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/

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/

An essay by 2012 fiction alum Katie Runde was recently featured in Catapult. Read an excerpt of Runde’s essay below:

(Photo credit: Rebecca Sanabria)

Writing Your Little Stories in the Shadow of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop

By the time we moved to Iowa City seven years ago, my husband and I had lived in three cities in five years, where I’d held three different jobs, earned one MFA, and miscarried twice before our first daughter was born.

There were only a handful of cities in the US where it was possible to both pay off my husband’s six-figure medical-school loans before we had grandchildren and maybe also find some kind of literary scene. We’d moved here for his job in the ER at University of Iowa Hospital but also for a list of reasons I learned to recite when people asked why we left LA and New York: for the better schools and lower cost of living, for proximity to my Cedar Rapids in-laws. Iowa City also had the bougie bars, restaurants, and breweries that we were used to, plus the shows and art and blue candidate names on yard signs around election time.

It also had the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where so many writers I’d admired had passed through and where a disproportionate number of buzzed-about and brilliant books were born. Because of the Workshop’s presence, the city punched above its weight and attracted famous authors on tour, hosted festivals, boasted several bookstores, and had literary quotes etched into the sidewalk.

Maybe I should have been intimidated, returning here with my handful of third-tier journal publications and the walking stick my MFA program had awarded graduates instead of guaranteed agent contracts, but I was too tired. When we arrived, I was in the sleepless fog of new motherhood and about to get surprise-pregnant with a second baby. I hadn’t written in years, succumbing to the caffeine of Keurig cups, the oxytocin of baby snuggles, and the cortisol that coursed through me when she cried. In 2014, I’d ceremoniously named a long project I’d written “final.docx,” saved it to an old laptop, and never looked at it again. I obeyed the self-protective impulse to leave that project there until I had full-time childcare, or a better brain, or a group of local writer friends to share tea and trauma plots with. I knew that if I started writing again, there would be a vast gap between what the words on the screen were doing and what I wanted them to do, and only tiny slivers of time to spend narrowing that gap.

If I was being totally honest with myself, Iowa City’s reputation as a writers’ town was way higher on my list of reasons for moving than I let on (“Sure would be cool to catch a Prairie Lights reading sometime!” I’d tell people, like that was all it was). But, when I talked about moving, I never talked about the reemerging ache of my creative ambition.

Read the rest of this essay here: https://catapult.co/dont-write-alone/stories/katie-runde-iowa-writers-workshop-iowa-city-field-of-dreams-mfa-motherhood-community