Utah's Best Poetry & Prose 2023: Utah's Best Poetry & Prose

By LUW Press, Danielle Harward, Alexis Hansen and 35 more

A collection of the year's best fiction, poetry, and personal essays, featuring thirty-seven recipients of the Olive Woolley Burt and Typewriter Awards: Linda Allison, Alice M. Batzel, Joseph A. Batzel, Lauryn Christopher, Emily Robyn Clark, Megan Condie, Vince Font, Gina G, Alexis Hansen, Jo Lynne Harline, Danielle Harward, Amanda Hill, Lorraine Jeffery, Rachelle Knapp, L. S. Kunz, Caryn Larrinaga, C. H. Lindsay, Terra Luft, Inna V. Lyon, Wm David Mallery, Paula Murcia, Eve Oeme, John M. Olsen, Pat Partridge, Erica Richardson, Rebecca Robertson, David Rodeback, Talysa Sainz, Valarie Schenk, Shakira Smith, Linda F. Smith, Matt Surface, Candace J. Thomas, Cassidy Ward, Johnny Worthen, Daniel Yocom, and Bryan Young

• Language: English
• Publisher: LUW Press
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988576709

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Utah’s Best Poetry & Prose 2023Title Page

Utah’s Best Poetry & Prose 2023

Copyright © 2023 by the League of Utah Writers

Individual works are Copyright © 2023 by their respective authors

All rights reserved. The stories in this book are the property of their respective authors, in all media both physical and digital. No one, except the owners of this property, may reproduce, copy, or publish in any medium any individual story or part of this anthology without the express permission of the author of the work.

The contents of this book are fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, place, or event is purely coincidental. Any opinions expressed by the authors are their own and do not reflect those of the editors or the League of Utah Writers.

Cover design © 2023 by the League of Utah Writers

Edited by Beverly Bernard

Proofread by Talysa Sainz

CONTENTS

Foreword

Caryn Larrinaga, 2023 Publications Chair of the League of Utah Writers

Nonfiction

Dear Carlitos (A Letter to My Brother)

Vince Font

Shadows of the Ghosts of Christmas

Wm David Mallery

Someone Else’s War

Inna V. Lyon

Baby Skates

Valarie Schenk

Summers of a Midwestern Youth

Linda Allison

My Eternal Turtle

Eve Oeme

Fiction

Shifting Sands

L. S. Kunz

The Case of the Missing Hair

David Rodeback

The God Project

Megan Condie

Mr. Buckley

Shakira Smith

Through Words Alone

Rebecca Robertson

And He Did

Cassidy Ward

Death by Misadventure

John M. Olsen

Fog of War

Terra Luft

For Scrying Out Loud

Caryn Larrinaga

Forgive Me, Jeremy

Matt Surface

If You Could Forget One Thing

Pat Partridge

Internal Clock

Daniel Yocom

The Weaver

Emily Robyn Clark

A Worthy Process

Danielle Harward

Note Found in an Abandoned Clock

Johnny Worthen

Tilting at Windmills

Lauryn Christopher

Planned Parenthood

Bryan Young

Poetry

Unyielding

Talysa Sainz

The Window by Your Bed

Rachelle Knapp

Pandemic Winter

Linda F. Smith

Silent Ocean

Paula Murcia

The Crush

Gina G

Monster-ish Trees

C. H. Lindsay

Ice Fishing

Jo Lynne Harline

Hearing Loss

Lorraine Jeffery

Fine.

Candace J. Thomas

Did You Change Your Mind

Amanda Hill

Chains of Compulsion

Erica Richardson

Beach Therapy

Alice M. Batzel

Ace of Hearts

Alexis Hansen

My Mind's Eye

Joseph A. Batzel

About the Authors

FOREWORD

CARYN LARRINAGA, 2023 PUBLICATIONS CHAIR OF THE LEAGUE OF UTAH WRITERS

The League of Utah Writers stands as a guiding force for writers and poets across the state. With its unwavering commitment to friendship, education, and encouragement, this non-profit organization has had an immeasurable impact on the trajectory of many a Utah author’s writing career, including mine.

Whether a budding writer seeking to refine their craft or a seasoned poet or author yearning to push boundaries, the League embraces all with open arms. Through the support of our statewide chapters and the expertise shared at our two wonderful annual conferences, this vibrant community serves as a nurturing oasis for those seeking to hone their skills and find their unique voice. It is here that the seeds of inspiration take root, flourishing into works of art that captivate readers and touch their souls.

The power in this collection of award-winning pieces demonstrates exactly why the League’s mission, and particularly the mission of League of Utah Writers Press, is so critical. It is an opportunity to shine a spotlight on diverse voices and perspectives, amplifying the richness and beauty of human expression as only writing can.

Thank you for joining us in our mission once again.

NONFICTION

DEAR CARLITOS (A LETTER TO MY BROTHER)

VINCE FONT

Do you remember that thing you used to do when we were kids? The thing with the turtles? When we lived in the old house by the creek, sometimes in summer it would rain so hard that it would flood, turning the backyard into our very own specimen pond. There were frogs of all sizes, earthworms thick as rope, salamanders slick as snot, and water bugs and crayfish everywhere. But they didn’t hold your interest. Not like the turtles did.

Maybe it was the sight of so many of them on their backs, powerless to right themselves, that triggered your own feelings of helplessness and made you want to fix them. Or maybe you saw them as some great spilled bounty of mosaic stones you felt compelled to put back in order.

Whatever it was, watching you on those days was like witnessing a whirling dervish set loose upon the earth. You’d erupt from the back patio door and splash all through the flooded yard, feet kicking up explosions of mud as you raced from one turtle to the next, gathering them up and bringing them onto the hardwood deck where it was dry, lining them up in crooked rows like some mad child’s nature exhibit.

Most of the turtles were small, no bigger than your fist, but some were huge—as big around as that enormous dinner platter Mom always kept on display in the dining room but never used. You moved more cautiously with those, but they never slowed you down, and you raced with the urgency of a saver of lives, oblivious to the cold and rain and the fact everyone in the neighborhood looked at you like you were something to fear.

I knew you weren’t because I am your brother, but I like to think I would have known better even if I wasn’t.

Once you were certain no turtle had been overlooked, you’d carry them back down to the creek, one by one, returning them all to their rightful places even though there was no way to be certain exactly where they belonged. Who knows how many changes to the habitat you affected? How many future turtle lineages were saved?

Mom wouldn’t let me go outside because I was too small, so I stood at the window and watched. Each time you came back from the creek, you were muddier than before, but there was an expression of such joy on your face that it was impossible not to see what was happening. It was as if a great weight were being lifted from you, and for a short time you didn’t look like the slow kid at the end of the block all the other children avoided, but someone to be admired. Even if all you ever did was save some slimy turtles.

I always thought it was too bad those times were so infrequent and short-lived. Most of us spend the entirety of our lives praying floods don’t happen. You longed for them—and when they arrived, you reveled in them.

One time during an especially bad flood, you took a spill down the hill and practically ruined that brand new Mork from Ork t-shirt you loved so much, but even that didn’t stop you. Mom knew better than to try to call you inside to change, so she came outside and snatched it right off your back, forcing you to finish your mission bareback.

Later that night at dinner, you complained about having to wear the shirt that bore the name of the special kids academy they tried sending you to. What was it called? Whitmore? Whetstone? You hated it there. Most of the time, you refused to go, always opting for the company of your own—us—over the kids that formed that unique community of cast-asides no one quite knew what to do with.

I couldn’t blame you. How horrible it must have been to feel that you were being forced into a mold you didn’t fit, all broken legs and twisted arms with just a hole punched at the top to breathe through. It’s no wonder why you kicked and screamed until they finally said you didn’t have to go back.

It was a place you felt you didn’t belong, and in so many ways, you didn’t. You were not born the way you are. Somewhere along your way to an ordinary existence, life turned on you. A twist of fate. The arrival of misfortune. They have lots of colorful phrases for these things, but none that ever really capture what it must be like to have your life turned inside out forever.

In the beginning, everything was fine. According to what little I could get out of Mom about the terrible thing she still has trouble talking about, the first six years of your life were uneventful. Normal, if you can believe that. Then, a month before your seventh birthday, something went wrong. You took a nap in the middle of the day, and when Mom checked on you an hour later, you wouldn’t wake up.

Ambulances were called. Dad raced home from work. His brother—our uncle, a medical doctor—arrived at the house in time to jump in the back and accompany all three of you to the hospital. Once there, the mystery only deepened.

The doctors had no idea. Encephalitis, they speculated, but back in the late 60s in that part of the world, there was little else to do in such a circumstance but pray. The thing that gripped you left you comatose and at death’s door. A priest gave you your last rites. Mom was inconsolable. And all the while inside her belly, me. Is it any wonder I turned out so uptight?

Then, just before the sickness scratched you from the world, it turned tail and ran. Not quite returning you to the living as much as leaving you stranded in that pillowy gray space between life and death—the space in which you slept for three full weeks before awakening. When finally you did, you were changed.

Everyone called it a miracle, but I have my own thoughts. What kind of miracle plucks a boy from death and returns him too damaged to ever become his own person—leaving you the way you are and always will be? I’ve heard it said that God has a wicked sense of humor, but you of all people know firsthand his mean streak is even worse.

There were years of recovery. Physical therapy. Speech therapy. Eventually, the aftermath of the illness transformed into daily life. The struggle became the routine. Then one day, turtles. Everywhere. Stirring something inside so deep that no one could understand, least of all you.

The creek bed rose and fell with time. Floods happened, and then they didn’t. The creek ran dry, and right about that time was when we moved away. Do you remember staring out the back window of Dad’s colossal dayglo station wagon as we drove away for the last time? We never saw the old house again, but sometimes I still go there in my sleep. In those dreams, the creek is never not flooding, and you are never not throwing yourself into it for the sake of lives that could never thank you if they wanted.

There was no creek near the new house, and it never rained enough to cause a flood. If you ever saw another turtle in the wild, I never heard of it.

Time marched on. We grew up and apart. And when the time came, I left you behind to find my way.

Occasionally, we’d talk by phone. Every time we did, you’d fill my ear with tales of how soon you would be living on your own like me, yet as confident as you sounded, I think you believed it even less than I did. It hurt to hear you talk about a life you’d never live in a place you’d never reach.

After I left, I stayed gone for years. I think I thought that doing so might help you grow your own wings without constantly being compared to mine. Can you blame a guy for running away?

But lately when we talk, your voice is tired. And now that I see age descending on your bones in pictures, and as I stare into the mirror to find new wrinkles where once the flesh held smooth and taut, it dawns on me our times are short.

I’m home again now. Back. A place I haven’t been since yesterday was still a dream away. Turning the wheel onto our street, I see you standing by the mailbox. You’re not content to wait inside with Mom and Dad. Besides, you’re eager to get out, and the lift in your shoulders as you see my car approach makes me feel close again to the child you once were.

Perhaps, I think, we still have time.

I blow the horn, drop the window, call your name—Carlitos, never Carlos, always a child though you are older—and you come to the car like a wanderer overdue for a break.

You’re pawing at the passenger door before I can even unlock it, and as you jump in beside me, your age-stained backpack crushes the end of my nose and I can smell the peanut butter bars you’ve packed for lunch, those terrible things, always your favorite.

A resigned sigh escapes my lips, and as I anticipate the smacking sounds you’ll make as you shovel them down beside me, I’m struck with the thought that there are some things in this world at once both maddening and comforting.

Your hair is short, your brow receding, and the salt-and-pepper that remains will turn an ashen shade before long. There’s flaking skin between your lips and chin, but the stubble that you’re growing just might cover that in time. Who’d have thought that one day, you might just be distinguished looking?

I tell you happy birthday, and you say thanks. Today’s a brothers’ day, just you and me, the first I can recall. There’s still a few hours before your birthday dinner, and I’m taking you off Mom’s tired hands to give her time to put something together.

This year is a milestone. One nobody ever thought you’d live to see, especially on that fifty-three-year-gone day when the sky grew dark and the angels turned a blind eye.

I ask you how old you are, and it’s just like you to lie: Thirty.

Yeah, right! Double that, I remark, and you hit me with a sidelong glance like you can’t be sure you heard me right. Then your eyes stare straight ahead as something inside ticks and tocks, and you nod your head in concession.

When I ask you where you want to go, you say, The aquarium.

I laugh and put the car in gear. All right, the aquarium.

One guess where you’ll want to spend the entirety of our visit. I think they might be glad to see you, too.

SHADOWS OF THE GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS

WM DAVID MALLERY

Melancholy is the happiness of being sad.

VICTOR HUGO

I grew up in Florida and have never known the smell 

of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. 

Christmas always smelled of salt and sand. 

I finally discovered the crisp, clean scent of a White Christmas

at age 56. 

At that time, I had traveled to Utah from Mississippi,

where I led a state agency responsible for long-term disaster recovery. 

I served in the position throughout the 

Hurricane Katrina and Deepwater Horizon disasters. 

Holiday songs do not describe the haunting 

from the smell of sour devastation after a hurricane. 

Or the permeating stench of a massive oil spill.

Or the metastatic odor of cancer. 

Of course, they don’t.

There is an inescapable melancholy that is part of Christmas. It is a shadow of the Ghosts of Christmases that have Passed, writ large upon our present. No matter how we celebrate the season, there are always songs and smells and tastes that we attach to memories of yore. Great memories, mostly. We were all once children, impatient and excited for gifts and festivities. As the years pass, our lives evolve. The child in each of us lives on, but we are increasingly burdened by worries, frets, and the busy-ness of life. Deep inside, we don’t really age; we learn. Often the hard way. We like to think that we become wiser, but perhaps we only fool ourselves with our attempts to harden into the mold of adult-ery.

But this time of year! The holiday songs and lights and the smell of evergreen boughs—these things reach beyond the hardness. They jingle the bells of our memories.

Yet melancholy sneaks in. We can pretend it doesn’t, but it finds a way. Even Elvis had a Blue Christmas.

Along with each memory—however we may choose to address it, embrace it, or hide from it—a glow of warmth begins within our heart-hearth. The memories become more fleeting with the passage of time and years. I can attest to that! But for their elusiveness, they become all the more precious to us. And as ephemeral as the moment and memory may be—of our own childhood Christmas, or a lost parent or grandparent, or the memory of a child now grown and gone—each has its shadowed ghost of sadness. And we realize that they are memories that we cannot relive… cannot recapture.

We (mostly) do not focus on the sadness in these reflections, but rather on the heart-warmed goodness of the love and joy that the memories bring. But with each memory relived, beyond our periphery the shadow of melancholy grows. The Ghosts of Christmases Passed whisper to us. Whether we want to hear them or not. These voices often echo from a cold, dark hearth when we are least expecting.

Or maybe it is just me.

I know irony. I believe that life has its yin and its yang. Hot defines cold. We learn to cherish love when we acknowledge things like hatred and fear and selfishness in our world. For me, the beloved memories bring the shadowed juxtaposition of those things that I have lost. My own childhood. My own children. My grandparents. My father. My brothers and sisters. Most recently, our family home in the country that defined over the river and through the woods in my mind and in my heart. (A home that was built before the Civil War and was recently lost to fire.) Great memories, sure. But the joyful images accentuate the in absentia. Christmas Melancholy seeps in, stealthily.

But I digress from the present moment.

Shortly before we traveled to Utah for this, my first White Christmas, my phone rang. I saw the name on the display. It was someone I care a lot about but who seldom calls me. A business acquaintance, I’ll say. But I am a fortunate person for whom business aligns with my life’s passion, so the term business acquaintance doesn’t really work for me. She is family. Her voice is immediately tired. As it goes with family members, we can sense when things are out of order. From that call last week, I learned that today her husband is having a lump removed from his neck. They already know it is cancer. They won’t know until after Christmas how far the cancer may have spread throughout his body.

Their family celebration has been juxtaposed by the dark shadow of Christmas Future. We will pray for them. We will hope. I sit here in my own irony at my wife’s family home in Utah, watching the snow fall quietly in nature’s solitude beyond a glass pane. No matter how hard my heart wishes, I cannot send to their hearts the bright peace that I see… or replace their pain with my pane-view—flakes of comfort, in their white purity, falling from the heavens.

Exactly one year prior, I was preparing for a quiet Christmas in Mississippi when I received a different call. Mother Nature had broken the peace. She had delivered to a community the devastation of the Ghost of Christmas Present in a whirlwind that shattered homes and hopes and dreams. Whatever else they may be, tornadoes are decidedly not Christmas gifts. In the darkness, I arrived in the town of Columbia to see people’s Christmas scattered across the dark, wet, devastating aftermath-landscape of the twister. It was a Silent Night, except for the sound of tears.

One by one, my calls were returned, and our loved ones were okay. But they were also not okay. Local heroes responded in the days to