For the 2025 content, writers were encouraged to submit stories on the theme of "Roots." Inspired by Madison Public Library's 150th Anniversary, writers examined their personal histories, revisited moments worth holding onto, explored moments of conflict, and planted new ideas to grow from.
- Grand Prize: "Dear Joni" by Ash G
- 1st Runner Up: "Selene and the Moon Bison" by Rowan Moran
- 2nd Runner Up: "Rooted To The Trees" by Nina Pfeiffer
- Semifinalists:
- "I am a root!" by Adele D
- "Everything is Not What it Seems" by Wallace Snover
- "Nindaanikoobijiganag/Ne Tünna’a (My Ancestors)" by Cloe Zimmerman
Grand Prize Winner: Ash Gartler
Dear Joni
by Ash G
Dear Joni,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I suspect the mail will be late again. When the house was torn down back in April I thought I’d see you there with Dad, watching that front door finally crumble under the unbearable weight of guilt. He laughed when the last beam fell and the roof caved in on the empty home once so full of life. He doesn’t even drink ginger ale anymore because it reminds him of Mom when she could no longer support her own weight. I went to the park yesterday—where were you? The bench has cobwebs now, there is a family of termites that call the rotting arrangement of wood their home and every night I visit that spot I watch them flawlessly carry twice their weight without ginger ale.
Dad ordered a Coke at the Mexican restaurant we went to last night, the shabby little building just off fourth street with the rusty tables outside. I believe I last saw you nine months ago at the funeral, wearing all black with one Airpod while Dad was talking. I remember watching you shake your head in disapproval when he spoke of all her great achievements, trying to recall one trophy on display that could guide you. He used to take you and Liam to the arcade near the homeless encampments, Pac-Man and crushed pills mixed with the bitter smell of nostalgia splattered across the black, windowless walls. Before he died, Liam was six foot three, dwarfing you by seven inches. It was always easy to read his emotions because his eyebrows were so thick, every expression was displayed at full volume for the audience.
Dear Joni,
Do you remember being six? My friend Alice slept over one night and made fun of the food we had in the pantry because of the off-brand Trader Joe's snacks. For three months, I wouldn’t let Mom shop there, even when there was that big snowstorm and we couldn't drive anywhere for two days. You and I made snow forts in the front lawn and laughed when the dogs peed on them. We would climb those big piles of slush raked up by the snowplows at the end of the street and pretend we were at war. I loved pretending—it was so much easier to imagine something when I thought it would never happen.
In the last few months of her life, Mom barely spoke at all. She would lay on her back in the blank hospice room and stare at the cheesy chemo posters on the wall.
“Recovery looks good on you!”
She hated that place, the cold lighting and the liquified meals after treatment. I remember giving her the scarf I bought for your eighteenth birthday that you called lame and threw under the bed. Dad wrapped the scarf around her bald head and kissed her cheek. You weren’t there. You were never there.
Dear Joni,
You moved in with Liam about three months before he shot himself, back when I was in eighth grade. I never learned why, but I also never felt the need to ask. Does it matter how you die if you were bound to die anyhow? I don’t recall Liam very well, but I have memorized the ridges on the cracked television in his basement and the stitching on the beer-stained couch you slept on. I remember you screaming at Mom two days later in the living room, her tears, the red mark on your face. I remember apologies, but I don’t remember who said them.
I never asked Dad about it. You are ten letters into the alphabet, so I suppose I figured you were born with more priority. I remember you before it all, when we were young and “drug” was the store we’d go to buy candy bars, right after your braces fixed your teeth for the first time. Now when you smile, it looks like God himself shredded your gums in his fury. Last week when I visited Dad I found him slumped over the recliner, holding a cracked photo of you and I from when we were kids. On the coffee table, I spotted a ginger beer.
I don’t know if you have a house, or where you are, but this is the address that Liam’s Mom gave me last Thursday. I suppose I’d like to ask you about the photograph we found before Dad burned the old mahogany desk. It’s a dusty Polariod of Mom and you on the trip to Long Beach in 07’, vibrant and damp from the coastal mist. Across the film, etched into the surface with Sharpie, it reads
“I’m sorry.”
—who was talking?
Dear Joni,
It has been two years since I last saw you. We had a snowstorm a few weeks ago, and I stayed in and ate Joe-Joes. I have decided I would rather leave the memory of you incomplete, rather than fill it in myself with dusty pictures that no longer resemble you. I stopped drawing. I only paint now, canvases of love and beauty so that there is something physical I am leaving behind, something far more valuable than an unfinished story. I don’t want to know who apologized, or for what they were sorry for. I want to remember you in the snowplow piles and Pac-Man and not the needles Dad found littered around your bathroom in the old house. I am not going to spend any more years of my life trying to piece you together like some sort of dead (or alive?) puzzle.
Dear Joni,
Wherever you are, please come home.
Dad ran out of ginger beer.
About the Author
Ash (15) is a sophomore at West High School born in Chicago and raised in Madison. He has always had a creative mind and loved writing since childhood, especially as a form of personal expression. While he specializes in poetry and short stories, he enjoys all forms of literature and is interested in branching out to other genres such as screenwriting and science fiction. Much of his work is deeply inspired by his personal interests and an understanding of human relationships, highlighted by his sometimes harsh, pointed style. He is very passionate about music and film, and enjoys playing sports and cooking in his free time. He is excited for a future in creative writing in college and hopes to attend university abroad to travel and explore his passions.
1st Runner Up: Rowan Moran
Selene and the Moon Bison
by Rowan Moran
I am known by many names: The All-Maker, Mahāvṛkṣa, Craobh Mór. The Great Tree. Names mean little to me. Words confuse me. Is it so that my children can no longer understand the language of the heart? It was not so long ago that we all lived in harmony. All of us protected in the warmth embrace of my many branches. But I have not forgotten my children. And I have many stories to tell.
Some time ago, when the world was new, a girl was born under a full moon. She was the daughter of a prominent war-chief. Selene, they called her.
Selene was a dreamer at heart, though she was raised to be a warrior. She was taught to ride on horseback almost as soon as she could walk. From the age of five, she could wield a spear with a proficiency not seen since her great-grandfather, the fabled Qutuk. Despite this, she had never uttered a single word.
It was not until her sixteenth winter that she spoke. The conditions were harsh, and food was scarce. Selene’s father had allowed her to lead a hunting expedition to a distant steppe. She took with her only the most skilled hunters, for failure could mean starvation for her people. They had tracked a herd of bison for three days before they caught up to them grazing in a field. The sun hung low in the evening sky, and the huntsmen quickly nocked and drew their bows, awaiting the signal from their leader.
But Selene did not raise her hand.
The very wind seemed to hold its breath. The huntsmen glanced at each other in confusion, as the bison continued to graze peacefully in fading light. Among the herd, they now noticed, stood a towering white cow. The majestic bison raised her head, and her eyes, shining with the light of the moon, fell on Selene. The girl took a step forward.
“Selene!” the hunters hissed.
But she did not look back. She slowly lowered her spear and walked past them, towards the herd.
The bison did not see. The white cow stepped forward, and bowed her massive head to the girl. Selene gently placed a hand on the creature’s brow.
And then she spoke.
A word older than war, older than time. A word so ancient that perhaps only I still remember.
The word left her lips, curling into vapor against the cold air. The towering bison leaned into Selene’s hand, and then it vanished, like mist returning to the heavens. One by one, the rest of the herd followed suit, leaving only trampled grass where they had stood.
The girl stared at the empty field a moment longer before turning to face her companions.
The journey back was spent in a subdued silence, and few words were exchanged. The company arrived back at their people's settlement just as the first rays of sun glanced over the horizon. Selene learned that her youngest sister, Hulan, had fallen ill while she was away. She quickly rushed to her sister’s side, though the whispers began to follow her.
“She is cursed by the wicked moon-cow!” People murmured. Selene’s own father refused to meet her eyes. This continued for seven days, until Selene’s grandmother, who had died years prior, visited her in a dream.
You are not cursed, child, you are called! The old woman said, laughing joyously. You carry her spirit now, the Moon Bison. Go, venture to where the trees walk, where the stones remember. She waits for you there!
“Emee?” Selene asked, “Grandmother?”
Yes?
“What of my sister? I cannot leave her?”
She is healed. The woman replied simply.
Selene rose before dawn, and slipped out into the dark. She crossed plains alone, ventured through woods that whispered, and mountains that sang. The moon followed her for many days and many nights, until she came at last to the edge of the world. To the place where all times do meet.
And there they awaited her.
The moon bison.
There were many of them now, their coats shining like snow under starlight, their eyes deep with memory.
The creatures taught Selene how to follow her heart, and together, they danced across a star-strewn sky.
They did not speak. They did not need to.
Selene was born of two worlds, and now she was home.
Some roots run deeper than blood.
2nd Runner Up: Nina Pfeiffer
Semifinalist: Adele Daugherty
Semifinalist: Wallace Snover
Everything is Not What it Seems
by Wallace Snover
Everyone who moved to the town of Steiner went crazy. For example Ms. Peabody, the new principal of Steiner Elementary, lasted three weeks before going insane.The town of Steiner was weird.But the weirdest thing about the town was the giant tree in the town square. Nobody knew how long it had been there. At least those were the stories everybody told Alex Andeson. Alex hated Steiner. She never wanted to move there. Who could blame her though? The people were mean, her house smelled like burning hair, and worst of all there was a ugly old doll who watched over Alex while she slept. One day Alex went to the town square to climb the tree. “Get off of there.” said a voice behind Alex. She turned around and saw an old man all dressed in black. “Sorry I didn’t know,” said Alex.” It’s fine.” said the man “Just get down from there.” As Alex was climbing down from the tree she slipped and fell. When she was just about to hit the ground, the roots grabbed her and pulled her underground.”Help!” screamed Alex but it was too late she was already under the ground.
***
Alex woke up in a bedroom that looked quite old. The wallpaper was decorated with black roses, the carpet was threadbear, and the shelves were filled with old toys. A glass doll, a few toy trucks, and some old books. Alex walked over to the bedroom door and walked out into a field of roses, sunflowers, and dasies. She tried to take a step but found she couldn’t. She looked down at her feet and roots were growing on her! “Help!” she cried. “Calm down” said a voice. Then all of a sudden a boy came into view.”Hi.” he said. “HELP!” screamed Alex more loudly.”My name is Albert.” said the boy. “Oh my god just help me!” yelled Alex as loudly as she could. “Sorry I can’t.” said the boy “But remember everything is not what it seems.” Then he disapeared.
***
Alex woke up in a hospital. She looked at her mom who was crying.”Mom.” said alex.”Oh Alex.” said her Mom.”Mom Albert didn't help me!”screamed Alex.”Who's Albert?” asked Alex’s mom. “Albert didn’t help me!” screamed Alex again.”Honey you’re scaring me!” Yelled her mom.”But-” started alex. “shhhh.” said her mom.
***
Alex woke up in her parent’s car.”Whoa that was a crazy dream I just had” said Alex.”Okay Honey.” said her dad. “Were here” said her mom.”Welcome to the town of Steiner.”
Semifinalist: Cloe Zimmerman
Nindaanikoobijiganag/Ne Tünna’a (My Ancestors)
by Cloe Zimmerman
You know that weird thing that your family does? Maybe it’s the unusual names you are given, a holiday tradition that none of your friends have ever heard of, or even just the close-knit mentality of your family. You probably wonder why your family does that. Or maybe you know why, but others would look at those customs and think of them as weird or abnormal. But sometimes the difference comes down to your heritage, your roots.
Some people might find it weird that when we get together as a family we sometimes burn dried sage, the act of which is called “smudging.” Or whenever I tell others my middle name. People laugh or simply look confused. “Why that?” “That’s not a real name.” I simply tell them that Manitou is a Native American word meaning “spirit.” My parents gave me that name to always remind me of our family’s Native American heritage.
Though I may not look it, I come from Native Americans. My great-great-grandfather, George Tibbetts, was from the Otter Tail Clan of the Chippewa Nation. He was born and raised on the White Earth Reservation in Minnesota. My great-great-grandmother was from the Shoshone nation. She was born and raised on the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming. The two met at the infamous Carlisle Indian School and would eventually marry.
An American woman, Grace Coolidge, and an Arapaho missionary, Sherman Coolidge, lived on the Wind River Reservation. The couple adopted a Shoshone girl, Effie, and an Arapaho girl, Virginia, when their mothers could no longer care for them. Although Grace did not approve of the Indian Schools Movement, both girls were sent to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School.
While there, Effie Coolidge met George Tibbetts who would be her future husband. The purpose of the Carlisle Indian School was to “kill the Indian and save the Man.” At this and other Indian Schools, attendees were stripped of their culture. Traditional tribal customs were frowned upon, and the schools worked to teach them the White ways instead. By doing this, they tore apart communities; Native American nations could no longer connect over their traditions and many children were taken away from their homes to attend these schools. Still today, many families are working to try to repair the disconnect in their community and remind Natives of the ways of their people. Therefore, this institution is frowned upon by most. However, George Tibbetts enjoyed his time at this school.
Despite the negative connotation of the Carlisle Indian School, George loved the opportunities it gave him. At school, he was captain of the football team, and he ran track. George even trained with the world-famous Jim Thorpe, the greatest athlete of the century, prior to Thorpe competing in the Olympics in Stockholm, Sweden. Ford Motor Company and Carlisle had a partnership to employ many of the students, including George.
Later on, Effie and George got married. They moved to Detroit, Michigan where George worked as a carpenter for Ford. Their child, Harold (my great-grandpa), spent his summers in Minnesota
with his grandmother, George’s mother. Her name was Katie Wakefield. She spoke the native Ojibwe language. Harold said that although she was nearly blind, she went on walks with him in the woods, and would even know when a porcupine was nearby just by the smell of it in the air.
It is so important for us to remember our roots because without knowing where we have come from, we cannot rightly honor those who have come before us. We also need to reflect on the past in order to learn from it and to improve our future. The Indian Schools Movement is incredibly controversial. Most people who look back on it wish that it could be permanently erased from our history. It is one of our grave errors as a country. But it is interesting to see how proud my family is to say that our relatives have gone through that problematic period for Natives in our country. In fact, if we erased this less-than-glamorous part in American history, I and my three preceding generations would not exist. But, we cannot wipe this from our history just as the schools could not fully wipe Native culture from the students who went there. Afterall, if those who went there forgot about their culture, my family would not proudly state our heritage and I would not be writing about my roots.