Sculpt Yourself Launch Party!

Savy Leiser, a second-year grad student in the MAWP program, recently had her novel, Sculpt Yourself, come out through a new startup!
Come celebrate Savy at the launch party for the novel on January 25, from 6pm-8pm at DePaul in the Women’s Center: SAC 150!

For more information, visit the Facebook event page at
Congrats, Savy! The Department is proud of you!

DePaul English Undergrad Alex Nates-Perez Featured in DePaul Magazine

Today in the DePaul Magazine, Junior Alex Nates-Perez, an English major and environmental science minor, shares five easy steps you can take to help keep our planet healthy in the years to come.

It’s a great article, and we’re proud to have Alex represent our department so well!

Check out the article, and comment with your thoughts!


STUDENT NEWS: English Major Emily Parenti Reading at 16th Annual Citywide Undergraduate Poetry Festival, Thursday April 2

Hello Undergrounders!  We have exciting news! English major Emily Parenti has been selected to read at the 16th Annual Citywide Undergraduate Poetry Festival. Be sure to congratulate Emily, and see her read Thursday April 2 at 5:30 at Columbia College. More info here.


Student Spotlight: Dana Alsamsam to be Published in Undergraduate Journal Sun & Sandstone!

Happy March, everyone! I don’t know about you but the air seems a little less tense, a bit less biting, now that February is behind us. We hope the sunshine makes as big a difference to you as it does to us!

Today, we have great news and would like to draw your attention to our amazing students. We got word recently that one of our English: Creative Writing majors, Dana Alsamsam, will have two poems published in this year’s Sun & Sandstone, a national and local annual print literary journal for undergraduate students. 70% of the journal features work by students from across the United States, and is published out of Rocky Mountain College in Billings, MT.

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Dana is a second-year student at DePaul majoring in English-Creative Writing and minoring in French. She also works as the Undergraduate Research Assistant to Editor and Professor Richard Jones and Poetry Eastwhere she has been instrumental in indexing the journal’s extensive backlist and helping develop the source library for The Poet’s Almanac app. Congrats, Dana!

*Undergrads! Please send your publication notes and news, as well as any other noteworthy accomplishments, to the Editor, Anastasia Sasewich. We would love to mention it on the blog!

“A Life to Spare”: AQ14 Short Fiction from Andra Roventa

“A Life to Spare” by Andra Roventa

Berthold Pfeiffer bit savagely against the inside of his cheek to keep from grimacing at the sight before him. Dozens of corpses lay strewn in the filthy, rat-infested gutters of Dresden, many of them fresh and still saturated with blood and smeared guts. Pairs of glassy, vacant eyes watched him with accusing looks, silently screaming at him to divulge why they had been thrown into the street like used garbage. Try as he might, Berthold was unable to tear his gaze away from the pile of once-breathing, once-walking Jews that were now no more than slabs of bullet-filled meat.

Some of them were alive merely ten minutes ago, he thought in bewilderment, eyeing a bearded rabbi whose mouth was still agape, rigid and distorted. He must have died screaming. The 21-year-old S.S. officer shuddered, finally averting his eyes from that haunting, empty stare the deceased rabbi managed to give him.

A portly, bald commander cleared his throat as he watched two remaining officers drag what seemed to be the last body from the demolished apartment complex the S.S. men were loitering against. The German duo dumped the lifeless body of a teenage boy onto the rest before turning to salute their commanding officer.

“Is that all of them, then?” the rotund, elderly commander known as Jorgen Fitzgerald, inquired in a voice laden with irritation. It looked like he had other business elsewhere, and this “menial” task was not one of them.

One of the Germans who had discarded the final Jew gave a half-assed shrug. “You know these Jews, Herr Fitzgerald. Sneaky little devils. There might be a couple here and there hiding about—under the floorboards, behind a secret stairwell. You can never be too sure with them.”

The fat commander gave a snort, nodding in agreement. “Disgusting vermin, the lot of them.” He bent his rhino-like head to rest on his decorated breast, pondering for a moment. “Right, then. I’m late for a dinner party as it is. Someone needs to run through the perimeters to make sure we’ve taken care of every last one of them. I don’t want any runaways or it’s going to look messy on my part.”

He clasped his hands against his bulging belly, scrutinizing the ten-or-so soldiers that encircled him. Fitzgerald scanned each of them before narrowing his beady eyes on Berthold. The latter bristled but kept his surprise in check.

“Pfeiffer. You’ve been quiet today, boy. I don’t recall you doing much when we stormed the complex,” Fitzgerald barked at the blond man, furrowing his brow in contemplation. “Give me your rifle.” His fingers, which looked more like fat sausages than digits, impatiently wiggled as he reached out for the weapon his subordinate had strapped to his shoulder.

Continue reading ““A Life to Spare”: AQ14 Short Fiction from Andra Roventa”

AQ 2014 Featured Student Writing: “Burnt Toast”, nonfiction by Rachel Plotkin

Flour danced around the kitchen, painting it white, as scents swam around my five-year-old pigtails strategically maneuvered into a mustache against my top lip. The house creaked each time the wind carried over from the Volga, sending the gooseberry bushes whistling against the wooden shed. My grandmother was meticulous, each fist precisely kneading the dough before pinching at the goop and flopping it onto a pan. Her eyes would never leave mine; her hands worked on their own as she told stories I wouldn’t remember, my mind too focused on the masterwork occurring before me.

Что ты готовишь?”
“Подожди, маленькая. Подожди.”
“Но бабушка…”
“Перестань. Еда будет готовa скоро.”

When she was done, she would throw the dought into the oven and shoo me away to the garden while she cleaned. My greedy hands picked at berries, bare feet running me through each aisle of fruit as I all but forgot about the pies inside. Cherries stained my dress, hiked up to my belly into a cloth bowl to carry them indoors. The kitchen, warm from the oven’s flames, always full of baked goods, greeted me with new smells as I dropped the cherries into a bowl. Hopping onto a counter, white flour residue still hiding its surface, I’d grab hold of a pie and my grandmother would laugh and clap her hands. “моя маленькая! Ешьте много,” she’d say. My little one! There’s plenty.

Watching my mother cook was like watching a general prep for war. She matched her mother’s love of cooking with a duteous need for perfection. As I watched her, I was careful not to make any unnecessary noise. It was a more serious occasion than baking with my grandmother. On those days, the sun crept in from between the shades and cast golden stripes on the counter where she worked, the bustle of New York outside drowned out by the sounds of her knife against the cutting board. I was motionless, my knees tucked against my chest as I watched her efficient transformation of simple ingredients, the kitchen filling with their aroma. The apartment, always sterile and uncomfortably cold, felt like home with a quick lift of a pot cover. When the oven door opened up, smells flooded the rooms: lasagna, matzo ball soup, fish (which made my nose crinkle, every time) and cakes, plus endless desserts that were nipped and picked at before they had a chance to cool down. Every night, no matter how tired or angry she was, she’d whisk away at something and I’d curl up to watch, trying to keep as much of that version of her with me as I could.

“Welcome to Casie’s cooking show!”

My sister claps her hands together and flails her arms toward an imaginary camera, giggling and grinning as she pulls fallen strands of hair behind her ear. Her tiny fingers point to each ingredient, describing it in the most matter of fact way, as if cooking an omelet is revolutionary. Egg splashes onto the granite and she goes on mixing, dropping sliced baby tomatoes into a yellow milky goo and then sprinkling cheese and basil on top of it all. Her approach is neither meticulous nor precise. She doesn’t measure or think about the end product; she mixes with gusto and looks constantly at me as I roll a fist in the air as if holding an old Super 8 in my hands, capturing each moment of her Food Network debut.

“And now my assistant, Tata, will help me use the stove.” She waves frantically for me to come over and with an exhausted motion I slowly put down the heavy imaginary camera and bow to the applauding audience. She manages to go to commercial only seconds after I start.

When he cooks I find myself in the doorway, bottle of beer in hand, picking at the paper label. The fan sprays my hair against my shoulders. I’d put it up in a ponytail if he didn’t like it so much when it was down. He’ll stop mixing to kiss me and I’ll feign annoyance, complain that the food will burn, smirk when he finally pulls away. He cooks to make me smile, when I’m stressed from a bad day or just because he knows I like watching him. Bites of food sizzle in the pit of my stomach, making my toes curl when I steal mouthfuls too hot for my tongue. He laughs, shaking his head while I pout; distracting him becomes my goal. I rest my chin on his back, my lips at the nape of his neck, and wrap my arms around him. Suddenly, it’s no longer about the food.

A glass of merlot in hand, I relax into my kitchen. Spices shake with each opening of a cabinet door, like the sound of maracas echoing through the bare walls. Little attention is given to the rest of the space but the kitchen is painstakingly organized. I am careful to place complementary scents together—rich lavenders and vanillas, sweet enough to make your teeth sting—wishing for the kitchen to always hold the smell of home. Sprawled onto my countertop, head dipped back to finish off the last drop of wine I mix the melting chocolate with my free hand, leg warmed by the stove’s heat. No one watches. No one sits in anticipation. There is no one there trying to capture the secret to culinary success. There is no show. It’s just me and my store-bought cherries, dripping with bittersweet dark chocolate as they cool on waxed paper and my memories float through the warm, sweet air.

Rachel Plotkin, originally from New York City, is a Senior English: Creative Writing major at DePaul University. Her favorite book, at the moment, is Gabriel García Márquez’s ‘Memories of My Melancholy Whores’. In her free time, when not writing, Rachel enjoys visiting Chicago’s theater scene and dancing like no one is watching.

DePaul Students and Recent Alumni Featured in New CCLaP Anthology



Several DePaul students and recent alumni have been selected for Chicago After Dark: A City All-Star Student Anthology, published this fall by the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography (CCLaP). Among the graduate and undergraduate students whose work has been selected are Eric Houghton, Libby Kalmbach, Thom Kudla, Matthew Morley, Aaron Osborne, Lauren T. Silverman and Kendall Steinle.