Mirage 2019

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MIRAGE

LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE 2019 Cochise College Cochise County, Arizona Faculty Advisors Kristen Welch Alex O’Meara Ella Melito Virginia Pfau Thompson Ken Sikora Jenea Sanchez Ron Hyde JenMarie Zeleznak Designer Tammy Gould Sierra Vista Campus Cochise College

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Front and Back Cover Art Art: Nataliia Kuzmenko, “New York City,” Douglas Campus Design: RosieFinch Brown, Douglas Campus Submission Guidelines We now take submissions on an ongoing basis. For information on the new submission guidelines for your original writing or artwork, please visit www.cochise.edu/mirage.

Questions should be sent to mirage@cochise.edu.

When hard copies of the Mirage are available, announcements are posted on the website and on our Facebook page. Copies are available at the Sierra Vista and Douglas campus libraries. The Mirage is also available in a digital version on our website.

Acknowledgements The Mirage Committee would like to thank Jasso Esteban for his work on the biographies, Tammy Gould for her work on creating a flyer for our annual contest and for her work on the new website, all faculty who have encouraged students to participate by sending us their work, and Dr. Eric Brooks, Dean of Liberal Arts.

Creative Writing Celebration Winners The Mirage publishes first-place winners from the previous year’s Cochise Creative Writing Celebration contests in poetry, fiction, and memoir.

Poetry, “Little Fugue in G Minor for Flute,”

Tina Quinn Durham

Fiction, “The Roadkill God,” Jay Melzer

Memoir, “The First Death,” Clinton Lee

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Mirage Mission Statement The Mirage Literary & Arts Magazine has a three-part mission: 1. Mirage serves Cochise county by showcasing high-quality art and literature produced by community members and students.

2. Mirage serves Cochise College by establishing the college as the locus for a creative learning community.

3. Mirage serves Cochise College students by providing them an opportunity to earn college credit and to gain academic and professional experience through their participation in ENG 257, Visual Design and Production. This course is offered each spring.

Design Cochise College student Tammy Gould chose Century Gothic as the font for this year’s edition.

Disclaimer Mirage and its staff are not responsible for the veracity, authenticity, or integrity of any work of literature or art, or for any claim made by a contributor appearing in the publication.

Copyright Notice All rights herein are retained by the individual author or artist. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or artist. Copyright law dictates that if a portion of a work is used, it must include the full acknowledgement of the title, author, and magazine. Printed in the United States of America.

© Cochise College 2019

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2018-19 Student Poetry, Prose, & Art Contest Winners Poetry:

First place: Owen Crowlie, “Advice is a Kind of Anecdote”

Second place: Jay Melzer, “Gray Day”

Third place: Jennifer Ovalle-Zelaya, “We Wait”

Prose:

First place: Edward Doench, “Changing of the Guard”

Second place: Marcea Phidd, “Nostaliga”

Third place: Katie Bertrand, “An Indiscreet Holiday”

Art:

First place: Nataliia Kuzmenko, “New York City”

Second place: Nataliia Kuzmenko, “Tel Aviv”

Third place: Maria Grijalva, “Hanging and Spinning”

The Mirage holds an annual contest in the categories of poetry, prose, and art. All entries are blind-reviewed, and winners are invited to work with a faculty member to revise their entries so they can be considered for publication. First place winners receive a gift card for $50.

If you would like to enter your work, email your entries to: mirage@cochise.edu All submissions from students are automatically entered in the contest.

Winners are announced each spring.

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Want to participate in producing this magazine?

Consider taking English 257, Visual Design and Production Offered each spring on the Sierra Vista campus of Cochise College, this course offers students the opportunity to participate in the design of the Mirage magazine and website.

Students will participate in learning activities that focus on visual and literary analysis and magazine design in both digital and print mediums.

The production process, from concept to publication, will be discussed in detail and practiced using InDesign and Photoshop. Students do not need to have any knowledge of these programs, but they do need to be comfortable using Microsoft Office programs in order to take the class.

Want to know more?

Visit mirageliterarymagazine.com. This blog is linked to our current website through Cochise College at www.cochise.edu/mirage. It is updated regularly and includes art, poetry, and prose from our contributors.

Are you a community member who would like to submit your work for possible publication?

Please send submissions by email to mirage@cochise.edu. We take original poetry and prose (short stories and memoirs). We also seek submissions of photos of original art.

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Table of Contents Notalgia Marcea Phidd 1 Little Fugue in G Minor for Flute Tina Quinn Durham 3 Phoenician Visions Pat Sepulveda-Myers 4 A Journey on the Silk Road Rebecca Orozco 5 Cathedral Albert Kogel 15 Holy Mackerel Albert Kogel 15 Monkey Man Albert Kogel 16 Albert Kogel Interview Virginia Pfau-Thompson, Brian Glock II, Marie Brymer, Fernanda Estrada, Sara Shias, James Bond, Angie Garner, Emilee Simpson 17 Flight Peter Bean 21 John Slaughter Marshall Trimble 25 How to Write Creatively Sarah Fenter 31 Black Canyon of the Gunnison Boat Trip Linda Hughitt 35 Mom and Calf Ivan Noriega 36 Blackbirds Bob Luce 37 New York City Nataliia Kuzmenko 38 The Classic Pickup Andrea Savage 39 Some Assembly Required Linda Ekstrum 40 Hanging and Spinning Maria Jose Grijalva 41 Tel Aviv, Israel Nataliia Kuzmenko 42 Hotel Gadsden Ivan Noreiga 43 Self Portrait Phoebe Leavitt 44 An Indiscreet Holidy Katie Bertrand 45 Parker Lake in June Linda Ekstrum 48 The First Death Clinton Lee 49 Yellow Door Ammi Robles Lizarraga 52 Changing of the Guard Edward Doench 53 The Roadkill God Jay Melzer 55 Wrong Side of the Tracks Ammi Robles Lizarraga 63 Watson Lake at Night Joyce Genske 64 Determination Breanne Huitz 65 El Alfarero Lauren Paun 66 Within Me Noelani Ramirez 67 Untitled Crystal Jazell Munoz 68

Biographies 69

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Calling all artists!

The Mirage Literary and Arts Magazine is looking for submissions of prose, poetry and art for the annual student contest.

Awards are as follows: 1st Place: $50 Amazon Gift Card 2nd Place: $25 Amazon Gift Card 3rd Place: $15 Amazon Gift Card The contest is open to Cochise College students. Email entries to: mirage@cochise.edu

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Nostalgia Marcea Phidd 2nd Place in Prose, Student Contest

Gray. Gray sky. Gray trees, grass. Gray neighborhood and gray air.

Hints of color would splash here and there, like the ugly purple/blue couch my sister was lounging in … my noodles submerged in warm yellow broth.

The inside of the house itself radiated a warm, velvet, purple, a contrast to the monotonous colors outside. And inside the cozy little house, my sister and I sat. Kyia - enraptured with some cheesy anime, and I - with my bowl of golden noodles.

As the anime of some boy and some girl falling in “love” drawled on the television, I sat and halfheartedly watched alongside my sister. I craved a violent and gory anime brimming with action and fight scenes, but if my kid sis wanted to watch this disgusting love shit play on screen then dammit, that is what my eyes shall despairingly watch. The code of siblings written long ago in ancient times states - If Thou does not have the remote, then Thou does not get to chooseth the show. So. Rolling my eyes at one scene that contained a ceaseless amount of tears and brummagem music, I swallowed the last of my food and belched, grabbing the attention of my sister. Her eyes zeroed in on my empty bowl and content face. “I’m hungry.”

Kyia was too lazy to make her own food and wanted something instant and cheap. Walmart was the destination for our little adventure.

Thus began the prepping ceremony of mascara, lashes, highlighter and layers of clothes. With a grab of my wallet and keys, the shut of the door and intense shock of light hitting our eyes for the first time of the day, out into the streets we went.

It was gray. It was cloudy. It was cold. It was a long … ass … fucking walk. As I strolled next to my adorable and beautiful pink nosed sister, I couldn’t help but gaze at her. My sister.

It was the high school years and I was the older sister in school while Kyia was the younger. It was an impossibly annoying position to be in high school with her. She wasn’t annoying - the classmates were. The daily comparisons that my sister and I had to go through every day was infuriating. And it wasn’t I who was bothered, it was my little sister. She was a fresh eyed freshman. And her older sister was there at school with her!

To hang out with her and check in on her (which I would creepily do by peeping in the classroom windows, trying to spot the little rascal). It was great! And then it wasn’t. Because every day Kyia would have to hear her classmates and random ass people state some dumbass comments like, “Ah, your older sister is so pretty! Prettier than you …”

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or have questions thrown at her like, “Why is your sister so much curvier than you?” “Why is your sister taller and cooler than you?”

It sucked. Terribly. Throughout the school years, before I graduated and was able to leave that godforsaken place, I watched my sister wilt under criticism from her “friends” and classmates. Her self-esteem was deteriorating. And it was partially my fault. I was the one who she was being compared to. I was the one that my sister looked up to in such a toxic way. I was the one who was dismayed that my sister, my little sister couldn’t see how beautiful she was and how much I wanted to be just like her. I admired, and still do admire her, so much. And I want her to always remember that. To never forget how much of a role model she was, and still is, to me.

And so, when winter break finally arrived, there my sister and I sat, watching anime, slouched on our couches. It was just us. There was no one around to make snide comments. No one around to ask dumbass questions that were obviously hurtful. No one around to pressure my sister into believing that she wasn’t one of the most beautiful, kind, hilarious people to ever grace that stupid high school. No one. But us. Just us sisters, or “stisters,” as Kyia likes to call us. I was happy. I was happy to just be alone with her. I was happy to be walking alongside her.

Tall, long, skinnier in the places I wasn’t, and cooler and goofier in her likeable open personality that I sure did not have - walking with her by my side … joking and screaming and singing and peeing in a ditch (that was me.) I admire her. A mop-top of curly hair and her trademark dimples, her pink button nose and highlighted cheeks. My younger sister of a year and half - my “twin,” my role model and the person that I want to be as I grow up. As we walked amongst the asphalt and rocks toward Walmart, I held onto my sister’s arms and grinned, shoving my cheek against hers.

“Stister. You so cute. I love you.”

“Ehhhhhh Matea! Augghhh get offfffffffff …”

I love you, baby sister. And I always will.

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Little Fugue in G Minor for Flute, by J.S. Bach Tina Quinn Durham First Place, Poetry Creative Writing Celebration Contest I fling the wind into a silver hole and tease it eighteen inches under calf-gut rings.

I say the incantations with my teeth, cue the air until it writhes and sings.

I free it with my fingers, cut it short with diaphragm and tongue, and give it voice to tremble under metal and my heart.

I suck the sound inside myself - send noise of every breath and rattle mortal man has stored on wood - I slap it into life and shape its music with my hand. The men who scored wind’s passage, black on white, are resurrected in that mutilated breath.

I break the air in sections, shatter death.

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Phoenician Visions (11/27/1992) Pat Sepulveda-Myers Mourning dove, harbinger of dawn and dusk,

do you grieve with me?

Palo Verde/Ocotillo/Joshua Tree,

a child’s stick drawings in silver green; Oleander and Hibiscus,

incongruous flashes of red; Stark, jagged horizon

with delusions of nearness; Dry whispers of palms

marching relentlessly down the avenues; Soft blue shadows

stretching across empty arroyos.

Glimpses of desert dreams

seducing then calming the soul’s discontent.

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A Journey on the Silk Road Becky Orozco

The legendary Silk Road tied the Orient to Europe for centuries. Its route crossed the steppes of Central Asia, making that region a valuable target to empires interested in controlling the rich trade. Today the region remains a crossroads between the West and the powers of Russia and China.

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan historically make up the heart of the Silk Road. Traders established depots and military bases to protect their goods and built cities from their profits. Local entrepreneurs provided resources to the outposts. The Silk Road image of that part of these nations’ histories is evident in the many markets that still carry many of those goods. Kazakhstan was key to the Silk Road in that it provided the “technology” for long distance trade, travel and conquest. It was on the steppes of Central Asia that horse was domesticated around 5,500 years ago as evidenced in early rock art and archaeology. The control of the valuable resources of the silk route led to a long history of conquest of the region, ending with the Soviet Union takeover in the early 20th century.

References to the equestrian past of the nation are common but today horses are more often seen as a menu item than a means of transport.

The original population of ancestral Przwalski horse became extinct and has been reintroduced from other areas.

Kazakhstan is the ninth largest country in the world, the largest land-locked, but is also the least densely populated with only 18.5 million people. Today, it is described as an independent republic, but for nearly a century it was a satellite state the former Soviet Union. Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in the last decade of the 20th century, Kazakhstan regained independence. How the Kazakhs identify themselves ethnically and culturally and even the language they speak is undergoing dramatic change.

The new capital of the country is Astana and its very construction is emblematic of a country reinventing itself. Astana, which translates as “capital” in Kazakh, is a planned city, with soaring architecture and extensive public space and art. It has a very modern feel but one that seems focused toward the west. The city has multiple global franchises (McDonald’s, Burger King, Starbucks and many others). In reinventing the nation, the government has built a new capital that is in the north that is constructed to exemplify a new Kazakhstan. Bounded on the north

by Russia and on the east by China, Kazakhstan balances the need for markets and the demand for its oil and natural resources with maintaining autonomy surrounded by aggressive, economic and militarily powerful nations. This balancing act is exemplified in the struggle to reestablish Kazakh as the national language with the need to maintain Russian as the 5

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language of commerce and bureaucracy. English as a global technology language also plays a role.

Uzbekistan borders Kazakhstan on the south. It, too, fell under Soviet hegemony for most of the twentieth century. It is far smaller, but faces many of the same issues. The country is working to develop tourism associated with the historic Silk Road which transversed the region for centuries. The cities of Taskent, Samarkand and Bukara contain historic architecture which reflects this history. Uzbekistan also works to reestablish its traditional language. Greater distance from Russia meant more citizens retained their native language, but Russian still is the language of business.

A new generation of writers who grew up speaking Russian have created a genre of literature in that language.

In June of 2018, Virginia Pfau Thompson (Cochise College ceramics instructor), Seth Polley (Bisbee High School history teacher) and I (History and Anthropology instructor) participated in the Fulbright-Hays Kazakhstan-Uzbekistan Group Project Abroad sponsored by New Mexico Highlands University in partnership with the University of Arizona. The Group project abroad was made up of rural Arizona and New Mexico Educators. The majority of the group were K-12 teachers. Five members were community college and university instructors. The program provides grants to support overseas projects in training, research, and curriculum development in modern foreign languages and area studies for teachers, students, and faculty engaged in a common endeavor. Projects may include short-term seminars, curriculum development, group research or study, or advanced intensive language programs. The following is the description of the Central Asia: Crossroads of Civilization course:

Through a study of literature, history, languages, architecture,

politics, gender studies, environmental sustainability, and ethnic

relations, educators will analyze cultural interactions in the border

lands where the Muslim world and the Orthodox world come into

contact, where Slavic, Persian, and Turkic languages/cultures

meet. Travel, visits to museums and cultural sites, and attendance

at one or more music/dance performances will greatly enhance

classroom learning. Finally, educators will have the opportunity to

interact with their Kazakh and Uzbek teaching counterparts to

explore ways of sharing research/teaching challenges and creat

ing connections among their students. Educators thus gain experi

ences and insights that they can bring back to the classroom –

along with photos and cultural artifacts purchased as part of the project.

Virginia’s project focused on her Cochise College position as instructor in ceramics. I examined language and culture, and what dynamic changes in both mean to present day Kazakhstan. We spent the first weeks of our stay at Nazarbayev University in Astana. Astana was originally a Russian fort called Akmola (Kazakh for “white tombs”) then 6

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re-named under the Soviet Union to Tselinograd to designate it as the Virgin Lands City, hub of an ambitious resettlement program to move population from across the Soviet Union to the steppes and to be a agricultural hub. In 1997, the capital was moved this small town on the steppes and the planned city began construction. According to the September 2017 census data, the city has a population of about 1,100,000 inhabitants, the second largest city after the old capital, Almaty.

The president of Kazakhstan is Nursultan Nazarbayev. He has been the president since independence. In the elections of 2015, he received 97.7% of the vote. With the move of the capital to the north from the traditional south and the creation of a new focus for the region, Nazarbayev seeks to remake Kazakhstan. Rich natural resources, including oil and mineral wealth, are funding “Nurly Zhol,” an extensive infrastructure program focused on modernizing the nation. Intense nationalism has become a hallmark of his leadership.

Kazakhstan is officially a trilingual country. Kazakh, (part of the Kipchak family of Turkic languages) spoken natively by 64.4% of the population, has the status of “state” language, whereas Russian, which is spoken by more than 85% of Kazakhstanis, is declared an “official” language, and is used routinely in business, government, and inter-ethnic communication, although Kazakh is slowly replacing it (Culture Smart: Kazakhstan). Kazakh is now required to be used in all government meetings. English is seen as a necessary language for economic development.

The government announced in January 2015 that the Latin alphabet will replace Cyrillic as the writing system for the Kazakh language by 2025.

Other minority languages spoken in Kazakhstan include Uzbek, Ukrainian, Uyghur, Kyrgyz, and Tatar. English, as well as Turkish, have gained popularity among younger people since the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Education across Kazakhstan is conducted in Kazakh, Russian, or both.

Astana’s towering new buildings set in the vast northern steppes are symbolic of this development of a new Kazakhstan national identity. But the steppe still holds great representative power. This vast region of open grassland was home to nomadic Kazakh peoples. Their pastoral way of life is still seen as a critical part of national identity although many were forced leave that lifestyle during the Soviet period and few still practice it.

The eagle hunter is symbolic ofthat identity. The eagle is part of the national symbolism and appears in the center of the Kazakh national flag.

Although ethnic Kazaks make up the majority of the population, ethnic Russians still comprise almost one third.

Nazarbayev University in Astana is emblematic of Kazakhstan’s changing relationship with language. Classes in the new University, started in 2012, are taught primarily in English, reflecting the focus on STEM (science, technology, engineering and math) fields. Fulbright participants, however, were required to complete modules of Russian language study 7

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before arrival and then had Russian classes each day. We also studied Kazakh, but Russian was the major focus. For me, the new alphabet and the totally different word and sound patterns never lodged in my old brain.

The location of the University on the edge of the steppe reflected the placement of Astana overall. Its name, Nazarbayev University, is also symbolic of the role the president plays in a changing nation. There is growing concern about how the government will transition once he is no longer in power. The new university is being constructed to house 20,000 plus students but has only about 4,000 currently. Its empty newness emphasized the difficult shift in focus from the Soviet southern past to the Kazakh northern future.

Russian belongs to the East Slavic branch of the Indo European Language family. Kazakh and Uzbek are Turkic languages in the Altaic Language family. Part of my own struggles to learn Russian were directly tied to the different alphabet. Letters that looked the same as those in our Latin alphabet have completely different sounds. For example “P” in Russian sounds like “R” in English. The Kazakh alphabet differs from the Latin and Russian Cyrillic alphabets. Currently about 60% speak Kazakh and 85% speak Russian (Dina Zhansigimova, Culture Smart: Kazakhstan, Kiperard, 2017).

The story of Helen, a woman who helped me find my way one day when I got lost, is emblematic of the challenges faced by the Kazakhs of today. She grew up in the Soviet era in the city where Russian became the main language. She was educated in Russian and her parents spoke it at home. Now she struggles to learn the Kazakh language which as the state language is required for many kinds of employment. She is proud of her nation and its independence. The economic growth of recent years has been good for everyone. She had praise for the president who she felt was a stabilizing force for the nation.

But she is worried about her place in this economy and that concern is rooted in language.

Religion adds to the cultural dynamics. Islam was the historic faith of the Silk Road. With the Soviet Union came the Russian Orthodox faith along with the hundreds of thousands of political prisoners relocated to region although it was suppressed. Today, Islam is practiced by 70% of the population, Russian Orthodox Christianity by about 30% (Culture Smart: Kazakhstan), but the striking presence of Russian Orthodox churches reflects the remaining Russian ethnic population.

In the countryside, on the steppe east of Astana, Kazakh remained the language of families. This linguistic division in many ways defines the struggle of the nation as it establishes itself on the world stage.

It is a resource rich country with a small but growing population, much centered in the urban areas. The national language of Kazakh has been legislated as the language of the inhabitants but many do not speak it.

The ethnic diversity mirrors the language divide. The nomadic pastoral 8

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horse culture of the past is fading but still a major aspect of national identity. Mineral wealth is funding a push to build a futuristic modern city in the midst of the steppe and has led to a high standard of living for the nation but has also led to extreme corruption (GINI coefficient, World Bank). But, Kazakhstan has suffered economically from the drop in oil prices and as a result of U.S. sanctions on its largest trading partners, Russia and China.

If culture is the total body of our behavior, then language is its heartbeat. The changing linguistic foundation of Kazakhstan is a mirror to its push to the modern world. If economic growth and stability create a contented populace, the ability to remake the Kazakh culture and language in accordance with the Nazarbayev model seemed on track to succeed. But, political unrest as a result of transition concerns along with economic instability due to global issues may be exacerbated by rapid cultural change unmoored by loss of linguistic identity.

But, people are resilient. The poetry of Evgenii Abdullaev is a reflection of that. Abdullaev writes in Russian but identifies as Uzbeki. These were translated by Dr. Naomi Caffee from the University of Arizona who also was our Russian instructor. ВОЗВРАЩЕНИЕ НАСРЕДДИНА Вернулся: цел, сутул и невредим. Все тот же – и Ходжа, и Насреддин, И божий раб, и утренний прохожий – И борода торчит из кожи, Как ершик для бутыли от вина. Осла неокрыленная спина Седеет в мозглой сырости рассвета. Всё так же благородна Бухара. А время года – что-то вроде лета, Но холодно сегодня, как вчера; И нет вина, чтоб выпить не за это. Да, всё на месте – как не уезжал. И новости всё те же, и газеты. Ишак не умер, падишах не сдох; Здоровы все. Чуть помутнел канал, И аист на макушке минарета Зовет меня взойти к нему в гнездо: “Келинг, келинг”. Спасибо, как-нибудь... в другое лето...

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M I R A G E THE RETURN OF NASREDDIN He’s back: intact, bent, but unbroken.

Just as before - both Khoja and Nasreddin, And servant of God, and morning passer-by, And beard that bristles out from under skin, Just like a cleaning brush for jugs of wine.

His donkey’s old and wingless back Is greying in the soggy damp of dawn.

Bukhara’s high and mighty as before.

And it’s something like a summer -- that’s the season, But cold today, the same as yesterday; And there’s no wine to drink for no good reason.

Yes, everything’s in place - it’s as if he never left.

The news is all the same, in all the papers.

The mule’s not dead, the padishah has yet to croak; They’re all just fine. The canal’s a little muddied, though, And a stork atop the minaret Calls me over to his nest: “Kelin’, kelin’.”

Thanks, somehow, another time...

Another summer...

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Plov was often a menu item. It is a rice-based pilaf most often served with horse meat. The dish is ubiquitous, a fast food made in huge vats with various additions, served in street side cafes and markets and a common take out item. It is accompanied by flat bread, cooked in wood ovens and patterned with stamped designs. КУХНЯ, ПЕРЕД ПЛОВОМ Морковь и лук, промытый рис. Огонь, пока что вхолостую, Сжигает пахнущий зирой Зернистый воздух, жирный зной; Четыре пра-дедовских стула Заставлены, на тазе таз, Баранья кровь скликает ос, И мух, и незаметных духов; Из-под земли струится газ, И гибнет в пляске душных роз У казанка под черным брюхом.

The Kitchen, Before Plov Carrot and onion, well-washed rice.

Fire, impotent for now, Burning fragrant cumin.

Grainy air, greasy heat, Great grandfather’s four chairs Set up, a basin on a bowl.

Lamb’s blood beckoning all the wasps, And flies, and furtive spirits.

Gas flows up from underground, And dies in a sultry ring-around-the-rose, Beneath the big black belly of the pot.

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Registan Square, Samarkand, Uzbekistan Photograph by Rebecca Orozco

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The group project abroad was made up of rural Arizona and New Mexico Educators. The majority of the group were K-12 teachers. Five members were community college and university instructors.

In the photo: Virginia Pfau Thompson, Naomi Caffee, Monica Ketchum, Heather Christiansen, Renee Moody, Cara Schreffler, Rebecca Orozco, Seth Polley, Lisa Adeli, Alison Ollinger-Riefstahl, and Kris Otto.

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A Master Potter in Gijduvan, Uzbekistan Decorates a Large Serving Dish with Slip Trailing Photograph by Viginia Pfau Thompson

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Al Kogel, Mixed Media Cathedral

Holy Mackerel

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Monkey Man

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Albert Kogel Interview, December 10, 2019 Design I Class Students Participating: Brian Glock II, Marie Brymer, Fernanda Estrada, Sara Shias, James Bond, Angie Garner, Emilee Simpson Moderated and transcribed by Virginia Pfau Thompson Student: “What made you want to become an artist?”

AK: “I was an architect, and I couldn’t pass the language requirement, so I went to art school.”

Student: “So it was a last resort?”

AK: “I was interested in history also, but fine arts had no language.”

Student: “Do you believe that you were destined to become a painter?”

AK: “No, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I found art to be very challenging and I liked working hard to get good grades.”

Student: “How long have you been here at Cochise College, Al?” AK: “41 years. I taught at the U of A for three years and Pima College.”

Student: “Did you start teaching art before you became an artist, or was it the other way around?”

AK: “I had seven years of training in art before I started teaching. I never felt comfortable with calling myself an artist … I don’t tell people I’m an artist. Lots of people say they are an artist, but it doesn’t have any meaning. And I don’t call myself an artist, but I do sell paintings.”

Student: “What’s the most you’ve ever sold a painting for?”

AK: “About $5,000.”

Student: “You said that you like working with majors that aren’t Art. Why is that?”

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AK: “Because most of my students are not art majors. I studied Art Therapy, because I’m working with students who aren’t as motivated as Art students at the university level.”

Student: “Would you rather just work with Art Majors?”

AK :“No, I like what I am doing.”

Student: “How do you share your knowledge of all aspects of art - like the welding, the business, the architecture? How do you convey this knowledge to people who have no experience?”

AK: “It’s like working with kids. If you’re working with children I try to do drawings or imagery that is around their level. I don’t show them hand skills they have no way of doing. I try to relate to people where they’re at, rather than have an idea in my head about what they should be doing. Everyone is creative. You just have to figure out how to access your creativity.”

Student: “What is something that you have never tried that you would like to try?”

AK: “Well, don’t know (laughs).”

Student: “If you knew you’d be doing it.”

AK: “In the summer I am always taking classes in things I don’t know about and travelling.”

Student: “What about making art in Virtual Reality - would you prefer that to doing it on a computer?”

AK: “No, I prefer to do it with my physical body. I like the resistance of the materials. And it really is in my body. I have all sorts of shoulder issues from working and carving in wood and things like that, which I probably could have avoided.”

Student: “So, what do you plan on doing when you retire?”

AK: “I am getting involved with something called Tucson Children’s Project, which works with Head Start. Head Start is for underprivileged kids.”

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Student: “What is it about Cochise College that kept you here for so long?”

AK:“I think the people are really nice - the faculty, the students. When I was in my 30’s, I thought I was a complete failure, because I was teaching.”

Student: “What is your favorite thing about being an artist?”

AK: “Being alone in the studio. Having lots of time and open space.”

Student: “What is your biggest inspiration?”

AK: “It used to be my dog Sabi. I did dog paintings of her for about five years … But my inspiration? I am very driven to do something. So, it is me - it is probably how I was raised.”

Student: “What artist do you admire the most and why?”

AK: “Oh, there’s lots of artists with lots of different reasons. It changes you know artists I liked twenty years ago, I’m not as interested in now.

Generally, I go and travel in Europe, or I go to California or New York.”

Student: “What’s your favorite museum in Europe?”

AK: “I don’t know. I don’t think like that. I mean, I could have gone to Paris again, and I decided to go to Vienna just to see what their museums are like. I spent a year in Germany, and I liked the museums there. I think it helps if I don’t know the language, so that if people are talking around me I don’t know what’s going on, and helps me focus, so I’d much rather be in a foreign country in a museum than in America, where you hear all these stupid comments. I generally wear earplugs here.”

Student: “What’s the stupidest comment about an art piece that you have ever heard?”

AK: “I don’t remember. I delete it. But like I say, I usually have headphones on or earplugs or something because I want to pretend I’m not myself when I look at art.”

Student: “If you had to pick a period of art that matches your art the most, which would it be?”

AK: “I think before 1950.”

Student: “So, anything before 1950? That’s a lot!”

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AK: “Now, it’s probably modernism. Just the idea that art has meaning.

I like that idea, that there is something meaningful, that not everybody maybe is an artist. I’m bringing the meaning. I say it’s meaningful; therefore, it’s meaningful. [Pause] I’m not that interested - if somebody wants to buy something, I’ll talk to them about what I am doing because it’s salesmanship, but, its really about my relationship to it. Other people … it’s like a scientist. If I had studied science for thirty years, studying ‘microparticles of particles’ you know most people couldn’t have a conversation with me. But, because it’s art, everybody thinks their opinion matters.”

Student: “What’s your favorite form of art?”

AK: “Form? I like music a lot. I come from a family of musicians.”

Student: “Where were you raised?”

AK: “Great Neck, New York, on Long Island. I tried my best to lose my New York accent. I don’t know. It’s somewhere in the middle.”

Student: “What’s your favorite moment in art making?”

AK: “I mean, the beginning is the worst for me. Just when I feel like I have a handle on something.”

Student: “Was there a time in your life that you struggled for inspiration?”

AK: “Yeah, I mean even now I have feedback that says, ‘This is no good.’

I have tapes running all the time; I just don’t listen to them. And switching medias is one way. If you’re getting beat up because you’re painting, then you switch to ceramics, or you go to colored pencils, or you go to collage. Switching mediums is a very useful way to not be self-critical.”

Student: “What is the best piece of advice for an aspiring artist?”

AK: “Hopefully you’re lucky. You need a lot of luck. I don’t have any advice. You need luck and you have to be persistent. ‘Better, better best, never let it rest ‘til your better’s better and your better is your best.’”

Student: “Have you ever created something and then destroyed it because you didn’t like it?”

AK: “All the time. That is part of my process. I’ll cut it up and reconfigure it. I like making a final product, but I also just like the experience of being absorbed in something.”

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Flight Peter Bean

A cloudless slate colored sky hovers along the valley, with long awaited expectations of impending rain subtly permeating thick, hot air. Judy closes the worn, paint-chipped door, and slowly shuffles down the narrow, graveled dirt road. Each small step puffs tiny clouds of dust around her thin ankles. The long, hot, dry summer finally comes to an end.

Judy’s large hazel eyes drift past the crooked rail fence which lines the edge of the road and fades into the distant, barren pasture.

Nearby, the lean sorrel mare nods toward Judy, throws a quick glance at her colt beside her. With a swift snort and jerk she lowers her head, and stretches her long neck to nibble at sparse patches of green around the water trough. Turning left at the end of the road, Judy rests her small suitcase in the gravel dirt and gazes across the empty field, past the old weathered barn, where the run-down farmhouse, home for seven years, sits like an empty shell. To the right of the house - it’s more like a shack with slanted floors, holes in the window and door screens, not the best plumbing in town - to the right behind the well, Judy eyes the large weeping willow with Jimmy’s frayed rope still dangling from one of its lower branches. She recalls how Paul was always going to replace that old rope with a new one; how he would build a swing fit for a prince; how he was going to replace the missing rails in the old fence; how he was always going to fix so many other things in need of repair around the old, run down farm; and, most assuredly, he’d promise, how he was always going to change his ways - as if someone could become who they are not. With a fading glimmer in her eyes, Judy lowers her weary head, and as she bends to pick up the little suitcase and carry her load down to the highway at the end of the dusty gravel road, a distant smile breaks from the corner of her soft lips. After six long weeks it will only be a few more moments, yet still a seeming eternity, before she sees Jimmy again. Judy reflects on last night’s phone call, Jimmy’s excitement when she told him that mom is coming to join him at grandma’s house. Jimmy always loves spending the summer with Gramma and Grampa every year; but, he always looks forward to coming home. This time, however, Jimmy will not be coming home.

As Judy’s smile fades, a tepid breeze flickers in the heated late noon air. Jimmy will really miss it here, she grieves. Judy’s thoughts coalesce in random strings of quickening trepidation. What will she tell Jimmy? How do you tell a young child that he won’t be living with daddy anymore? An array of unanswered questions race through Judy’s head. How do you explain to a five year old boy about leaving a marriage because his father never … She interrupts her thoughts. No, she silently confesses that she, too, is also to blame. Absentmindedly, Judy sets her suitcase down and pauses along the graveled-over side of the road. She raises her supple neck, which had slumped, with each dim 21

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thought, closer to her breast. Her eyes follow the crooked rail fence, with its occasional missing boards along the way, past the old horse barn, and notice, through a watery film, the blurry house. A gust of wind sweeps a sudden chill across Judy’s cheeks, and swirls a miniature cyclone down the dusty dirt road behind her. With a quick sniffle, Judy picks up the suitcase, confidently perks her head into slowly cooling air, turns, and with quickened pace heads toward the highway. Into a cloud covered sunset, facing sparse on-coming traffic, Judy ambles in the gravel along the asphalt shoulder. Any minute now, she hopes, she’ll see her father’s unmistakable ‘39 Studebaker pickup motoring up the road.

Just off the highway two black birds, perched on separate fence posts a short distance apart from one another, spy Judy in unison as she approaches. Sharp-cast crooked shadow-crosses obliquely stretch from nearby telephone poles across the asphalt onto the dusty gravel, and soften in the sinking sunlight. Avoiding stepping on the subtly changing crosses, Judy recalls a particular day early this summer, just before Jimmy left for Gramma’s, how, while washing dishes, she watches Jimmy through the kitchen window, try repeatedly, to step in the middle of his own shadow which, of course, continually eludes his confounded, yet earnest, attempts. Once, he asked dad why he could never catch it; why it would always escape him? Paul, as usual, never granting Jimmy a child’s innocence, impatiently explains how Jimmy wouldn’t understand about light and shadow, motion and relativity, and perception. That’s Paul, always in another world; unable to relate, nor even make an effort to relate, to his young son. And, as always, just about half way through Paul’s nebulous dissertation - fingers fumble with shirt buttons, head slouched low in isolation, feeling lost - Jimmy, sheepishly wanders off to see what mommy is doing.

Small, piercing, black bird eyes seem to follow Judy’s tread path, and silently threaten her passing glance. Instantly, the four sharp black dots, atop opposing fence posts, stream toward the center and, fixed with Judy’s vision, merge into one. Into the darkening horizon, two birds fly out of sight, like one streaming thought in flight. Judy smiles as she relates to the escaping birds. She, too, desires a clean sweep. She does not want a confrontation with Paul. She knows it is close - Paul returns from two weeks of camping this evening, and soon - all too soon, she fears, he will come driving down this same road. She knows for certain she will not be at home; just as certainly she knows that she has tried to live a happy life with Paul. Oh, how many times she tried to talk to him, to communicate. She tried to tell him how unhappy she is, especially with the way Jimmy is treated; and, how often she tried to tell him how serious she is by saying that, someday, she would leave him. She recalls how often she’s warned this ... so many times; but, of course, Paul never hears a word. He never hears anything, Judy assures. For a brief, inflamed moment she almost sides with Paul. He hears; but ...

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Judy fishes in vain for a defending thought ... he hears, she thinks; and, if he does, he doesn’t take it to heart; always side-steps the important issues; placating and consoling that things will get better.

Never addressing how, nor when; just, that life will be better in some vague and distant future. And, why shouldn’t it? After all, his buddies assuredly tell him that “she” will come around; that “it’s just a matter of time” – she’ll see things his way. Yes, most definitely, she agrees, Paul listens, and hears; hears everything his buddies tell him. Judy clenches her jaws, for she knows he follows their advice certainly much more than hers.

Yes, she grudgingly admits, Paul’s priorities are his drinking and carousing buddies – his hunting, fishing, camping, pool shooting, football watching, motorcycle riding, pot smoking, and always-want-to-party buddies. Judy relaxes angry, clenched teeth; a sliver of ice, cold as a new razor blade, courses through her veins. This time he will know she means what she says.

He will see that it is for real. He will see.

For the past two weeks, while Paul ventured with his buddies on their annual Labor Day - opening of trout season - fishing trip in the Tehama wilderness, Judy uses this time sorting sterile, necrotic virtues, and barren vaults, of their faded relationship. With Paul not there to interfere with his usual prescriptive intimidation, and his typical placating, consoling advisories, Judy’s task - to steal into the night like a bird in flight is so much less painful. With convincing eyes, and a sensual touch, Paul always managed to change Judy’s mind, have her give in; always manage to talk her into staying when she mentions leaving; and, always swearing how he will change, how things will be better between them.

Judy scorns herself for her weakness; for her myopia; for continually believing false promises and sugar coated lies; for lack of fortitude and failure of action, to do what she, in her heart, has always known - that which is best for her and Jimmy. Judy juts her chin forward; this time, she confirms, she finally sees clearly, now that she’s armed with new found courage to stick to her plan.

Judy hardly notices the sundown, and the pink-stained sky blotched with large, gray clouds which ominously billow overhead; their dark shadows dance down the hillside and skip along the valley. A damp zephyr abruptly cools the evening air, raising goose pimples on Judy’s lean arms. She squints her hazel eyes and focuses on the darkening slate colored sky which, quite suddenly it seems, lurks overhead, covering the entire Sonoma valley. Judy smiles as she internally celebrates the end of the drought, and welcomes the long, overdue rain. Judy’s hazel eyes squint again, and flash with excited recognition of dad’s ‘39 Studebaker pick-up truck. Judy’s body quickens excitedly; heels and toes bounce up and down on the blacktop; long, fragile arms, almost undulating frantically, wave in the dampening, cooling air.

The old, gray Studebaker pulls onto the gravel, vibrates to a halt at Judy’s slender feet. Passenger door swings open. As she climbs inside, 23

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Judy is immediately welcomed by two small, outstretched arms, and four much larger arms. After several loving, tender embraces, Judy roosts next to her mother, while Jimmy settles in mom’s lap; his head against her breast, she strokes his cinnamon hair. Gramps swerves the old truck off the gravel and sputters up the highway into an unmistakably precipitous late summer storm.

Comfortably at home on mother’s lap, Jimmy enthusiastically shares all his wonderful adventures from Gram’s and Gramp’s farm.

Without words, Jimmy lets mom know how much he loves her, and how much he misses her when they are apart. Almost as suddenly as zig-zags of lightning flash above the near horizon, Jimmy asks where dad is. A chilly silence creeps about, and pervades the entire cab of the truck.

Judy holds Jimmy tight against her breast; maybe, a little too tight.

Judy blankly stares at the large, sporadic drops of rain splatter triumphant against the weathered windshield; and, which now quicken in staccato rhythm. Some of the drops must have found their way to a weak spot along the window seam, Judy hazily dismisses, and fallen on her arms. Judy blinks, feels liquid pearls wash the haze from her eyes; and, then she clearly sees the windows are tightly shut, and that no rain water leaks in. Random memories drift through her mind, as Judy’s tears wash away antiquated sadness, and embrace this new found happiness.

Judy, in rhythmic unison to the slapping windshield wipers, methodically rocks Jimmy back and forth; and, through tear-stained eyes watches the angry rain, relentlessly splatter illusory visions - memories of a distant, now seeming, other life - across the slanted glass. As she wearily allows dreamy lids to close, a bright flash of a bird in flight shimmers briefly within her hazel-green eyes. Judy holds Jimmy very close to her heart. The purr of the old engine, the methodical slaps of wiper blades, the hypnotic splashing of rain; and now, as murmurs of thunder fade into a quiet distance - all together as one, nature’s harmony lulls them both into a perfect, peaceful sleep. The long, hot, dry summer has finally come to an end.

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Photos of the John Slaughter Ranch Douglas, Arizona May 2019

Would you like to visit? Go to: www.slaughterranch.com

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John Slaughter Marshall Trimble, Arizona’s Official State Historian

John Slaughter was one of the many Texas cattlemen who drove their herds to the virgin ranges of Arizona in the 1870s. He settled in Cochise County and eventually bought the historic San Bernardino ranch that straddled the Mexican border in southeastern Arizona. During the turbulent years following the Cochise County War that pitted the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday against the “cowboys,” Slaughter was elected Sheriff of Cochise County. He took a no-nonsense attitude toward the cattle rustlers and issued an edict: “Get out or get shot.” Most took his advice and left the county.

Slaughter was born in Louisiana in 1841 and was brought to the Republic of Texas as an infant. His father, Ben, was a rancher, gathering wild longhorns in the brush country. John grew up on the Texas frontier and had several brushes with the Comanche while still a young man. He fought with the Confederate Army in the Civil War, but most of the action was against Indians. He was also a Texas Ranger during the Indian Wars.

In the early 1870s he began ranching in New Mexico. It was said his herd grew in a manner contrary to the biological laws of nature. It’s a nice way of saying he might have put his brand on somebody else’s cows.

Slaughter was charged with murder in 1876 following the killing of “Bittercreek” Barney Gallagher in New Mexico. Trouble started between the two in the fall of ‘76 when Slaughter caught Gallagher cheating during a poker game at the Commerce in San Antonio. Gallagher and a man named Boyd followed Slaughter to Chisum’s Ranch where Slaughter’s herd was grazing. Gallagher had either pilfered some of Slaughter’s cows or was planning to.

He warned the outlaw to make tracks, but a few days later Gallagher and Boyd returned to Slaughter’s camp, riding in at a lope.

Gallagher fired his shotgun at Slaughter and missed. Slaughter, armed with a Winchester, fired at Gallagher and hit him.

The repentant Gallagher’s last words were, “I needed killin’ twenty years ago, anyway.”

He claimed self-defense, accusing Gallagher of plotting to kill him over a gambling fight. He was arrested but soon released.

After his first wife died, Slaughter married nineteen-year-old Cora Viola Howell. The two met while driving a herd of cattle to Arizona in 1879. Although he was much older, the two were attracted to each other and each day John moved his herd of cattle closer to the Howell’s herd. Finally, with her parent’s permission, they stopped at a small town of Tularosa, New Mexico and tied the knot. The Slaughters and Howells, now joined in wedlock, joined their herds and drove them on to Arizona.

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They settled in the San Pedro River valley south of Tombstone where he built her a mansion for the time. It had two rooms; most homes had only one room. The outer walls were of juniper pickets and the floor was made of adobe. The roof was also made of juniper poles covered with earth.

In 1884, John Slaughter bought the famed San Bernardino Ranch.

He allowed the Apache to slaughter a steer for food, but during the Geronimo Campaign, he served as an army scout for General George Crook. He sat in the famous photograph of Geronimo surrendering to the general. Many years later, in captivity, the Apache war chief said if he could do one thing, it would be to “Go back to Arizona and kill John Slaughter.”

In 1886, he was elected sheriff of Cochise County, at the time considered a haven for outlaws, and cattle rustlers. Armed with a shotgun, Slaughter spent the next four years ridding the county of dangerous desperadoes. After his term was up, he continued to act as a deputy sheriff until his death in 1922.

Slaughter continued to battle outlawry along the Mexican border.

In 1898, he gunned down Peg Leg Finney, and a year later he killed a gambler named Little Bob Stevens. Stevens had held up a roulette game in Tombstone. In 1901, Slaughter, now 60 years old shot and killed an outlaw who’d murdered a young woman, along with her son and daughter for $300. When Pancho Villa’s army was ravaging the ranches along the border, John Slaughter, now in his 70’s boldly encountered the bandit chieftain and ordered him off his land. Villa did as he was told.

John Slaughter had his last gunfight in 1922 when he and Viola drove off a band of bandits. He was 81 at the time. It took men and women with bark on to survive on the Arizona Frontier.

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Photographs of the John Slaughter Ranch are by Ella Melito and Kristen Welch

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How to Write Creatively Sarah Fenter Cochise College Student “The creative process ... It demands love, time, and devotion, and therefore, creators are passionate toward their creative work” (St-Louis and Vallerand).

The first step to writing creatively is to just write. Whenever I write, whether it be formal, technical, creative, etc., I just start writing; my good friend Joshua Novinger agrees,

Think of a line that just sounds cool, or beautiful, or resonates with you and write from there. Don’t be afraid to do things that scare you: dialogue, a joke, planning, being spontaneous, try new ideas and techniques. You’ll grow.

Not knowing where you are going, and trying new things is all part of the growth process; experimenting is important because it lets you hone a technique. A friendly fellow writer I know has a unique technique he uses when he generates his artistic pieces:

A lot of times I utilize creative persona writing as an outlet/ therapy for many past experiences whether successes or set backs. The more introspect I become…the more I believe my audience is able to feel my vulnerability or my general mood or message. Whether it is my story or me telling someone’s story and capturing the essence…I believe it allows me to commu nicate more effective to talk in first person versus third person and feels intimate…whereas third person can be effective to me it comes across as someone saying,“I heard” (Mazone).

My technique includes a lot of free-writing and happens to be quite chaotic; sometimes I come up with the middle part of a piece first, or I come up with a sentence I really want to use, or I copy and modify a realistic dream I had, but I start with free-writing like an athlete stretches before a run. This free-writing stage can last a while, and depending on what I’m writing, I’ll use all of it, some of it, or none of it. A friend of mine, Angie Garner provides a good insight to the unpredictable nature of creative writing, stating:

As far as writing is concerned, I’d say there’s no one way to stumble upon an idea. It’s often that my stories and poems are born of circumstances I caught at a glance: the way light falls through the leaves and lights up a single eye on someone’s face, a pair of dogs meeting through a fence, a startling and complex bit of impossible graffiti. A writer observes the mundane and grants it meaning.

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Numerous famous writers have said that their piece was inspired by something, a muse must come before they can write, a dream must be had before pen is set to paper, and as one of my favorite writers said:

“Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine phrenzy - an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes …” (Poe).

However, as much as I love Edgar Allen Poe, I must disagree with him; waiting around for inspiration is very inefficient and an unreliable way to be a creative writer.

You do not have to wait for inspiration to write creatively, having a schedule for working on creative pieces brings inspiration for those pieces (albeit slowly sometimes). Scheduling time for practicing creative writing will always improve your creative writing because it allows the brain some dedicated time to develop and improve the thought processes required to write creatively. Taking breaks from bouts of creative writing is also important because sometimes the brain needs a break from using those thought processes so that they do not become worn out.

To improve your creative writing, at any level, it is best to practice.

Practice what you know, what you don’t know, or what you want to try out, because practice is how anyone gets better at anything. The creator of the famous and beloved Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling, shares some advice on reserving time for writing practice:

Be ruthless about protecting writing days, i.e., do not cave in to endless requests to have “essential” and “long overdue” meet ings on those days…Some people do not seem to grasp that I still have to sit down in peace and write books, apparently believing that they pop up like mushrooms without connivance. I must therefore guard time allotted to writing as a Hungarian Horntail guards its first born egg (Ahlin).

As a creative writer to prospective creative writers: practice is what will make you a creative writer. Every time you write creatively, a poem, a short story, a memoir, even a dream narrative, you exercise your creative ability like a body builder exercises his muscles at the gym.

A creative writing class is like a gym for your writing, and the instructor of that class is like your personal trainer, training you to write as well as you can.

Revision is similar in its ability to improve your creative writing because it refreshes your piece(s). Practice may be like exercise, but the editing process of revision is like refining. It takes several passes through a polishing machine to make a stone shine like a star; likewise, if you want your piece to be of a higher quality you should pass it through fresh eyes 32

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several times. Whether it is your eyes or the eyes of another, a revision will improve your piece; as Stephen King says, “To write is human, to edit is divine.”

The important things to remember when revising are:

1) the more experienced the writer is who looks over or revises the piece, the more productive the revision will be,

2) multiple smaller examinations during the revision improves the quality of the revision, and lastly,

3) only revise what you want or agree with; it is your piece after all; when you make it perfect to you, it is certain to appear perfect to others; such as your peers.

Peers are an amazing tool. Having a peer read or review your work is equivalent to having a second brain to write with. I don’t believe that more than one brain is required to write anything, but as the saying goes - two heads are better than one. Having a perspective outside of your own can show you things that you cannot show yourself. Like with revisions, the more experienced the writer is who analyzes your piece, the more you will get out of the analysis. A peer review for your piece is alike to a dress rehearsal for a play; you get to see how your piece does before you just set it loose on your readers.

Practice, revision, and peer reviews are what makes a creative writer proficient at his or her craft.

Good luck with all of your creative pursuits.

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Works Cited Ahlin, Charlotte. “15 J.K. Rowling Quotes That Will Inspire You To Get Writing,” Bustle, 12/22/2016, www.bustle.com/articles/200871-15-

jk-rowling-quotes-that-will-inspire-you-to-get-writing.

Garner, Angie. Personal Interview. 22 November 2018.

Harper, Prof. Graeme. On Creative Writing, Channel View Publications, 2010. ProQuest Ebook Central, ebookcentral-proquest-com.coch

ise.idm.oclc.org/lib/cochise-ebooks/detail.action?docID=543903.

King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scribner, Stephen King,

2000. biblioteka.teatr-obraz.ru/files/file/English_cinema/Stephen_

King_On_Writing.pdf Mazone, Don. Personal Interview. 20 November 2018.

Novinger, Joshua. Personal Interview. 21 November 2018.

Poe, Edgar Allen. The Raven and The Philosophy of Composition.

The Gutenberg Project. 10/14/2017, www.gutenberg.org/

files/55749/55749-h/55749-h.htm.

St. Louis, Ariane and Robert Vallerand. “A Successful Creative Process:

The Role of Passion and Emotions.” 2015, semanticscholar.org

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Black Canyon of the Gunnison Boat Trip Linda Hughitt Photograph

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Mom and Calf Ivan Noriega Photograph

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Blackbirds Bob Luce Photograph

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New York City Nataliia Kuzmenko 1st Place, Mirage Art Contest Photograph

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The Classic Pickup Andrea Savage Photograph

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Some Assembly Required Linda Ekstrum Photograph

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Hanging and Spinning Maria Grijalva 3rd Place, Mirage Art Contest Photograph

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Tel Aviv, Israel Nataliia Kuzmenko Second Place, Mirage Art Contest Photograph

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Hotel Gadsden Ivan Noriega Photograph

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Self Portrait Phoebe Levitt Collage

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An Indiscreet Holiday Katie Bertrand Third Place, Mirage Prose Contest

“She’s blatantly unhappy. She’s not fooling me, let alone anyone else here.”

You’d think my Aunt Margery could refrain from such talk during Christmas Eve. But then again, she does seem to think she knows exactly what’s happening in everyone else’s lives. I often wonder if she has any idea what’s going on in her own life.

“It’s just pitiful, isn’t it? How she tries so hard to make people like her? Always seeking their … validation. It’s rather sad, really. She’s been like that for as long as I can remember.”

My Aunt Margery was speaking about my Aunt Gina, who was the oldest of the three sisters. My mother was next in line as the forgotten middle child, while my Aunt Margery pulled up the rear as the spoiled youngest, coming in a mere eleven months behind.

There was no denying my Aunt Gina did have a few hang-ups, but at least people liked her. The same couldn’t be said of my Aunt Margery, yet if anyone ever tried to tell her that, I’d hope the sweet Lord would take mercy on their soul.

Thanks to where I’d plotted myself to read, I was unintentionally overhearing this bashing session between my Aunt Margery and second cousin Louis. I didn’t necessarily enjoy listening in on their badmouthing, but at least if I could hear what they were saying, I could rest assured they weren’t talking about me.

My always-having-my-nose-in-a-book tendencies, as they referred to them, were apparently a cry for help. Last year on my seventeenth birthday, they’d even went as far as to explain what they believe is so wrong with me.

“Social anxiety!” Aunt Margery had diagnosed. “You were practically born out of your Ma’s womb with it.”

“That’s right!” Louis had chimed in. “They took you into the nursery afterward, and can you believe you were the only child in there that wasn’t crying? We all thought something was wrong with you! But the doctors couldn’t seem to find anything physically wrong. Turns out you’re just a bit of an odd bird.”

Aunt Margery was quick to pipe back in with what she must have thought were comforting words …

“But, not to worry! I suppose maybe you’ll grow out of it in time, dear.”

I have to admit I had been rather impressed with their imagination. I concluded it was probably best to let them believe what they wanted. It seemed less painful than telling the truth … I always had my nose in a book because it helped me tune out their bullshit.

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The older I got, the less patience I seemed to have at these annual family gatherings. This year, I couldn’t even last ten minutes around their talk before I was off to find a better perch for my reading.

My book wasn’t drowning out Margery or Louis’s malevolence tonight.

As I migrated from the living room into the dining room, I found that the seats around the dinner table were completely empty. And not only that, but the cheese, mini sausages, and deviled eggs appeared entirely untouched. This couldn’t be right … now could it?

It was practically tradition by this time in the day to see my shiftyeyed, always-up-to-no-good teenage cousins, Jessie and Josephine, devouring the appetizers. It was quite a comical ordeal, year after year always the same charade. My mom and Aunt Gina would be in the kitchen slaving away on our grandiose meal when my Uncle Donny or cousin Bill or Grandpa Stu would saunter into the kitchen to grab another beer.

Once one of the men wandered in, my mom and aunt would ask for their help on setting the pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres out on the table.

The beer-grabber would assist, while indiscreetly taking a few nibbles for himself before moseying back to rejoin his fellow men, who were watching the game.

What always happens next, I can only rationalize in that my younger cousins, Jessie and Josephine, or “the twins” as we refer to them, have supernatural powers.

Either that or they were born with the nostrils of a search dog because every Christmas Eve, within mere seconds of the food hitting the table, they appear out of nowhere. Like damn illusionists. And once they arrive, they spare no mercy on that food. It’s on.

I don’t even know how they do it. I’m stunned all over again as I watch it ensue. Yet it happens year after year. Everything but the veggie tray - the lone survivor as I’ve begun referring to it - vanishes as if in thin air. There’s not a single … cracker … left.

Then, once they’ve finished, they excuse themselves as discreetly as they arrived, and they head back upstairs to God knows where to continue their texting to God knows who about God knows what. Those animals.

Next, I watch as the rest of the family slowly migrates in, one after another, like a herd of cattle in search of their trough.

Their faces drop once they see, yet again, that nothing remains of the appetizers but a few measly veggies.

Next, the blame game begins.

At first, the women believe the men already got to it. Drunk off their beer with their lousy manners!

But then, another theory develops. Maybe, it wasn’t the men?

Maybe, my mom and aunt again skimped out on the appetizers, and the men only took their fair share!

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The hushed whispers pass from one ear to the next as I watch the game of telephone transpire. Each ear the story reaches is told a version that’s a tad bit different from the last.

The whispers eventually reach my Aunt Gina’s ears in the kitchen, and I see her face turn five shades darker than any red I ever thought humanly possible. She excuses herself momentarily from the kitchen and starts her ascent quietly up the stairs to discreetly scold her daughters on their selfishness, yet again.

I must commend my Aunt Gina’s persistence and patience, always somehow managing to keep her cool in front of the family. Never giving away that it’s her daughters who are the real culprits.

However, this year, the usual fiasco did not appear to be the case.

I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

But even with my pinching, the food was still there. All the appetizers sat untouched, displayed neatly in front of me … calling my name. I decided I’d best indulge while I still had the chance. The twins could make their devious appearance at any moment.

I dished myself up a plate of appetizers and filled it right to the brim. I took my smorgasbord of crackers, sausages, deviled eggs, and even veggies and meandered on my way. I figured it was probably best to be nowhere near the crime scene if the twins did decide to show up.

As I popped a mini sausage in my mouth, I savored the smoky flavor that burst onto my taste buds.

I turned in the direction of the attic - my hiding spot in this crazy house - and hoped that just like every other year, I’d find it deserted. It would be the perfect place to eat my snack in peace.

While heading towards the attic, I realized I should probably let the rest of the family know the appetizers were up for grabs. Then, after a moment, I thought better of it. After all, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this family, it’s that you’d better know how to fend for yourself around here.

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Parker Lake in June Linda Ekstrum Photograph

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The First Death Clinton Lee Creative Writing Celebration: Memoir, 1st Place

As a medic you learn to live with Death. You spend just as much time with him as you do with your own family, maybe more. You learn to ignore him, pretend that he’s not screaming at you like a toddler as you clean up his mess.

After a while, shootings and stabbings become a highlight of your week in dinner conversations, suicides become a nuisance, and picking up body parts becomes a chore.

When I escape to the pub for a drink, or a friend introduces me to someone, the conversation goes to the inevitable cookie cutter question, “What do you do?” I say I am a medic. They get excited at that answer, something a little different than the average nine to five. I feel proud that I spend my days trying to save people. My pride swells when their reaction shows the same. Then the conversation predictably goes towards the darker questions that are in the back of everyone’s curious grey matter.

How many dead bodies have I seen? What is the worst thing I’ve witnessed?

I once thought they really wanted to know the answers. I described a couple scenes from the depths of my memory. Ones that I know will never leave me.

I call them my “Ghosts.”

I think it is a term many medics use. The ones that our old mate Death has played with in such an imaginative way that the images will haunt us for eternity.

I give them the answers they like to prod for. As I give them every detail, in a way that only a seasoned writer could manage, I see a change in their demeanor. Their cheery smile turns to disgust. I see them holding back the bile in their mouths. As the description comes to an end, they try to plaster on their lost smile, thank me, then try and think of an excuse to step away and recover.

I feel like an amusement park ride.

I sit there, lonely with my drink after the ride is over. But now I am not alone. I have woken up one of my Ghosts from the darkness. It is me, the Ghost, and my beer, as I am forced to relive whatever brutal death it suffered, over and over again, until I have drunk enough to once again put it to sleep.

I don’t know how many dead bodies I have seen. It seems like a simple question, able to be answered with a simple number.

It’s not.

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Maybe in the beginning it was, but now the answer is filled with incomprehensible complexities, mostly caused by my mental survival mechanisms.

Bodies are not dead until they are pronounced dead. I kept them alive until the hospital. The doctor pronounced them dead. They are not dead, yet. Yes they are, I know they are. The family knows they are.

But how do you tell a family that their loved one, their blood, their life, is dead? Sometimes that is worse than the dead body itself.

Out of all the gut wrenching scenes, forgotten by medics, created

by Death, there is one that never leaves a medic: their first.

I know my first will never leave me. It wasn’t particularly bloody, or as violent as some of the deaths I encountered. This one was in a hospital. An elderly Hispanic lady on life support, surrounded by family.

If there is one thing that I admire most about Hispanic culture, it is their show of love towards family. They pride themselves with how many of their family shows up in time of illness and need. A show of love that can fill up many rooms.

The family was all there for this woman. The RN and I, after looking over this woman for who knows how long, were given the order to pull the plug.

I didn’t know how to react. I tried to say something, to make any noise. My mouth was open. But nothing. The RN took the lead saying, “Come on, we have to go.” I found myself repeating this sentence over and over in my head as I followed in tow to the room with the woman.

To the room with all her family.

Time seemed to stop as we entered. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes seemed like hours. It gave me time to take note of every face in the room, every single detail.

All conversation stopped. All eyes pointed at me. All eyes, wet with grief and fear, staring straight at me, including the small children.

I knew what they saw. I saw the same thing. Death was leading us, with a chain, shackled to our necks. He led us straight to the woman.

Machines clicking away all around the frail frame. A tube shoved down her throat, administering artificial respiration.

That was the sound that stood out most to me.

I found myself standing next to her, staring at her, watching the breath forced in and out.

In.

Out.

The voice of the RN took me out of the trance, “It’s time for everyone to say their last goodbyes.” I could feel the breath sucked out of the room in that instant. I could swear the respirator paused for an unnatural second.

A few moments passed that seemed like eternity, then the eldest stepped next to me.

Next to her.

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It must have been the woman’s younger sister; I could only guess what each person’s relation was to the woman.

She held her hand for a moment, kissed her forehead and whispered something in Spanish to her. The sister erupted into tears, the room soon to follow. Everyone bawling and saying goodbye.

When everyone was done one of the males spoke up and asked me, “Will she feel pain?”

I opened my mouth and the same nothingness came out as before … I think the seasoned RN saw me and my struggle. The RN told everyone, “No. No she won’t.” Then he turned to me and said, “Pull out the tube Clinton, it is time.”

I was shaking. I shouldn’t be shaking. This is my job, this is who I am. The family needs me to be strong. I have to be the anchor for everyone to hold onto. A storm is coming.

Doing my best to control my shaking hands, I took an empty 10 cc syringe, placed it on the designated port of the endotracheal tube.

Using the same technique I have been trained so many times to do, pulled on the plunger of the syringe, deflating the balloon holding the tube in the proper anatomical location. I unscrewed the clamp holding the tube to her mouth. Pulled off the tape that was used to secure the tube in the start of the process thought to help save her life.

I shut off the machine and pulled out the tube.

I realized the seasoned RN was in the background answering the many questions everyone had. Describing in detail what was going on.

It was all just white noise to me in that moment. All I could do was watch her last attempts to gulp breath. Each attempt weaker than the last.

The answer the RN first gave to the family wracked my mind, “Will she feel pain?”

“No. No she won’t.”

Humans are weird creatures. We think we know all there is to know about the body.

We have machines to read every electrical impulse in the mind.

Then people sit around discussing what they think those impulses mean and come up with some conclusion that cannot be proved. For all we know about the mind, we truly know nothing.

“No. No she won’t.”

I looked up at the family after she gulped her last breath.

“No. No she won’t.”

I realized then that the answer was not one from a science book.

The answer was for the family.

My hands never shook again after that day.

I must be the anchor.

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Yellow Door Ammi Robles Lizarraga Photograph

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Changing of the Guard Edward Doench First Place, Mirage Prose Contest

For more than eighteen years we had been together. Perhaps eighteen years is not all that long when compared to the couples with anniversaries celebrating thirty, forty, fifty or even more years of marriage. But, Beth and I had not been other couples; we had been ourselves and for nearly twenty years had shared one another’s joys and triumphs, argued over the bills, and watched as our daughter grew to approach adulthood. Ours had not been a perfect “storybook” marriage, but we had worked at it and it, in turn, had worked for us.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

I stood looking at the empty field, a nearly flat expanse of mown grass surrounded by tall trees and with a view of nearby Mount Hood.

Willamette National Cemetery is carefully designed so that the thick tree line effectively muffles the noise of nearby traffic. The ground itself is pocked with a regular pattern of simple granite markers, each indicating the final resting place of either a military veteran or the spouse of one.

Eighteen years, with more than half of them during my military career. We were fortunate in that, by the time we married, my overseas deployments were behind me. That did not, however, mean that I would not receive a phone call in the middle of the night requiring that I respond to some natural disaster within the continental United States: a hurricane’s aftermath in Florida, spring flooding in North Dakota, an earthquake in southern California, a tornado’s devastation in Kansas.

Usually, I would be gone for only a couple of weeks, but that would be time when she would be home alone with only our young daughter for company.

I looked down at the stone by my feet, then knelt and brushed away some stray pine needles and grass clippings that had gathered on top of it. My chest tightened as my fingers slowly traced the engraved letters of Beth’s name.

Then I felt a presence, as if someone had walked up to stand near me. I looked up, and it was as if a light mist had suddenly arisen. The field, which had just a moment ago been empty, was now occupied by the figures of several hundred people in the prime of youth. Off in the middle distance, I could see Beth talking to a handful of other women. She pointed me out to her companions, then waved at me, and smiled. I realized that she looked as young and radiant as she had on our wedding day.

Nearly all the men in the field were wearing military dress uniforms.

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respectful distance away and spoke among themselves for a moment, then one in a Coast Guard uniform stepped away from the delegation and walked up to me. I noted as the man approached that his uniform bore the insignia of a Senior Chief Petty Officer even though he, like everyone else, appeared to be in his mid-twenties.

The senior chief stopped just outside of arm’s length and looked at me for a brief moment, then turned his head and indicated the rest of the delegation. “We figured you would be here sooner or later.”

“What is all this?” I asked.

“It’s just our way of letting you know that she is not alone. She is in the company of friends and is quite happy.”

“I feel like I failed her,” I suddenly blurted out. “There had to have been something more that I could have done …”

“You did the best you could, son,” the senior chief interrupted.

“She is always talking about how much you did for her, even before her accident, and frequently uses the word ‘indefatigable’ in describing your efforts afterward.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware that she even knew the word…it wasn’t part of her vocabulary.”

The senior chief chuckled. “People are a bit … different in that regard once they get here. You suddenly realize how much you hadn’t thought you knew. It can be a bit overwhelming, at first.”

I looked over so see her still chatting with her companions. “So, can I talk to her?”

“You can do that whenever you want, son. But that is not why we are all here, and she knows that. And your time among us is almost done, so we need to wrap this up.” He turned and nodded to the rest of the delegation, who quickly formed ranks and stood at attention. Behind them, the rest of the crowd slowly disappeared. My wife gave me one last wave and blew me a kiss before she vanished into the tree line with her friends.

I looked back to the senior chief, who came to attention himself and popped off a salute that could have come straight from the parade ground.

“You can stand down, shipmate. You tour of duty is complete, and you have served with honor. We have the watch now.”

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The Roadkill God Jay Melzer Creative Writing Celebration: Fiction, First Place

Arizona Highway 80 carved a winding path through the scrubby foothills of the Mule Mountains, a slick black river amid the gray haze of mesquite under the stark light of a waxing moon. The desert was illuminated in that queer, liminal shadow-day which occurs only when the moon is at its peak, so bright the world seems nearly awake - but not necessarily alive. Here we see a mirror image, a photo negative of the waking world, the same shapes in ghastly relief – the warm red cliffsides cast bone white, the wicked fingers of the ocotillo clawing, stone gray, at the vast, yawning weight of the starry sky. The world is in counterpoint, and one questions whether it is better or worse to be able to see what walks in the dark.

Dan Harding snapped off the drone of NPR as it trailed to a muffled crackle, reception lost between the hunched backs of the low mountains. He might pick up the signal again once he crossed the San Pedro, but it had been starting to put him to sleep, and he still had yet to find a local radio station that he actually liked. Just as well, anyway: there was a wire loose somewhere in his car stereo, and it had recently developed a habit of turning off and on by itself whenever that wire was jiggled, sometimes radically changing volume after a particularly ambitious bump.

He’d had the crap scared out of him a couple of times that way, turning on the engine and suddenly finding some shitty pop-country band blowing out the bass in his speakers. He’d have to have it looked at eventually, he supposed, but there was always something more important, always just one more thing you needed to pour your paycheck into, and eventually you just learned to deal with the little inconveniences. Eventually they became part of life, and you didn’t even remember they were there until you brought home somebody new and they asked you why your car was such a piece of shit. By that time, you’d stopped noticing the smell.

Christ, but he was tired. It was a little after three in the morning, although he couldn’t have spoken to it exactly – the dash clock was slow, too, damn the thing – and the pounding migraine that had been working on him all day had finally driven him to give up the ghost and call it quits at work early. He could get away with not power-washing the mats or getting down on his knees to really scrub the floors. The handy thing about working hard was that on the days you just couldn’t, most people were liable to let it slide, and if they wouldn’t, you had a list a foot long sitting in the quiver as to why they should step the fuck off. It was a very cynical way to look at diligence as a character trait – turned it from a virtue into something more like cool practicality – but it had served him well so far,

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and the relief of being able to just go home nearly counterbalanced the pain he was still in. Nearly.

A mangled lump of fur on the shoulder flashed by in the moment between one blink and the next, a snapshot presented to his mind in retrospect - javelina, it looked like. Poor thing. He hated seeing roadkill, particularly identifiable roadkill, and he was more than aware of how odd it was that he felt so little liking or even empathy for his fellow human beings, yet experienced a lousy clenching in his gut at the idea that a wild pig had been killed. He couldn’t help it: animals touched something in him that he guarded too jealously to allow it to grow, and he attended the notion that he had never run over an animal in his life with an absurd blend of pride and anxiety.

He had come close, once. Coming back from a late night in Tucson, watching the elliptical swatch of highway illuminated by his brights with the dozy half-awareness of road hypnosis, he had spotted it just in time to swerve out of the way. It had been a raccoon, sitting up awkwardly on its forelegs in the middle of the road, and like the dead javelina, he had only seen it in a single, crystal-clear moment, processed seconds after he had already driven by. In that moment, he saw the raccoon swaying dumbly back and forth, head bobbing from side to side, and he saw that its back was broken. It couldn’t have moved even if it had been able to break the horrifying, idiot confusion that had stolen its mind.

He had immediately regretted not hitting it and ending its pain, knowing it would lie where it was until some other motorist finished the job – or worse, until predation did so instead. The idea that it might have lain there and died of exposure if neither of these things happened was worst of all, and his fingers clenched around the steering wheel in time with his gut as he thought of it. Laying there as the sun crept higher, as the heat grew more intense, baking on the asphalt, unable to understand what had happened to it, to comprehend the true horror of what was going to He didn’t see the board which had fallen into the road, but he felt the thump as he went over it, and he was an image and half a concept into the worry that his tires might have been damaged when his radio clicked back on, and Bob Boilen started howling All Things Considered with roughly the concussive force of a foghorn at point blank range. Dan shrieked, slamming down reflexively on the brakes, and as he began to skid he was afforded one crystal clear image of a deer mid-bound, another snapshot in the mind with front legs tucked demurely into its chest and rear legs stretched out behind.

For that one second he saw it, and he yanked on the wheel, and then his front bumper buckled the deer’s legs and flipped it over the hood, where it caved in the windshield with a sick crunch. He veered off the road, and when he felt his front tires drop into the shallow ditch off the shoulder the deer was flung into the air by the break in momentum.

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In the moment before his airbag blew he saw it twirl like an absurdly amusing ragdoll, then hit the asphalt with a sad, wet, wretched thump that he could not hear but imagined with perfect clarity.

Then his airbag did blow, momentarily blotting out anything but the pain of friction and force, and when he tumbled out of the car his nose was gouting blood, lending a damp quality to a string of epithets that would have made his mother very upset with him. He yanked off his flannel shirt and balled it against his face, dropping onto his rear and leaning back against the uneven yaw of his thoroughly trashed car.

Bumper, hood, windshield, tires, and that was just what he could take stock of at a glance – who knew what was wrong on the inside. He was, in a word, fucked.

“Are you kidding me?” He tipped back his head and let out a long, gargling, frustrated bellow, then smothered his entire face with the blood-soaked shirt and groaned into it, giving himself a minute just to process the full extent of his misfortune and let the rage and disbelief roll over him in waves. Deep breaths. No car, no money to fix it, no money to tow it, but there was nothing to be done about it. Breathe. Count to ten. Get your shit together and then deal with the problem.

The deer was still alive. In the extremity of his distress he had scarcely even remembered there had been a deer, but in the hushed demi-silence of the desert night he heard scuffling, followed by a low, keening moan that made something in him feel a little smaller. She had landed across the highway, and it was immediately, viscerally apparent that she was not okay: her head had been wrenched almost entirely around, could have allowed her to press her silky nose between her own shoulderblades, and both of her front legs were a ruin of jutting bone and bloody ribbons of hide.

She was struggling weakly, her head lolling back and forth so much like the raccoon’s had done, but it didn’t seem like she could move her body, and as she began to realize this her moaning vocalizations quieted, replaced by shallow, rapid breathing that even from across the road sounded distressingly wet.

“Oh, shit,” Daniel whispered, unaccountably hoarse. God, if he had only been paying attention – he was always so careful, when the jackrabbits started mating he was even paranoid, and yet his eyes had missed her, and his car had not, and he, the driver, barely had a scratch on him. Wasn’t that always the way?

He pushed himself gingerly to his feet, and with sick hesitation he crossed the road, inching toward her slowly, though logically he knew that he had nothing to fear from her. A mule doe, probably a few years old, but now he could only imagine how pretty she must have been just minutes ago. Before he had ruined her. He wished so fervently that it hurt that she had simply died. It would have been awful, but it would also have absolved him of any further responsibility for the harm he had caused her: 57

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now she was suffering, as that raccoon had been suffering, and he realized with a nauseating pang that, with his car a hissing wreck behind him, he no longer had the excuse that he was too far along to turn back around for the sake of a wild animal. He would either have to do something about this, or leave her to her pain while he waited on a tow truck.

She wasn’t even in the road anymore, where she could be hit again.

Torn apart by scavengers while she was still alive, baked to death in the unseasonable heat “God.” His voice cracked, and her enormous, shining eyes rolled to look at him, the whites bulging, terrified but unable to move, unable to flee. She expected it as much as he did – some predator come to savage her while she was helpless. They both knew the rules. “God, I’m so sorry, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean to-“ He didn’t know what he was saying, felt the uselessness of it tang like salt in his mouth. The doe didn’t care that he was sorry, that he would take it back in an instant if he could. All she cared about was that she was wounded and afraid, and that he might be here to kill her. And he realized that he was.

He was going to have to do for her what he hadn’t been able to do for the raccoon, and he had no idea how. It would have been so much easier if his car wasn’t stuck in the ditch: running over her again would have been terrible, but impersonal, a steel box between him and the reality of what he was doing, but every other option that came to him was worse than the last. The tire iron in the trunk? Jesus, and what, he’d just wail on her until she stopped breathing? He couldn’t. Try to do it by hand? He didn’t have the strength, and he sure as hell didn’t have the willpower.

“Christ, I’m sorry. I-I don’t know what to-“ Breathe. Take a minute to pull yourself together, and then do what you need to do. He sat in the dirt next to her, trying to remember what normal breathing felt like, and as they panted in chorus it occurred to him how odd it was that no cars had passed them since the beginning of this little scene. It was late, sure,but it was also a Friday night, and to find nobody making the commute from the bars in Bisbee back toward Sierra Vista seemed “Rock. A rock.” Inspiration struck, and he pushed himself to his feet, startling the wounded doe. “I’ll get a big rock, and I’ll just…it’ll be quick. I promise.” I hope. It was the best idea he could come up with, and he wandered into the forest of mesquite, finding that he didn’t need a flashlight in the stark chiaroscuro cast by the bloated moon. If he could find a big enough boulder, he could drop it right on her head, crush her skull and end this in an instant. It would probably be the most traumatic thing he had ever been forced to do, but for her it would be the easiest way, and this hadn’t been her fault. The fault was his, and so was the responsibility.

He came back to the road hefting a tough, pitted white rock roughly the size of a cinderblock so heavy that he strained to walk with it.

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The deer was still there, as was his smoking car, and he had brought with him from the desert the unsettling awareness that things had become far too quiet. No sound of wildlife - no insects, no furtive rustlings or distant calls. He thought he had seen an owl in the distance when he had found the stone, a foreboding silhouette cut out of the night like wrought iron, backcast by the harsh moonlight, but it had had no word for him, and he had moved on with his wild work.

Now, though, he could hear nothing but the silence, as if the whole of the Sonora were holding its breath, waiting for him to see this grisly task through. Ridiculous, but a man alone in the desert in the middle of the night found it hard not to be ridiculous: there was magic in the desert, and it was wild, capricious, and strongest at night.

“Okay.” He groaned as he finally dropped the rock on the side of the road, stretching his arms behind his back to work out the pain.

The doe was there, panting and moaning, and after a moment he bent to heft the rock again, lifting it over his head with great effort. “Okay.

Now I’m just gonna …” An image flashed across his mind’s eye: the way her skull would cave when he brought the rock down, the wet crunch it would make, the horrifying idea that he might do these things and find her wide, un-accusing eye still staring at him from under a sheet of blood “Fuck.” He dropped the rock and slapped a hand to his mouth, stumbling back into the mesquite. He made it a couple of yards before he buckled and vomited, on his knees in the sand with rocks biting into his palms, spewing steaming bile not so much for the horror of this, but for the inevitability of that horror. He had no choice. He had no other option but to do this. He was going to have to get up out of the dirt, return to the road, kill the doe, and then get his fucking car towed. And he would have to live with the night’s events for the rest of his life.

“Fuck.” It felt almost therapeutic to say it, and at last he did get up, brushing off his knees and pulling a thorn from the pad of his palm.

The desert was still quiet, so quiet that he could hear the doe’s breathing, and as he drew closer to the road the hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end. There was no darkness under the great, alien eye of this moon, but every shadow seemed to hide something sinister, something monstrous.

Tonight the monster did not crouch in shadow, but stood in plain view across the dark band of the highway. He nearly missed it on first glance, his eye attempting to skip over the unnatural as sanity demands we do every day of our lives, but the Stag could not be ignored, and when the great prongs of its horns resolved themselves out of the linear geometry of the ocotillo, he screamed.

The next conscious thought between that moment and the present found him inside his car, frantically locking all four doors by hand, and then crouching low in the back seat, the breathy quality of his gasping inviting another scream at a moments’ notice. He didn’t want to look again, didn’t want to confirm the reality of what he had seen, but a sick compulsion nagged at him, and look he did.

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The Stag was unspeakable. Big as a Clydesdale, at least, towering head and shoulders over the desert vegetation, with a massive rack of broken antlers between which the yellow moon rested as if in a cradle, safeguarded in a thicket of bone. If it had had fur once, it was gone, its wrinkled, scabrous black skin populated only by scant patches of wiry hair, peeling back or ripped away in places, revealing strips of gangrenous muscle. He clamped a hand over his mouth again when he saw that its ribcage had caved in on one side, some sort of fleshy sac hanging from its underbelly, herniated from its gut, the color of old liver.

Worse still, worst of all, was the Stag’s face. So much of the flesh had been eaten away – by who knew what – that in the place of its nose were now two raw channels of bone, its blunt yellow teeth exposed in an implacable grin. Its eyes – God, God the eyes – had a rheumy, pus-rimmed cast, misshapen and white as the attendant moon, but the maddening impression that they saw him was beyond his power to deny, and he realized with a distant, hazy sort of fascination that his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. He felt stuck, utterly paralyzed in the face of what should not be.

It moved like a dead thing. There was something the matter with its legs, perhaps something the matter with all of it, for when it moved to cross the highway it was with the awkward herky-jerk of a badlypuppeteered marionette, the relative grace of a deer standing at rest obliterated by the sick, unnatural hobbling his animal brain could only associate with injury, sickness, and impending failure. It moved like a dead thing – and perhaps it was.

The sac dangling from its gut swayed as it crossed the highway, and for a heart-stopping moment he was afraid that it was coming toward him – this is my fault, I did this, it’s here to punish me, it’s going to but it turned, slowly, awkwardly, and when it stopped it stood above the doe, which looked up at it with what he was almost tempted to call an expression. Soft. Serene, welcoming. There was no fear.

The Stag bent its great, wretched head and stooped over the doe – and incredibly, against all sense and with apparent struggle, she raised her own head from between her shoulders, and pressed the soft pad of her nose into the Stag’s skeletal muzzle. Daniel watched her sides expand in a great, slow breath, and then deflate with all the gentleness of a falling leaf in a single, lingering sigh. Her head curled back into the dirt, and her side did not rise again.

He had joined the almost holy stillness of the desert night, had gone so far as to hold his breath, gripping the passenger side headrest with fingers slack with awe. The Stag straightened, raised its head, and for just a moment he saw that it was beautiful. For a moment, he saw perhaps what the doe had seen: sleek fur the color of iron and great, dark eyes, filled not so much with compassion as a calm, implacable patience. He saw a strong, robust body and a crown of prongs as stark as the watching moon, starlight and warm shadow and the promise 60

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of relief at the termination of the ordeal, the promise of an end to pain.

Perhaps not now, but someday: no matter what came, one day there would be an end, a gentle darkness to be wrapped in like a mother’s arms, and he had never felt a sense of comfort more profound.

The Stag turned, and in the changing angles of moonlight he again saw stained, exposed bone and festering hide. When it moved, it was with the same wretched, straggling hobble with which it had crossed the road, but the desert accepted it without resistance, and the Stag was lost among its shapes and angles so quickly that he couldn’t have said exactly when it had gone.

A car pulled up onto the shoulder, and the beam of a flashlight briefly forced him to squint.

“You alright, there, sir?” A cop - young, smooth-faced, bit of a Texas twang, stepping out of his cruiser to survey the scene of the wreck.

Some spell broken, the meticulous haze of rationality already trying to cast doubt on what it couldn’t explain, he opened the car door and stepped gingerly out into the moonlight, running his fingers roughly through his hair.

“I … yeah. I just, uh,” he glanced down the road to the crumpled form of the doe. “I hit a deer.”

“Have you already called for a tow?” the cop asked.

“No, sir. No cell service.” He didn’t have a clue if that was actually the case, but it really was incredible how eager the human mind was to supply plausible explanations in a pinch.

“Just can’t catch a break tonight, can you? I’ll make the call sometimes I think the dumb things just wait to jump out in front of you. All night long they could be crossing the road, but they go and do it when the roaring bright thing is hurtling right at ‘em. Craziest thing, isn’t it?” In the warmth of the night and the officer’s personable attitude, he realized that he could hear life again – night birds and chittering insects. The desert seemed to have lost some weird, warped glamor, as if a filter had been peeled away, and beneath his conscious awareness the events of the night began to wrap themselves in the gauzy trappings of half-remembrance, of things only to be relived in dreams.

“Yeah. Pretty crazy.”

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2020 Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration Friday, April 12 to Saturday, April 13, 2020 The Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration brings published writers in several genres, such as poetry, novels, creative nonfiction, juvenile fiction, and screenwriting, to present hands-on workshops to aspiring writers from the community.

Celebration participants are also invited to enter a writing contest in three categories: poetry, short story (fiction) and memoir (nonfiction). Cash prizes will be awarded.

Writing Contest Deadline: April 6, 2020 Want more information? Visit www.cochise.edu/cwc 62

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Wrong Side of the Tracks Ammi Robles Lizarraga Photograph

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Watson Lake at Night Joyce Genske Photograph

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Determination Breanne Huitz Photograph

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El Alfarero Lauren Paun Photograph

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Within Me Noelani Ramirez Photograph

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Untitled Crystal Jazelle Munoz Photograph

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Biographies Peter Bean He is currently an instructor for the college. He enjoys writing, photography, and all the arts.

Katie Bertrand She is a writer of fiction and narrative non-fiction. In her free time, she enjoys hiking or running in the great outdoors, reading her way through a good book, or spending time with super great, interesting people.

Among friends and loved ones she's best known for her Michigan accent, her fiery red hair, and her 20-pound orange rescue cat, M.G. Edward Doench He is a veteran of the United States Coast Guard with an extremely eclectic background that includes having been a circus clown, a professional magician, a riverboat pilot, a stage actor, and even a shortlived stint as a paranormal investigator. He and his wife "retired" to Sierra Vista in 2017, and he is currently working toward a Bachelor's degree with the intent of teaching high school locally. In his spare time, he is a historical reenactor and an aspiring writer.

Tina Quinn Durham She is a poet, artist, and musician living in southeastern Arizona. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Arizona State University. Her poems have appeared in the Boston Review and other literary magazines.

Joyce Genske She fell in love with photography at a very young age and has been taking pictures since. With each passing year, she reaps more enjoyment from taking photographs and allowing viewers to see the world through her eyes.

Linda Ekstrum Primarily, she shoots in color, but a few years ago she picked up an older model Nikon that had been converted to infrared. The color images she takes with Sony matches her own experience, that is, both her eyes and the camera sensor “see” the same spectrum of light waves. The infrared camera, however, reveals the wavelengths that are invisible to the human eye - near red - and the contradiction is a fascinating one. She 69

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just uses her powers of composition and shoot; the outcome is left to faith and the hours of processing that follows.

Maria Jose Grijalva She is 25 years old and from Douglas, Arizona. She’s a pure street photographer who started shooting in 2012. Shooting in black and white allows her to capture simple yet beautiful moments we tend to overlook.

Linda Hughitt Mrs. Hughitt is a 39-year educator who is now returning to school for her personal interests. She loves to travel, and many of her photographs are from those trips. She and her husband like to visit National Parks, Monuments, and Historic Sites throughout the United States. She is a lifelong photographer starting when her father gave her an old box camera when she was in 3rd grade.

Breanne Huitz She takes sports photography. She is studying to become a travel nurse, and she likes to take photos for her hobby. “Everything happens for a reason” is her motto.

Phoebe Leavitt She’s a homebody dog mom who loves rock/metal music, horror movies, anime, and surreal/abstract art. She also has a passion for animals and is a strong supporter of the vegan lifestyle.

Clinton Lee He was born and raised in Hereford, Arizona. Once he graduated high school, he took off to explore the world in order to better understand it.

He came back with journals full of adventure, beauty, and sorrow.

Bob Luce Bob was born in Nebraska where he lived on the family farm. He was employed for 30 years as a Wildlife Biologist in Wyoming. He moved to his home near the San Pedro River in 2006 to experience and photograph the wildlife, history, and scenery of Cochise County, and advance appreciation of the San Pedro Riparian National Conservation Area through nature photography. The latest edition of his book River of Life, Four Seasons along Arizona’s Rio San Pedro was published in January 2019.

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Jay Melzer He is an English major attending college part-time. He lives in Bisbee, and he works nights as a baker there. He plans to keep working his way up as he learns and improves, because if he can find a job he likes almost anywhere, he can keep playing pretend on paper without having to pay the bills with it.

Crystal Jazelle Munoz Considering it has been her first time working with Photoshop, Bridge and other softwares, she has done an outstanding job. Crystal is a student and athlete at the Cochise College. She plays for the Women’s Soccer team and is ready to pursue her soccer dreams in Tennessee. With that being said, Crystal has a unique eye for photography and hopes to see her work published one day, even though she is barely beginning to explore this side of her.

Ivan Noriega He is a college student who has a passion for photography, especially at night.

Lauren Paun She is a Douglas, Arizona native currently attending Cochise College. She hopes to transfer to the University of Arizona next year to study Art and Visual Culture with an emphasis in Community and Museum. She works with most mediums and hopes to convey beauty in everyday life on a border town through her work.

Marcea Phidd She is a sci-fi lover who loves to dwell in her thoughts like an addicted daydreamer. She loves to read as well as listen to music, squealing in harmony with whomever is signing. She is a tall Jamaican/Honduran and proud of it.

Noelani Ramirez She is from a small border town, and her hobbies involve photography, reading, taking care of her plants, and devouring her favorite foods. She uses her camera to take photos that help grasp a person’s inner self.

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Ammi Robles Lizarraga She is an International student at Cochise College; she was born and raised in Sonora, and have lived the border life for 21 years. Her passion has always been filmmaking, photography, acting, and everything that is related to Visual and Performing Arts. She loves using Photography as a medium to tell interesting narratives about people, culture, issues and whatever is in her mind. Hopefully, one day she will be able to share these stories with the world.

Andrea Savage Her artistic vision is her perspective of the colors she uses in her images and the story she’s trying to convey. Her images show emotion, sense of being, and most of all, how she sees things. She believes we become our art, it reflects who we are, what we believe, and how we perceive the world and ourselves.

Pat Sepulveda-Myers She is an amateur just-for-fun writer. Being retired, she now has time for writing and for projects at her church and at the Benson Chamber of Commerce.

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