This blogpost originally appeared, in a different version, in 2015. But I’ve retrieved and adapted it here because I just talked to my agent today about a novel I’ll be revising—dramatically—creating major POV and plot changes from at least the midpoint, an entire cascade of changes that promises to occupy me for two months, and […]

I still haven’t taken a shower this rainy May morning. The coffee that I usually finish while it is still hot, has gone cold. Instead of making a new cup of Java, I stare out the window, watching heavy rain drops slam into a puddle on our driveway. Then I re-read “A Month Alone,” one

Stampede In the Summer of 1980, when I was 29 and the love of my life was studying photography in Sweden, I got a call from a law school buddy named Dave Diver. It was winter when he called. Cold and windy in Bethel where I lived. Colder in Fairbanks, where he served the U.S.

PROLONGED WINTER By Sondra Porter, Trapper Creek   I am waiting, impatiently, six feet behind a man Who drones on, “Spring is early, won’t see another dump, Snow’s going fast, I’m taking my snow tires off.” Me? I am waiting to take my snow tires off I am waiting for clearer signs of spring For

RUSTED LUMPS OF LUCK By Wendy Brooker, Wasilla   Rusted lumps of luck dwell deep in horseshoe iron Welcome chance and charm

BUDS AND THE GOLDEN SHOVEL after Nora Marks Dauenhauer By Tamara Holman, Soldotna   Warm April hike, all forest beings’ breath bated. First sign of spring’s annual creation anticipated. The earth is soft, snow melts. Cottonwoods’ puckering trunks, topped with speckled branches. Tiny buds poised. Soon to be exploding with life! Air filled with their

THE TRUTH ABOUT A WAVE By Scott Banks, Anchorage   There’s always another behind it, To chase its past up the beach In memory of rain.   Author’s Note: This poem was previously published in Cirque. 3(1) 42

FOX CREEK CABIN By Saundra Middleton, Anchorage   Blistered heels in boots twelve miles old. Packs, five meals shy of the four-day load, dropped On the porch of the hiker’s haven. Sox dried, bellies fed, laughter squeals Over the cascading creek, Until yawns welcome early bedtime hugs. A porcupine prickle whittles away The posts beneath

FISH CAMP By Nancy Deschu, Anchorage   Salmon are running, pink and red, occasional king, returning to natal waters to spawn and die, the young swept to sea, fatten, then home again – the circle, stream to sea, sea to stream. Pull the net, pick the fish, drop the net, pull the next, over and