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Re-membering: Power of Storytelling

Published Online Only

Raining Cats and Dogs

Gabriela Belardi


Chris Topah

Salvation Knoll

Alexandra Murphy

Lady would never forgive Edie if Grandma spilled into the dirty upholstery and drifted out the cracked windows along with the continuous bellows of Camel Lights. The way Grandma shifted back and forth in the backseat as Edie sped along the US-6 made Lady on edge. She was grateful when the yellow light on the dashboard glowed outside of Helper, forcing them to stop for gas. As soon as Edie disappeared inside for some beer and smokes, Lady looked disapprovingly into the cluttered backseat until her eyes settled on the ornate box of ashes that contained her grandmother’s ashes.

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Alma Helaman Hale: A story of Mormon settler-colonialism as a biography of my Great-Great-Great-Grandfather and his family

Nicholas Jacobsen

Collage featuring images of Alma Helaman Hale in his later years with one of his two families, including his second wife, Ellen Victoria Clark Hale, whom he polygamously married in 1865 and their 7 adult children (1906-ish?) all laid over one of Joseph Smith’s seer stones.

Alma Helaman Hale lived the Mormon Pioneer story. He was the first in my direct family line to be “born in the covenant,” or born into a Mormon family, which is reflected in his being named after Book of Mormon characters Alma and Helaman. One-hundred-and-forty-eight years later I was “born in the covenant” in the Indigenous lands which he and his fellow Mormons helped to colonize through land theft and genocide. I am one out of hundreds of Alma’s descendants.

Alma moved with the self-proclaimed Saints to each of their Zions–from Kirtland, Ohio; to Far West, Missouri; to Nauvoo, Illinois; and eventually west of the Rocky Mountains (where I grew up) with the Brighamite branch. The history of Mormon settler-colonialism is his history. His history is my inheritance.

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Heart Under Water

Paula Bravo

I wish I could put this in someone else’s hands..

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IPF #2

Elek Tolman


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Jupiter Diner

Henry Tanaka

God works the swing shift every evening at The Jupiter Diner off Main street near the Briarwood station. She arrives every day around 4p.m. and the bell above the entrance at Jupiter’s chimes when she pushes the door open and walks past the glass pastry case full of fresh pies made that morning to use the facilities and wrap her long silver hair in a tight bun the size of coffee mug turned upside down, held together using a silver hair pin with a moon stone embedded in it. She dawns the classic pink uniform with the white collar, white paper hat and white orthopedic shoes. Not that she needs them, but damn, if they aren’t comfy during a dinner rush.

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Mehdi Hasan


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Healing from Bipolar and Multiple Sclerosis, an Artist in Recovery

Patricia Nosanchuk


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The Smelling of Olive Oil

Shaheer Pulikka

Looking out from the top of the granite cliff, he felt as if the blue and green Mediterranean Sea was eager to tell him its history that had not been told to anyone and the truths of the world's history that no one knew. Standing in the middle of the ancient buildings of Jaffa and the sea that had seen the heroic warriors who had surprised the history of the world, Juan's mind felt a rush of emotions, first pride, then sadness, then happiness.

He thought about how quickly his dreams had come to him like this, bare bones. It took only six months to go from an orphanage in Varapuzha to become the most beloved staff of Manila Madam.

His first documentary was about Nelliampathy. Later, when he realized that Hampi, with four days left to complete five months on the job, was driven by Juan's amazing thoughts of history and travel, Manila sent him to Calcutta to make a documentary about Sonagachi.

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The Visitor

Bill Funk

I cannot tell you how long it was before I finally got to sleep that night. I was restless; tossing and turning as one does when one’s mind becomes haunted, full of difficult to turn off worrying thoughts and bad memories. There were plenty of these. It had been a rough year.

Outside, the wind would stir, rustling leaves about. I would awaken. The house would creak as old houses do. My mind would wander off and dig up old memories. Those were the ones I wanted to put far behind me. Yet they are being placed right before me again in all their troublesome Technicolor highlights.

When I thought I finally had put all those mental pictures behind me and started to drift off, I slowly began to have this notion that perhaps I was not alone.

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The Sprite

Bill Funk

When I thought I finally had put all those mental pictures behind me and started to drift off, I slowly began to have this notion that perhaps I was not alone.

As soon as Ann walks into the room, one of the smaller Sprites flies to her and hovers in front of her. Ann smiles, she recognizes this one.

Holding out her hand, the little Sprite lightly settles on her palm. Ann draws her near for a better look.

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