2016 Visualize Verbalize by Northwest College

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VISUALIZE

VERBALIZE

MAGA ZINE

SPRING 2016 #23

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CONTENTS VISUALIZE VERBALIZE • SPRING 2016 #23

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28-30

GRAPHIC DESIGN

I Didn’t Murder Him ›› prose

Rocks ›› poem

45-47 Las Cruces ›› prose

Shall We Burn ›› poem

Average Joe ›› prose

Love Letter to a Toaster ›› prose

PHOTOGRAPHY

Fine ›› poem

78/79

FINE ART

A Dream for a Penny ›› poem

CONTRIBUTORS & STAFF

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LEMON Kaziah Bassett ›› digital illustration

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LOFOTEN Sam Jones ›› digital illustration

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RUNNING WITH SCISSORS Victoria Wessel ›› cut paper & digital illustration

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HAND

Tia Mancuso ›› Digital Illustration

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SHADOWS Chloe Fields ›› Digital Illustration

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AverageJoe This one guy I used to know, name was Joe. He was a good guy, had to many drinks though. Eventually he ate the barrel of a shotgun and ended it all. He left a suicide note which read, “Here lies my grave, Unofficially. It was nice being here While it lasted. But, it’s my time to go, I don’t want to let the reaper Decide when I die. No funeral, I’d rather be remembered, Not mourned.” Joe didn’t leave a big mess, he did it outside, and laid down a tarp as a backdrop. He waited until his wife was out of town on a business trip and phoned the police about a minute before he pulled the trigger. I guess the operator tried to talk him out of it, but Joe just told her to send someone to get rid of his body. The weird thing is, Joe seemed to have it all. I don’t know anyone who disliked him, his wife was madly in love with him. He was even a highpriced lawyer who worked for actors and people in the music industry. Hell, one of the actors he worked for talked him into making a cameo on some TV show. Said they needed the lawyer type, and what’s better than an actual lawyer?

I still don’t understand why he did it. Joe was my best friend, and I think I may be the only person who knew how fucked up his head was. Tried to help him, tried like hell. The minute he picked up that bottle tho, everything just went south. He wasn’t one of those angry drunks, in fact, I don’t ever recall a time where he even raised his voice at someone. But that bottle made him sad, sadder than any man I ever met. Here’s the thing, Joe wasn’t a complainer, he just kept his emotions pent up and let em stew. Once in a while, he’d open up to me, tell me how he thought hed been screwing up, why he didn’t deserve Mary, how he was a horrible person. Joe was the best person I ever knew. Not sure why he made up those notions. He gave away a large part of his earnings, worked charity, and did a few pro bono cases for poorer families who needed a good lawyer. I don’t cry much, but when I heard the news, I lost it. My eyes weren’t working, my legs stopped, my body went numb. Oh god, and Mary, that poor gal basically lost her entire world. Police sent an officer over when she got back since they figured she might try to imitate Joe. Im glad they did, I stayed with her too for about a month, and she was a completely different person. I was there when she got the news, and she went hysterical. Started banging her head on the wall, and ranting and raving in a language

im pretty sure doesn’t exist. Had to pull her away from herself. After the first couple days of that tho, she just shut herself off. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, no talking. I’d try to give her a hug, but shed claw me away. I never understood why someone would choose to end their life. People just don’t realize how they affect others, even indirectly. Life is suffering, but we gotta do it together. Joe was my best friend, I said this already, it’s just sometimes you have to reiterate to get the point across. The world lost someone great when Joe did what he did. He wasn’t just an ordinary average guy, he was great, but for whatever reason he just couldn’t think so. *As a note, I only submitted this work after a great deal of deliberation, but was finally selfpersuaded when I read something on the Cody Enterprise Website. The Sheriff, talking about gun violence in Park County, said that out of 5 homicides, there were 25 selfinflicted gun deaths. This factoid, in and of itself, presents this problem as a major one for the community. I wrote this piece because I struggle with negative thoughts, and this is a way to ease my mind, however cynical it may be. I hope this short narrative lends a little bit of light on those who deal with suicidal thoughts, and the burden that it is.

John Andren

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KATY PERRY Ashley Anthony ›› digital illustration

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THE BLUE ENCHANTRESS Sierra Morrow ›› digital illustration

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Love Letter to a Toaster You are my toaster. You worm my buns, you heat my tarts, you… toast… my… bread. You are my toaster and the love of my life. I cannot think of living a life without you, it’s not possible, no I refuse to. Please never leave me dear toaster, I desperately need you. Without you my buns will never know your warmth, my tarts will be nothing but jelly filled dough, and the most horrific, my bread will never be crunchy. So never go away, never stop working, never…stop…toasting, If not for my sake, but for the bread’s. For god sakes don’t leave the bread untoasted. Please! Where is your double sided crunchy humanity?! Love the man who likes toast.

Trenton Kelly

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PUSSY RIOT Victoria Wessel ›› pen & digital illustration

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ANATOMY POSTER Michelle Martensen ›› digital illustration

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RUBENS STUDY Luisa Walter ›› oil painting

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PEARLY WHITES Victoria Wessel ›› watercolor

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SYRIA Sean Mennell ›› mixed media print

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MEMORIES Anthony W.T. Adkins ›› oil paint

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GLASS WINDOW Bobbie Brown ›› oil paint

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SELF SYMBOLISM Sierra Morrow ›› graphite

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SELF SYMBOL Taylor Schultz ›› graphite

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BROKEN WHOLE Summer Steele ›› ceramic

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DREAM BEAR Ismael Dominguez ›› ceramics, clay resin

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CHANGE Brandi Seeley ›› graphite

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DREAMING OF YOUR TOUCH Eileen Bobinski ›› colored pencil

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I DIDN’ T MURDER HIM “I didn’t murder him,” the words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop them. “You said that… but kid, the evidence we found doesn’t exactly stack up in your favor,” A fat, sweaty, seemingly overworked officer informed me, setting his sausage roll forearms on the thin metal table placed between us. “If you would just listen to me, I could tell you the real story. That woman couldn’t have seen what really happened!” My voice was slowly becoming more pleading and frantic. I needed at least one person to believe me and the odds were good that the rest would follow. “Look, son, I want to believe as much as the next guy that a sixteen-year-old didn’t kill a guy in cold blood… but at this point, only an airtight story would save your skin.” His pudgy face held beady brown eyes that actually had sympathy in them. Whether he was sympathetic that I was about to be thrown in jail, or that I was a starved street rat whose life would get better by being thrown in jail, I couldn’t really tell. I suppose it didn’t really matter in the long run, because sympathy in any form was something that played in my favor. For whatever reason he

had come up with in his pig-headed brain, this particular officer felt bad for me and because of that, I knew he would listen to me. Leaning close enough that I could see a bead of sweat on his wide forehead, I looked deep into the officer’s eyes with the most pleading and desperate look that I could manage. “Please, you have to listen to me… I need your help sir. I didn’t murder him, I swear.” His deep breath was audible as his protruding beer gut expanded with his intake of oxygen. Sitting back, ignoring the groaning protest of his chair, the officer gave me one more appraising look, “Alright kid… let’s hear the story.” *** The night of my most recent life trauma was a surprisingly warm one. Early spring in southern New York was generally on the chilly side until you hit mid May. Making my usual rounds, weaving in and out of sketchy and dank alley ways was better than usual because of the warmness of the air. Generally, I spent every day from

November to May bundled tightly in ratted coats and blankets that I had found in the closest dumpster. I only wore two torn shirts on this night, keeping my cold-weather clothes back at the warehouse I had called my home for close to a month. Scavenging that night was just as good as the weather. I thought I maybe struck a gold mine with my current location. I got my hands on another blanket, this one in better shape than all the others I’ve ever found. The light blue, dirty fabric was softer than anything I had ever felt. In my old knapsack, there were a bunch of items that a privileged person would see and turn a w a y from without interest. I had found

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a mostly used roll of duct tape, a pair of working AA batteries out of a flashlight with a busted bulb, a handful of generously sharpened pencils that were now no longer than my pinky, and a small pocket knife that had rusted due to years of poor care by its last owner. With these things, I knew that the month following my findings was going to be a good one. I had many uses for these items, all of which I was excited for. You know you have fallen far when you get excited about some else’s garbage… During my walk through the back alleys and dumpsters of the city, I continued to fill my knapsack with items that would aid me in life. It was becoming more frequent, fortunately for me and the way that I live, that people throw things away sooner than years previous. Things could start to seems slightly broken, but easily fixable, yet the privileged threw them away right along side their pizza boxes and bottles of water. The way society devalued all of the things they

had was disgusting to me… but at least it improved my life. With my findings, I began my journey back to my warehouse, planning where I was going to hide my treasures from the prying eyes of the few other homeless people that shared the abandoned building with me. I had spent a lot of time alone in that old, rundown warehouse, but I had recently received company simply because the solid concrete provided a good shelter from the snow that had just melted a few days before. *** “Listen, kid, could you hurry your story up a bit? There’s no telling when they’ll get in here and take you to a cell,” Pudge-ball, a name given to the officer since I had quickly forgotten his real name, interrupt-

ed my story with gruff irritation. I watched as his annoyance caused him to cross his arms over his extremely broad chest, his uniform bulging dangerously around his log sized arms. “Fine, whatever. I’ll just skip forward to the old man then.” *** I was halfway home when my walk was abruptly stopped when I was approached by a man, probably in his late thirties, in the middle of an alley. The situation was odd for a few reasons. Normally when I walked home, or anywhere for that matter, I was ignored. No one really care for the starving street rat. When I wasn’t ignored, I was treated with disdain and caution, like I was a bad person and that’s why I was homeless. No one had ever, EVER, approached me on purpose, looking as though they actually wanted to speak to me. Because of these reasons, the man instantly put me on edge. “Hey there son… you look like you could use some help,” The man said to me, with a strangely kind smile on his slightly pale face. “I’m alright… thanks,” I responded, attempting to step around him, my desire to leave strengthening

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every second I was around the man. Before I could actually leave the alleyway I felt the man grab on to my arm. From years upon years of living on the streets, you learn very important life lessons. One of these lessons is that when someone grabs onto you, you are in very deep trouble. Every time I have been grabbed never ended well for me. All of the past experiences I’ve had instantly flashed before my eyes and my hand found the rusted knife that I had stored in the pocket of my torn jeans. Pulling it out, I swiped at the man with it and missed by a few inches. He got the message from my actions and backed away from me. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed, holding the knife in an offensive position. The man, smartly, did not step any closer to me, but instead raised his hands to calm me. “Easy son… just put the knife down,” he decided that it would be a good idea to walk toward me again. In my agitated and anxious state, I stepped forward to look more intimidating, only trying to scare the man off. I felt my foot catch on a piece of trash and the next thing I knew… I had fallen into the man. I didn’t even realize what had happened until I heard a

sickening gurgle come from the man and saw dark red liquid spill from his quickly paling mouth. Pulling away, I saw the rusted knife stuck firmly in the middle of his abdomen. With shaking hands that looked suspiciously red in the light of a near-by street lamp, I backed away from the man just as he fell to his knees. He clutched at his middle as his body gave out and he completely collapsed to the ground. *** Looking up to the officer, tears filled my eyes, “I didn’t mean to kill him… I just got scared and I tripped. I would have called for help, but I don’t have a phone and there was no one around… I figured someone would find him. I didn’t want him to die, I was just so scared…” I had devolved from speech into pure sobs by the end of my sentence. I needed him to believe me. With a sad sigh, I felt the officer’s sausage fingers rest on my shoulder as I sobbed into my folded arms. “It’s going to be alright son…” Everything after that went smoothly in my favor. I told my story in front of a court and a jury of my peers two months later. I was proven not-guilty, by some miracle of the court system. They chalked it up to

me being a mentally unstable street rat, and put me in an institute that would care for and feed me instead of throwing me in jail. Everyone at the institute was very kind, and for the first time I had real clothes and even friends. They believed me. They believed me because I didn’t tell them how the man wanted to buy me food, which told me that he had enough money for at least two meals. They believed my story because I didn’t tell them how I grabbed on to the man and shoved the knife deep into his stomach and watched the light in his eyes dim before throwing him to the ground. I didn’t go to jail because I didn’t tell the court that I stabbed that man, who was so kind to me, and stole the wallet off of his slowly cooling and stiffening body. I escaped punishment simply because some sweaty, smelly, overfed cop believed a sob story for the ages, told by some ragged, scrawny, sixteenyear-old street rat. I needed them to believe me… and they did.

Samantha Stewart

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JOSEPHINE Eileen Bobinski ›› graphite

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REEL A BOUCHE DeAndra Anderson ›› acrylics

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POT LIFE Aaron Aagard ›› graphite

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BALANCING ACT Summer Steele ›› ceramics

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ST. PAUL Bobbie Brown ›› oil paint

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VENETIAN VASE Summer Steele ›› ceramics

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TRANSFORMER Candy Olberding ›› earthenware, wood, raku fired

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PRINT SHOP Eryka Spomer ›› graphite

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THUNDER STORM Ginger Shenefelt ›› ceramic

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PORTRAIT IN PURPLE AND YELLOW Luisa Walter ›› oil paint

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PIONEERS Bobbie Brown ›› ink

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HEART OF THE BASIN Sam Jones ›› acrylic

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ELEPHANT Taylor Shultz ›› raku earthenware

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SKULL Brandi Seeley ›› graphite

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Las Cruces “Will, we better get up and going before the sun comes up. These cattle aren’t going to want to move too much once it gets hot.” “Let’s saddle up the ponies and gather ‘em then.” Will and Red Thomas, two brothers from Tombstone, Arizona, were taking their herd of 1800 cattle 253 miles from Tombstone to Las Cruces, New Mexico. Between Will, Red, and their eight ranching partners, they figured that they could make the trip in just about 13 days if all goes well. The cattle prices in Las Cruces were so high that they knew the trip would be worth it. On the morning of June 2, 1872, the group wrangles their three horses each, pack the stagecoach, and saddle up their horses for the day. Before daylight, all ten of them were in their saddles and ready to herd up the cattle. The morning was a peaceful one, no wind or predators. Will finally breaks the silence as they ride out into the pasture, “Sure is a nice morning out here. Hope it stays nice all day.” “It’s going to be a hot one,” Doc,

and old man with gray hair and whiskers, says. “I can feel it. We better cover some ground while it’s still cool.” The ten men spread out across the pasture to gather the cattle and take them to the east gate. By six in the morning they have the livestock moving through the gate and heading east. Red, the younger brother, rides in the front of the herd on his bay horse with his friend, Chancy. Chancy was carrying a rifle on his hip as he rode. “What you reckon to use that on,” Red asks? “Well, we can always hope it won’t be needed, but it never hurts to be prepared,” Chancy replies, glancing over at Red, “You packing anything?” “Yeah, I got Pa’s old 45 caliber. Still shoots like it’s brand new.” Red pulls the pistol from his holster and shows it to Chancy. “Sure is a pretty pist…” A gunshot from the south cuts Chancy off. Not five miles from the ranch and they already are going to have to hold off some cattle rustlers. The ten men pull out their rifles and pistols and lay in wait for the am-

bush. Nothing comes. They wait for a good ten minutes and decide that the rustlers must have backed off. “Let’s get the cattle moving again,” Will says. “Nobody’s out there anymore.” The rest of the day goes smooth with no action or breakouts. They travel 29 miles the first day because everything went so smooth. When the sun starts to go down, they decide to set up camp in a small basin just to the south. The cattle graze around and bed down after the day’s long haul. The men set up their camp for the night. Red is woken up the next morning by the howling of coyotes. He grabs a rifle from the stagecoach in the center of the camp and ends up shooting three coyotes. His gun shots woke up the rest of the men and when he rides back in everyone is up and drinking their coffee. At 5:30, they are all saddled up and out gathering the cattle from around the basin. The next ten days of driving the cattle goes well with very few troubles. Two more coyotes are killed, along with one mountain lion. But so far, there have been no serious setbacks. Not even

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one cow has died yet. That is until the eleventh day. At about noon on the 12th of June, six men on horseback come riding in from the north. No one sees them coming until it is too late. The six outlaws open fire on the ranchers. The cattle are spooked and stampede away. The two groups fire back and forth at each other until Will finally shoots the last man. “They sure snuck up on us. Let’s check the damages.” Luckily, no one is killed in this ambush, but they find that six cattle have been shot and killed. “Six dead, but it looks like the herd stayed together for the most part. That could have been a lot worse,” Red says. “We may as well not worry about losing six and just keep going.” They gather up the few head that had scattered during the shootout and keep on heading east towards Las Cruces. By the end of the eleventh day Will, Red, and their crew are nearing the end of their cattle drive. They set up camp for the night just east of the Rio Grande. The next day is going to be a tough one.

“Tomorrow is the big one boys,” Will says. “We’re only 10 miles from the Rio Grande. We’ll have to cross it tomorrow.” The night is a restless one. Four times, predators come into camp and kill a total of three cattle. No one sleeps well because of the close watch they have to keep. When the sun finally starts to peak over the horizon, a wave of relief washes over everyone. “That was a hell of a night. Sure glad it is about our last one,” Doc says. They gather up their packs and saddle up their horses as they get ready for the big day ahead of them. Will calls everybody over to the stagecoach. “This is going to be the toughest day we’ve had so far. We’re not going to push the cattle too hard so that they aren’t tired when it comes time to cross the river. Once we get them across, it should only be one more day to Las Cruces. Let’s pray that all goes well the rest of this trip.” Everyone climbs up on their horses and set out after the cattle in silence. You can feel the nerves in

each and every person in the group. Before the day hardly begins, Red spots at least 10 horses riding over the horizon. “Hey! In the east! Looks like we got us some trouble coming!” Everyone readies themselves for the oncoming ambush. The group turns out to be the Butch Dalton Gang: one of the most feared gangs of the west. They ride up on the ranchers, guns a blazing. Butch Dalton is leading the way followed by his seven comrades. Gun smoke fills the air as the shots break the silence of the morning. Dust swirls in the wind making it nearly impossible to see who are the good guys and who are the bad. After nearly 20 minutes of intense fighting, the shooting finally stops. The silence is almost deafening. “Why in the heck did they ambush us this early in the morning,” Red asks? Almost before he finishes his question, he sees a sight he never dreamed of seeing. Chancy is lying face down in the dirt blood pouring out of his side. Red jumps off his horse and is instantly trying to stop the blood flow. But the

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bullet wound is too big. There is no saving his best friend. Red’s eyes fill with tears and rage. “Butch Dalton! You better run! You better hope you never see me again!!!” Will climbs down off his horse and walks to Red’s side. “Red, I’m sorry. I know that he was practically your brother. But there’s nothing we can do now. We will give him a proper burial and get out of here.” They dig a grave and lay Chancy in it on his back. Red pulls out his Pa’s pistol, and sets it in Chancy’s cold hand. “You’ll need this up in heaven, bud.” Just like that, the grave is filled with dirt and Chancy is gone. Red wipes the tears from his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.” They gather up the cattle in silence and start moving east for the Rio Grande. In no time it comes in to sight. They approach the shore and stop the cattle to let them rest for a few minutes. Will rides to the men. “It all comes down to this. If we can make it across the Rio, it is a straight shot to Las Cruces. We’ll fire

up the cattle and push them across as fast as we can. No one wants to be in there long.” With that, they pull out their bullwhips and crack them as loudly as possible. Between the whips and their shouts the cattle are up and running instantly. The first of them dives into the river. The water comes up to the cows’ necks, and they are barely able to keep their heads above water. With persistence, all 1800 cattle are making their way across the river. One is washed away. Followed by another, then another. “The current is too strong! They can’t take it much longer,” one man yells! “Keep pushing them! We’ll have them on the other bank in no time,” Will yells back! The first of the cattle steps up on the opposite bank. In less than 25 minutes, they have successfully herded all but five of their herd across the Rio. Everyone is too exhausted from the current to even be excited. They push the cattle just one more mile and stop them for the day. “It’s only 15 more miles to Las Cruces from here,” Will says through heavy breaths. “Let’s bed down ear-

ly and get some rest tonight.” The sun barely starts setting and the group has camp set up and already in their bedrolls. Almost instantly everyone is asleep. Will wakes up before anyone else the next morning. He takes in the beautiful view. The bright orange sunrise in the east and the Rio Grande directly west. “Now this is the perfect way to start the last day.” The last of the group wakes up at 5:30. Relief fills everyone’s eyes as they wake up. They all know that this is the last day of their 250-mile drive. The cattle are gathered for a final time and once again headed east. Red speaks up for the about the first time since Chancy’s death. “We got mighty lucky. Only lost 14 head out of 1800. God sure was looking over us.” “Amen.” Las Cruces comes into sight over the horizon. “That’s the best sight I’ve seen in a long time,” Will says. “Las Cruces, New Mexico.”

Andrew Gaskill

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HEART MOUNTAIN SERIES Jane Woods ›› varied media

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SWEET & SOUR Sierra Morrow ›› watercolor

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DIARY OF ANNE FRANK DeAndra Anderson ›› oil pastel collage

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DEFINE REALITY Anthony W.T. Adkins ›› graphite

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KIWI BLUES Victoria Wessel ›› watercolor

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WILLO Aaron Aagard ›› ink / charcoal / paint

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MARILYN MONROE Luisa Walter ›› acrylic

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BROKEN BECOMES BEAUTY Jake Morrow ›› pit-fire earthenware

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TEXTURED GROUND Brandi Seeley ›› graphite

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OPEN ARMS NOT CLOSED BORDERS Sean Menell ›› print

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PEACEFUL Anthony W.T. Adkins >> graphite

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SAME VIEW DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE Sierra Morrow >> acrylic

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METAMORPHISIS Brandi Seeley >> graphite

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SIMPLICITY WHITE Anthony W.T. Adkins >> chalk

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Photography 62

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AGATE Tia Mancuso >> photography

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USED ROUGH Cayde Cuprak >> photography

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THE AREIS GAZE Casey Oleson >> photography

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A Dream for a Penny Sometimes I feel Like a dirty penny In a coat Of sooty copper. Set amongst coins Of a higher count, And coats of A shinier color. In contending to be My lessor self, I’ve let The others shine. I buffered and smoothed Their reflective sides, And helped remove the grime. But Time’s lapsed on And here I rest, In the dust of all that glitters.

Now they’re all treasure And worth so much! Yet I remain like litter. In dreaming their dreams And reaching new heights They seem to have forgotten One thing, That I, a penny, Have loftier goals And carry within me A dream! To be like them The prettier coin And be the best I can be. But the new silver dollars Have moved forward and out And forgotten That even pennies have dreams.

Jessica Baglio

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CALM Tia Mancuso >> photography

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FOUND Tyler Harris >> photography

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PARADISE Sam Jones >> photography

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PERSPECTIVE Travis Russell ›› photography

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Rocks These are my rocks. They are firmly planted in the earth of Faith. They may slip slightly, But they are unbreakable. They support me, Through happiness and sadness; Through joy and sorrow; Through victory and trial. They never fail to support me. They are all very different, Even in their support, But they are all important. They are all beautiful, in their own way. They will stand strong with me; Even through raging rivers. I could not stand without them and the Faith we share. The ground in our religion we all share The rocks are people They are: My mom, My Brother, My best friend My Church, My Faith.

Rebecca Kron

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Shall We Burn What is a Rose? But a sweet scent of Lust? One to impose And turn down in the dust Is there nothing But no hope for sweet Love? What of trusting? Consumed by the above Can we not live? Without such faint Desire? Doomed we still give To this our own fire

Mellissa Kellett

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BEAUTY AND THE BEAST Tyler Harris ›› photography

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CONTEMPLATING THE HORSE Vicki Olson ›› photography

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LONG TIME FORGOTTEN Cayde Cuprak ›› photography

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FINE lost - angry - confused “FINE” hurt - scared - betrayed “FINE” bitter - alone - demented “FINE” abandon - cold - isolated “FINE”

Mellissa Kellett

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BLISS Tia Mancuso ›› photography

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CONTRIBUTORS

Aagard, Aaron ›› 33, 53

Gaskill, Andrew ›› 45-47

Oleson, Casey ›› 65

Adkins, Anthony W.T. ›› 20, 51, 58, 61

Harris, Tyler ›› 68, 73

Olson, Vicki ›› 74

Anderson, DeAndra ›› 32, 50

Jones, Sam ›› 6, 42, 69

Russell, Travis ›› 70

Andren, John ›› 10

Kellett, Mellissa ›› 72, 76

Schultz, Taylor ›› 23, 43

Anthony, Ashley ›› 11

Kelly, Trenton ›› 13

Seeley, Brandi ›› 26, 44, 56, 60

Baglio, Jessica ›› 66

Kron, Rebecca ›› 71

Shenefelt, Ginger ›› 39

Bassett, Kaziah ›› 5

Mancuso, Tia ›› 8, 63, 67, 77

Spomer, Eryka ›› 38

Bobinski, Elieen ›› 27, 31

Martensen, Michelle ›› 15

Steele, Summer ›› 24, 34, 36

Brown, Bobbie ›› 21, 35, 41

Mennell, Sean ›› 19, 57

Stewart, Samantha ›› 28-30

Cuprak, Cayde ›› 64, 75

Morrow, Jake ›› 55

Walter, Luisa ›› 17, 40, 54

Dominguez, Ismael ›› 25

Morrow, Sierra ›› 12, 22, 49, 59

Wessel, Victoria ›› 7, 14, 18, 52

Fields, Chloe ›› 9

Olberding, Candy ›› 37

Woods, Jane ›› 48

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STAFF

Sierra Morrow

Victoria Wessel

Luisa Walter

Sam Jones

Powell, Wyoming Fine Art & Graphic Design

Billings, Montana Graphic Design

Limbach-Oberfrohna, Germany Fine Art & Graphic Design

Parker, Colorado Undecided

Michelle Martensen

Chloe Fields

Rebecca Kron

Renee Tafoya

Newcastle, Wyoming Graphic Design & Photography

Ione, California Graphic Design

Billings, Montana Graphic Design & History

Montana Advisor

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