Mirage 2020

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Mirage 2020

Literary and ARts Magazine i

MIRAGE

LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE 2020 Cochise College Cochise County, Arizona Faculty Advisors Kristen Welch Alex O’Meara Ella Melito Virginia Pfau Thompson Jenea Sanchez Ron Hyde JenMarie Zeleznak

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Front and Back Cover Art

Mirage Mission Statement The Mirage Literary & Arts Magazine has a three-part mission:

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.

1. Mirage serves Cochise county by showcasing high-quality art and literature produced by community members and students.

Art: Fernando Bocanegra, “Calle Fortaleza,” Sierra Vista Campus

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: www. cochise.edu/mirage.

Acknowledgements The Mirage Committee would like to thank 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.

Fiction, “Testimony,” Tina Quinn Durham Memoir, “The Water Witch,” Vicki Barth

Poetry, “Huachuca Mountains, Noon,” Ross Lampert

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, Literary Magazine Production and Design. This course is offered each spring.

Design The Mirage committee 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.

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2019 Student Poetry, Prose, & Art Contest Winners Poetry:

First place: Athena Reynolds, “Unloved No Longer”

Second place: Jessica Alba, “A Symphony”

Prose:

First place: Danny Morales, “Chairs”

Second place: Jay Melzer, “The Battle of the Bar”

Third place: Kaleen Hung, “Countdown: Alex” and

“Countdown: Hayes” Art:

First place: Erin Ganey, “Farewell to Summer”

Second place: Melissa Villanueva, “Dull Stars”

Third place: Maria Lizarraga del Castillo, “The Border Fence’s Curls”

Are you a student who wants to participate in producing this magazine?

Consider taking English 257, Literary Magazine Production and Design 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.

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

Please visit www.cochise.edu/mirage. We take original poetry and prose (short stories and memoirs). We also seek submissions of photos of original art.

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, visit: www.cochise.edu/mirage All submissions from students are automatically entered in the contest.

Winners are announced each Spring.

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Table of Contents Unloved No Longer Athena Reynolds 1 A Symphony Jessica Alba 2 Farewell to Summer Erin Ganey 3 Dull Stars Melissa Villanueva 4 The Border Fence’s Curls María Lizárraga del Castillo 5 Verdin on Citrus Jay Melzer 6 Overwhelmed Ruth O’Donogue 7 Blue Lagoon Joyce Genske 8 Dangerous Beauty Andrea Savage 9 City Island Jesse Waite

10 Abstract Spray Paint Matthew Hernandez 11 Warmth Noelani Ramirez 12 Claire Danny Morales 13 The Battle of the Bar Jay Melzer 21 A Trip Back in Time Joyce Genske 23 Calle Fortaleza Fernando Bocanegra 24 Huachuca Views Sandra Smith 25 Simplicity Aleyda Daivi Canez 26 Les Deux Palais Laila Avery 27 Reality’s Reflection Alexis Pereda 28 Eliphante Art Joyce Genske 29 Into the Light Andrea Savage 30 Jumex de Mango Rotceh Moncerrath Bueina 31 Petrichor Laila Avery 32 My Father Sharon Strachan 33 The Water Witch Vicki Barth 34 Huachuca Mountains, Noon Ross Lampert 37 Testimony Tina Quinn Durham 38 But I Just Wanted You JenMarie Zeleznak 43 Can It Be Dinnertime? Bethany Myers 44 Street Hassle Eric Bos 45 Me and My Polaroid Kayla McCathern 46 Knead Bread Lee Myers 47 Just a Few Things Ash Dahlke 48 MidSummer Picnic Lindsey Benson 49 With Help From Jewella Luisa Funk 50 Saguaro Wildlife Lee Myers 51 Lupita Jenea Sanchez 52 Biographies 54

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Unloved No Longer Athena Reynolds

A Symphony Jessica Alba

1st Place in Poetry, Student Contest

2nd Place in Poetry, Student Contest

Little girl unloved Do not cry any more tears.

You know not your father, And your mother loves only herself.

Do not worry little one, For one day, I will love you.

You see, you are me, and I will love you once I am grown.

Do not sit at that corner and wait, Because no one is coming to find you.

But you see, there is hope…

For in the future, I will find myself.

Your hurt deep inside will cause pain for years and years, But it will help me to realize just how far I’ve come.

Fear not little girl that no one will ever love us Because loving myself is all that matters.

You have not heard the words many times before, So I am here to say…

Cry no more tears today because I love you.

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Mars. Sing me a song.

Your cry isn’t artificial. Your blinking light isn’t man-made. I see you in the darkness.

The same way the moon calls out. And though she is closer, I can hear you just fine.

Mars. Play me a symphony.

Let the whole world know how loud you can be.

Fill the space between your friendly stars and shatter the rules of sound.

Crash your cymbals; whine your violin.

Fill every sky with the voice of your night cries.

Mars. Look me in the eyes.

I watch you every night. I look for you everywhere.

I call to you at every chance. I want your song. I hear your calls.

I look up and reach, but only grasp an empty shout.

Mars. I am in love.

With the lonely heart you display the world.

With the dreams that died on the way to reach you.

With all your lonely and lovely red storms.

Mars. You are so kind.

When you watch over me at night. When you show up only to remind me you still hold hope.

When you fuel my bravery.

My bleeding and beating red heart.

Mars. My oldest friend.

You watched me grow and prosper. You cared for the child and you care for me now.

You were patient for years. Watching and waiting.

And I didn’t see you. Not until now.

You and I, we’ve waited so long.

So, please, I ask of you now.

Mars. Sing me a song.

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Farewell to Summer Erin Ganey

Dull Stars Melissa Villanueva

1st Place in Art, Student Contest

2nd Place in Art, Student Contest

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The Border Fence’s Curls

Verdin on Citrus Jay Melzer

María Lizárraga del Castillo 3rd Place Art, Student Contest

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Overwhelmed Ruth O’Donogue

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Blue Lagoon Joyce Genske

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Dangerous Beauty Andrea Savage

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City Island Jesse Waite

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Abstract Spray Paint Matthew Hernandez

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Warmth Noelani Ramirez

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Claire Danny Morales 1st Place, Prose, Student Contest

In the past months, Claire had the same dream every week. In her dream, as she told me countless times, I was in a small, wooden boat, cascading down a stream in a populated forest of trees covering almost every inch. To the left and right, on land, there were children, both boys and girls. The others were adults, all women of around the same age as me. All of them stood there like big oak trees, not moving, as if their feet were deeply rooted into the ground. They all had the same bleak, hopeless look on their faces, reminiscent of a sickly shade of grayish-green.

Their black marble eyes were fixated on me. However, their blueberry tinted skin stuck out to me the most. From what she described, I pictured them as if they were all mute zombies, devoid of any life, drawn to the only thing with a heartbeat. That wasn’t the only thing.

There was a leak in my boat. As I continued downstream, the boat began to fill with more and more water, rising up just below my knees. To make matters seem even more dire, she said I had no paddle, and that I was scrambling around to escape from the depths below. The first time she had the dream, she woke up screaming and in tears. What scared her the most was that she knew I couldn’t swim. That was Claire’s deepest fear. Mine was different. In my mind, it was only a matter of time before Claire and her mother would be on the banks, joining the rest of the onlookers, as well.

I remember the first time I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine. I looked over and saw a woman I had never seen before, sleeping on the opposite side of me. When she woke up, she kissed me good morning and acted as if she had known me an eternity. In her reality, I had always existed. I didn’t know what to think. I tried to get in touch with the people I had previously known, but it was no use; there wasn’t much I could do. I could never find them. Phone numbers were different. Emails were different. Names were different. People were different.

After that shocking revelation, a few weeks later, I woke up in another bed, married to another woman, and I was the father of five kids I had never known. The same thing happened. That wife and those children knew my entire life by memory. Again, I had no idea who they were. The cycle continued over and over and over again, until I finally met Claire and her mother. I have been with them for about three years now, making it the longest time I have been with a family I have never known.

Above every desire I previously had, my strongest desire was to forget the past lives and the past people. My life had no structure. There was no constant. There was no pattern. I didn’t know how much time I had left in this life. I didn’t know how much time I had in any life for that 13

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matter. It’s not like I enjoyed leaving behind every person I met; at the same time, I didn’t see it as a complete loss either, since my emotions were already like eggs, scrambled all over the place. However, Claire was the only exception to that desire. In the beginning, I had tried not to get too emotionally attached to her; thankfully, I failed.

Claire was six years old. Every trip to the playground was always the same. Claire would jump up and down in her seat, on the drive over, saying how she would make new friends. The reality was different. We would sit there for a few hours, the same bench, same time, almost always, and watch the other children play. A few times, I dragged her over and introduced her to some of the kids in her age group, but she would scurry back to the bench and sit with me a few minutes later.

Claire clung to my arm like a koala would to a branch. It wasn’t anything new.

Claire’s first day of elementary school was similar. I walked her up to her teacher, and before I could introduce myself, Claire bolted behind my legs. She grappled onto them, as if her dear life depended on it. After some persuasion, she finally let go and held onto my hand. The young, fresh out of college, first grade teacher started asking Claire a few questions. Her idea helped, and she finally opened up to her. It seemed to be going just fine. When she became preoccupied, I eventually slipped away. The last thing I remember, at the end of that first exchange, was Claire bawling her eyes out, crying out to me, as she realized that I had left her alone. Later that day, I made it up to her by having a tea party in her room. Luckily, she forgave me.

We were still at the park, sitting on the same bench we always sat on. There was a playground in front of us. We heard the creaks from the swing set, as kids swung back and forth. Then, there were the static shocks, as a boy went down one of the slides. A girl, who looked to be around three, quietly dug up sand, with her small shovel, and packed it down in her pail. She picked up a handful of sand and let the granules seep through the cracks between her fingers. I watched as the golden dust fell to the ground. It reminded me of an hourglass. The warm sun toasted our backs from behind. A gentle breeze carried a light, heavenly mist from a sprinkler that watered the grass behind the swings.

There was a fiery charcoal scent in the air. A few moments later, it changed to a unique aroma of spices and seasonings. The source was coming from a father who was grilling steaks for his family nearby. Pop, pop...pop. I heard it, but I also could smell it. The buttery scent of popcorn graced our airways, which came from a popcorn vendor underneath an old oak tree to the right from us.

“Daddy?” said Claire.

“Yes?” I said.

“I had the dream again,” she said in between bites of her fudge popsicle.

“Same one?” I said, as I took a few bites from my orange-cream popsicle.

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“Yep,” she said as she gulped.

I felt the cold, milky ice swim down my throat, as I momentarily stopped eating my chilly treat. “Row, row, row your boat…” I comically sang, moving my arms in a circular motion to match the rowing of an imaginary boat.

Claire sat there, staring at me with a stone face. She dropped her popsicle to the ground in front of us. She didn’t even consider reaching down to pick it up. It didn’t faze her. She was too busy hugging me, her little arms wrapped tightly around my rib cage.

“Don’t die!” her little voice squeaked.

“Sweetie, I’m not going to die,” I said, struggling to say the words, since her hug was strong. Still, I was able to reciprocate the hug.

“It scares me,” she said, crying.

“I know, I know it does,” I said patting her little back. “You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be A-Okay.”

“Promise?” she said, squeezing tighter.

“I promise,” I said, still struggling to combine an adequate amount of oxygen into my words. I tapped my right foot in rapid succession. My hands, which were woven across her champagne colored hair, were drenched with perspiration. I couldn’t stand to sit there any longer. I needed a break from it all. If only Claire knew I was just as afraid. I never told her. I knew I couldn’t. Thankfully, she wasn’t able to fully comprehend the meaning behind the dream. She was the lucky one. Sadly, I wasn’t.

We got back home, quiet from our day at the park. The sun had already gone down, and the house was quiet. The only light that was on in the house was the one in the living room. I walked Claire back to her room. I hung up her jacket in the closet, and I helped her get dressed into her pajamas. Then, I tucked her into bed. I stood there in the hallway, with the door almost shut, watching her from the small crack.

That was when it really hit me. My heart felt like it had been weighed down to the deepest point in the ocean. I felt like it could burst at any minute, due to the imaginary pressure from the chilly waters my imagination decided to invent. I wished more than anything that I could be there to comfort her. To see her grow up. To see her finish elementary school, and go on to middle school, high school, and then on to graduation. To see her get her degree at some prestigious college institution.

To see her get married and have a family of her own. I wished more than anything that I would be able to be a part of that reality. However, it didn’t matter. I knew that I couldn’t. I knew that it would come to an end sooner or later. It was just the way things were. As I continued to stand in the hallway, my mind returned back to when we were still at the park.

Right after we had gotten our ice cream and sat down on the same bench.

“Here,” I said, as I remembered bending down to pick up her popsicle. It was covered in specks of dirt, small pebbles, and grass. I held it up to her face. “I don’t think you want to finish this,” I chuckled.

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Claire wiped her red eyes. She sniffled. Her little nose twitched and flared.

Slowly, her little crescent smile stretched across her small face, highlighting her rosy cheeks. “You’re funny daddy,” she laughed back a few seconds later.

“I know, I got it!” I said, digging into my flannel shirt pocket. I pulled out an assortment of tissues from a plastic package. I wiped the muck off of the popsicle stick. I handed the stick back to her. Claire looked puzzled and tilted her head to the side like a confused puppy. I reached into my other pocket and pulled out a black permanent marker. Taking off the cap, I handed it to her. “Write your name.”

Although she was confused, she obliged and wrote her name in big capital letters across the wooden stick. I swiped it from her little fingers, and I placed the stick into my jean pocket.

“My stick?” said Claire, tilting her head to the side like a confused puppy.

“Wherever I go, I will always carry this stick with me.” I pointed to her heart. “That way, you will never be away from me.”

Claire caught me off guard again with another surprise hug of hers. “I love you, daddy,” she said.

“Love you too,” I said, as I embraced her.

I returned back to resting on the door frame, staring through the slight crack. My hand reached into my pocket. The wooden popsicle stick was still tucked away below my assortment of keys. I must’ve been there, lost in my thoughts, for a few minutes. I could tell because my legs were a bit wobbly. Lub, dub...lub! My heart was beating rapidly. I could hear the thumping noises vibrating through my eyes, and I could feel the pulse in my arm. There was a slight, sharp pain in my head. Not painful, but not pleasant either. I closed my eyes, exhaling through my mouth.

“You okay?” said Claire, as she realized I was still there, standing idle at the door.

I opened my eyes. Lub, dub…...lub, dub…...lub, dub. My heartbeat was normal. I looked over. My eyes were relaxed. The tension around my head subsided. “Yes, I’m fine, love,” I said, “just fine.”

She paused for a moment. Then, she sat up in bed, moving a few of the light strands of hair that were in her face. “I can’t fall asleep,” she said, “can you help me?”

“Sure,” I smiled.

I laid in her princess bed, my feet dangling off the end because of how small it was. Claire laid her head on my right shoulder; surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable. She rested her right hand on my chest. I could feel the warmth from her hand, the heat pushing past the fabric of my whitetank top. I could hear the little breaths she took when she would inhale and then exhale through her nose. Claire would smack her lips from time to time, and then she would nudge her head up and down, all in the hopes of sleeping comfortably.

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My spot on the bed was cold, but I was immediately welcomed by the warmth from the blankets, after I nestled underneath them. I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a proper rest. To anyone else, it would’ve felt bizarre to live many lives. At this point, it was already normal to me. Life had given me the short end. I didn’t know how long I was going to stick around this time.

As I laid in her bed, my mind trailed back to another moment. A few months back, before first grade, when Claire had gotten her own room. It was her bedtime. I had rubbed her back, a common sleepy time remedy that would put her out in minutes. I thought she was asleep, since she didn’t say anything when I stopped, and she faced the opposite direction on her right side, so I couldn’t tell if she was awake or not. I got up to shut the door and leave.

“Daddy?” said Claire in a low voice.

“Yes?” I said back with the same volume. I reverted my gaze to face her staring back at me.

“I don’t like the dark,” she said, as she grasped the blankets into her balled up fists.

“I’ll help you with that,” I said, shutting the door behind me. I walked a few steps forward over to the side of Claire’s bed. The room was darker than the feathers of a black crow.

“I told you I don’t like it!” said Claire with the last words being higher in pitch, indicating that she was annoyed.

“That’s why you don’t have to be alone,” I said, lightly pushing her away. “Move, missy,” I joked, while tickling her.

“Aah!” squealed Claire, “I hate being tickled!” She moved over, closer to the wall, laughing in the process.

The nostalgia only lasted for a while. Soon, I found myself back in the present. “I’ll never leave you,” I whispered. I knew she couldn’t hear me. “I promise.” I lightly kissed her forehead. She didn’t move. In conjunction with her lip smacking, her breathing, her body heat, and the constant ticking, coming from the pink clock in front of us, hung up on the wall, I eventually dozed off.

I woke up in the morning. I could hear the trickling of water. My back ached. I had been sleeping on something rough. There were ridges underneath me. I looked up and saw the bright, orange morning sky. I sat up, trying to stabilize myself, as I bellowed from side to side. There were trees scattered around in every direction. I realized I was floating downstream in a kayak. It was then that I grew into a panic. My hands shuffled around, as I quickly searched everywhere for it. Because of my slow recovery from the drowsiness, it took me a few seconds, but there, next to my legs, was a paddle. I felt relieved.

I continued downstream. The huge trees waved their branches in the breeze, almost as if they were wishing me a safe voyage. The sun beamed down on the orange water that I was in. I heard squawking from above. I looked up. Hundreds of migrating birds flew into the peach

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colored sky. I inhaled deeply. That natural pine scent was unmistakable.

The whole scene looked like it had been ripped straight out of a postcard.

A few minutes later, I reached land and exited the kayak, leaving the oar behind. The sounds of birds chirping, the snapping of the twigs I stepped on, and the buzzing of bees entered the airwaves. I stumbled around a bit, until I finally rested the side of my arm on the branch of a tall, slender tree.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t panicked at all. I remember I stood there motionless, lost in the beautiful outdoors, alone with the magical notes from the forest. I could remember my name. I could remember how to do small things, like tie my shoes and drive a car. It was a miracle my memory hadn’t tossed the important task of breathing out the window, or I’d be history. While I could remember almost everything, there was something I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember my life.

In that moment, my demeanor changed. There was no recollection of memories. Childhood birthday parties didn’t ring any bells in my mind. I couldn’t remember the first girl I had ever kissed. I couldn’t even remember if I had ever graduated from college. A swarm of uncertainty hit me. My mind raced from question to question. Answers were not a want, they were a need. I felt a dull pain in my stomach. I pulled away from the branch. The once peaceful melodies that sprang from mother nature were now taunting me. The buzzing from the bees grew louder.

The wind whistled sharply in my ear, forcing me to cover them, almost as if I was a mad man in an asylum. I turned around and around in circles.

I swear that, for one moment, the trees had grotesque faces, and their branches shook towards me in the air, rooting for my own peril.

I couldn’t handle it. I gravitated towards a log that was nearby. I sat on the log with my eyes shut closed. My body was shaking. To take my mind off of it, I started to tap my toe in a rapid succession. I took a deep breath and exhaled, repeating the process again and again. I couldn’t remember how long I sat there, attempting to calm myself down.

There’s got to be something, I thought to myself. My hands were dripping with sweat. All I need is a memory. Just a single memory will do. I rested my chin on my right fist and pouted in defeat. I grabbed a few leaves in my hands and threw them in the air, and they were carried away by the wind. Just as I did that, my hands fell back down and slapped my legs.

It was then that I felt it. There was an object in my jean pocket.

I pulled it out and studied it in my hands. It was a popsicle stick with a name written in marker. It looked like a child had written their name.

“Claire,” I read out loud. Where have I heard that name before? It sounds familiar, but I just can’t remember.

As I held the stick, a gust of wind knocked it out of my hand. The popsicle stick fell to the ground, but it was facing the opposite side. There was a ten-digit number on the back, written in permanent marker; though, the writing for the numbers looked different than the 18

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name. I picked it up and stared at the numbers. It was a phone number.

My eyes grew wide, and my mouth opened up like a cartoon character.

In an instant, a memory was ingrained into my head.

My mind travelled back in time to when Claire and I were at the park. Claire had just written her name in big capital letters across the popsicle stick. I swiped it from her little fingers, and I placed the stick into my jean pocket. After we hugged, Claire ran to a nearby water fountain to have a drink. I took out the stick from my pocket and flipped it over.

Maybe, I should write down the house phone number, I thought to myself.

I wrote down the ten-digit number in marker and placed it back into my pocket, as Claire came running back from the fountain.

My mind returned to staring at the phone number, while sitting on the log. I jumped up from the log. The adrenaline coursed through every single vein in my body. I held my arms out high. “I remember!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. In that moment, I heard a bell ring in the distance, and what sounded like a door being shut after it. It didn’t seem far away.

I dashed into the direction of the sound, and I was amazed to see a little convenient store. There was a bell hanging on the door, which would alert the arrival of customers. From where I left the kayak, I couldn’t see the store because it was hidden behind a large group of trees. I made it to the front door and the bell echoed.

“Can I help you?” asked a female employee behind the desk. She looked on edge because I almost flew through the glass of the door.

“May I use your phone?” I answered back.

“Uh, sure, it’s right there on the wall,” she pointed behind me.

“Thank you,” I smiled back.

The employee offered a little smile that quickly faded.

I walked up to the phone. The adrenaline in my body was disappearing, but my heart was beating out of control. I gripped the handle of the phone with immense pressure in my right hand, as I lifted it up to my ear.

I licked my lips out of nervous habit. My finger was shaking up and down, as I slowly pushed down the buttons, entering the entire phone number.

A tear trickled down my face. I rested my hand on the wall and put my head down. I could hear the phone ringing.

There was a slight chance it would work. Before I had met Claire, I had tried to contact the other people through the phone, but the numbers either didn’t exist or someone completely different answered on the other end. The phone had already rung a few times now. No one had answered yet. It was early morning, and Claire’s mother was usually in bed up until noon. If anyone would answer, it would be Claire. I exhaled, as the phone continued to ring. Come on, pick up the phone, pick up the phone! My eyes were shut the entire time. Waiting to hear the next ring on the phone felt like an eternity. I put my shoulders down. I was discouraged. All of my hope had almost been depleted. Please…someone… answer for me.

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A second later, someone picked up the phone. I opened my eyes. I heard that unmistakable, little voice on the other end of the phone. I smiled a joy I had never felt before.

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The Battle of the Bar Jay Melzer 2nd Place, Prose, Student Contest

Twenty-five is probably too young to be writing memoirs, but I figure that if by that age you’ve already got stories that might belong in one someday, you’re probably living life well, so there’s no harm in practicing. My first job in Arizona was as a dishwasher at a bar (name and location undisclosed), and I quit for a number of reasons. Late paychecks and stiffed tips were two, inconsistent managements after another. The decapitated bobcat head may also have been a factor, but it ultimately came down to cockroaches.

Despite all these pitfalls of the job, I liked working on weekends. It meant I had free admission to live music every shift, and drunk show-goers can always be counted on to order fries and a burger and never so much as touch them. I wasn’t too proud. Maybe not sanitary, but this was a step above a dive, and the hygienic questionability of the few fries a customer might have stuck their fingers in couldn’t compare to that final night before I gave it up for good.

As a note, I wrote this before coronavirus – dive bar or no, I would no longer advise eating strange, second-hand food.

It was a Sunday night – a Monday morning, really. Closing time, and the cook and I were cleaning the kitchen while the bartender wiped things down in the dining area. We had been seeing roaches crawling around all night. One or two were unavoidable in this location, but I had spotted half a dozen over the course of the shift. The cook and I decided early on that at the end of the night we would take some extra time to bleach-mop the floors, because we knew the boss would never shell out for an exterminator and were both too nice for our own good. The least we could do was try to get ahead of the problem and clean up after the little bastards.

Two a.m. came around, and we had everything else squared away – time to break out the mop. Five-foot-three and reasonably aware of my shortcomings, I went for the bucket and left it to the cook to move around all the heavy appliances for me. We got behind the fryer and under the oven, bleached down the walls while we were at it, and with perfect comedic timing, I made a crack about the roaches only appearing when we were too busy to do anything about it.

Then the cook moved the deli box.

And with the zeal of Moses leading the Jews forth out of Egypt, a biblical exodus of cockroaches surged out over our feet. I, of course, screamed, and the pole-vaulting jig I pulled as I white-knuckled the mop handle was an acrobatic feat I have never replicated before or since.

When the bartender barreled through the doorway to find out what the hell was happening back there, this was the scene she walked in on: the cook, river dancing Michael Flatley’s reputation to pieces 21

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on top of a carpet of cockroaches; me, the lifelong entomophobe, ululating and smacking at the walls with a mop, skipping from piece to piece of bare tile across a wet floor, determined that I’d rather slip and break my neck than allow so much as a single antenna to touch me.

She immediately turned around and walked right back out.

Her betrayal stung me to the core. We were abandoned to our fate by a sister-in-arms, but as despair broke over me like a wave and the riptide of panic sucked at my feet, she returned. Like a battle-maiden out of legend, her foes parted before her, a nasty, brown, skittering sea.

Dual-wielding cans of Raid like Lara Croft irresponsibly executing an endangered tiger, the bartender emerged into the kitchen. For fifteen minutes we swatted, sprayed, and stomped – the bartender and I with Raid in hand, the cook snapping a wet towel to knock down the roaches clinging to the ceiling. All told, the Battle of the Bar lasted about half an hour, and in our moment of triumph we stood atop a pile of corpses wide enough to fill four foot-square tiles.

Actually, we stood very far away from it. And then we took pictures, which we texted to our boss. After coming down from a good panic attack I informed the cook that if we didn’t get some kind of bonus for this, I was leaving. Did I have another job ready? Nope. Did I care? Absolutely not. I had faced my worst nightmare in righteous combat; the fear of social conflict was nothing to me now.

For the next week the boss managed by some black sacrament to avoid being in the bar longer than a few minutes at a time, always when the staff were too busy to pin her down for a confrontation. Knowing my father would be spinning in his future grave, I tendered my resignation by text message, and within a week I was replaced by some other poor schmo willing to put up with the job for a few months. A week after that, I discovered that having made cornbread at a bar was apparently enough experience to get in at a real bakery, and four years later I now hold the senior position there.

For those of you who stuck with me this far because you wanted to hear about the decapitated bobcat, that incident was oddly less dramatic. Some guy left it on the bar in a paper sack on a Thursday afternoon, and a different bartender had the misfortune of checking to see what was inside. As far as we could tell it was fresh, but the strange part was that the boss seemed knowingly exasperated rather than surprised. I never did get the full story there – she left it on the enigmatic phrase, “I’ll take care of this” – but it makes for a good hook.

Granted, playing Dances-With-Roaches wasn’t particularly funny at the time, but given the benefits I derived from it after the fact, I have the bizarre honor of being happy for the experience. In order to be an interesting person, you have to experience interesting things. You don’t grow a good life out of unbroken, sterile soil, and the future becomes pretty unintimidating when you’ve already handled worse.

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A Trip Back in Time Joyce Genske

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Calle Fortaleza Fernando Bocanegra

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Huachuca Views, Fall 2019 Sandra Smith

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Simplicity Aleyda Daivi Canez

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Les Deux Palais Laila Avery

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Reality’s Reflection Alexis Perada

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Eliphante Art Joyce Genske

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Into the Light Andrea Savage

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Jumex de Mango Rotceh Moncerrath Bueina

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Petrichor Laila Avery

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My Father Sharon Strachan Just like milk that has been spilled on the table, we cannot put our history back in its vessel.

Please don’t think I don’t care about your suffering.

I do, but the vessel is quite empty, and you are quite deaf.

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The Water Witch Vicki Barth 1st Place, Memoir, Creative Writing Celebration

Awkward and gangly at five feet six inches tall and weighing just seventy nine pounds, at the age of eleven I had yet to grow into large teeth, knees, and elbows. It was the summer, after my eleventh birthday, when I discovered that I was a water witch.

My family owned a small, thirteen acre, orange grove, all planted by hand. Dad had manually drilled the well needed for irrigation. The process entailed heaving a 100-pound weight and banging it repeatedly on metal pipe, down, down into the sandy Florida soil until water emerged. Thirty or forty feet were typical depths for a substantial pocket of water that reeked of sulfur but was fine for irrigation. The well drilled four years before had run dry and my dad had attempted, without success, a replacement using the same backbreaking method. The usual summer rains had been sporadic and the young grove would not survive long without water.

My father was a true skeptic believing in nothing he could not see, hear, or touch himself. I was shocked when Dad announced to the family that he had enlisted the aid of a water witch to locate a suitable spot for drilling: but desperate times required unorthodox measures. I’d read about people who used divining rods, forked tree branches, to ferret out underground water, but a witch? This seemed entirely different and something I was dying to experience!

To my surprise, the water witch was a very tall and handsome woman, probably in her twenties. Wearing rolled up blue jeans, work boots, and a plaid blouse; the water witch had wonderful long wavy strawberry blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. She carried with her a freshly cut forked bay tree branch. There was a friendly and easy manner about her and nothing at all like a witch to my eleven-yearold mind.

My dad, trying to appear nonchalant, as if water witches coming and going was a usual thing, led the way toward the middle of the grove where he hoped to drill the new well. I had the opportunity to walk beside the pretty stranger who was a full head taller than I was. Not generally chatty around people I did not know, I felt at ease with her immediately and was eager to ask about few things. “Why are you called a witch: do you cast spells?” I inquired.

“No, no” she laughed out loud, and not in the boy are you stupid way either. “That’s just what most people call water diviners in this part of the country. My father divines water, too, so I guess I’m just a natural. It’s my only special ability. Weekdays, I work at Thompson’s Nursery over in Babson Park: you know the place?” she asked. “Sure do; I pedal my bike past it to get to the good playground in Lake Wales,” I said proudly.

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“That’s an awful long way to go for a playground: over twenty miles each way?” she asked. “Yep, and I have my little sister on the handle bars: not that much to do around here all summer,” I replied. “Well, next time, stop in and say hey: I’ll buy you and your sister a Coke: name’s Dottie,” she said with a grin. I smiled and nodded, delighted with the invitation from such a friendly and intriguing young woman.

My dad stopped his trek. “This where you been drilling?” asked Dottie. “Yeah, give or take fifty feet or so,” he replied. Dottie didn’t even have to take the two forks of the branch in hand: she just held the rod by her side and said, “We’ll have to move out farther: no water here. Did you have any other areas in mind for your well?” she asked. “Got a second and third choice: follow me,” said Dad. Off we went to the far edge of the grove.

“Much better; let’s take a look,” said Dottie grasping the forks of the rod in her hands. Walking in a circle that became gradually wider, the rod dipped slightly several times. “There’s water here, probably too deep, seventy feet or better: you’re hoping for closer water, right?” confirmed Dottie. “Yeah, I sure am,” replied my dad. Continuing to make her circle larger, she stopped when the branch pulled strongly downward toward the earth and said, “Good strong reaction: plenty of water and at no more than forty feet! Dad marked the spot with a wooden stake with a rag tied to its top. “You want me to check out your third choice as a back-up since I’m here?” inquired Dottie. Dad agreed that was wise and we traipsed through the sandy grove to the backside of the property.

“May I try it?” I asked eagerly. “Sure,” said Dottie, immediately handing over the branch. I could tell that Dad wasn’t too happy about the idea. “Now start here and walk in a circle and keep making that circle bigger: let the forks of the rod lie loosely in your hands,” she told me. I did as instructed and thought I felt a few little tugs downward but was sure it was merely the power of suggestion. With a bit of unusual gruffness in his voice Dad said, “That’s enough, Cindy. Give her back her branch.” “Just a little bit longer,” I pleaded while continuing to walk.

Within seconds, I felt a strong tug downward that made me stumble in the deep sand. “Cindy, stop it now; you’re just fooling around,” my dad admonished. “No! I feel it,” I bellowed. Dottie took over the rod and was about as surprised as Dad and I were when she felt the same hard tug downward in the exact spot. Even the thin bark on the branch became twisted and loose. “Had lots of kids try this out, let them have a bit of fun, but Cindy here has it. Your daughter is a water witch,” she said excitedly.

Dad did not look pleased about my newly discovered ability. “So there!”

I said to myself.

We walked back toward our house where Dottie’s pick-up truck was parked. Dad was all business and handed her the $15 fee, thanked her, and left. I lingered by her truck, hoping to receive some high accolades. Dottie had other things to impart. “Okay, Cindy, it’s probably best that you not go around telling people about your ability. It makes folks 35

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uneasy, kind of like it does your father. I’m only telling you this because at about your age I was ostracized for it. You know that word, ostracized?” I nodded. “The other thing I want to tell you is to never, ever be ashamed of your height! I see you slumping to appear shorter: stand tall and proud, and in not too many years the other kids will be plain out jealous.” As Dottie got into her truck and started the engine she said, “Don’t forget to stop by the nursery for that Coke.” “Okay, I won’t forget,” I said feeling both pleased and awkward as I peered down at my flip- flops.

Over fifty years later, I still recall that day vividly. After Dottie left, my dad walked around the grove with his own freshly cut branch, desperately trying to feel the downward pull, but never did. To my knowledge, he never mentioned my ability to anyone, not even my mother, and I took Dottie’s advice and remained silent. From time to time, over the next ten years, Dad quietly elicited my help to locate water, never uttering the words water witch. By my mid twenties, the ability disappeared and it all remained a secret between my dad and me. I wondered if Dottie had retained her ability.

Never had that Coke with Dottie either. Dad had overheard my telling her about the forty-mile roundtrip excursions with my sister, four years younger, on my bike’s handlebars and put the kibosh on that. I did not even think of telling him that the ride to the playground had been a frequent activity for the past three summers!

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Huachuca Mountains, Noon Ross Lampert

Testimony Tina Quinn Durham

1st Place, Poetry, Creative Writing Celebration

1st Place, Fiction, Creative Writing Celebration

Mountain horizon:

A quartzite scalpel, rough-knapped

from the earth

to serrate a construction-paper sky

Kate walked past the young bougainvilleas without really noticing their magenta blooms. In her opinion, fast-growing vines were a poor choice of bedding plants. Only the university, with its full-time gardening staff, would attempt something so heroically absurd.

By the time she reached the Social Sciences Building, Kate’s right shoulder had begun to ache. Her messenger bag was not designed to carry a notebook, a textbook and a slew of library books. This weekend she would have to make time to shop for a backpack, even if it meant staying up all night to finish that stupid term paper.

Did twenty-year-olds have to work as hard as she did to keep up with their classes? Kate studied the young women strolling along the sidewalk in their tight jeans and cute shorts. None of them carried second-hand messenger bags. Some of them weren’t even carrying backpacks or books. They didn’t look as if they had ever struggled with anything in their lives.

For a moment, massaging her shoulder and remembering how it felt to have her whole life in front of her, Kate hated those women. When she had been their age, she had been a complete idiot about everything—clothes, make-up and men—unlike those slender-thighed girls striding through life with fashionable day packs and perfectly styled hair.

No, that was unfair. Being able to afford a decent hairdresser didn’t guarantee an easy life or a good relationship, for that matter. When Kate had been single, things had been simpler. You went to college, found a man and settled down. After a while, you bought a house and had some kids.

That script had worked for her and for a lot of women in her generation, but today it was obsolete. Kate’s daughter, for instance, had good legs and great hair but never seemed to have a good relationship. The best Janelle had ever managed was a divorced man with three kids whose resentment disrupted their weekends and holidays. Even if Janelle had wanted a traditional marriage, her prospects were grim.

It was rough out there. Women’s lib had changed the world, but it hadn’t leveled the playing field. Even at a liberal university like this one, women were still underpaid and unlikely to get a full professorship.

Kate paused in a little patch of shade to shift the messenger bag to her other shoulder. The sweet scent of orange blossoms drifted down from a tree swathed in waxy white flowers. Kate winced and sneezed.

Spring was in the air all right. She should get to class while she could still inhale.

Then something moved in the pink snapdragons at her feet. The flower-laden stalks were swaying from side to side as something hopped 37

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through them. Was it a male bird with his wings outspread, making a fool of himself? Or was it a female avoiding an unwelcome suitor?

When Kate had been a secretary at the aerospace firm, the men in her office would yell, “Duck rape!” and run to the windows overlooking the pond. The first time, Kate had gone with them. A drake was chasing a female mallard across the lake. The two ducks quacked and flapped furiously, their heavy bodies bouncing across the water as they struggled to take off.

The men were rooting for the drake, of course. Kate whispered to the hen, “Keep flapping, girl, you can make it.” But the drake caught her before the hen could escape.

He grasped the female’s neck with his beak. He held her down and covered her with his wings. Did she have time to breathe before he thrust her sleek head underwater? Kate held her own breath until the hen broke free and flew across the lake, still quacking. A beakful of small feathers bobbing in the water was the only evidence that “duck rape” had taken place.

The men high-fived each other. Kate fled back to her desk. At lunch, she saved her French fries for the female ducks. She did not feed the drakes again that year.

Fortunately, not all mating rituals were as violent as those of mallards and wood ducks. Kate anticipated a happier ending for this drama in the flowerbed.

A Brewer’s blackbird emerged from the snapdragons. It stopped between two pansies, staring at her with an arrogant yellow eye. An equally confident brown female stood behind him, perfectly balanced on her powerful legs.

Had the male bird already fluffed his feathers and quivered provocatively? Had he hovered over the female and delicately tread her back? Kate hoped she hadn’t missed the show.

To Kate’s surprise, a common ground dove scuttled out of the flowers toward her. There was something peculiar about the way the dove moved, how it held its head low and tottered from side to side.

The male blackbird took a single leap toward the dove and looked at Kate again, as if it were asking her for permission. The dove lurched closer.

Without warning, the blackbird leaped onto the dove and covered it with his iridescent wings. He struck its gray-feathered head with his sturdy pointed beak.

A pale, pink streak appeared on the dove’s neck. Kate shouted, “No!” A man sitting on a nearby bench lowered his newspaper to watch. Unperturbed by the noise, the blackbird struck again.

Kate waved, shouted and stamped until the blackbird jumped back a few inches. The dove limped toward Kate, holding one gray wing away 39

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from its body.

Kate knelt down and reached for the dove, then stopped with her empty hands cupped in front of her. What could she possibly do with an injured bird during class? Her economics professor wouldn’t appreciate it if a bird disrupted the lecture, and she didn’t have a jacket in which to wrap the bird. She couldn’t carry the dove to class in her bare hands, could she? And she couldn’t afford another absence. Not in this course.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the dove.

The blackbird interpreted her apology as approval and lunged forward. Kate almost fell over backwards. “Stop that right now!” she said firmly, waving her hands in front of the bird and hoping it wouldn’t peck her too. The man with the newspaper laughed. Kate felt like a fool for getting involved. Nature was supposed to take its course, right? What was Kate going to do, adopt a wild bird and take care of it for the rest of her life?

Last year, one of her coworkers had found an injured duck in the parking lot when he came into the office. He placed the duck in a cardboard box he had found by the dumpster and brought it in through the back, hoping their supervisor wouldn’t notice. At first, the duck had tried to climb out. Then somebody found some duct tape – which of course led to a lot of stupid jokes about ducks and ducts – and the man taped the lid shut. The duck settled down, smelling faintly of green water and rustling occasionally until it was time to go home.

Kate didn’t remember the man’s real name—everybody just called him Feo, which they said was Spanish for ugly. As far as Kate could see, there had been nothing particularly ugly about Feo, and rescuing the bird seemed like a beautiful thing to do. But the duck had never flown again and Feo’s neighbor had ended up keeping it in a little plastic wading pool as a pet.

Kate definitely did not want to take the dove home. It wasn’t just the commitment. This dove might be sick as well as injured. Maybe the blackbirds had attacked the dove because it was weak and dying. She could take it home and spend hours caring for it, only to have it die anyway.

Not only that, but wild birds had lice. Kate knew for a fact that at least 117 different species of parasites could be found on a single bird feather. This dove could host any number of germs and parasites. If this bird entered her house, her own parakeets might die. Kate stopped waving and studied the dove, trying to decide if its feathers looked glossy or if it might have some disease.

The male blackbird was willing to wait while Kate made up her mind but the female was getting restless. She gave her mate a sharp look as if to say, “If you won’t do it, I will,” and leaped forward.

By this time, the dove had almost made it out of the pansies to the sidewalk in front of Kate. There was no way she could let the blackbirds

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have it now. She flicked her fingers at the female. “Shoo! Scoot! Get out of here!” The blackbirds retreated a little and the dove sank down onto the warm concrete. It looked relieved.

Kate thought one more time about taking the bird with her to class, and realized that her presence was only prolonging its suffering. If she couldn’t actually help, she should leave. “I’m sorry, bird,” she whispered as she stood up. “I wish there was something I could do.” But she couldn’t force herself to go.

At her feet, the dove picked itself up and tottered toward the man with the newspaper, who had stopped snickering and was staring at the hapless bird. The watchful blackbirds seemed to understand that he wasn’t going to do anything either and bounded onto the sidewalk.

The dove’s terror reminded Kate of the murder of Kitty Genovese, the woman who had been stabbed to death in New York City while over thirty people watched and nobody called the police.

That had happened thirty or forty years ago, but nothing had changed. Last semester, a woman was assaulted in a university parking lot while other students watched. Fortunately, the woman fought back and freed herself, but nobody tried to help until after the attacker ran away. News reports castigated the onlookers for their cowardice.

Kate imagined history recording her own exploits—a woman too indecisive to rescue an injured bird. The thought stung her into another round of stamping and shooing, and this time when she knelt down, she resolved to pick up the bird.

But as she reached out, a hand scooped up the dove. Kate looked up into the face of an elderly groundskeeper. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”

The groundskeeper straightened and walked away without answering. He held the dove in one hand as if it were a broken branch or a discarded soda bottle. He didn’t cradle the bird to his chest the way Kate would have. He put the dove on the floor of his golf cart and drove away.

Kate looked over at the man sitting on the bench. “What do you think he’ll do with the dove?”

“He’ll probably just throw it away,” the man said, opening his paper again. “It’s not like the university has a budget for bird rescue.”

“At least he didn’t throw it into the garbage while I was watching.”

The man murmured something and continued reading, but Kate felt like she had to explain herself to someone.

“I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t walk away, but I couldn’t pick it up.”

The man turned the page. “I know what you mean,” he said, immersing himself in the sports section.

“I couldn’t just let those birds kill it.”

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the whole time he hadn’t moved. If Kate hadn’t stomped and yelled, he wouldn’t even have noticed the birds.

Kate shifted her messenger bag to her other shoulder and checked her watch. She could still make it to her economics class but instead of racing to the lecture hall, she turned back toward her car.

The pink snapdragons seemed lurid now, and the orange blossoms had given her a headache. Near the stadium, under another orange tree, she saw another pair of blackbirds. She looked away and walked a little faster.

If she could forget the dove, everything would be okay. The incident would be over. But the image of the dove stayed with her, like Kitty Genovese dying in front of her own apartment or the photo of a homeless man frozen under a blanket of newsprint. The dove’s dark eyes reminded her of the orphans in Somalia and Uganda whose somber faces stared at her from the pages of magazines. It was easy to focus on redecorating a bedroom or baking strawberry cupcakes, comforting to think that someone else would see the ad and sponsor a malnourished child.

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But I Just Wanted You JenMarie Zeleznak

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Can It Be Dinnertime? Bethany Myers

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Street Hassle Eric Box

Me and My Polaroid Kayla McCathern

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Knead Bread Lee Myers

Just a Few Things Ash Dahlke

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MidSummer Picnic Lindsey Benson

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With Help From Jewella Luisa Funk

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Saguaro Wildlife Lee Myers

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Lupita Jenea Sanchez

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Biographies Jessica Alba She is a Fine Arts major at Cochise College. She is an aspiring writer. She loves reading books and immersing herself in fun stories. She draws every day of her life because she enjoys expressing herself through her drawings.

Laila Avery She is a dually-enrolled high school and Cochise College student with a love for painting and creating new things. Over the past year, she’s been working hard on developing her art skills, networking, and establishing her own art business.

Vicki Barth Vicki first tried her hand at writing short stories in 2017 at the urging of her friend, Dona Schell. She lives in Bisbee where she also enjoys oil painting and mosaic creations.

Fernando Bocanegra He was born and raised in Sierra Vista; however, his family is Puerto Rican, so they visit the island every once in a while. They end up going to San Juan, the capital, every time they visit, which gave him a chance to take a picture like “Calle Fortaleza.”

2021 Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration 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.

Want more information? Visit www.cochise.edu/cwc

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Eric Bos Social clown and existential space traveler. Art saved my life and I encourage you to see if it will save yours. “I have nothing to offer anyone, except my own confusion.” - Jack Kerouac.

Rotceh Moncerrath Buelna She is a business major at Cochise College who takes pictures when she believes it is the perfect moment. She hopes to capture images which enhance one’s image, rather than changing it.

Aleyda Daivi Canez She is a college student who is nineteen years old and living in Douglas, Arizona.

María Lizárraga del Castillo She is a student at Cochise College who lives in Agua Prieta, Sonora, Mexico. She decided to begin to study photography because she loved to take photos to keep a record of every great moment that she lives.

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Ash Dahlke She is a mixed media artist currently working in Douglas, Arizona. She received her Masters of Fine Arts in Painting and Drawing from the University of Arizona in 2019 and received her Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater in 2015. She currently serves as a 2D Instructor at Cochise College.

Tina Quinn Durham She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing, Poetry and a Secondary English teaching certification from Arizona State University, as well as a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from the University of Arizona. She has been a poetry editor at Hayden’s Ferry Review and Sandcutters literary magazine. Her work has appeared in 2River View, Mirage, The Boston Review and other literary magazines and anthologies. In 2018, her poetry won first and second place in Cochise College’s annual creative writing contest.

Erin Ganey She is eighteen years old. She was born and raised in Sierra Vista, Arizona.

She’s currently in her first year of college, looking to further her education and discover a career that’s right for her.

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.

Matthew Hernandez This is his first abstract art piece.

Ross Lampert He has been writing science fiction since at least third grade, when he wrote a one-act play. He committed to writing full time in, appropriately enough, 2001. Today he dabbles in poetry and crafts novels in southeastern Arizona. His debut novel, The Eternity Plague, was published in 2013 and its sequel, Chrysalis, in 2015. The final book in the series, Wild Spread, is in draft. You can follow him on his Facebook author page or on Twitter.

Jay Melzer He is an English major at Cochise College who enjoys writing, birdwatching, and watercolor. His recent focus has been painting the birds and flowers of Cochise County.

Danny Morales He is currently a Cochise College student from the Douglas Campus. His favorite hobbies include listening to music, hanging out with friends, playing instruments, watching movies, reading books, and writing stories. He loves to write stories because the whole process is exciting and fun.

Bethany Myers She is a recently graduated Registered Nurse from Cochise College. She likes to watch YouTube videos and cuddle with her dogs. She loves to travel, and she plans to travel some more once the pandemic is over.

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Lee Myers He has been married for twenty-nine years and has three children and seven grandchildren. He is also retired from the Army. He loves to do arts and crafts.

Alexis Pereda She is eighteen years old and a student at Cochise College. She is working toward a degree in general studies so that she can transfer to Northern Arizona University for a bachelors in Interior Design.

Noelani Ramirez She is a photographer that lives on the border and aspires to take pictures when her subject is feeling the most genuine.

Athena Reynolds She is a nontraditional, first generation student. She is a single mom to an amazing little boy. She is working hard to further her education so she can be financially secure in her future with job stability.

Jenea Sanchez She was born and raised in Douglas, Arizona/Agua Prieta, Sonora. After receiving her MFA from Arizona State University in 2011, she returned to Douglas to pursue her career as an artist and educator. She is a fellow of the National Association of Latino Arts and Culture’s Leadership Institute, a Mellon-Fronteridades Creative Scholar, and currently a faculty member at Cochise College in the Digital Media Arts Program.

Andrea Savage She enjoys experimenting with different techniques and working in a variety of genres. She didn’t set out to be a photographer, but her passion to express herself evolved into a pursuit to document her world through artistic photographs.

Sandra Smith She is a realist painter who is inspired by western genres, landscapes and culture. She works in oils and acrylics and currently resides in Sierra Vista, Arizona.

Sharon Strachan She is retired from FEDEX and nursing. She has sung in various choruses in the area, including the Cochise College Chorus under the direction of David Meeker and the Bi-National Chorus under the direction of Dr. Lori Keyne. She has been writing for about three years.

Melissa Villanueva Mostly a self-taught artist, she was born and raised in Mexico. She draws digitally almost exclusively, but she enjoys branching out at times and using different traditional media. When it comes to drawing realistically, she often times still likes incorporating inaccurate, fantasy elements into her pieces.

Jesse Waite He is a digital artist who is working toward a degree in animation. With hopes of having his own TV show, he has been practicing every day to learn how to draw cartoons. He has a desire to explore the deep depths of space but seeing how that is a far away dream for all of humanity, he 56

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will settle with creating a comic/show that takes place across the galaxy.

JenMarie Zeleznak Her work is introspective, concerned with emotional and spiritual experience. The pictorial space in her work isn’t the natural world, but an in-between place - the innermost space between thinking and being.

There is serenity in surrendering to an external force, suspended somewhere between despair and reconciliation. JenMarie Zeleznak is the 2D Art Instructor on the Sierra Vista Campus at Cochise College.

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