On Saturday, RBM read from a nonfiction collage, "Once More to Aurelia," which WLA named runner-up for best creative writing submission. Back in March, RBM read from the same manuscript-in-progress at this year's Native American Literature Symposium (PDF). Here's a brief excerpt from "Once More to Aurelia," and this year's full list of WLA award winners. (Thanks to Frederick Manfred, and all the award committee members!)
At the big gravel lot, the office is locked but Judy has left my keys under the mat, with a receipt and sorry we missed you scribbled in blue. Three months of parking out here on the edge of nothing has cost $212, for which I'm grateful, but only after checking the windshield. The cab lost some paint to last month's hailstorm, but at least the glass held out. So has the battery, but just barely. I power down the windows. I give the engine some gas. I whisper a prayer of thanks to Judy, and then something small and yellow begins dive-bombing the windshield, filling the nothingness with a sound I haven't heard in 20 years. It's coming from the driver's side mirror. Giant yellow wasps—streaming from the housing, pouring into the cab, knocking themselves silly against everything that shines in the August heat.
I paw at the console, forcing one window back up, the other down. The old motors groan, sucking down the last of the juice from the hood. It seems to take a whole minute, but finally there's glass between me and the nest. I can see it more clearly now, wrapped around my reflection on three sides, each muddy cavity pulsing with a tiny angry missile. More or less exactly the picture of the Badlands that I carry in my mind’s eye. Welcome, says the sign on 44.
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| Congratulations, one and all! See you next year in Reno |
That's right! Good catch, Pineapple Hill.
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