Turquoise and Petrified Wood
by Sam Kulla The son of a welder, Bernie Fanelli was raised in Montana. He quickly earned a degree in diesel technology but rather than working with machines, grew to be an accomplished mason. As a volunteer for the Montana Conservation Corps years ago, he developed an affinity for stone while constructing turnpikes and water bars throughout the state. “Working with stone is really gratifying,” Fanelli says, “You can see what you build every day, see how your work progresses... Read More
Love in the Time of Swine Flu
by Sarah Kulla, Queretaro “Hey, take good care…don’t greet anybody by giving that peck on the cheek that is so in here, and try not to shake anybody’s hand either. Keep your distance. If you feel sick, immediately call a doctor or have someone take you to a Centro de Salud, whichever one, it doesn’t matter, as long as it belongs to the Government, as they are the ones who are controlling the meds right now as far as I know…” -Advice from my boss I... Read More
Lights through Yellowstone
photo by James Hepburn Read More
Adorable Adventure
by Wynne Benjamin Renz The girl on the mat next to me Too shy to even ask a waitress for an extra napkin, Or admit her dreams of screen stardom, Touches my hand by accident, in corpse pose, says: “I’m sorry,” And then in a quick drink, She remembers her therapist telling her to Take a chance, skin that fence, So she bites her tongue, makes a reach Into the dark, that great silent scape To grab hold of My hand. WB Renz is an adorable and adventurous writer and... Read More
Egg Yolk
by Jesse Cameron Alick, photo by Ando Nesia When the end of the world comes, it won’t matter who you are or what you’ve been. All your actions, good or bad, cracked like an egg on the sidewalk of eternity. How does it feel? To know you, born from nothing, are nothing, will return to nothing? All the people you knew will be dust. All the pictures you take, will be burned. All mistakes are unmade. All pain erased. In the end it won’t matter if you were a doctor... Read More
Last Canyon
In my town is one canyon free of planed wood, where no dogs bark, nor cars come home at night. This canyon–a deep crease between shale, dim in summer, dark by winter morn– lies in timber and meadow ignorant of human tools. On a late autumn wind I walk past milky snowberries plumping for winter grouse, timothy still tall in straw yellow, ponderosa seasonless in green. Cedar waxwings bloom across paraffin sky. Sixpoint elk lean hard; uphill legs made for plains climb... Read More
