We want stories and poems about West. West is a bullet-riddled 1985 Grand Marquis, a gleaming spaceship hovering over Roswell, a cowboy paying his latte with the Amex-card, an alien wondering where in the world to get the golden iPhone. West is where it hurts, West is the rattlesnake you didn’t hear, the dust storm sanding your car, the champagne underneath the Hollywood sign, the checkout line of a grocery store that doesn’t carry mandarin-orange segments in fruit juice, green-chili and cheese burritos from the 24-hour gas station. West is when there’s no West left. West is where you always wanted to be.
Write West. Send it our way.