Dune 45 by Kristel SturrusThe Weight of Shifting Time
I once sat with a geologist in the high desert of Utah who told me that mountains are just slow-moving rivers. At the time, I thought he was being poetic, but he was being literal. He pointed to the way the wind had carved the sandstone, reminding…
Street people in Prague by Mirka KrivankovaThe Echo of Cobblestones
The smell of damp stone always brings me back to the feeling of cold iron railings under my palms. It is a sharp, metallic scent, like rain hitting a city that has forgotten how to be quiet. When I walk, I feel the uneven resistance of the…
The Pretty Girl on the Beach by Jose Juniel Rivera-NegronThe Weight of Salt and Sand
I keep a small, smooth stone in my desk drawer, pulled from the shoreline of a beach I haven't visited in twenty years. It is cold to the touch, worn down by the constant, rhythmic labor of the tide until it feels like a secret held in the…