together. Despite our families coming from different
countries, we are bound by a language in which its emotion cannot be translated back to English.
This too I carry with me while I am away from home. With my headphones settled comfortably
over my ears on my way to class, the sound of Julieta Venegas’ voice echoes throughout my
body, making the winter sun shining down on my skin feel warmer and the leaves missing from
the surrounding trees feel temporary instead of permanent.

Spanish is vibrant, encompassing all colors of the rainbow, el arcoíris. Making life’s brighter
moments feel brighter and impossible to ignore, a light that could never be dimmed. This
language was given to me on the day I was born, passed down from many generations, it has
permanent residence in my heart. Spanish is a part of me.

Roly-Polies

by Benito Carson

Council Bluffs is a faded Polaroid in my childhood memory box, fuzzy around the edges
like a vignette. I get lost in it sometimes. I reach inside the photo, and when my hand unclasps, I
see the form of an isopod in my palm. Its little legs still wiggle. It is my key, my pull-tab, and
when I pull, my pop-up book unfolds.

As it does, I see the stark yellow sun again, casting heavy shadows onto my three-story
apartment complex, onto the asphalt nearby, into the cracks of the pavement. It is glaring at me,
so I sweat in response. I am small again, and my little legs can run. Out here, among the hot
gusts and the water vapor that clings to my skin, I am free range; the fever of activity sputters to
a stop only when the world is colored in a deep orange and the streetlamps buzz to life.

Today, I am peering across a wide street. Across the way, my friend has a pastel-pink
bicycle that glimmers in the yellow backdrop, with thin, rosy streamers that cling to the
handlebars— her noble steed, a surefire way to venture into the unknown. It is a novel thing to
me, that it could let her glide across the block, pushing against the warm wind, the lines in the
sidewalk passing under her like film reel. I want to soar like her. In a soft voice, I beg, “can I
try?” She seems to understand the joy of gliding; with a selfless goodwill that seems to subsist
only in the innocence of that childhood we both possess, she smiles and nods. She helps me hoist
myself onto the white seat, instructs me on the positioning of my legs, how to grip the
handlebars. But she cannot get me to fly; I am careening, wobbling to and fro, barely able to hold
myself upright as my foot kicks at the whirling pedals uselessly. My heart is thudding too fast,
and I climb off the seat in a hurry. I can’t. I can only stare down at the pavement and wonder
what makes me unfit. I wonder why I couldn’t keep my shoe on the pedal a little longer. I
could’ve flown.

The memory folds back into itself, and another folds outwards, upright. We are exploring
near the shamrock-green thicket behind the apartments; her steed rolls along by her side. The sky
today is bonnie-blue, and the yellow hue of the sun still reaches here, behind the complex. My
eyes are exploring an electrical box, hers a freshly poured mixture of concrete sludge, soon to
grow up into pavement. My view flicks up to her one second, then down at the lightning bolt
inscribed on the door of the electrical cabinet, warning of the buzzing electrical pressure within.
My vision flicks up again, only to widen; she’s rolling the wheels of her bicycle through the
glistening, unset cement, leaving a carved-out line directly through it, leaving zig-zag tread
patterns in it. Certainly, a unique signature! I can’t help but admire the immature artistry,
superimposed on an otherwise boring grey canvas. Even then, though, I know she is treading into
danger, something more than wet concrete. The air feels unstable, and the water vapor does not
cling to my skin. It is somewhere else. I shake my head at her. “You could get in trouble.” I am a
weathervane squeaking in the angry gust, but she will not look. I walk backward, then turn,
hurrying behind the bulky electric box. I spend what seems like an hour hiding there. The form
of a woman approaches. Her eyebrows could almost touch with how hard they furrow. My friend
seems to recognize this woman, and her form shrinks. The woman does not wait for an
explanation. Her voice is an impression of heat and thunder in a cloudburst, each syllable uttered
like another touchdown of burning voltage. She takes no subtleties, shouts words that would
make my father thwack me across the head if he had ever heard them come out of my own
mouth. Truly, a mother’s love. My chest feels like it’s trapped on a tilt-a-whirl as I look at my
friend’s face. I want to say something, to at the very least offer her an umbrella in the downpour,
but I stand there, refusing to move. Refusing to do anything at all. The air is so much sharper,
and I have failed. I was only a weathervane. I could’ve spoken.

Again, the memory folds. Today is not the same. I am in the outside halls of the
neighboring apartments, staring at the litter and debris scattered around, the grime that is so
commonplace. The sun does not reach here. I can see something on the ground. I crouch down to
view the oval-shaped, breathing pebbles on the ground among the inanimate. I pick up the one I
like the most. Its grey-brown plates of armor have curled as its form bows inward, shielding
itself from all that can harm and shatter its interior in a tight ball. It is helpless, to me. It cannot
speak, it cannot up and fly. I poke and prod at it, taking on a warm fascination, entertaining
myself at its novelty. It knows to curl inwards and hide from the outside forces, even if I would
not harm it. I would not; I am strangely sympathetic. But after a while, I set it down, and leave it
to its own. It will only coil up again and again. It will never leave its underside open. It can’t.
The novelty of it will fade, because it is a predictable thing.

I am not small anymore, and my legs don’t run nearly as fast as they did. But I have my
pop-up book, and every now and then, the pages flitter in my mind, each memory riffling by with
bullet speed. A weathervane. A bicycle. A pedal. A cloudburst. A flower blooming out of a bud.
A friend I will never see again, forever reduced to a distorted actor in the hazy, replayable scenes
my mind visits. Plates of armor.

I stare at the roly-poly sometimes, feel it around with my hand. It is an inexplicable urge.
Its little legs still wiggle, of course, but it will not open itself for me. It has molted and left
behind the remnants of its growth, but even the shedded parts look just as shielded. I can’t help
but wonder if plates of armor are ever very hard to carry. Some people have gone into the
inferno, the mess of war, covered in burdensome, full suits of plated armor to battle in some
marshland or swamp. They have sunk into the depths, where they are forever preserved, shielded
as they are, because they tried to protect themselves from the outside forces with something that
would drag them further down.

Prose Bios 

Selena Constanza-Chavez is a freshman at Simpson College from Des Moines, Iowa. She is currently majoring in English and Education studies and aims to become a high school English teacher after graduation. While she has been an avid reader all her life, she has only started writing creatively this year. One of her favorite genres to write is creative nonfiction because she enjoys revisiting important moments from her past through a creative lens. In her free time, Selena enjoys going on runs, watching movies, and making bracelets.  

Benito Carson-Hi, I am Benito Carson (Ben). I am a sophomore at Simpson College with a focus in Education Studies and English. I got the opportunity to start creating poetry and short prose when I entered the creative writing classes offered on campus. I like to read, but I also like to create works of graphic art as well. My favorite thing to do on campus is go for walks, especially near Buxton Park or the trail close to campus

Payton Ganzer-From Wilton, IA, senior Criminal Justice major Payton Ganzer is driven by a desire to understand, grow, and make a meaningful impact. She leads with empathy, curiosity, and a genuine interest in the experiences that shape both herself and others. Payton strives to show up in every space with authenticity, intention, and care, leaving behind something both thoughtful and real.