ERIN CONWAY

The Hopper

PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINATIONS

Fiction

“Stolen” by Erin Conway

Nonfiction

“The Space Between” by Janine DeBaise
“A Better Animal” by Talley V. Kayser

Poetry

“Boson Particles, Light Snow” by Elizabeth Dodd
“For the Young” by Shelby Newsom
“Writing Like Trees, Writing Wi...

It is no longer summer.  Snow fell today over orange leaves, although it is barely even fall.  But, summer was when things appeared.  I can only call them things today because I am not done untying their knotted clump.  Still, there is a hardness inside, something subs...

I begged my dad to leave the apples.  I could use them.  I was sure I could figure it out.  And, I one thing I believed I knew about my niece was a love of apples.  My niece had asked for apples.  She even asked me to provide her snack of apples during my last visit to...

I stare around the table.

I wait for the same answer to come.

It was not the answer I expected,

But it was the answer my profession expected.

Mother. 

A compliment.

The best compliment.

“A good mother.”

One blink and I’m sad

For them.

Those women,

All the women,

Who don’t know the...

My father’s house is mostly made up of photographs and piles.  Memories and things to remember.  Its configurations are fine until they reach a tipping point, and aren’t fine.  The reason why we, my father and I, navigate “fine” is based on his family’s underlying phil...

In September, I left Wiesel’s story about the Rebbe’s story somewhere in the middle. 

The rest reads like this.

            “Later still, Rebbe Moshe Leib of Sasove, in turn a disciple of the Maggide of Mezrich, went into the forest to save his people.  ‘I do not know ho...

I am so excited to have the opportunity to present at the Wisconsin Library Association's Conference in 2019.  As a professional who is new in another new position, I know how important it is to have these conversations.  I am so honored to have been taught their impor...

I’m a counter.  I watch the clock.  I want to do exactly what I’m asked to do.  I don’t want to do any more, nor any less.  I wish I could be told what is enough, exactly.  Instead I count.  Exactly.  I count mountain climbers and squat jumps and push ups and back rows...

The smell, inhaled old summer, stale.  And dirty.  The dash of my car is beyond dusty, coated in white that doesn’t clean.  The rough film only cuts paths to the sneezed on spit on the windshield.  I make a note to use my fancy glass cleaner, and another one to buy All...