Anna Henkens Schmidt

The moon captivates and incites imagination. It transforms humans into werewolves, stabilizes our seasons, amplifies magic, tracks our time, and pulls the oceans toward the coastlines. Both real and imagined, humanity has bestowed great power on the great, orbiting rock. It's beautiful and otherworldly and yet it belongs to all of us. Together we watched the footage from Artemis 2 and our fascination with the moon grew. The four astronauts flew farther from Earth than any humans in more than fifty years, and as they swung around the far side of the moon, something remarkable happened. The sun disappeared behind it, its corona forming a glowing halo around the darkened lunar surface. Even from 252,756 miles away, the moon could not shine on its own. With our eyes so focused on the beauty of the moon, we can lose sight of the true power behind it. Because without the sun, the moon would be nothing. Sure, it'd still be held in orbit by Earth's gravitational pull, but no one wo...

Two bicyclists stopped mid-pedal in the center of the road. “Have you seen a strange man in the neighborhood?” the woman asked. “No.” I tightened my grip on the dog’s leash. “What kind of strange man?” The couple traded looks. “Really strange,” the woman said. “He had a rolling suitcase.” I wasn’t sure how this defined strange, but I shook my head.  “We had to call the cops on him a few nights ago,” the man said, “for starting a fire in our yard.” That got my attention. “A fire?”  The woman gripped her handlebars. “We think he’s homeless, and he’s going around trying to camp in backyards.” “He ran off before the cops could find him,” the man added. “But they said to call if we see him again.” “That’s creepy,” I said. “I’ll keep a look out.” They waved and remounted their bikes.  Inside, I relayed the news to my family. We ate dinner and thought nothing more about it. 

  I begged for glasses in elementary school. A few of my friends rocked new prescriptions, and I turned green with envy. Their eyes failed them, and somehow this made them special. There was glamour in myopia. I’d buy sunglasses and knock out the lenses, desperate to share in whatever attention I thought a diagnosable condition might attract. I avoided carrots, tempted Apollo by staring into the sun, and sat too close to the TV. Despite my best efforts, my only diagnosis was perfect vision. My childhood fantasy of glasses passed with my love of My Little Pony figurines, and by middle school, I felt relief at not having to deal with lenses or face the absolute horror of touching my own eyes to insert contact lenses. Shudder. No, thank you.  Fast-forward through high school, college, and early adulthood. I visited the optometrist, with no great enthusiasm, because my husband’s work insurance covered annual eye exams. Every four or five years seemed good enough. By this time, I’d...

My brother, Donald, sent me a text from Costa Rica this morning: “There’s an old story about a Nebraskan who retires. He puts a snow shovel over his shoulder and walks south ’til someone says, ‘What’s that thing?’ And that is where he lives out the rest of his days.” I didn’t make it quite as far as Costa Rica, nor am I retired, but I have lived half of my life in the American Southeast. Snowstorms aren’t a regular occurrence in North Carolina, but they do occur with more regularity than hurricanes in Nebraska. Still, I’ve made it more than twenty years in the South without buying a snow shovel or an ice scraper. My kids don’t have sleds, but we have friends who do. At any given time, it’s anyone’s guess if we all have snow boots that fit. Fortunately, we have plenty of plastic grocery bags, which, paired with thick socks and rubber bands, make for decent winter footwear. With predictions of the snowpocalypse bearing down on us for the last week, I’ve had more than one friend reach out...

“Sorry if I’m talking too fast, I’m from New York,” the x-ray technician said.  “I listen to audiobooks at 2X speed,” I assured her. As though not hearing me, she continued. “You southern people have a hard time keeping up with us New Yorkers.” " I’m from Nebraska.” “Nebraska? You don’t hear that very often.” I gave her a well-practiced Nebraskan response. “Nope.” This woman wore the state of New York like a badge of honor. Her voice was loud enough to carry over a dozen honking taxis, and her personality could have pushed over the Statue of Liberty.  “Have you been in a car accident?” she asked. I wasn’t sure where this was going. “No.” “Experienced some sort of blunt force trauma?” Other than this conversation? “No. I grew up riding horses.” “Oh, that explains it. Don’t you feel how this shoulder is higher than the other?” She placed her hand on my right shoulder. I shrugged. “Not really.” “Well it is. Your body hunches over to the left.” I’d have to take her word for it....

We live in a world where joy and sorrow touch edges more often than we expect. One emotion spills into the next, and sometimes the mix creates something richer than either could alone. This story grew out of that thought: a small fable about a Queen, a magical kingdom, and the surprising gift that comes when tears and laughter share the same sky. Double Rainbows      It’s not easy being the Queen of Magic Land, but when my bedroom wall opens each night after tuck-in, my kingdom beckons.       My work begins as soon as I leave my bed and climb into the realm. The lands glimmer, each offering me an invitation to a new adventure. I wish I could visit them all in one night, but of course this is impossible.       Besides, a Queen must go where she is needed.       And tonight I am needed in Laughing Land.       My stomach hurts just thinking about it. The last time I entered Laughing Land, my sid...