Mirage 2022-2023

Literary & Arts Magazine

2022-2023

Cochise College

Cochise County, Arizona

Faculty Advisors

Shelby Litwicki

Ella Melito

Alex O’Meara

Virginia Pfau Thompson

Jay Treiber

JenMarie Zeleznak

Front Cover Art

Designed By: JenMarie Zeleznak

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.

Acknowledgments

The Mirage Committee would like to thank everyone who submitted their work, faculty who encouraged students to participate, community members who helped spread awareness, our proofreaders, reviewers, and the Dean of Liberal Arts, Angela Garcia.

Creative Writing Celebration

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

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

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 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 of 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 2023

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

Consider taking English 257, Literary Magazine Production and Design

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 practice 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 interested in submitting your work for publication?

All who are interested can submit their poetry, prose, or art at: www.cochise.edu/mirage

Students

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.

Community Members

We do not only accept work from Cochise College students. Anyone in the Cochise and Santa Cruz counties are welcome to submit.

(Son)Shine Nikko Ochoa _________________________

Sleepwalker’s Ocean Doug Esch

1st Place Creative Writing Celebration: Poetry ____________________________________

White waves wash

Over the moonlit sand

A gentle lullaby

From the wind chimes

Off in the distance

Sea mist casts halos

Around lamp lights

As lost dreams dance

Along the shore

Dog and Mermaid Alexa Staples

Jumping Pool Ball Joyce Genske

Glimpses of Time Shawn Bastian

Chromatic Spills #8 Richard Ward

Opuntia Macrocenta 2 Tamara Thomas ____________________________________

Ritual in Shadows Brianna Nead _______________________________

Lunch Anyone? Abigail Stage

The Kitchen Bird Haley Bright

1st Place Creative Writing Celebration: Fiction

The bird was small, like something delicate that could just fit inside Katie’s calloused palm. Under the silky dome of its tiny head, a sharp black eye stared sorrowfully out from the canvas, fixed on the lemonscented plates drying in the neat slots of the drainer across the kitchen. Katie only took fleeting note of the bird in the painting during her morning coffee. She frowned at it over her fingers as they circled the chipped, white mug from which she sipped during her strict, ten-minute break in chores. Katie felt a vague accusation from the bird. It judged her, and she recoiled from the guilt that bloomed inside her when she looked at it. She’d considered taking down the painting many times, but it had been her grandmother’s, and her mother always fussed over it when she visited.

Above the bird’s head was a short slash that cut through the canvas. It had ripped in such a way as to leave an ominous hole, but nobody had bothered to fix it or hang something else. It was easier to just look away.

Had there been grapes painted where the gash was, or an apple? Katie couldn’t remember. The bird hadn’t flinched at all when the flying phone book hit it, had just kept its sad eye set toward the window above the kitchen sink.

“June bug, June bug,” sang Ella Rae. Her small form made the metal kitchen chair look comically large, and her arms were pulled inside of

her shirt, so that the long sleeves dangled crazily like broken wings. She sat with her head on the table, cheek pressed to the cold Formica, and her worn Buster Brown shoe was banging the chair leg at a soft, steady rhythm.

“Stop that, Ella Rae,” Katie muttered above her mug. “Your daddy hates that banging. You know it always sets him off.”

Ella Rae crossed her ankles, scratching at the spot where the sock elastic had dug in and left a faint line in her skin. Without lifting her head, she pushed one arm through her sleeve and traced her chubby index finger along a crack in the tabletop. A few hairs had strayed from one of her brown curls and danced like kites in front of her mouth when she breathed. “June bug, June bug…”

Suddenly the thunder of boots crashed down the stairs, and Jimmy barreled through the doorway. “I’m late again!” he roared. “Katie, where’s my bag?”

Katie stiffened, but she kept her voice low and slow. “Well, now, how should I know? You probably left it in the hall again, where you threw it last time.” The scrape of her chair legs sliding back coincided with the honk outside from Frank’s truck. “I guess it don’t matter now, anyway. He’s here to pick you up. You’d better hurry!”

“I can’t find anything in this damned house!” Jimmy slammed the cabinets, looking for his thermos. One by one, the cabinet doors yawned open and slammed shut.

Katie opened her mouth like one of the cabinets but closed it just as fast. She knew where the thermos was, but she refused to say. Instead, she quivered like a kettle nearing its boiling point and hissed with marital contempt. “I thought I might have just one day without a migraine. I guess slamming them cabinets to wake the dead will help you find that thermos faster?”

“If you kept house as well as you can run your mouth, I reckon I could—”

“I keep house better than you keep jobs. You’re gonna’ get fired again if you’re late to this one. Frank ain’t gonna wait for you all day.” Katie crossed her arms and squinted. “Too much hair cream,” she said. “My god, your hair looks just like a porcupine.”

Jimmy whirled to face her. “Keep talking like that! See what it gets you!” He picked up the coffee pot, and finding it empty, chucked it into the sink.

“Oh, big man, huh? Don’t you threaten me! I’ll grab up Ella Rae and go right on back to Milledgeville!”

“Is that a fact?” Jimmy laughed mirthlessly and tore open the refrigerator to pull out the orange juice. Locking eyes with his wife, he popped the cap and raised the carton directly to his lips for a swig. “You ain’t going anywhere,” he said and dragged his shirt cuff across his mouth. He punctuated his edict by throwing the emptied carton into the trash with unnecessary force. The bin toppled, spilling its contents onto the linoleum.

Katie jumped. “Miserable slob! The joke’s on you. I’m already packed. We won’t even be here when you get back!”

“The hell you won’t.”

“Get a good look at your wife and daughter before we disappear. All you’ll have is bad memories soon!”

“You won’t go anywhere. You’ll go to your grave before you go back to Milledgeville.”

Three harsh, quick raps came at the screen door behind the table. “Y’all okay?” Frank peered through his hands and the mesh. “Hey, Jimmy? You coming?”

“Frank!” Katie cried, yanking open the door. “Help me! Jimmy’s gone totally crazy. He done threatened to kill me and Ella Rae!”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Jimmy pushed the drainer and all of the dishes into the sink with a raucous clatter. “I did not threaten you. You was saying you were gonna’ run off to your mother’s and take—”

“Don’t you touch me!” Katie bolted past Frank on the porch, out into the yard. Her arms were a tornado as she pulled off her apron and tore out the bobby pins holding up her hair.

Jimmy sighed and shook his head at Frank, holding up his palms, but Frank averted his gaze and stepped back quietly. “This ain’t right, Jimmy. Y’all can’t be doing this,” he muttered. “You got a child.”

“What can I do? She’s always on me like this, Frank. A man can’t get no peace around here. Look at her out there, dancin’ around and ranting! She’d

make anyone crazy.” Jimmy stared for a second and barged past Frank to confront his wife, and Frank followed, protesting. The screen door slammed, and the contentious voices trailed out like the gobble of mad turkeys in the yard.

In the kitchen, the clock ticked evenly in the sudden quiet. From the hallway floated the faint sounds of a morning gameshow on the living room tv. Someone had won a new car, and triumphant music played somewhere in a studio far away in California. The audience cheered.

Ella Rae pulled her arms back inside her shirt, hugged herself tight, and began banging her feet again on the chair legs. “June bug, June bug…” She liked the way her song sounded, reverberating in her head with her cheek squished hard and flat against the table. She stared at nothing, unfazed as a doll. Every time she exhaled through her chubby mouth, her fine, stray hairs danced in front of her face. The tiny bird in the painting approved. He too was still as stone, his cold eye fixed on the yellow curtains just above where the dish strainer used to be.

The Corner of Science Jocelyn Diaz _________________________________

Nonsensical Wilderness Ana Rodriguez _____________________________________

Chapters of a Life

Brianna Nead ______________________________ Exteanction Reya Holmes _________________________

The Moon Sets on Us All Jason Warwick _____________________________________

The cloaked man sits in his home, as worn down and disheveled as it might be. His unkept hair, a mop upon his crown not all too dissimilar to that of the hound brushing its head against his idle fingers, blends with the silver moonlight piercing the gaps in the worn curtains. The man clutches his cloak tightly to his body with a shaky grip as cold air invades the home from the crack under the door, shivering at its advance. It grew worse with each year, or perhaps he had grown more vulnerable to its wintery grip. He runs his fingers through the messy brown hound’s fur on its head, giving it a small scratch before forcing himself from his chair, a thing with twice his years yet twice as sturdy.

“Creations of man seem to last longer than the creations of God . . .” he thinks, shaking his head at the bitter thought, as if trying to shake off water from his coat. Such thoughts were unebcoming of someone of his faith. He’d been granted his time, short as it may have been compared to the various objects surrounding him, including a nearby photo which catches the man’s attention for a time along with the glistening in his eyes. He runs a few fingers across the smudges now trailing along his cheek, before makign his way over to the fireplace, throwing in a log or three. It didn’t matter much; the cold would just be back tomorrow. He grits his teeth at the thought of having to brave said cold to gather more logs just to be granted a short reprieve.

A sudden crash of his window interrupts his bout of bitterness, as a

small spherical object compromises the dusty glass pane, before granting the floor a fresh coat of red paint as the man falls to the floor clutching his head. After a few moments of diziness, the haze over his sight clears as he looks up towards the window, its curtains now blowing in the wind. His attention, however, is soon consumed by the sound of the hound’s barks ripping into the air, his head turning towards the door as he sees the guardian throwing every pint of hostility within its frame at whatever lay on the other side of the wooden barrier. Rubbing the wound on his head, he stumbles over to the door gritting his teeth, his hand gripping the doorknob with a ferocity normally beyond him. His other hand twists the lock, the satisfying click of years past absent and replaced with that of a rusted grinding of metal against metal. This only serves to further add to his irritation as he flings open the door, ready to let the world itself know his fury before stopping, his eyes widening in a rapid escalation of fear. Before him stood something better not put to words, if it even could have words truly attributed to it. A thing, a shape, staring not at him but through him. Its shadowy visage makes no advance onto the man as he falls back in horror, though the shock alone wouldn’t have been enough to bring him down to such a state as he clutches his chest at a newfound pain. His senses begin to harass and berate him, from the pain in his heart to the rampant barking of the hound, as his world begins to spin furiously. He drags himself over to the nearby bed, reaching for something underneath of the large respite. His hand finds it, a small wooden case with the sign of the cross upon its top lid and a lock sealing its contents from the world. The man reaches

into his pocket, withdrawing a small key as he shakily goes to unlock the case, the key colliding with the sides a few times before reuniting with its iron homestead. The man nearly finds himself falling towards the floor but manages to hold on just a bit longer, hastily taking a small bottle from the box and ingesting its contents almost greedily, like an alcoholic to whiskey. His hand grips the bottle, his fingers tightening more and more with murmured prayers leaving his lips, the bottle cracking from within his iron grip. Before long the pounding in his ears begins to cease, his expression of desperation soon replaced with one of a fury long lost to him as he turns his attention back to the case. Opening it slowly, he sees the extensions of his being within. A gun, a long-nosed revolver capable of holding three bullets alongside a bottle of blessed water and a knife emboldened with silver. These items shine in the moonlight, their gleam restoring to him some semblance of sanity as he grips the gun firmly, turning quickly towards the door with intent rushing to his finger. His eyes widen, however, as they twitch from left to right, as he realizes the barking had ceased long ago. The shape was no longer there, and neither was the hound.

He turns his eyes to the window. Yes, the window! It was still smashed; it was all real! It had to be! The cold air upon his sweat soaked brow, the newly painted floor, the glass reflecting the full moon in the sky all served to reassure him as he slowly forces himself from the floor. Grabbing the box’s remaining contents and securing them to himself, he storms towards the door, grabbing his brown brimmed hat on the way out. He swiftly spots the tracks left by the hound, quickly giving chase, his own feet forming prints

in the ground though far deeper given his heavy steps. It is not long until a high-pitched noise pounds his ears, causing him to recoil before realizing just what it is: the whimpers of the hound. He hastens his advance through the dense woods, before he finally comes upon the source of the cries. The hound lay there, whimpering profusely as it tries in desperation to free itself from a steel bear trap clinging to its leg as the cold clung to the man like a child desperate for attention.

Before he can do anything, however, he suddenly hears something from behind, spinning around quickly though almost falling from the sudden movement. His eyes narrow as he steels himself at the sight of the “thing,” its eyes piercing the surrounding trees and glaring at him as he raises the revolver, going to fire and end this nightmare once and for all. The bang rings throughout the night, the cold air bearing the waves of sound with grace, though this is not the only sound that erupts into being. The man emits a scream, clutching his side in shock as he feels something tear into it, blood seeping through his shirt and cloak. He looks up, the thing having not moved even an inch as it continues to just stand there, staring into his being. His breathing hastens, his lungs picking up the pace as they are called to action. He turns his attention back to the hound, his friend, his companion. He eyes the mechanism, rusted from years left unattended out here. Recognition followed by guilt fills the man as he raises the revolver, fear gripping his heart for a faint moment. Two bullets were all that remained, two bullets laden with silver, perhaps his only chance of making it home alive. With his newfound shortcomings, could he really and truly

trust himself to make the last bullet count? He closes his eyes in pain, a tear dripping down the side of his face, as he fires. A loud clang is heard, as if by some miracle he missed, releasing the trap as the hound quickly ran off into the night, leaving the man alone with the Thing.

He turns his head, as he once more loses sight of the Thing. His eyes twitch this way and that, piercing the night before he is suddenly surrounded by the sounds of snapping twigs, crunching leaves and thwacking branches. The crows warn him, danger approaches, their organized flight serving as a warning to the warrior of the night as they had many times before. He was a fool to come out here, alone and already leaking blood alongside being half out of his mind. The cloaked man ushers into the night, a heavy breath clutching his lungs as he pushes his aging body on into the moonlit forest, following the trail of the hound back home. He sees it all around, the Thing taunting him from within the confines of the trees. He thinks he has it, quickly his hand shoots to his bottle as he throws it, a smash being heard but no scream. He had seen it this time, the impact, the strike! He had hit it with water most holy, and it didn’t even care! He sees it approach, his hand turning instead to the cross hanging about his neck, gripping it with a righteous ferocity honed by years of faith. Prayers emit from his lips, holy commands to stay its path, and yet it seemed to only hasten at his pathetic attempts to struggle. His eyes widen as he loses his footing, still clutching his bleeding side as he stumbles away back towards his home, his sanctuary.

He hobbles back within his home, his heart begging him to stop, his

limp leg starting to fail. “Tell me ten years ago I wouldn’t have been able to run out of these woods, and I would’ve spat in your face and took off…” he thinks bitterly, knowing he’d have had a better chance of survival anywhere but here. He quickly shuts the door, forcing its lock back into place as he braces himself against the oak frame. “It won’t stop, why can’t I stop it? I’ve stopped everything before… why not now? Silver, bullets, the Lord’s strengthened words… nothing.” He hisses this last word out loud, his fist finding a home as it impacts with the door. “All these years I’ve spent, fighting, growing, winning. Now I am back at the beginning… as defenseless as I was the day I was born. Is this the fate that awaits us all?” His mind races with these thoughts as he limps towards the shattered window

He had tried it all, and it didn’t even flinch, didn’t even struggle. Yet all he could do in the face of it is struggle to even force a breath from his worthless lungs. It was as if his failing body was some sort of stage play for the being, as the image of it laid back in a chair, sipping sparkling wine at his suffering, enters his mind. He laughs for a moment, though doubles over in pain at the motion. Wasn’t even permitted moments of levity anymore, it seemed. He peers out the window, as he sees it, until he doesn’t. Then he sees it again, until he doesn’t. Again, gone, again then gone again. It was watching, waiting, laughing. That last part wasn’t true, but he felt as if he was being toyed with like a child with food. It encircles the abode he had sequestered himself within, almost seeming to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Was this some cruel trick of the light emitted from the moon, or had he truly lost his senses to the lulls of unconsciousness?

He groans in pain as his leg finally gives in, his bleeding worsening as he drags himself over to the nearby corner. His eyes flick from side to side, seeing shapes in the shadows, shapes under the crack of the door. The drip drip of his wound fills his ears like a ringing church bell. This was it, the end of all things. He slowly grips his trusted companion, raising the revolver towards the door as it starts ramming itself against its own frame. Tears coating his eyes, he forces them to close as he looks away, slowly pulling the trigger with the last vestiges of strength that remained in his body . . . *Click*

A jam?! A malfunction at this hour?! All was truly lost if even his trusted companion had failed him so thoroughly. One bullet to his name was all he had, and the Thing couldn’t even afford him that in these desperate moments. The door escalates its cries for release, its frame slowly cracking more and more over time. The man envied its strength, its durability, its power to keep going despite it all. At least until it finally fails, flying open forcibly and slamming against the wall as the cold air rushes in, alongside the sight that would haunt anyone for years to come. The Thing stood there, its enigmatic shape blotting out the moonlight, seemingly directing all focus to itself and only too itself. The man wanted to scream, to fight, to run away and come back stronger. His throat had gone raw, his leg dead where it lay, and his revolver lay broken. He braces himself for the worst, starring the Thing down in the pitch void of its eyes. And almost as soon as it came, it was gone. He hadn’t even blinked, and it had disappeared like a fleeting memory. A nightmare chased away upon

being woken by a caring mother in the dead of night. His breathing begins to slow, but not due to relief. The end of all things, it was here. The red carpet had been rolled out in the form of the blood painted floor, and there he lay at the end of it. He felt small creatures begin to pull at the lids of his eyes as a feeling of immense fatigue entered his mind and body. This he could fight though, for this he didn’t need anything but his own will and perhaps some coffee, though sadly he was devoid of the latter’s emboldening properties at this moment. He turns his attention to the nearby window, as the moon lowers and the sun begins to rise into the sky. Tears form in his eyes, as he lay there all alone. He hears something moving, not even going for his weapon before feeling instead the familiar moppy haired frame of the hound propping up his arm. He smiles, the tears hastening as he welcomes the warmth the being provides. “One last sunrise…” He says to the hound, as his eyes slowly drift shut one final time. The fight was over, the moon had set, and it was time for this soldier of the night to return home.

Final Resting Place (for my drawing hand) Alexandra Palau _____________________________________________________

Quack Party Aliya Leon ________________________

The Height of Folly Kevin

O’Brien

1st Place Creative Writing Celebration: Memoir

I have been talking to myself for quite a while now, and over time have enjoyed a number of spirited and edifying conversations. The topics vary widely. Recently the discussions have turned more to past experiences, whether glorious, crackbrained, regrettable, or I’d do it again. Some incidents are so embarrassing I can only talk about them in the dark. As a good interviewer, I ask myself probing questions such as, “What did you want?” “What were you looking for?” “What was going through your mind at that moment?”

Lately I’ve been thinking it would be good to widen my audience, so I’ll share an episode so improbable, I have trouble believing it myself sometimes. But I was there.

That summer I worked at Tomorrowland Terrace, the largest fast-food operation in Disneyland. I blopped Thousand Island on an endless parade of burger patties coming out of the grilling machine. Other times I worked a bank of deep fat fryers, turning out nearly a quarter ton of fries a day. Despite the heat I wore long sleeves against the spits of boiling oil. I sweated like a galley slave. I broke out in pimples. No matter how many times I showered or how often I changed my clothes, I carried the smell with me. I would be talking with someone when there would be a sniff, a pause, and the question, “Are there hamburgers and French fries cooking around here?”

The manager wore shiny suits, smoked fat green cigars, and read The

Racing Form in his glassed-off air-conditioned office. From time to time he passed through the kitchen, snarling to improve morale.

“Ehhh, what’s this, huh?” At my side, poking my shoulder, pointing to a corn dog adrift in the hot grease. “Why don’t you just throw a dollar bill in there, ehh? And get a haircut!”

Every few days, as I walked from the locker room to the Tomorrowland Terrace kitchen, I would see the Disneyland Matterhorn climbers up on the slopes of the grey and white artificial mountain that looms over The Magic Kingdom. They climbed slowly, leapfrog fashion, to the summit. Once on top they waved, leaned out backwards over the abyss, and rappelled down in great swooping arcs.

Sometimes I passed them on the way to the break room. They strode by, arrogant and free, carabiners clicking on their equipment slings. They wore grey climbing boots and Lederhosen, Edelweiss suspenders, red shirts, and red Tyrolean hats. I felt like a white worm in my chef’s suit and ridiculous puffy hat.

I wanted more--I wanted to be one of them. I’d been rock climbing with the university mountaineering club for a couple of years; I knew I could do it.

So one day after work I stopped by the Talent Office and told them about my climbing experience: I could lead climbs and belay to stop a fall, use carabiners, place pitons, and rappel, mostly. When could I interview for the Matterhorn? They scheduled me for one of my days off the next week.

I met the climbers in their dressing room. One was a cheerful, blond sunburned surfer dude. The other had dark hair and eyes and didn’t say much. Surfer Dude called him Cap’n. I can’t remember their actual names. In a dream, I put on my alpine regalia.

“Well, Cap’n, whaddaya say?” the blond one looked at his partner. “Mhm.”

We clumped off down the hall and came to an elevator.

“Going up, Cap’n?” “Yup.”

It was a tight fit. There were only two buttons, one up and one down, and no floor indicator. We seemed to go up for quite some time. The door slid open and we stood in a large, cone-shaped empty space. Narrow wooden steps zigzagged high up to a trapdoor at the narrow end of the cone. Everything looked unfinished. Off to one side a flight of wooden steps led to a balcony about thirty feet up, looking like it was made of two by fours. A climbing rope hung from a bolt in the side of the wall next to a gap in the railing.

We were inside the Matterhorn.

Cap’n tossed me a length of webbing and a carabiner and gestured with his head to the balcony.

“Let’s see you rappel.”

I wrapped it around my waist, secured it with a flat, non-slip knot, and

clipped the carabiner through the webbing belt. Up on the balcony I wound several turns of the rope through the carabiner. I put a leather glove on my right hand, then passed the rope behind me and brought it back to my right side. Normally you wear gloves on both hands, but I’d done this many times before and knew my right hand would be enough to slow and control my descent. I leaned back and stepped off the balcony.

About halfway down, the rope unclipped itself from the carabiner and I began to fall. Instinctively I grabbed the rope with my bare left hand. The rope zipped and burned, but I couldn’t let go. Not quite falling, I landed hard on my tailbone. A flash of pain shot up my spine. Somehow I managed to get up. More pain from a sprained right wrist.

Silence, then Surfer Dude said, “Well, let’s climb some.”

Here the Interviewer breaks in:

“What?! They let you keep going? What about your injuries? You could still go on? You even wanted to go on?”

“Yes, of course! I had a second chance!”

Cap’n opened a door in the wall and we stepped out onto a narrow ledge about a third of the way up the mountain. We waved to the crowd below us and roped up. Surfer Dude led the first pitch of the climb, Cap’n clipped into a bolt and belaying him from below. Then he joined Surfer Dude and it was my turn.

“On belay?” I called up to them.

“Belay on!”

“Climbing!”

I found some small foot and handholds and began to make my way up. Scoffers will say, “It’s a fake mountain! There are hidden steps everywhere! It’s easy to climb!”

That isn’t so. It’s slick, painted concrete; random bulges, hollows and tiny ledges are all you’ve got to go with.

My partners nodded as I came up to their ledge high above the park.

“Let’s cross over a bit.”

We traversed one at a time until we were directly below the summit overhang.

“Now wait a minute! Wait a minute,” The Interviewer interrupts, “aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“I am, yes.”

“You get butterflies just standing on a stepladder!”

“True. I was terrified on every climb I made. To keep from panicking I would focus on the rock face in front of me and try not to look down.”

The Interviewer shakes his head but says nothing.

By now the hope and exhilaration of the day were fading. My hand burned; my wrist throbbed; my tailbone ached. I was nauseated and my stomach kept trying to join my feet. A steam whistle hooted. Far below, I saw the Mark Twain Riverboat making its way along The Rivers of America. Tiny cars sputtered and popped in Autopia and hundreds of ants swarmed in The

Happiest Place on Earth. Oh my God.

I forced my eyes back to the mountain and the overhang. Cap’n was already at the summit belaying his partner climbing up. When Surfer Dude reached the overhang, he braced one foot on a little knob, pushed up, and grabbed the overhang lip with both hands. His legs swung out into the air. Doing a pullup, he swung one leg up and over the lip, rolled over, and disappeared. His head and shoulders popped up a moment later. Cap’n and he looked down at me.

“Climbing?”

“Yeah, climbing.”

“Belay on!”

Slowly, I came up to the little knob where I had to push off. A deep breath. Come on! Almost there!

Now!

I stepped up, reached for the overhang, slapped both hands over the lip, and pulled. My sprained wrist gave out and I peeled off the face of the mountain, falling backwards into space. The rope brought me up short with a sharp yank and I dangled upside down, arms and legs working like a spider trying to scuttle away. My hat fell off and I watched it float down, down and land on an upper deck of the riverboat as it passed underneath.

My partners began hauling me up with short tugs of the climbing rope.

When I drew up to the overhang, Surfer Dude grabbed me and pulled me in to join them. We stood in a sort of crow’s nest built into the summit. There were no words for a while.

Cap’n spoke up. “Guess we ought to head down.” He pulled open a trapdoor in the floor and we went on down the steps to the big room where it had all started maybe a year ago.

Surfer Dude was coiling the rope into a neat figure eight as I handed Cap’n my webbing belt and carabiner.

“Thanks.”

We looked at each other. Surfer Dude cleared his throat.

“They’ll call you.”

Cap’n nodded. “Sure.”

I rode the elevator down and changed. At the first aid office the nurse looked at my burned hand and gently squeezed my sprained wrist.

Ooh! Ow!”

Reaching for gauze pads, tape, antiseptic and an Ace bandage, she asked how it had happened.

“Climbing the Matterhorn,” I said.

She pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and began to patch me up.

I hobbled to my car at the far end of the huge parking lot. Unable to turn the key in the ignition switch because of my sprained wrist, I reached over with my left arm to start the engine. On the drive home I winced and gritted

my teeth every time I needed to shift. In the kitchen next day Mike the lead cook asked how I’d gotten hurt. I told him I fell.

“So how did you feel after all that?” the Interviewer asks.

“Like a complete idiot. Humiliated. Defeated.”

For many years I felt that way and told very few people this story.

But now I see it differently. On that day I fired the first shot in the uprising against “You can’t have that. You can’t do that. You don’t deserve that. Who do you think you are?” It was the opening skirmish in a long war to become who I really am, against an enemy who knows me as well as I know myself. I never worked another food service job again.

I got a job as a school bus driver. It was the first time anyone had ever entrusted me with so much responsibility and showed me I had the skill to carry it out. I put up with the kids but loved my bus. It was a diesel that snorted and huffed, with an air horn that went BLAAAAT!

We growled along the streets of Anaheim for a time. Then I went off to another place and a different story.

An image from those days has stayed with me all these years. Lying in bed one night, I drift into that mystical state between waking and sleep. I hear shouts, galloping hooves and see a troop of winged cavalry waving their sabers and whooping in defiant joy as they ride to meet an implacable foe.

Six Word Memo Abbigale Beerer ____________________________

Little Friends Loren Gladwill ____________________________

Thief on a Highrise Alexandra Palau __________________________________ Tulip Magnolias Elizabeth Horning

Remnants of Creation #2 Richard Ward _____________________________________

Self Portrait Julie Campos __________________________

Biographies

Shawn Bastian: I am a Grandmother and life long learner who grew up in Cochise County.

Abbigale Beerer: Abbigale Beerer is an artist living and working in McNeal, AZ and is currently working on her associates of fine arts with the intention to graduate in December of 2024. For the past two years, Abbigale has been the Secretary of the Art Club on the Douglas campus. She has also been included in the Annual Student Exhibition on the Cochise College Douglas campus in the Spring of 2022.

Haley Bright: Haley Bright lives in Sierra Vista, Arizona, with her son and a small, fuzzy hurricane of a dog named Foxley. A lifelong actor, she has a theatre degree from Cochise College and currently volunteers at Sierra Vista Community Theatre. In her spare time, Haley enjoys studying languages, writing, and watching really bad TV.

Julie Campos: A language teacher who lived in the Middle East, Europe and the Caribbean for 20+ years, Julie started creating multimedia art pieces in 2014. After recently settling back in her hometown of Bisbee, she enrolled in drawing class at Cochise College to improve her technical skills. She hopes to continue to create pieces for many years to come.

Terrie Cervantes: I started doing clay sculptures in 1998. I have experience in kiln firing, glazing and Raku firing. I wanted to create horse figures that are whimsical and fun. Over the years, I have started to create other animals such as pigs, dogs, goats, cows and donkeys.

Jocelyn Diaz: Jocelyn is currently an Art Education major at Cochise College and will graduate in Spring of 2025. She aspires to become an Art Teacher and

eventually an Art Therapist. One of the drawing styles she enjoys the most is realism.

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. Ms. Genske also enjoys the challenges of new technology and how it relates to her work.

Loren Gladwill: Loren Gladwill grew up in Douglas Arizona where he now resides with his wife and children, working as the Student Wellness Manager at Cochise College. Loren’s education includes an associates degree from Cochise College in Journalism, a bachelor’s degree from Arizona State University in English Literature, and a master’s degree in Communication from ASU online.

Loren’s hobbies include writing, photography, motorcycles, and spending ample time with his family.

Ahnalea Gordon: I am a 17 year old high-school student taking classes at Cochise College. I am planning on graduating with my Associates Degree in Digital Media Arts in the spring of 2023.

Elizabeth Horning: Elizabeth Horning was born in Cambridge MA, is a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, and has been a professional artist for most of her life - first as an art teacher, then an advertising artist, art director, and then as a member of the Phoenix Art Group. More recently, and for 17 years, she was represented by the May Galleries in Scottsdale AZ. She is currently serving a President of the Huachuca Art Association.

Aliya Leon: I am currently a student of Cochise in a general science major,

hoping to soon transfer to NAU. I have always enjoyed art, though in recent years I mostly stuck to doodles on the sides of notes. It wasn’t until taking art at Cochise that I realized all of the options within art I have, and I look forward to continuing to explore these different options.

Brianna Nead: Brianna is a Computer Programming major. She took her first art class at Cochise College in Fall 2021.

Nikko Ochoa: I am a full-time student at Cochise College working on my Associates degree for Fine Arts. Student Government Officer at the Sierra Vista Campus as well as an active member in the Alpha My Zeta Chapter of PTK, NAMI on Campus, and the Art Club. Long term goal is to join the JET program and eventually live in Japan where I can pursue my dream of becoming an Illustrator.

Alexandra Palau: Alex is an ex-computer science major, art major, and then computer science major again. Despite struggles with health, Alex wants to code and make art for video games, continue her competitive hip hop dance career, and be a general nuisance. She hopes her art someday appears in a popular horror game.

Ana Rodriguez: Ana Rodriguez is a student at Cochise College. She aspires to be a graphic designer upon graduation.

Abigail Stage: After 30 years in the performing arts, Abigail is now trying her hand in 3D/Sculptural arts. Always needing to be in the act of creation, she finds immeasurable joy with experimenting in new mediums.

Sandra Smith: Life long learner that resides in Sierra Vista, AZ and paints in Gouache, Acrylic, and Oils.

Alexa Staples: I am a full time mom to three kids, as well as a full time student.

Going back to school and picking up new skills has been amazing for my mental well-being. I look forward to transferring to UofA and getting a bachelor’s degree.

Tamara Thomas: I paint with acrylics on linen or cotton, building my own canvases from scratch. I am a realist painter. My work comes from my desire to expose the remarkable beauty I see in the mundane. I use glazing techniques, starting with a big brush to capture composition and form, then gradually tightening up until the image I imagine comes forward. I use photos for reference only. I use no projection methods or other image transfer processes.

Richard Ward: Richard Ward is a multi-disciplinary artist living on an off-grid homestead north of the small town of Bisbee, AZ. Through his work with his non-profit Terraform Together, he teaches off-grid building, sustainable living skills, and teaches students to live a simpler, healthier life. Richard began his career as a graphic designer working for large corporations, but left that world in 2015 and began building his first tiny house on wheels. Since building his home, he began working on unique architectural sculptural projects on his homestead, metal art, woodworking, as well as traditional painting.

Jason Warwick: I am currently pursuing a Liberal Arts degree here at Cochise College. Once I finish my degree here, I am planning to transfer to Arizona State to continue to pursue a career in journalism and write a book once my education is complete.