2019 poetry alum J. Estanislao Lopez was recently featured in Zocalo Public Square. Read an excerpt of “What the Fingers Do” below:

What the Fingers Do

My daughter learned to point
in a cemetery.
There were many deaths that year.

The priests’ black shirts grew discolored from sweat.
Florists did well.
Pillowy, white fabric lined the open casket,

as if we were burying, with the body,
a bit of sky…


Read this poem in its entirety here: https://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/2022/05/13/j-estanislao-lopez/chronicles/poetry/

2010 poetry alum Rebecca Foust was recently featured by the Hudson Review, Verse Daily, and the Poetry Foundation. Read an excerpt of “ALZ Ghazal” below:

ALZ Ghazal

For my sister

It’s the same house, same rugs, same wallpaper, and bedroom repeating;

same dresser; same rocker. Same window and frame, repeating.


Same birds at the pane, same pots and pans, and—on the alarm clock,

the wall clock, the phone clock—the same time, repeating


each hour’s increment in a lived life. But, This is no life, each day like

before and to come, repeating.


The furniture set in a known pattern. The rugs there, like always, inking

the blueprint of home, repeating


jewel tones on the floor, but what was once north–south now seems to lie

east–west—who moved the rugs?—in sum, repeating


the familiar, but sideways. Your inner axis has shifted, the landmarks

somehow changed but the same, you repeating


Why do they keep moving the rugs?  The desk, the chair, your keys?

Home its own balm, repeating


the familiar, but neither keys nor your purse can be found—I know

I just had them—repeating


the questions yields the same, that is, no real answers. Your sense of taste

gone, like eating chum, repeating


the same million small motions: fork to plate then mouth, then back down,

always the same, repeating


the flavor of cardboard. You used to love to cook, that joyous jazz variation-

on-a-theme now a repeating


like pages of musical staffs, xeroxed blank with no notes. Lately, you refuse

to eat anything at all. In a poem, repeating


lines compose a refrain and, echoed again and again, the sum of refrains

is a song. But there is also empty repeating:


zero plus zero plus zero still zero, a void. No accretion, no growth, no life,

no thrum. Then again, birds—some, repeating


one clear note, are said to singing without tune—and, the same set of sounds

from a beaten drum, repeating


means nothing and everything at the same time. The gene runs in families

and can be followed like breadcrumbs, repeating


the precise map for getting lost, down through generations. She took the same

route to work on the town tram, a repeating


my sister relied on. We rely on a plum to taste purple when our teeth break

its skin. Some numbers go on ad infinitum, repeating…



Find the rest of this poem here (and be sure to check out “At the Train Station Circa 1982” and “and for a time we lived” at the Hudson Review and Verse Daily).

Poetry alum Chloe Martinez was recently featured in Couplet Poetry. Read an excerpt of “Heads” below:


We are walking and he stops, then with


excruciating care and barely-balance bends


down—suspense is about time, suspension


is about space—and turns a fallen penny from tails



to heads. He is leaving some


luck for a stranger. He is leaving. 


Some luck…



Read the rest of this poem, as well as another, here. (And also check out “Mira’s Colors,” another poem by Martinez, at the Poetry Foundation.)

Fiction alum Elizabeth Mayer was recently featured in Husk. Read an excerpt of “Sweet Reason” below:

Sweet Reason

He had that feeling you get when you’re pulling down your pants, about to sit on the toilet, then realize, an instant too late, your iPhone is still in your back pocket. It was dread, but it was also surrender. Catastrophe was in motion. You couldn’t stop it.

He dreamt he had crippling arthritis in his ring finger from years of playing steel guitar. He dreamt he shaved his head, but when he dusted the fuzz from his crown and looked up at the mirror, his face had morphed into Randy Quaid’s. He dreamt he was lost in the mall. He found his way to the roof but it was 17 stories high with no way down. There were no zombies, only zombie consumers. It wasn’t satire; it was pure fear-of-heights. He dreamt he said women are inferior to men in front of a woman he had been in love with for years. Her face, so clear in the rooms of his subconscious, turned to disgust. He woke with a pounding heart.


Read the rest of this piece here: https://huskzine.com/issues/husk-1-1/sweetreason/

Fiction alum Alyson Mosquera Dutemple was recently featured in Husk. Read an excerpt of “Ploughman’s Lunch” below:

Ploughman’s Lunch

The corpse’s hair had been shellacked to its head, which was strange, considering how the spirit who used to animate the corpse felt about grooming. In all his days, the spirit who used to animate the corpse never used “product” and his granddaughter remembered that was just the way he always said it. “Product.” He’d wag his uncombed head above the cutting board, slicing off bits of cheddar wheel and stale bread, Ploughman’s Lunch, which often hurt the girl’s loose teeth. “So much the better,” he’d say. “Maybe there’s a nickel for you yet.” A nickel was small potatoes. An insult. Inflation had made it so that the going price of a lost tooth was closer to four or five dollars by now. But the girl couldn’t tell if he was kidding and worried that discussing these changes would incense the old man, who preferred things to stay the same. The girl herself liked changes of all sorts, or at least, she suspected she did. The new teeth cutting through her gum line were pleasingly ridged. Her smile, a shifting landscape.

The girl refrained from telling the man many things during the afternoons he watched her, knowing how their interests failed to align. She read books for pleasure, used words the man had never heard, turns of phrases she knew he’d find impertinent. The old man owned very few books, mostly volumes of silly puns and rejoinders. He had a fifty-cent piece glued to his threshold meant to fool unsuspecting visitors into bending down to pick it up. The girl had never bent down, being there, as she was, the day he affixed it, watching his sausage fingers operate the glue gun, hearing the ghostly groan of his bones when he pulled himself off the floor.


Read the rest of this piece here: https://huskzine.com/issues/husk-1-1/ploughmanslunch/

Fiction alum Erin Osborne was recently featured in Husk. Read an excerpt of “I Wanted to Tell You Something” below:

I Wanted to Tell You Something

It was a shard of metal flowing safely through your aorta, over and over again for the rest of your life. It was a petal of the hydrangea flower, veined and changing. It was the curve of a fern’s frond. It was the beak of a finch, any finch. It was a tiny glass sphere, indisputable in its composition.  It was a misfiring synapse. It was the snaps of my coat against the barrel of the clothes dryer. It was that arias exist; they’re a thing!


Read the rest of this piece, as well as another, here: https://huskzine.com/issues/husk-1-1/conductingpheasants/

The Peaceful Cuisine of Ryoya Takeshima,” by poetry alum Cecile Marcato, recently appeared in Husk. Read an excerpt below:

The Peaceful Cuisine of Ryoya Takeshima

Music accompanies the cook,
a nearly tuneless tune without words.
He is blooming spices, grating
garlic; he is making
noodles with soy flour,
water, salt
skipping some small steps
(or performing them off camera).
Slicing lotus root,
spinach, tiny mushrooms
(button and enoki)
with a variegated blade
(Damascus-style, a miniature sword).
With miso he is making a vegan broth.


Read the rest of this poem here: https://huskzine.com/issues/husk-1-1/the-peaceful-cuisine-of-ryoya-takeshima/

2018 fiction alum Christina Ward-Niven was recently featured in Husk. Read an excerpt of “Himalayan Glaciers” below:

Himalayan Glaciers

In those days, the woman favored deep-winter Sunday afternoons. The four inhabitants of the house scattered among its rooms while wind whipped and ice storms rendered roadways treacherous. In pockets of the home, they burrowed into their projects.

On the sofa, the woman curled under a plaid blanket, reading. It was contemporary autofiction. It was a Nabokov novel. It was an essay in a magazine. It was the news on a screen.

The younger of the two teen girls hunched over the kitchen table, making a poster about electricity or geology. Or the Civil War. Scratch of pencil, vibration of eraser. Marker caps pulled off, clicked back on. Absentminded humming of a pop song.

The older teen girl sprawled upstairs on her bed, face in laptop, half studying for an exam, half wandering the wilds of the internet. Her time left in the home would soon be measured in months. It was an undiscussed countdown, a ticking clock with a jarring alarm, pre-set.


Read this piece in its entirety here: https://huskzine.com/issues/husk-1-1/himalayanglaciers/

2020 fiction alum Alberto Reyes Morgan was recently featured in Husk. Read an excerpt of “Farina” below:


Farina down below me, open eyes staring. They look like broken glass, his eyebrows bleeding, his tongue slurred out. And me, yelling at his body, my hands waving. I think about jumping down the hole of the roof he fell through, but I’m afraid. He’s in a living room, next to an altar with a San Juditas, next to the big fucking TV we’d seen through the window, and I think I see the bald head of an old man going up to him.

I run away, and he does some time. I keep hitting the mona and he’s trying to stop using in there he tells me over the phone. Fixes up a deal where he gets out and goes to an anexo. They make him stand naked and throw buckets of cold water on him, call him an hijo de la chingada and all kinds of things. Cures him.


Read this piece in its entirety, as well as another, here: https://huskzine.com/issues/husk-1-1/tonatiuhfarina/

The time has come! Registration for the July 2022 Wally Camp is OPEN! If you didn’t receive an email with the link, contact [email protected]
Wally Camp begins Wednesday, July 13 with some social time, then a reading, and then porch! Classes and readings happen on Thursday and Friday, then we add workshops and bookshops on Saturday and Sunday. Chock-a-block!
Registration closes on June 3, so you have time to arrange your whole life around the conference. Workshops, readings, the porch – everything but ducks and the dance.
Of course, don’t be afraid to register sooner – just be sure to get those i’s crossed and t’s dotted.
Last year’s website is still up if you want to review what happens at a virtual Wally Conference (that can be shared publicly).
Information about and solicitations for the auction will come later in a separate email. In the meantime, start concocting those donations! We were amazed last year at the creativity and generosity alumni showed in supporting Friends of Writers scholarships through their donations.
Oh yeah, and please don’t share links with non-Wallys. We’re not being precious, we just don’t want to get Zoom bombed.
Just so you know, here are the IMPORTANT DATES:
  • June 3 – Registration CLOSES
  • June 10 – Workshop groups, classes, & reading schedule emailed to registrants and posted on Wally Camp website
  • June 13 – Workshop drafts due to group members (or as decided by groups)
  • July 6 – Class materials due (send to [email protected])
  • Wed, July 13 – Sunday, July 17 – Virtual Wally Camp! (A Zoom link will be sent two days before.)
Can’t wait to see you!
David Ruekberg
Alison Moore
Jennifer Leah Büchi
2022 Wally Camp Hosts
Warren Wilson/Goddard MFA Alumni Conference