Learn more about the 150th celebration




Nebraska is a sea of land–flat and stretching in all directions like a Monsanto ocean. At dusk, hot orange radiates a full 180 degrees along the horizon. We are here to work, to raise this season’s crop of art, which will be fully organic, insufficiently subsidized, and only half-ripe when they cart it off to market.

I live with four artists—Raluca, Z, Lindsay, and Aimee—in a house that hardly even qualifies as a building. The living room is on the second floor, or the first depending on the part of the house you ask. There are leather recliners and floral couches salvaged from all over eastern Nebraska and an ancient heater. “Sassy Nebrassy, you’re one classy lassy,” someone has scribbled on the wall, “May I put my silo in your chassis?”

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Bodies In Space

Ruby Rae Spiegel’s Dry Land takes place almost entirely in an empty locker-room. Two high school athletes named Amy and Ester straddle and stand on its benches, spread and sprawl on its floor, leaving Gatorade bottles and Hostess wrappers in their wake. They discuss menstruation and athlete’s foot, imagining their blood leaking out of their swimsuits and their skin flaking on the floor. When Amy takes a pill to induce labor, Ester asks her what she will do with the “thing,” and Amy, panicking, suggests that she puts it in a locker.

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The Cock

I must not have behaved during my first go around. The half-formed sin from humanhood lingers in my gizzard, curdling like gasoline putty. Truth be told, I can’t recall that life or what I did to land myself here. Now my existences last eight weeks, and they’re coming by the thousands. For instance, yesterday I was born in Gibbon, Nebraska. I am a Nebraskan, and Hell goes by Orlin Ranch around here, or so the canvas feed bags suggest.

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