Mirage Literary and Arts Magazine 2023-2024

MIRAGE

Literary & Arts Magazine

2023-2024

Cochise College

Cochise County, Arizona

Faculty Advisors

Shelby Litwicki

Ella Melito

Alex O’Meara

Virginia 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 and reviewers; ENG 257 student, Amanda Garday, for her creative input; and the Dean of Liberal Arts, Angela Garcia.

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.

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.

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.

© Cochise College 2024

2023 Student Poetry, Prose, & Art Contest Winners

The Mirage holds an annual contest in the categories of poetry, prose, and art. All submissions from students are automatically entered in the contest.

Art:

First Place: Leah Pereda, “Nothing Better Than a Good Ol’ Time”

Second Place: Lee Myers, “Jellybean Jar Party”

Third Place: Madeline Bohman, “Devin”

Poetry:

First Place: Ethan Rodriguez, “A Fine Tuesday Morning”

Second Place: Emmaline Fisher, “Both Hands or Clenched Fists”

Prose:

First Place: Ariella Rentschler, “Caverns Deep,”

Second Place: Robbie Brewington, “The Day My Dad Tried to Drown Me”

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.

Table of Contents

G.O.A.T. Bob Bosier

The Blues Wizard Kevin O’Brien

The Confinements of Comfort Natalie Andres

And I Must Go Ken Boe

Upriver Beth Henson

What I Do Best Skye Robinson

Value Expression Stephen Insalaco

Caverns Deep Arielle Rentschler *

Jupiter Rising Loren Gladwill

Jellybean Party Lee Myers *

Devin Madeline Bohman *

An Assortment of Things Isabella Colindres

Haunted Kevin O’Brien

Leaves Lee Myers

A Fine Tuesday Morning Ethan Rodriguez

Bob Bosier

Kevin O’Brien

From time to time I enjoy stopping in to my Hall of Memorable Teachers. Most recently I sat in with Sister Attracta, the Irish nun who told us eighth graders the real cause of the Titanic disaster.

“Workers in the Belfast shipyard where they were building the Titanic painted ‘To hell with the pope’ on the ship’s hull.” She paused a moment. “And wasn’t that the very spot the iceberg hit?”

Then I came to Heinz Rosen, the German artist who taught painting classes for the city arts and leisure program. He would go from easel to easel with comments and critiques. Pausing by my canvas, he pointed to an indeterminate brownish-orange blob.

“Vot’s all dis krep here?” He asked. “Get get rid of all dat krep.”

And there was The Blues Wizard who got me playing harmonica again. It happened by chance, really. I was walking in Old Bisbee, not going anywhere in particular, when I heard bottleneck guitar drifting from around the corner. Following the music, I came to a cluttered music shop on a steep and narrow one-way street. A sign above the door read “The Lunatic Fringe Luthiery.” Inside, a stocky bald man in his sixties with a long, forked white beard was playing an electric guitar made out of a suitcase. A Chevy hubcap banjo was on a stand next to him. The walls were hung with more conventional instruments: guitars, banjos, ukeleles, and even a violin. A partially finished guitar lay on a workbench littered with wood curls, scraps, and strips of veneer.

I sat down and listened to him play.

“What can I do for you?” he asked when he’d finished.

“Just enjoying your music. That was really good.”

He nodded a thank you.

“You play?”

“Guitar? Me, no. Just harmonica a bit, but I can’t remember the last time I actually played anything.”

He picked up a harmonica from a jumbled pile on the table next to him and blew a raw and nasty riff.

“Blues?”

“Gosh no. Just hokey old tunes like “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and “Shenandoah.” But I’d like to play blues.”

“There’s all kinds of stuff out there on how to play blues harp. Most of the time an A harmonica is what you want for that.”

He pointed to a display rack.

“I sell them here, but you can get a better one online.”

I thought a moment. I lack the focus I’d need to sort through YouTube and all the books to put together a course for myself.

“Do you give lessons?” I asked.

“Not really. But I could show you some things.”

“OK. That sounds good.”

We settled on the price, days, and time. He gave me his card: Keith Kifer --The Blues Wizard.

When we met again the next Tuesday he handed me a glass of water with a lime slice floating in it.

“Here. It’s good for your heart. Now play something to show me

where you’re at.”

I went through one of my cornball classics.

“OK,” he nodded, “it’s a start. First thing to know is the standard blues progression. One, four, five. That’s all it is. The one, f our, and five chords.”

I was too embarrassed to ask what exactly the one, four, and fiv e chords were, but we continued anyway.

Each lesson began with a glass of water with lime. I practiced the Muddy Waters lick everyone has heard --“Mannish Boy,” “Hoochie Coochie Man,” or “I’m a Man,” depending on who was playing it. He showed me how to bend notes for a thick and bluesy sound and gave me several songs to practice: “Summertime,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” and “Amazing Grace.” Whenever I got to “… that saved a wretch like me,” The Blues Wizard would stomp his foot three times and sing, “Waaaah! Waaaah! Waaaah!” reminding me to stretch out that note and make it wail.

Sessions ended with jamming, Keith accompanying my struggles with his suitcase electric guitar. Sometimes passersby and tourists would stop and listen as we played. I guess it didn’t sound so bad, after all.

Then the virus came, and there’s nothing more I need to say about that. I practiced at home with my notes from sessions with The Blues Wizard, but it just wasn’t the same. The harmonica I’d bought came with a little card offering thirty days of free instruction with an online blues harmonica school, so I thought I’d try that. I liked it. There was the organization and structure I’d been looking for. I signed up as a paying student and have continued with lessons off and on.

Some time after it was relatively safe to come out again, I went over

to Old Bisbee to visit with The Blues Wizard, show him what I’d been learning, and maybe jam some more. But when I got to Subway Street his shop was gone. In its place was a smoothie bar, featuring such treats as tomato, carrot, and hemp shakes.

I asked a local musician if he knew what had happened.

“Keith moved his shop out to Clarksdale, Mississippi, in the Delta,” he told me. “He did pretty well there and played a lot of gigs. But about two months ago he just dropped dead in front of his shop. Heart attack. There was a big memorial in Bisbee.”

“Oh. I hadn’t heard anything about that.”

“Yeah, it was a very big deal. I was there.”

“Wish I’d known.”

Even now, whenever I play “Amazing Grace” and come to “ …that saved a wretch like me,” I still hear “Waaaah! Waaaah! Waaaah!” and a foot stomping three times on a creaky wooden floor.

The Confinements of Comfort

Natalie Andres

And I Must Go

Ken Boe

Upriver. That was the way the slaves escaped, and later the convicts. Up shit creek without a paddle. North

east—the Old World—brick sidewalks and brie at five o’clock. Cacophony of green.

South, the illusion of languor, whiskey on the porch, the screen flutters. Ancestral voices deep inside the paddock gate.

West. The heart cracked open to see prairie edging into range: home. Downstream. Drifting on the weight of it.

Beth Henson Upriver

Skye Robinson

Caverns Deep Arielle Rentschler

Student Contest Winner: 1st Place

The sound was like nothing I had ever heard before. I imagine it was what lightning might sound like to the person being struck. It was a great and mighty rumble, starting high above my head and splintering into cracks and crashes. The dust came first, and, for a split second, I thought I was safe, but from dust came rock, as impenetrable as the night sky, as indomitable as the human spirit.

This wasn’t how my evening was supposed to go.

The cave had been a thing of beauty. Hidden deep within the stunning San Andres mountains, nestled quietly between two peaks, its existence was kept on the down low. The moment word got out about a cave this grand, it would turn into a tourist attraction. The only reason I found out was through a Facebook group I’d joined a couple years ago on a whim. All the places they’d talked about were too far or too boring to be worth my time.

But this one was just the right mix of daring and beautiful. Most of my normal caving group was already

on a paid expedition in Thailand to research a newly formed sinkhole. Given that caving was my hobby, not my job, I wasn’t invited.

Hobby or not, I had nearly a decade of cave exploration under my belt. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone in alone, and, as a plus, I actually had my gear this time. Perhaps being alone would help clear my head too, and this cave had a beauty so devastating it wiped away all rational thought.

The photos had not done it justice.

Phosphorus glittered like golden stars against the caverns’ roof. Water dripped all around them, building onto the stalactites and mites. Some towered higher than I stood, gleaming with minerals I couldn’t name. This cave was a living thing, growing over hundreds of thousands of years, nearly as old as the Earth itself. It not only weathered the passage of time, but thrived in it. At first, in the leftover daylight from the cave’s mouth, the whole thing looked like the jaw of some ancient god.

But I did not believe in gods.

A metaphorical god could roar and stomp their feet as much as they wanted, but the terror of hundreds of tons of rocks falling was a very real, very scary thing. There was pain, of course, but I couldn’t name where. I was sure I’d blacked out and when I came to, my ears were ringing, my thoughts spiraling.

I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.

My eyes were closed. No. That wasn’t right. They were open, but they might as well have been sealed shut for how little they provided me. Instinctively, I’d fallen into a crouch. Or perhaps I’d been pushed by the rock that now surrounded me. My arms were curled against my chest, clutching my shirt, as if to be sure that the heart beneath it was still beating. I moved in small, careful increments, tapping my fingers along the hard plastic of my helmet. I felt the strap of my headlamp and followed it to the switch at the top. It flickered to life, a glowing beam with dust spiraling through it. My eyes watered. I wanted to blame it on the dust, but it was relief that sent the tears tumbling down. I allowed myself only a few spare moments to cry silently, alone and trapped and helpless.

Not helpless. I had experience. I was sixteen the first time I stepped underground. I may have never experienced an earthquake from inside a cave, but others had and had lived to tell the tale, so I would do the same.

I shifted fractionally. Carefully. So, so carefully. I was in a boulder choke, hugged on all sides by limestone. I hadn’t been far from the cave’s entrance when the quake hit, but that would have been the first thing to fall, given how square it was. My best bet would be to go deeper in, where the ceiling had been arched. Safer. I’d been facing that way, so I could only assume I still was.

Upon examination, there was an opening in the choke in front of me, barely large enough to fit through, but it would have to do. My hand shook when I reached out, so I curled back up for a moment. The breaths I took were deep and tasted of salt. By will alone, I forced my body to stop trembling and reached out again through the opening. I didn’t immediately hit another rock, which was good. I hoped it meant the whole cave hadn’t fallen too and hope was all I had to work with right now.

Prose

Slowly, I pushed up with my legs. I had a scarce foot of clearance over my head, but I could work with that. Overly aware of the placement of each limb, I slid my upper body through the opening. My helmet bumped the rock above me and I froze.

I waited. A moment passed, then two. The rock didn’t shift. I pushed further, easing myself through the crevice until my hand fell to the broken ground beneath. I used that to drag myself the rest of the way. Hips. Thighs. Knees. I pointed my toes. Boots.

Then I was out. The ground was muddy and the air humid. I stood, swinging my light and illuminating the cavern around me. Thankfully or not, only the entrance, where the limestone was the weakest, had collapsed. This cave must have endured hundreds of quakes over the past millennia, but the heavy rainfall of the season must have begun to eat away at its stability. It was a recipe for disaster, being so close to the fault line and with changing weather conditions. Any smart person wouldn’t have stepped foot in here during this season.

I took a deep breath of the musky air and refrained from calling myself an idiot. First I had to find my pack.

That turned out to be the easiest part of the whole endeavor. It sat mockingly right where I’d placed it before going back to the entrance to snap a few photos. It was completely undisturbed save for a fine layer of dust. I had no idea where my phone had ended up, likely beneath the rocks. I’d set it up on my tripod and put the camera on a timer so I could pose for the photo. It was of no use to me now.

Marching bitterly across the muddy ground, I snatched my perfectly fine backpack and rifled through it in search of my emergency transmitter. I dug past the granola bar, climbing ropes and hardware, water bottle, first aid kit, and…

My hand hit the bottom of the bag. I paused.

“Mother****!”

In a rage, I threw my bag at the ground. I must not have packed it. In fact, I could envision it exactly where I’d last seen it: sitting on my cluttered desk at home, right next to where I’d put my backpack the night before, making a mental note to grab it when I packed in the morning.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I yelled at no

one and nothing, but myself. It was a rookie, dumb mistake, and one that could cost me my life.

I sat down hard on a damp rock, hurting my tailbone, and dropped my head into my hands. I cried for a long few moments, which was another stupid decision. I shouldn’t be wasting precious water. This is what I got for pretending to be independent and not taking anyone with me or telling anyone to expect me. Now I was going to die in here. A slow, dark death, picking granola crumbs out of the mud by light of a dying flashlight in my last days. I could suck the alcohol out of the sanitary pads in the first aid kit.

Well, now that was a little ridiculous. I hadn’t read much about the cave (another stupid decision), but many caves had more than one entrance. The problem was, I didn’t know how far away this possible other entrance might be. Caves like this could go for miles. That being said, walking and exploring was a better option than sitting here to die. Even if I couldn’t find another entrance, maybe there was a prettier spot for me to wallow in self pity.

Decision made, I shouldered my pack

and set off across the muddy, uneven ground. There was a tunnel, not too tight of a fit. I squeezed myself through sideways.

It went about seven feet before it became a dead end.

Cursing, I turned my head and shuffled back. Once back in the main cavern, I looked around again. There was another crevice, but it was higher up the wall. A wide stream of water had turned the rock a deep red color, but water wasn’t necessarily a bad sign.

It was a slippery, clumsy climb up to the crevice mouth. The light of my headlamp revealed nothing but darkness, so it was at least a deeper space. I shimmied in on my belly, dampening the front of my clothing. My pack I had to push in front of me, blocking my view as the tunnel tightened, but I couldn’t exactly drag it behind.

I army-crawled for what felt like miles until the tunnel opened up and I could get on my hands and knees. I wondered if anyone had ever been this deep in this cave, or if I was the first human to lay eyes on it. I could name it after myself when I got out. If I got out.

Finally, my headlamp showed the end of the tunnel. I placed both hands firmly on the edge and looked out. It opened into a wider room, much, much larger than the one I’d come from. Allowing myself a moment to breathe, I didn’t notice the scorpion until it skittered right across my hand.

Screaming, I jerked upwards, sending the colorless creature flying and simultaneously bumping my head on the ceiling. My hard hat cracked, but absorbed most of the blow. I unclipped the chin strap and took it off, examining it beneath my flashlight.

It was an old helmet that had definitely seen better days. The plastic was brittle and degraded from years of use, the stap brown with sweat and dust. I bent it slightly, testing its strength, and the crack spread and splintered all the way to the edge. It fell apart in my hands, held together by the worn padding inside.

Well, it was practically useless now. I took the headlamp off and tightened it over my bare forehead instead, then dropped the helmet over the tunnel’s edge, listening as it clattered on the rocks below. Another scorpion crawled curiously over to it.

These cave bugs really had no sense of personal space.

Deciding that it wouldn’t be good to sit here if there was a nest nearby, I turned around and backed out of the tunnel, the toes of my boots grasping for purchase. Once safely standing, I took in the new cavern.

It was long, with deep pockets of water dotting its floor. The formations here were all completely unbroken and no moldy handprints revealed human touch. One of the walls was nearly drowned in calcite, forming a dripping staircase to the ceiling.

Damn it. I wish I had my phone so I could capture this place. I was frowning as a slight glimmer caught my eye, drawing it to a bit of flowstone and the rock behind it. It looked almost silver in the beam of my flashlight, as if the moon had stroked the limestone reverently.

Could it be sunlight? If there was sunlight, that meant there was an exit. I switched off my headlamp, then my flashlight, and… nope. I was deep in the dark zone now, where no sunlight could reach. Nobody ever talked about cave darkness, but it was different than normal. Even in the

darkest places above ground, there’s usually a tiny smidgen of light for your eyes to adjust to, but there was absolutely nothing this deep in a cave. There would be no adjusting or waiting for your pupils to dilate. Some people claimed to see things in dark like this, but the mind could conjure monsters before the slightest shape actually appeared. Cave darkness was infinite and impenetrable. It could be suffocating to someone not expecting it, and it almost was now.

I quickly switched my headlamp back on. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but I wasn’t about to go testing my faith.

Picking my way between the pools, I shone my light down each of them. Most were empty pits, going down into an infinite nothingness. There were a couple crayfish in a few, but otherwise they were empty.

Sighing, I took in the cave walls again. There was a split in the chamber, with one of the sections significantly wider than the other. I dug through my pocket as I went up to it. Pulling out my lighter, I lit the flame, sending the shadows on the walls dancing. I held it up to the tunnel, watching closely. The flame didn’t so much as shift. I went

to the other split, this one just barely person-sized. This time, the flame flickered slightly, listing back towards my hand. That way then.

I glanced back toward the rest of the chamber. Would it be so costly to enjoy this place for a few minutes longer?

I sat down next to one of the pools and took my granola bar out. I knew I should probably start rationing food, but that would mean being trapped in here longer. If I was going to starve, I’d like to do it quickly.

The snack was a welcome addition to my hungry stomach. It tasted a little dusty, but the fruit filling was better than any Michelin star meal. I took a few sips of my water too, to wash it down.

The pool in front of me had a few crayfish dancing in its depths. I reached inside, the water a cold shock on my skin, and grabbed one. It tried to pinch me as I lifted it out of the water and set it on the ground beside me before reaching for another. I tried to make them fight, prodding them with the end of my flashlight. The poor blind creatures scrambled back into

the water, their pale bodies flashing.

Just when I was about to pick out two more, a sound like jets flying high overhead came from behind me and continued right on above until it faded out. I knew I was too far beneath the earth to be hearing something like that, so it was probably just an aftershock of the earthquake.

Alright. It was time to keep moving. I stood, stretching my legs while I was on level ground. Hefting my backpack once more, I went to the split in the cave. As I walked through it, the passage got more and more narrow, crushing in on both sides.

I crouched, then crawled, then slithered. The flame wouldn’t have flickered if it was a dead end. I thought I could even feel a small breeze ruffling my hair, but that might have been my imagination.

The passage turned down sharply and I paused. My flashlight revealed a sudden drop, maybe three or four feet. I couldn’t tell from my angle if it just ended there or turned and went on further. I dropped my bag down first, chewing on my lower lip as I considered my options.

I didn’t have much of a choice. I couldn’t turn around, so it would have to be headfirst.

Stealing my resolve, I planted my hands on either side of the tunnel and wiggled forward. For a moment, my torso hovered over empty space before I bent my arm, angling downward, and–

The dust on my hands had made them slippery against the stone. One moment, I was almost secure, then next, my fingers were scrabbling, nails breaking, heart pounding as I slipped.

The whole world tilted. My head hit the rock below with such a jarring force that I swear I felt my brain swirl in my skull. My eyes were open wide in shock, my legs bent up behind me. My bag lay just a few inches from my face.

I tried to take a breath.

Pain like nothing I’d ever felt before radiated from the top of my head, down my neck, and across my spine. The dirt underneath me darkened with blood.

Head wounds bleed a lot, I told myself. It wasn’t that bad.

I took another breath.

Every movement was agony, but I couldn’t stay upside-down like this. I dragged my body forward, letting out a scream as my legs were released from their awkward angle. The passage in front of me was wide enough to crawl in, but the exit was a hole the size of a grapefruit.

No. When the tears came, I didn’t try to stop them. They poured down my cheeks as the reality of my situation sank in.

I was going to die in here.

I tried to reason that I didn’t have much to live for, no spouse, no kids, but that only made it worse. Nobody would be waiting at home for me with a hot meal, wondering where I was. My roommate wouldn’t care. My caving group would just think I’d ghosted them. Nobody was going to come save me. It was pathetic, really.

I don’t know why, but I thought about my dog. She’d be scratching at the front door now, whining softly in my absence. Maybe my roommate would take her in, or maybe he’d dump her in the streets, all alone and afraid and wondering why I’d abandoned her.

I wept quietly into the darkness. My sobs echoed off the walls around me in a taunting chorus. Dust rained down in my eyes, triggered by the vibrations.

I didn’t care. I didn’t care. This whole cave was going to collapse on top of me. All it would take was another aftershock and I’d be pancaked between the rocks. It would be a relief. Better than starving in here with nothing to eat but my own thoughts.

Curling my knees to my chest as best I could, I tried to draw in a steady breath. I’d have to climb back up the tunnel and find another way out, but that would take more strength than I had now.

I closed my eyes. There was a steady warmth radiating from the wound on my head, as if some mighty being had come to lay a hand atop my hair. I breathed.

There was a noise. I hadn’t been able to hear it when I was crying, but I did now. It was so faint I was sure I’d imagine it. Then it came again, not the jets like before, but a fluttering sound, followed by chittering.

Bats. If there were bats on the other

side of this tunnel, then there was a way out. I called, “Hello?” and they answered louder, startled by the noise.

Oh gods. Oh gods. I picked up my flashlight and slammed it against the edge of the small opening. The limestone chipped. I did it again and again until it widened to the size of a melon, then a basketball.

Laughing, I slammed the flashlight against the stone as dust and blood rained down on my eyes, covering my hair. The opening widened. The cave shook.

I shoved my pack through it and followed head first like a seal into the water.

Only it wasn’t water that cushioned my fall. It was guano. A storm of bats swarmed above me in alarm, hissing and singing and chirping. I laughed with them, tears streaming through the shit on my cheeks. I watched as they flooded through the wall ahead of me, disappearing.

Then I flicked my headlamp off and plunged not into darkness, but into silvery, buttery moonlight.

Jupiter Rising

Loren Gladwill

Jellybean Party Lee Myers

Devin Madeline Bohman

Art Student Contest Winner: Third Place

Art Student Contest Winner: Second Place

An Assortment of Things

Isabella Colindres Kevin O’Brien

The neon prospector held his skillet over yellow orange flames that flickered up, down, up, down, up down. Underneath, red letters announced:

HI DESERT INN COFFEE SHOP

VACANCY blinked green and white like an airport beacon.

He was tired, filthy, hungry, and needed a soft bed. Something chimed in a back room when he opened the motel office door. There was a smell of dinner cooking. A man looking to be in his sixties came to the front desk, chewing and wiping his mouth with a paper towel.

“Evening. What can I do you for?”

“I’d like a room for tonight, maybe tomorrow night as well.”

The clerk handed him a room chart.

“You can just about take your pick.”

He pointed to a room at the far end of the motel.

“You got it.”

The clerk eyed him briefly as he laid the twenties on the desk.

“I don’t have change right now. You mind if I give it to you tomorrow?”

“That’s fine.”

“You on vacation?” he asked.

“You could say.”

“Kind of late in the season.”

“I had a chance to get away.”

* * * *

The old man was dying. All the tubes and wires had been removed. His head was tilted back and he took long, rattling breaths through his open mouth. His son sat by the window in a corner of the room, thumbing through a magazine. His father gasped. The son put his thumb in the magazine and looked up, then went back to his reading.

At one point his father let out a long breath and did not breathe in again. The son counted: one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand…. Nearly a minute went by and then the old man took in a deep, gurgling breath, held it, let it out, and continued to breathe.

Tough old bugger.

* * * *

Soon after, he’d left Los Angeles on a steep, narrow road up through the mountains north of the city and down into the Mohave Desert. He stayed off the interstates and avoided highways with more than two lanes. He didn’t go anywhere near a city and passed through towns only when there was no other route, or he needed gas.

The desert heat had broken. Days were bright and pleasant, the nights chilly enough for a fire. He drove mostly dirt roads, stopping to camp at pullouts where there was already a rock fire ring. He slept in the back of his truck. He made coffee and heated up canned food on a one- burner propane stove. There was no destination and no plan. He drifted.

A cousin had called from northern California.

“I’m sorry to hear the sad news. He was my favorite uncle.”

“Thanks. He liked you a lot.”

This was not true. His father had often belittled the cousin as a fool, without giving any particular reasons why.

“I’ll be there for the funeral. When is it?”

“There isn’t going to be one.”

“What?”

“He’s being cremated and put in the cheapest box they have. I’m not giving those grave robbers any more money than I have to.”

“Uh, yeah,” the cousin replied, “but what about a funeral Mass? Your Dad went every Sunday.”

“No Mass, no prayers, no flowers. Dad doesn’t need them anymore. I’m not going to put him on display in some traveling show.”

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line.

“Well, I’ll come down anyway if you want.”

“Sure, OK.”

* * * *

The motel room was small but clean. There was a single bed, bathroom, small fridge, and a huge, heavy old television set. It was good enough. He dropped his daypack next to the bed and stretched out. His hands, arms, and legs were buzzing. When he closed his eyes he saw a white stripe passing by endlessly beneath.

He pulled a plastic bottle of whiskey out of the rucksack. Too tired and jumpy to go for ice or unwrap the glass by the ice bucket, he cracked the seal and sipped from the bottle.

He’d relax a bit before cleaning up and going over to see what they had at the coffeeshop.

They stood waiting by the crypt. A security guard came over and checked their names on his list.

“I’ll tell them you’re here,” he said, and drove off in his golf cart.

Two cemetery workers showed up with toolboxes. One unscrewed the flower shaped brass bolts at each corner of the marble crypt cover and carefully lowered it to the ground. A concrete slab covered the actual opening. They began to work around the edges with hammers and chisels, talking softly in Spanish. Once it was loose, a worker leaned the slab against a wall. The crypt opening yawned black and seemed to be very deep and to go on for a very long way. He gave the wooden box of ashes to one of the workers. It thunked as it dropped onto the lid of the coffin already inside. Then the workers struggled to put the concrete square back in place. They whacked corners off and scraped the edges, but nothing worked.

“The other way around, dammit!” he said, not quite under his breath.

They seemed not to hear or understand, continuing to fumble and grunt until they finally got it to fit. There was a wide opening along the bottom of the concrete cover, and one of the workers pounded in a wooden wedge to hold it in place.

He turned to his cousin when the workers were done.

“Red Lobster?” he asked.

Deep in the night he woke up kicking and flailing his arms, gasping as if he’d been punched in the gut. He had been trying to scream but could only squeak.

He’d been crawling through a tunnel. It was completely dark yet he could see skeletons lying in niches on either side. The tunnel ceiling dipped down, forcing him to creep on his belly, pushing aside bones and broken skulls as he went. The walls slowly pressed in against him until he couldn’t move, either forward or back. Then the ceiling began to crush him.

His breath returned slowly. It was freezing in the room. Icy tendrils brushed his face, curling and twining like a malignant vine. A scratching noise came from the door, and in the dim light coming through the curtains he thought he could see the doorknob slowly turn left, then right. The door was locked, wasn’t it? Hands patted the door softly.

Let me in.

“Go away!” he yelled.

Deep, racking sobs came from behind the door. Waves of grief and dread washed over him. Then one, two, three times a fist pounded on the door.

Let me in!

Rage flashed up in him, burning through the horror.

“God damn you! Get away from me!” He bellowed. He drew a pistol from the daypack by the bed, pulled back the slide, and let it slam forward.

Ka Chak!

“Hear that? Now get lost!”

With trembling hands he pointed the heavy pistol at the door. Everything stopped. He waited: Five minutes? Ten minutes? An hour?

Finally he got up from the bed, and taking one slow step after another moved to the door. He turned the deadbolt and yanked the door open.

Nothing.

He poked his head out, looked left and right, and pulled it back in.

Nothing.

He slammed the door shut, locked it, and turned on the overhead light.

Nothing.

Sitting back down on the bed, he put the pistol beside him and took a pull of whiskey. Its burn settled into a glow that drove out the lingering cold. What the hell?

After a time he got his things together and went out. In the east the sky was beginning to turn pale.

Bing! The chime sounded as he came into the office.

“You all right? I heard some loud noises down there.”

“Just a bad dream. Here’s the key.”

“Not staying for another night, then?” Without waiting for an answer, The clerk took the key, and smelling the whiskey, backed away from him, turning his head slightly to one side.

“Anyone ever say anything about that room?”

“Not that I recall. Had to replace the window unit once.”

Miles later he realized he hadn’t gotten his change back. Hadn’t had coffee yet, either. Not going back, no.

The weather had turned. The sky was overcast and low clouds oppressed the mountain range ahead. The air was damp, raw, and smelled like snow. It would be too cold for camping out.

Something caught in his chest and tears began to drip down his face. What else was there to do?

What the hell. Where to now?

Karen Insalaco Oni

Robin Snyder

Nothing Better Than a Good Ol’ Time Leah Pereda

Both Hands or Clenched Fists Emmaline Fisher

Poetry Student Contest Winner: Second Place

I am spoonfeeding myself love. I am spoonfeeding myself love because I couldn’t handle a cup. Like a toddler with sticky fat fingers, I would spill it. My arms are not strong enough. My wrists are not experienced enough. Love would spill like juice. Sweet sticky juice. Making a mess of my house. Staining the floors in deep red.

Art Student Contest Winner: First Place

Cyprus trees speak

And sway

Forever touching up

The day

Stay rooted my friend

The birds are unbothered, ensconced

In nature’s high-rise apartments

God licks her fingers

Swirling and smoothing

A confusion of life

Closing the gaps

Massaging the strays

Then preserving the points

With a flourish

Nora Snyder

A Painter’s Envy Pathway Respite

Ethan Benton

Mis Cimientos

Stephany Sobarzo-Zacarias

Fall Leaves Lee Myers

Nature

RJ Luce

A Fine Tuesday Morning Ethan Rodriguez

A fine Tuesday morning,

So early that no one was there.

Humming of cars in the distance, a cht cht cht cht of a sprinkler, casting the life essence over a field lying dormant, until they come to claim it.

The heavy footfalls come and go, as the runner loops around the essence of water mists the batting cage. A fluorescent rainbow reveals itself, between the chain link.

Magnificent jewels hidden away, only to appear for a little while.

The heavy breaths come and go, growing louder to leave once more. The sun comes up to begin, the monotonous rhythm of life.

Poetry Student Contest Winner: First Place

The Day My Dad Almost Drowned Me Robbie Brewington

Prose Student Contest Winner: Second Place

Growing up, some things stick in your memory. Like the day my Dad bought the 1954 Buick Skylark for my mom. Or the day my Dad tried to drown me.

My Dad was a no-nonsense Colonel in the U.S. Air Force who had fought in three wars that he never talked about. What he did talk about was sailing. It was his passion, his obsession. Which meant it was also my passion. Cause just about everything he did, I did. I was four when he taught me to swim by throwing beer cans into Lake Texoma; seven when he taught me to sail.

There’s one more character in this story of maritime derring-do, and that’s the small sailboat we raced. The 470 was maybe 8 feet long and 3 feet wide, very light and exceedingly speedy, and recently named to the Olympic sailing circuit. She raced with a crew of two people. He was, of course, The Captain. I was movable ballast with the primary function of bracing myself as far out over the water as possible to keep the boat sailing flat and fast. My normal position was feet braced on the railing, body arched out over the water, held in place by a harness that ran from my chest to the top of the mast, forming a triangle. My only contact with the boat was through that harness and the soles of my feet.

Dad watched the other boats, and the wind, and the waves, and planned how to beat everyone else to the finish line. He was good at it too, having amassed more silver cups for racing sailboats than ribbons on his uniform.

That day we’d made a great start against the other boats and were in an excellent position to reach the first turning point in the course before anyone else. The wind was up and there was a slight chop

to the water. It felt marvelous, speeding ahead of the pack of boats, warm in my sweatshirts with an occasional splash of cold water just to remind myself that I was one with the sea. I was sailing—racing!—with my father and I knew we’d win. Life couldn’t have been better. I was young, strong, alive, and in my element.

Then it happened. My father whispered something; words torn away by the wind before they could register. “Ready about,” I think it was. Fateful, half-heard words.

Instantly he put the tiller over, changing course. Just as instantly I was in the water instead of arcing out over it. My butt was a fulcrum about which the 470 first revolved, then capsized. My Dad was thrown clear, but I was caught in the rigging and sail with the boat on top of me. And that harness? It was full of kapok for flotation, which pulled me toward the surface and air, but the other end was securely attached to the top of the mast, now 15 feet below the surface. It wouldn’t go any deeper, but 15 feet was deep enough. I could neither surface nor submerge.

I could hear my father, shouting. “We’re in a race, damn it! Gotta get this boat up!” I knew he would be frantically working to get the boat upright and back in the race. (A nicety of small boat racing is that you can capsize and as long as you don’t lose or gain any crew in the process, you are free to right the boat and continue racing.) And meanwhile I was trying to work my way out of the harness, keep from any further entanglement with the loose rigging and sail, and not drown in that cold, inky water. In desperation, I grabbed the cables that secured my harness and, fighting against the pull of the flotation, pulled myself down the mast. My half-frozen fingers found and disconnected the cables that attached me to the boat. Free now, the kapok pulled me to the surface. I regretted all my once warm, now sodden, sweatshirts. And Dad? His comment when I took a huge gulp of fresh air, was, “Oh, there you are. Let’s get this boat up.”

Dad and I righted the boat and finished the race, with third place if I remember correctly. He never said a word about the incident in all the years we raced together, but I do believe that was the last time he whispered a command.

Rough Riders

Bob Bosier

Biographies

Natalie Andres: With the eyes of a dreamer, Natalie is a mixed-media artist who dabbles in the whimsical and surreal. She is passionate and has a deeprooted connection with her work, putting a piece of her soul into each of her creations. Though primarily a cartoonist and character designer, it is not far-fetched to see her express herself abstractly, portraying the “human” experience through art.

Ethan Benton: Ethan has had a long-standing interest in art and nature, paired with that of fiction and fantasy. These combined interests have led to a cumulative appreciation of old places and new experiences, both. He has recently been able to follow his interest in art with his most recent foray delving into painting, as a way to express the interest and charm even in one’s daily surroundings.

Ken Boe: Ken Boe is a visual artist and writer who lives in Bisbee Arizona.

Madeline Bohman: Madeline Bohman is currently a student at Cochise College. In her free time, she enjoys going to PetSmart to look at the crickets.

Bob Bosier: He started being a photographer when he started his Optical Career in 1976.

Robbie Brewington: Robbie moved to Sierra Vista in 2019 and loves seeing the Huachucas from her office window every morning. She recently returned to school and is now taking classes at Cochise College.

Isabella Colindres: Isabella Colindres is a student at Cochise College majoring in Liberal Studies. She is passionate about all kinds of art, especially literature, music, and drawing. She expects to transfer to a major university to pursue a degree in English.

Emmaline Fisher: Emmaline has spent the majority of her life in Utah and has recently become a member of Cochise College where she is pursuing a degree in English. She has practiced creative writing for many years, during which time she has developed a strong voice and writing style. She hopes to one day publish a collection or two and is honored to have the opportunity to share her work with a wider audience.

Loren Gladwill: Loren Gladwill is a native of Douglas, Arizona. After graduating from Douglas High School in 2007, he spent one year at Cochise College and then lived in Mexico for a number of years before returning, marrying his wife, starting his family, and completing his degree at Cochise College. Loren now works at Cochise College in student wellness, teaches ENG 101 for Arizona State University, and is working on his Doctorate degree through the University of Arizona.

Beth Henson: Beth Henson moved to Bisbee in 1983. She is the author of Agrarian Revolt in the Sierra of Chihuahua, 1959--1965 (University of Arizona Press, 2019) and is a visiting scholar in the History Department of the University of Arizona.

Karen Insalaco: Karen Insalaco is a 65-year-old college student working towards an Associate degree in General Studies. Karen returned to college classes after the COVID pandemic and produced this piece as part of a “Fundamentals of Drawing” course at Cochise College’s Sierra Vista campus. “Wishing on a Star” was done in graphite on white art paper.

Stephen Insalaco: Stephen Insalaco is a current student at Cochise College, taking a variety of disciplines in communications, journalism, intelligence operation studies, and professional aviation, and has earned two degrees from Cochise College thus far. The graphite drawing, “Value Expression,” was part of a Fundamentals of Drawing curriculum and represents his first formal art course.

RJ Luce: He has lived near the San Pedro River for 20 years photographing landscapes, lighting, wildlife, and the river in drought and flood.

Lee Myers: She is retired from the Army. She has several degrees and fell in love with art after taking a watercolor class for fun. She also loves to travel and camp with her husband of 30+ years in their R.V.

Kevin O’Brien: Kevin O’Brien is retired from Cochise College. He taught writing, introduction to literature, American literature and co-taught the Honors seminar Quest for Utopia while mentoring many in a variety of honors projects. As well as writing, he is studying blues harmonica and exploring photography.

Leah Pereda: The final project of a Cochise College art class, presenting a self portrait of the student and a background collage of their interests and hobbies.

Ariella Rentschler: Ariella Rentschler is a full-time college student who has enjoyed writing and reading for as long as she can remember.

Aevah Rios: Out of every art medium available to participate in, acrylic painting, specifically portraits, has always been Aevah’s preferred method of art. For as long as she can remember she has engaged in drawing and painting and will continue to do so in the foreseeable future.

Skye Robinson: Skye Robinson is a Cochise College Student studying Fine Arts and a General Education Degree. She hopes to move on to other art schools for a future career in illustration. This piece was from the Intro to Painting course taken at Cochise College.

Ethan Rodriguez: He is working on his generals right now and then he plans to attain his bachelors in nutrition with an emphasis on dietetics. From there he plans on commissioning into the army and receiving his master’s degree through their internship.

Robin Snyder: Robin Snyder is a freelance artist who recently moved to Sierra Vista from Upstate New York.

Nora Snyder: Nora Snyder is a poet, organizer, and librarian. She writes for Illuminousflux.com as well as other literary journals. She facilitates Writer’s Block Party, an online support group for word artists while also volunteering time and performing regularly in her new home- Sierra Vista Arizona!

Stephany Sobarzo-Zacarias: Stephany is a 21-year-old college student who grew up and currently lives in Naco, Sonora, with her parents, and graduated high school in Bisbee, Arizona. Art, in all its forms, has always been her passion. From visual arts, such as painting and drawing, to performing arts, such as dance and singing, she’s dabbled in a little of everything and hopefully will continue to grow her skills in all of them. She is currently finishing her Associate Degree in Allied Health at Cochise College while working as a CMA but intends to still enroll in art classes for personal enjoyment.