Ridgeline Review5 Spring 2025

Ridgeline Review 5

ENMU-RUIDOSO’S

LITERARY & FINE ARTS

ABOUT THE RIDGELINE REVIEW

Ridgeline Review is ENMU-Ruidoso’s literary and fne arts publication, featuring work from students, faculty, staff, and community members. We defne “community” to mean anyone who lives in or near the Ruidoso area, or who has been impacted by this area at some point in their lives. In recent years, we have expanded to dedicate a portion of our pages to artists and writers who’ve connected with us online or via social media.

Here at Ridgeline Review, we recognize the power of the creative arts, and we value their ability to connect our campus with the surrounding community and the larger world. Ridgeline Review is powered by student interns with guidance from college staff. As you experience the writing and artwork in these pages, we hope you feel as proud and inspired as we do!

Ridgeline Review serves as a creative space for this community, and the views and opinions expressed within don’t necessarily refect those of ENMU-Ruidoso.

SUBMISSIONS

Feel free to submit your writing and artwork year-round!

Guidelines

• Fiction & Nonfction (up to 10 pp.)

• Poetry (up to 5 poems)

• Art & Photography (300 dpi, saved as JPEG)

• Please submit written work as Word document

• Please include 50-100 word biography when submitting

Send submissions or questions to: ruidoso.ridgelinereview@enmu.edu

WEBSITE

Check us out at: ruidoso.enmu.edu/ridgeline-review

Find us on Instagram and Facebook: @ridgelinereview

Ridgeline review

Number 5, Spring 2025

Eastern New Mexico University - Ruidoso’s Literary and Fine Arts Journal

Helping ENMU-Ruidoso Students & the Ruidoso community (and beyond) reach new creative peaks!

FACULTY ADVISOR : Jeff Frawley

STUDENT EDITORS : Gloria Jeremias, Jonathan Wheeless, Reese Pretlow

ASSISTANT DESIGNER : Jocelyn Rose

COVER PHOTO : Big Bend Starscape by Jack McCaw

FROM THE EDITORS

Welcome one and all to the 2025 Issue of the Ridgeline Review literary magazine We have the privilege of presenting you with the works of talented folk near and far! In this magazine we hold a plethora of mediums, including poetry, short stories, art, and photography. We are so excited to bring attention to these brilliant individuals.

Our goal with this issue was to designate the arts as the drive of a people through trials and tribulations by showcasing the works of local artists and writers that help keep this spirit going. Art and writing are in both the youth and the elderly, and they tie us together as the strong community that we are!

We hope that you enjoy this year’s issue of the Ridgeline Review literary magazine.

Gloria Jeremias

When I signed up to help bring this issue together, I didn’t expect to leave the experience with so much fondness and inspiration. Having the privilege to work on this year’s Ridgeline Review and being trusted with personal, beautiful art pieces and writing was humbling. As I worked with a few of our community’s creatives, I saw immense dedication, excitement, and love. To have your hard work shared for others to see, to appreciate, to consider, is a special and validating feeling.

Art is power ful, whether that’s conveyed through paintings, sketches, writing, photography, or any other form. It gets our voices out there through something we are proud of. We all have something to say. Everyone. Even if you don’t communicate it through creative outlets, I encourage you all to share your voices. Your personal experiences, your opinions, your thoughts—they’re valuable. They hold meaning, more than you might realize. Who knows who you might inspire.

Reese Pretlow

FROM THE EDITORS

It has been an honor to have been selected as one of the editors for the Ridgeline Review. Last semester, I started investing more and more time into writing and literature as I got closer to graduating from high school. As the semester came to a close, I was allowed to dive into something I was unsure of, and, with that, got to explore something that would help me in the future.

When the year began, I didn’t really know where my future was going. I was planning to study English after high school, sure, but I didn’t have a plan after that. I debated a teaching career, feeling like that was the only option for me. But as I started working on publishing this magazine, I was able to realize where my true passion lies.

Working on this magazine has not only inspired me to create more, but also to help others pursue things that they enjoy. Whether they be discouraged by those around them or themselves, I fnd it so crucial to help people when they’re passionate about something.

Jonathan Wheeless

The Ridgeline Review began in the spring of 2021, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, thanks to the vision and hard work of our frst student editor, Ciara Nickell. I’m thrilled to see that the magazine is thriving with this, its ffth issue. In the past four years, we have had twenty-one student editors work on the magazine. It is a delight to watch each new cohort shape the magazine to ft their particular interests, passions, and ideas for how we can best serve the creative community around us. It’s been a ton of fun watching this year’s group work together to put their excitement and love for the arts and writing into this issue.

As ever, we are proud to bring to life on the page the creative voices of our community—both the ENMU-Ruidoso campus and the larger regional community. We hope you enjoy them. And we hope to see your own creative work next year!

Jeff Frawley

the desert girl (a novel excerpt)

EFREM CARRASCO

March 1949

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The girl walked barefooted on the granulated rock and sand, and among the thickness of the mesquite and creosote brush that grew vastly wild in the desert. In the cool night, the full moon shone brightly and made it possible for the girl to negotiate her way around spiny cacti, over uneven terrain, and across dry arroyos. She heard a rustle in a nearby bush, but it didn’t frighten her. She wasn’t concerned about small creeping creatures with their painful bites and poisonous stings, or the deadly fangs of rattlesnakes. Nor did she worry about the much larger nocturnal predators—the coyote, the bobcat, or the mountain lion—that stealthily stalk and attack their prey with relentless resolve and certain death. There was another type of predator, the worst kind, and at eighteen it was too late, the girl was already damaged.

She walked with the uncertainty of things once familiar and didn’t know why she was there, or where she was going, but she kept walking. Her feet ached terribly and she had no idea how she had lost her new pair of dress shoes. The only protection left on her feet were the silk nylon stockings she wore, now tattered and retracted down on her ankles. During moments of darkness when the moon hid behind thick, gray scudding clouds, the girl could not see and she walked into thorny fora that tore at her dress and legs and she stubbed her bare toes on protruding rocks and mesquite roots.

Her body steadily weakened. She went down to her knees many times from exhaustion and thirst, feeling she couldn’t go on, but she managed to raise herself each time and continue her unknown journey. It was necessary. The desert wanted her, she felt it. The girl understood the nature of the desert and its insatiable appetite that swallows all things that remain unmoved, like the motionless body of a young girl. Maybe I’m already dead, maybe this is hell, she thought.

Her subconscious was her only ally. It kept her senses alert and her body walking on numerous occasions when her mind went dormant with dreams of crossing a desolate desert. Reality and dreams blended, and each time she awoke, the dreams were still there. She was still there, as if in a continuous sequence of threaded dreams from which she could not escape. There was no clarity or reason, not even in her state of consciousness. She pounded her right fst against her thigh.

“I can’t wake up, it feels too real!” she said, confused and frustrated. Her pain was real.

A cool breeze swept from the north and felt soothing against the swelling around her left eye and cut lip. Her left hip ached with every step she took, sending a

burning sensation down to her thigh, and the left side of her head pounded with a throbbing ache. She rested for a moment and when she pressed her palm against her left temple, she felt a warm viscous wetness on her face and in her dangling hair. She looked up at the bright stars and at the full moon as if searching for divine answers. How did all this happen? The girl noticed the silhouette of the Organ Mountains to her right; they looked familiar. She sensed she was heading in the right direction and she continued.

Small fickering lights appeared before her in the distance slightly above the horizon, and they danced about in the air—frefies? She walked towards the lights, and kept walking, but couldn’t reach them. They seemed to keep moving ahead, as if beckoning her to follow them. Then, her mind went dark again and the subconscious took over once again. Time past and later she returned to her dream-like state of consciousness, and noticed the frefies had stopped dancing, frozen in space, brighter than before, and still fickering. She felt nauseous and fell to her knees with a heaving attack. Her stomach tightened, her upper body stiffened painfully, and her throat burned, but nothing came out. After a few wrenching moments, the heaving passed and she rolled down to one side, closed her eyes, and laid still on the cool sand. It felt good and she wanted to sleep, perhaps it was the only way to wake up.

The desert stood silent except for her heavy breathing and the chirping of crickets. Her mind spun with whirlwinds of confusing thoughts, but they slowly began to dissipate, and she soon started to envision exquisite women’s clothing, stylish shoes, négligés, and elegant fashion shows. Memory faded in slowly. The boutique! I design clothes . . . I’m going to be famous like Coco Chanel . . . open my own boutique . . . I remember! She smiled. That was her real dream in life. Her elation was but only brief. In the reality of the moment, she understood her real dream and destiny were now quickly fading away. I’m going to die out here. The world will never know about me. I’ll be a complete unknown, a nobody, she thought. The girl cried and her tears fell from her face onto the sand and the desert swallowed them.

When the crying stopped, she pondered upon the notion of dying with an unfnished life, and her sadness turned into anger. “I can’t fall asleep! I’ll never wake up if I do,” she said. The girl pushed herself from the ground. Her arms trembled, barely sustaining the weight of her slender body. She stood and casted her eyes back to the sandy ground. “You can’t have me yet,” she uttered to the desert.

The fickering lights had not abandoned her. They were still there, waiting, brighter, and motionless. The girl traveled a distance before she realized they were not frefies, but the property lights of ranch houses scattered about on the horizon, and beyond that, she saw the cluster of lights—the town.

For most students attending New Mexico A&M College, Friday night was a time to party at the fraternity houses, or out in the town. Las Cruces was small, yet offered many places for entertainment, the movie theaters, restaurants and cafés, and for those of drinking age, the nightclubs and bars. There was also the dark side of the

town, a second city of decadence—dens of illegal gambling, strip joints, prostitution, loan sharking, and places to buy and sell contraband and drugs, none which was of luring interest for two young men who preferred to remain on campus and study in their dorm.

Mike Harshman and Tom Cranson were recent veterans of the war in the Pacifc, a war that had robbed them of their youth. They now attended college among the younger traditional students and were too old for the college party atmosphere. Their priorities were aimed at the more serious pursuit of academic achievement and the American way of life: an engineering degree, career, family, and prosperity—it’s what they fought for, and the GI Bill provided the means for that opportunity.

They were quartered at the south end of the campus, a collection of plank wood cabins that resembled more of an internment camp than a traditional brick and mortar college dormitory. The cabins were connected by means of shower rooms, lavatories, and a common kitchen. Each cabin roomed two students. Mike and Tom’s room was small and rectangular with just enough space for a set of twin beds, two dressers, and a large partner desk, located against the south wall below a metal, twelve-paned window.

The front door was centered on the long side of the cabin, and next to the door, a three by four foot, double-hung window provided a nice view to the east, the Organ Mountains, and Mike’s 1941 Buick four-door Business Coupe, parked only a few feet away.

With mid-term exams coming up on Monday, they sat at the desk late in the evening drinking coffee, quizzing each other from material out of their textbooks while listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing “Little White Lies” on the RCA radio. A light tapping on the front window broke the cadence of the music and drew the boy’s attention. They walked suspiciously to the window and saw the face of a young girl staring back at them. The room barely casted enough light on her face, but they saw her bloody lips, the swelling of her left eye, and her disheveled hair. They dashed out the front door and she was still looking directly into the window.

“Are you alright?” Mike asked.

The girl faced the boys. “Can you give me a ride to town?” She spoke slowly and showed no emotion.

“Why don’t you come in? It’s a bit chilly out here,” Mike said, risking certain expulsion from the college for violating the school’s strict code that prohibited girls in the men’s dormitory.

She entered their room and the boys immediately discovered her condition was much worse than they thought. Her grey waist coat and matching dress were soiled with sand, mud, and blood as well as the white blouse under her coat. Small dry twigs and leaves and a few thorns where embedded in her dress, which was ripped in various places. Trickles of coagulated blood, mixed with sand, were caked on the left side of her forehead and in her draping shoulder length hair, and

tracks of dirt lined her face where tears had shed below her hazel eyes. The boys noticed her shoeless feet, which were swollen, dirty, and bleeding, and the multiple abrasions and cuts on her knees and legs.

She was a couple of inches above fve feet tall and she was a pretty girl under that battered face, Mike imagined. She had light skin and he suspected she was somewhere around her mid-twenties. “Were you in an accident?” he asked.

“Did your boyfriend or husband do this to you?” Tom blurted out, concerned she may have been beaten by a lover.

The girl responded to both questions with a single answer, “I don’t know.” She spoke softly with a bit of gruffness from a dry throat. She glanced at the coffee cups on top of the desk. “Could I have water?”

Tom picked up the cups and dashed to the back door leading to a connecting shower room.

“We should call the police,” Mike suggested.

The word triggered an instant response. “No!” she said. Her voice softened again. “No, please. No police.” She wasn’t sure why she said that, but her instincts told her it was the right response.

Tom returned with a wet face towel and two cups flled with cool water. “You need to go to the doctor, we can take you there,” he said.

The girl took the cups, but not the towel. She sipped the water and found it diffcult to swallow and coughed a few times.

“Where did you come from?” Mike asked.

The girl pointed to the south window as she drank her water.

“There’s nothing out there but desert!” Tom said.

She emptied both cups. “I need a ride . . . to town,” she stated.

“I think you need to go to the hospital frst. You may also have a concussion. I saw plenty of that in the war,” Tom suggested.

“No hospital,” she responded.

The boys made several attempts to convince her to get medical attention, but it proved to be futile. They helped her out to Mike’s car. Tom opened the right rear door and Mike helped her into the back seat. They left the campus and headed west for Las Cruces.

“Where exactly do want us to take you?” Mike asked.

“Bus station, Main Street,” she replied immediately. Her reply surprised her. Why the bus station? she wondered.

They drove under the shadows of tall trees that lined the pastures and farms houses along a narrow and quiet farm road. The girl slid her body against the right door and felt safe; the desert would not swallow her now. Her eyes weighed heavy. She closed them and instantly fell asleep and began to dream, troubling dreams.

A large skunk casually crossed the farm road and stopped in front of the approaching car. Mike swerved hard to the left and off the road onto the grassy shoulder. He avoided the smelly creature and swerved hard to the right and back onto the road. The girl’s body shifted left and down on the back seat. She opened her eyes with a start and sat up confused and disoriented. Then, it came to her. She remembered jumping out of a moving car and later waking up in the desert in the early evening.

Mike turned north onto Highway 80. As they passed the Bruce Motel, the girl turned back in the seat and eyed the motel suspiciously through the rear window.

“We’re almost there. The bus depot is just ahead,” Tom said as they approached the downtown area.

“No. Keep going,” she said.

“You don’t want to go to the bus station?” Mike said, confused.

“Not yet,” she replied.

She seems a bit more alert now, Mike thought. He continued north, slowly, with uncertainty.

On the northeast corner of Main and Bowman Street stood a large, single-story white stucco building with a tall mission arch and protruding vigas above a long sidewalk awning on the Main Street side. The recognizable blue and white Greyhound Bus logo rested and protruded from the top of the arch with a vertical neon “Coffee Shop” sign below. The building was a combination of a trading post, the bus depot, and the Tortugas Café. As they passed by, the girl looked curiously at the building and noticed a single bus parked on the south side.

Main Street was still alive, lit with bright lights of various types and colors from the businesses still opened at that hour. They were mostly bars, cafés, a liquor store, a pool hall, and the Rio Grande and the State movie theaters. A cacophony of vehicle traffc and people on the sidewalks flled the air with the excitement of a Friday night out on the town. Most of the pedestrians were those coming out of the movie theaters, and the bar hoppers looking for a place to drink, dance, or enjoy a late dinner at one of the eateries; the most popular was the all-night DeLuxe Café.

“Here!” the girl said, as they were in the center of the next block past the bus station.

Mike parked in front of the Electric Shoe Store. “Is this where you want us to drop you off?” he said.

The girl didn’t reply. She studied the shoes on display at the window. This is where I bought them, she thought. Things had begun to look familiar. She glanced across to the opposite side of Main Street and slowly scooted herself toward the left door. The boys twisted in their seats and watched the girl as she stared across the street to the DeLuxe Café. She focused on the movements of people inside and those that went in and came out. Ten minutes passed before she scooted back to the right side of the car. A sudden sadness came over her, in her eyes and voice. “Bus station now,” she said in almost a whisper, averting her eyes from the boys.

Mike drove north one block and turned right on Griggs Street, then right onto Church Street, and directly to the rear of the large, white stucco building. He parked closer to the depot where the single bus still waited on the south side with its engine idling, flling the air with the odor of diesel fumes. It was the last bus out of town for the night. The girl smiled, she was safe, but she wished this had all been just a dream. She was aware that it was not.

“I guess we made it just in time. The bus is still here,” Mike said.

Tom opened the back door and Mike assisted the girl out of the back seat.

“Thank you,” she said softly, forcing a smile against her pain. She turned and slowly limped away, grimacing with every painful step.

A sudden sadness came over Mike. His throat tightened and burned. There was an innocence and a kindness about that girl, he thought. He had sensed it in the short time they had spent together. She didn’t deserve this. He cleared his throat. “Wait!” he shouted. “What’s your name?”

The girl stopped, slowly turned, and locked her glistening eyes on the two boys. “My name?” She paused with lips drawn, as if she wanted to cry. She took a deep breath. Then gave the boys a kind smile. “You will soon know,” she said in that soft voice. She gave them another smile, turned, and slowly limped away . . . directly to the back door of the Tortugas Café.

Mike and Tom watched as the she entered the building. The door closed behind her, and she was gone. For a moment they stood motionless and bewildered, staring at the back door in silence, almost reverently. Without a word, the boys returned to the car and drove into the night. They never saw that girl again.

Spring was in its third week when the girl’s name was heard on the radio from coast to coast and her picture began to appear nationally on the front page of the major newspapers, in magazines, and in the pages of foreign periodicals. The sad desert girl had made international news . . . she was fnally known to the world.

TEARS

DOROTHY ROBERTS

I am Mother Nature; I am what I am

I am the earth, wind, fre, and rain

I am the cleaner of the wounded land

I hold what is left of the thriving forest

No longer anchored by bush or trees

From my howling mourning overwhelming tears

Dark muddy ground from ash and soil appears

Slowly creeping down to the water’s edge

As it drags lifeless branches, trees and debris

The stream now a formidable foe claims what is left

In the swollen rivers rage, lies my wrath, my fury

On a violently sweeping inundated downward track

In the frenzy of the torrential sludge flled waters now fow

I consume all that lies within my mighty downward trend

I was here long before you. These are the roads I follow

I will be a devastating fow furious and fast

My path is unknown, my destruction is vast

I carry the debris I carry the dirt that once held the mighty trees

The rain that falls they are my tears I clean the barren land

In my rapid advance I leave behind a murky loom

I am intense and I have no boundaries

I respect none I heed to none I give to none

I am a powerful force I am destruction or as gentle as the Lamb

I am Mother Nature I am what I am

I am earth, wind, fre, rain.

Pam Bonner

SKY ISLAND TRILOGY

CHRIS FULCHER

An Excerpt from A Post-Apocalyptic, Western Novel

BOOK 1: ISOLATION

The Sacramento Mountains of southern New Mexico are known as “sky islands”— isolated, high-elevation refuges surrounded by “seas” of range and desert. The transition between the hot, fat, arid basin foor and the high rugged mountains is striking… Elevation changes everything—in the span of a few miles, cactus and grasslands give way to dense, moss-covered evergreens. – AmericanForests.org

Prologue

My name is Ame Diego. Given today’s extraordinary incident I need to put pen to paper and transform my chicken-scratch journals to a coherent chronical of those world-shattering events that occurred since “The Split.” Why? Our isolation is about to end and as the village matriarch I need to prepare our people for what comes next. Our origin story now needs to be shared with the broader world. Or whatever’s left of it.

Nestled in the bosom of the Sierra Blanca, just outside Ruidoso in what was once Southeast New Mexico, I lived through cataclysmic times. As a young woman, my spirit frst awakened when I moved to the Sacramento Mountains ffty years ago during the height of the pandemic. I prepared for what was to come during the fnal “Years of Transgression;” survived the “Day of Retribution,” or what people often call “The Split;” and endured the “Period of Anarchy.” I then thrived through the “Time of Atonement” and observed with awe the “Day of Absolution.” Let me elaborate.

What happened on that dreadful day no one knew. Human stupidity, divine intervention, or Mother Nature giving us the middle fnger, telling us that if we couldn’t take care of the planet then she would take care of it for us. Perhaps it was a little of all three. Although it no longer mattered “how” it happened, we agreed the “why” was obvious. We were already well on our way to killing the planet and ourselves. Our transgression with nature if you will. The Split just sped things up and, in a way, gave humanity another chance.

The dividing line between life and death, as best we knew, was around 6,500 feet. It took a while to fgure out The Split was even related to elevation. Only after piecing together where people suddenly died did the pattern emerge. This line spanned the globe meaning no one under that elevation was spared. We learned this back when the hams still worked, and we could share news with folks around the world -or what was left of it. Over the years, as the radio equipment stopped working, and the voices bouncing on air waves began to dwindle, our sense of isolation in the Sacramento Mountains became absolute. Let’s say The Split was

our retribution.

We experienced the traditional ocean island effect, where time turned to molasses. A day felt like a week, a week like a month, a month like a year. Warped. Over the years we referred to our region as Skyland surrounded by an invisible waterless sea of death. Some called our homeland Vidapais or Lifeland the area above the waterless shoreline where people were not affected on that fateful day. Below the shoreline where people met near-instant death was often referred to as Muertepais or Deathland. Only people died. Animals were not affected. Why? No one knows.

We built this border between life and death as best we could over the years with fences and barriers around populated areas and large rock pile markers most within eyesight of each other in areas less traveled. At any rate our sky island was a small region lost in time and space. No way off and no way on. Marooned.

The Split created new geographies. Larger regions above 6,500 feet that included cities and towns fought for power and control over limited resources; and smaller regions fought in much the same way but on a different scale. So much needless death and destruction. As if The Split wasn’t enough. Anarchy prevailed.

And then there were those rare sky island complexes around the world. Those largely isolated, unpopulated, mountain ranges surrounded by desert foors, making the lowlands and high peaks drastically different. So much so that plants and animals living in these sky islands couldn’t survive in the surrounding deserts. Nor could plants and animals migrate across deserts to sky islands. Total isolation.

Even more rare was the Sacramento Mountains Sky Island. What made this mountain range, including Sierra Blanca peak, so unique? People. People living in towns including Alto, Ruidoso, Mescalero, and Cloudcroft, and folks living in between became increasingly aware that to survive in such a confned area people needed to cooperate rather than fght. We found out eventually that we were rather unique in this regard.

In those early years we listened to the hams from other high elevation regions around the world relay news of atrocities they were inficting on one another due to perceived scarcity, and the need to control and dominate. Initially, we too were on a path to self-destruction since fear, coupled with our human survival instinct, ruled the day.

Eventually, calmer souls prevailed and the blessings of living on a small sky island helped us down the path of cooperation. Cooperation between people but more importantly between people and our natural surroundings. We were essentially a microcosm of the planet where our confned space helped us better appreciate the immediate impacts of our actions to each other and our ecosystem. Plants, animals, fungi, and microorganisms. Soil, rocks, sand, water, air, and sun. Essentially the ecosystem that we depended on for survival. Now we see it as the only way that makes sense. Being a part of, rather than apart from, our natural world. Cooperation amidst natural abundance. Atonement.

Highlanders from the north, including people from Santa Fe, Taos, and Los Alamos, chose a different path a path where competition amidst perceived scarcity ruled the day. This became clear from reports back when the hams were working. These Highlanders were connected to a large contiguous landmass over 6,500 feet that extended beyond what was once called New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming. When not confned to a small area such as a sky island, people tended to disregard or ignore the signifcant impacts they had on each other and our planet. Which is kind of how we all got in this mess to begin with.

It’s been many years now since we had contact with the outside world. We assumed there were still remnants of civilization. We just didn’t know how these remnants evolved as societies. We’re about to fnd out.

Today we found out The Split is gone. Muertepais is no more. Today is our Day of Absolution. Skylanders can now explore beyond our waterless shoreline which also means that others can come to Skyland. With what intent, it remains to be seen. But as a seer, I have a sense of what may come to pass. I do know the rhythm of Skyland, its traditions, its values, and its myths are about to hit head-on with the outside world.

My recounting of those fateful years between 2020 and 2070 may serve as Skyland’s unique isolation story for what remains of the world and may, in some way, help humanity understand how and why we need to live with the nature rather than against it. Cooperation versus competition. Abundance versus scarcity. We won’t get another chance to get this right. Ignorance is not neutral. Will we have an Era of Reconciliation?

Ame Diego June 17, 2070

Scene 1: Day of Absolution

It was a beautiful clear summer morning with a deep blue sky turning more intense as the sun inched its way toward noon. Old Baldy with a wisp of cloud wrapping around its summit and fanked by sister peaks, offered a stunning backdrop for the celebration. Although it was June, the day was cool and made cooler by the shade of large pinon and ponderosa pines.

The majesty of the Sacramento Mountains, its vivid breath-taking beauty, its sacredness, captured me ffty years ago and I never left. Back before The Split, people who planned on driving through this region on their way to somewhere else but never left, affectionately called New Mexico, “The Land of Entrapment.” How very true.

As the guests made their way to the park along the banks of the burbling Ruidoso River, they were greeted by a festive scene complete with tents, tables, streamers, and three frepits. My granddaughter, Ema, was celebrating her quinceañera, her ffteenth birthday, with all the pomp and circumstance that marks the transition

from childhood to womanhood.

The park was situated near Gavilan Road just east of the border that separated Vidapais from Muertepais. As fate or elevation would have it, the 6,500-foot contour line roughly split Ruidoso from Ruidoso Downs near the intersection of Highway 70 and Sudderth Road. Meaning the Downs was in Muertepais.

In the more populated areas of Skyland, the border was very well marked by fences, rock wall markers, or other materials that helped delineate where not to go. In the early years after The Split, surveyors and scouts, or conscripts, set to work on erecting the border. All agreed that the fences and stone markers should be placed some distance uphill from the actual border. How far uphill depended on topography and population density. Another reason for erecting the boundary further uphill was because too many scouts inadvertently crossed the actual border when erecting barriers and met untimely deaths. Scouts were dearly needed to complete the border, so it was determined that border accuracy wasn’t that important. After forty years these borders just became part of the landscape; noted but not crossed. Ever. At least not accidentally.

“Thank you so much for coming! Please accept my gift.” Ema beamed and offered variations on these greetings as people arrived.

All received a small gift from Ema, and those same gifts would likely be circulating around the community for a while and end up back in Ema’s hands. After The Split, this gift-giving tradition gradually spread across Skyland to reaffrm family bonds and friendships. It was less about the gift itself and more about the giving, which suited most people since everything to give and receive could only be found or made on Skyland.

Common refrains were “Oh, how sweet!” or “Thank you for thinking of me.” More informal replies accompanied by a wink and a grin were “Third time around, thank you!” or “Hoping you too receive this gift again down the road.” Abundance in the giving; scarcity in the things given. It’s been many years since people ordered stuff online. My kids and grandkids don’t even know what “online” means.

Ema and her friends were running around by the river, playing games, and screeching while others sat on blankets and benches talking about the mundane, the ordinary, the glue that made a community a community. Their horses munched on grass near the buggies biding their time until their owners headed back to their homes. I was with my daughter, Mae, and her husband, George, talking with relations about the next harvest and crop storage; an ongoing topic that everyone in Skyland takes seriously, particularly after the past two famines.

Tom, Ema’s younger brother and my grandson, hung out with a group of boys his age, one-upping each other on anything that could be one-upped on. Just before all hell broke out, the kids were target practicing with slings made from leather or rope. They launched stones gathered from the river and tried to out-do each other with their sling prowess. The elders used to tell stories about the old days when slingshots had y-shaped frames and elastic bands, but those days were gone.

Then the unthinkable happened. Tom and his dog, Rex were on top of one of the fat-bed buggies with a horse hitched to it, goofng around, dog barking, showing off to one of the Anderson girls he was trying to impress. I may be old, but I know firting when I see it.

Suddenly, a large branch fell near the buggy with a large crack. The spooked horse abruptly bolted toward the fence. Screams from the crowd closest to the fence erupted as the horse went crashing blindly through without pausing. Tom and Rex, thrown off balance and bouncing around on all fours, didn’t have time to throw themselves off the buggy before the horse rounded a corner behind some abandoned ruins. Tom and Rex entered Muertepais.

Mae was on her knees, hand to her mouth, staring out past the fence. As George ran up to her, she pointed to where Tom had disappeared. He followed her gaze into Deathland.

Through sobs and efforts to suck in air Mae sputtered, “Tom… in buggy…” and in one last gulp, “Horse drawing the buggy crashed through the fence and they’re gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone?’”

“…Horse went around the ruins… we can’t see them anymore.” Mae wails and then says, “Tom’s in Muertepais! He’s dead!” With hands around her head, she bowed to the ground, wailed again and sobbed.

Ema ran up to her parents after hearing the screams and she too followed their gaze.

“What happened? How did this happen?” Every child is told fairy tales about the border from the time they learned to walk. Basically, they were told that if they step over to the other side they would die.

Her father told her what transpired. “An accident, a freak accident.”

Even though no one had accidentally crossed the border over the past forty years, I knew full well what happened when someone did cross. Most people die after taking three steps past the line. Some people, if they were lucky, were able to make fve steps. After The Split some people couldn’t adjust to the new reality, so they walked across the border as a last act of defance. More people than you’d think did just this. During the Period of Anarchy, people were forced across the border. And then there were the scouts. What happened to those people that dropped dead just on the other side of the border? Remember, the animals were not affected by The Split. They could roam between Vidapais and Muertepais as thy pleased. They took care the dead.

Where did Tom go? I assumed he died in the bed of the buggy and the horse was still galloping south. Others began to cluster and stare beyond where Tom had crossed, no one daring to talk. Mae was still on the ground sobbing, Ema next to her, crying and stroking her hair in a vain attempt to comfort her. Then they heard

barking. Unexpectedly, Rex came scampering around a hillock and back through the hole in the fence, which was no surprise since only humans never returned. The crowd watched the dog run up and play with some kids as if nothing had happened.

Mae screamed again as she pointed down the hill. Some turned and saw Tom walking haltingly back up the hill, eyes fearfully wide glancing back and forth along the fence line and the rock pile border markers. Why was he still alive? The horse had taken him well past the actual dividing line.

When Tom passed back through the fence to Vidapais Mae ran up and hugged her son wailing a different kind of wail. Anger, relief, joy commingled into that universal sound. For what seemed like ten minutes, no one else moved. No one had ever crossed the border and come back alive.

“I should be dead! Why am I not dead?” Tom exclaimed. “Rex and I got out of the buggy after the horse slowed to a stop.”

“Where did you get off?” George asked in a subdued, matter-of-fact voice, not trying to freak out with his family and friends gathered around.

“Down the road, past the clumps of cars along the road into Ruidoso Downs. I think the horse slowed down because of all of the wreckage.”

George began walking toward the fence. Something, he thought, didn’t make sense. Mae screamed. “George! Don’t you even think it!” Then screaming at an even higher pitch, “Stop!” He didn’t stop.

About ten steps through the fence, nothing. “Hmmmmm” George mumbled, “maybe the scouts set the fence line far from the actual divide – makes sense this close to town. That might explain why I’m still alive.” But George knew better; he wasn’t stupid, he wouldn’t take this risk if he hadn’t seen Tom come back alive from the Downs.

George continued walking down Highway 70 meandering between old, rusted cars tossed around like long-forgotten discarded toys. He stood amidst the cars and waved back at the group in the park. The group did not wave back. They were too stunned to react in any way.

George saw the horse about a quarter mile away munching grass on the side of the road. He walked up to the horse, took its bridle, and led him, buggy in tow, back through the fence past to Ruidoso and Vidapais. Stunned, everyone in the group adults and children alike started talking, then yelling over each other and motioning toward the border. A couple of other men walked across through the fence and down the road and came back safely. “Well, I’ll be damned!” and similar exclamations were murmured as they rejoined the group.

After the initial shock, the group agreed this was a sign. What kind of sign and why, they didn’t know. They turned to me sitting under the tent, waiting for me to

weigh in on what to do next.

I stood up and said in a loud voice so all could hear, “Well don’t just stand there! Take our fastest horses and spread the word about what happened here. Go to villages near the border Nogal, Mescalero, Cloudcroft, High Rolls, Mayhill, Timberon and places in between and ask the village matriarchs for volunteers to cross their borders into Muertepais. And tell them I had a vision and have been waiting for this day. I know The Split is gone and will remain so. All Skyland villages need to witness what we have seen here. Our Day of Absolution has arrived!”

“Absolution?” I said to myself. “Or setting up conditions for determining if the lessons learned during our years of isolation, lessons about peoples’ relationship with each other and nature, will take hold or if humanity backslides to oblivion.”

The crowd scattered and got to work on spreading the word. I turned away from the group and stared past the fence to what was once Muertepais. Our Time of Atonement has ended and now the most challenging work is about to begin.

Scene 2: Big Bear Hideaway

I sat rocking slowly back and forth in my chair gazing at the golden rays from the sun sinking behind the Sierra Blanca Mountain range. The wispy clouds that clung to the peak in the blue-violet sky tugged at my soul the same way it did when I frst visited this hidden jewel.

A harmony of sounds, the trilling and buzzing of hummingbirds darting around natural food sources, half charred logs crackling in my courtyard fre pit, and the chair’s scraping on its back-and-forth journey to nowhere, lulled me into a contemplative state.

The Village Elders meeting just ended and everyone except my granddaughter left the modifed A-frame that I called home. Big Bear Hideaway. Ema and I, linked arm-in-arm, watched the group mount their horses and buggies and head down the hill, kicking up a plume of dust in the twilight.

Earlier, in the closed meeting, the Elders listened to the riders’ reports from all corners of Skyland relaying variations on the same story. The riders shared with the villages what happened in Ruidoso and asked village matriarchs to send volunteers across their borders into Muertepais. This request was met with varying degrees of incredulity and in one instance, violence. Their demeanor changed quickly when they were told about my vision. All who knew me understood that I was a seer and spoke truth plainly. Volunteers were quickly assembled, and borders were crossed, to the amazement of crowds hastily gathered in and around villages across Skyland. News traveled quickly.

Reports trickled in over the past three days from villages across Skyland confrming The Split was gone. The report from Timberon, located toward the southern end of Skyland and a two-day round trip by horse, just came in this afternoon.

Although people agreed they could walk across the border, they remained skeptical about wandering around Muertepais; worried that The Split might suddenly reemerge. Freedom to explore beyond Skyland after forty years of forced isolation was a diffcult thing to get one’s head around.

After listening to the riders, I addressed the Elders and said, “Now that the boundary between life and death has dissolved, our world is about to get more complicated. The Split, as we know, created two groups of people in Vidapais: Skylanders that include our mountain range, and I suspect, a few other sky islands around the world; and Highlanders, or people living in large contiguous areas or ‘mainlands’ above what was once the dividing line.”

The group nodded but said nothing. Standard lore we’ve been fed for generations.

I continued, “And not to complicate matters but Muertepais now offers a new frontier all lands and waters below that fateful elevation are now open to people across the globe to explore and settle. How Lowlanders as I’ll call them settle and evolve these regions remains unknown. How we all interact and learn from each other will dictate our mutual survival.”

I looked around the room before proceeding. “Our worlds, our cultures, our sense of place, were already diverging back when the hams were working. God knows how our respective societies evolved since the hams went silent. Our ways of life are about to clash so we need to prepare.”

“What exactly do you mean by, ‘prepare’?” said John Sanders, a recently elected elder.

“First, we need to convene all the village matriarchs and elders across Skyland to discuss and agree on how we educate our people, including the children, on our island history since The Split. It’s crucial that we meet as soon as possible.”

I paused and then said, “We still don’t know what caused The Split, but we do know how and why we organized our society the way we did. Many today don’t know, and some don’t care about our past, but now it’s important to understand since Highlanders will be coming our way with potentially very different ways of thinking and acting.”

I looked around the room. Silence.

“Second, we need to establish sentinels around Skyland because we don’t know from which direction Highlanders might arrive; most likely from the north so we need to concentrate our watches on our north side. While we’re at it we’ll need to establish a communications system that alerts villages much faster than what we’re used to now.”

“How are we going to do that?” someone snorted.

“I’m not sure yet.” What I didn’t say but fondly remember were those years that

my dad and I binged-watched the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy over the Christmas holidays before The Split. I clearly remember watching the warning beacons of Gondor light up; the network of signal fres strategically placed on mountains and hills, alerting populations great distances apart about an impending danger. Could Sierra Blanca, Nogal and Monjeau peaks and other prominent locations serve a similar role in our time of need? God, I’m old!

“Third, we need to send exploration parties to towns outside Skyland such as Tularosa, Alamogordo, Capitan, and Roswell to investigate and catalogue items that might be of value. Since most Skylanders were born after The Split, we’ll need to talk with older folks so they can help us know what to look for.”

A large man at the back of the room spoke up and said: “What about going up north to Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Taos, and Los Alamos? People up there might have eventually learned what the hell happened! Maybe it was those scientists up in Los Alamos that lost control of one of their experiments? After all, they created the atomic bomb and set one off about eighty miles from here!” This was one of the prevailing theories along with the wrath of God and Mother Nature’s revenge. But at the end of the day, no one had a clue.

“Yes, we’ll also need to prepare for longer range scouting expeditions, but we should make sure we know what we’re getting into. Perhaps initial reconnaissance trips to check out the situation up north before taking any action.”

At the end of the meeting, it was agreed the group would spread the word about attending an all-Skyland convening in seven days so everyone was on the same page on next steps.

Ema and I returned to the fre pit and sat in a deep silence that served as a counterpoint to the cacophony of questions they were echoing in our heads.

The group had no idea that my visions were no more than glimpses of the past, present, and future. This ability was awakened and nurtured after I moved to the mountains, surrounded by nature. So much energy everywhere! My daughter and granddaughter are innate seers. They have a natural, inherent ability just as I do but Mae’s abilities were not nurtured, while Ema’s abilities have yet to be realized.

Rocking on the fagstone patio I pondered my recent vision about a man dressed in black riding from the north into Skyland with fantastical tales from beyond. It makes more sense now. A harbinger of things to come.

Now that people are free to come and go to Skyland, it was now time for Ema to know the full story about Sklyland. Typically, young adults were initiated when they were ready to understand the naked, brutal truth about what happened on the Day of Retribution and the years following that pivotal event. Ema needed to get beyond the fairy tales she grew up with; beyond the magical world we’ve built here.

“Ema, please come sit down here by the fre. Given what happened the other day with Tom, we know the border is gone and Skylanders can now explore beyond

our homeland. It also means Highlanders can come to Skyland. With what intent, it’s still not clear. But we need to be prepared. First you need to understand what happened forty years ago.”

“What do you mean? I’ve already been told what happened.”

“Hogwash. You’ve been fed fairy tales to help you and other young people cope with the immensity of the madness we’ve experienced. It’s all rather hard to digest.”

Ame continued, “We can no longer wait to initiate you or anyone else. Everyone needs to know the full story now. There’s no time to waste.” Ame winced thinking she needed to be careful about how she proceeded tearing down one world and quickly constructing the reality they live in. Frowning, she thought, “Slow down old lady, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“What?! I have no idea what you’re talking about, Meemaw!”

“All in good time, all in good time.”

They stared into the fre for several minutes. Silence except for the sound of the crackling and popping of logs and the slow rhythmic scraping of Ame’s rocking chair.

Ema looked directly at Meemaw in the fickering frelight with a questioning look, then said: “So we found out the border was gone the other day. The question I have is, how long has it been gone? For all we know, the border may have vanished a year or more ago!”

“Exactly. You are asking the right question. Not knowing how long the border has been gone only means that others from the north may already have fgured this out and may be on their way. Time is of the essence.”

I sat back for a couple of minutes refecting on how to proceed. “As part of your preparation I need to take you back to the beginning of the end. Now where do I begin?” I scratched my head and said, “I need to take you back to 2020, to the depths of a global pandemic that, in part, set in motion the way of life we’re living now in Skyland. And by extension, how we’ve already prepared for what is to come.”

“You knew all along?”

“Yes, I knew this day would come, as did my father, your great grandfather.” You see, you are part of a lineage of seers. I smiled a sympathetic smile when I saw Ema’s blank stare. “It’s complicated and as simple as simple can be.”

Ema shook her head, knowing her grandmother often spoke in riddles.

I smiled and said, “our family has the innate ability get glimpses here and there but mainly it’s observing events and thinking through potential future outcomes.”

I left it at that since I didn’t want to go down the whole spiritual, seer, rabbit hole discussion just now.

I slowly made my way to the edge of my chair, got up, stoked the dying embers in the fre pit and gradually sat back down. “Child, put some more wood on the fre. I have a story to tell and It’s going to be a long night.”

(1) Map of New Mexico All land above 6,500 feet elevation is shaded in.

(2) Map zoomed into the Sacramento Mountains. Note the sky island effect here since no land above 6,500 ft connects with this mountain range (e.g., red circle).

(3) Map of Region All land above 6,500 feet elevation is shaded in.

HORSE ILLUSTRATION

Pat rick Brown

FROG ILLUSTRATION

Pat rick Brown

COYOTE ILLUSTRATION

Pat rick Brown

BEETLE ILLUSTRATION

PIGEON ILLUSTRATION

Patrick Brown

Brown

APACHE CRADLEBOARD

Priscilla Kadayso

A bright sunny yellow thick canvas

Envelops a traditionally crafted artifact. Its foundation is exceptionally sturdy.

The interior is as snug as a down-flled comforter

On a cold winter’s night.

The straps are as snug

As a mother’s embrace.

Dangling from the crown hangs

Four rows of vibrant beads,

A scarf with a rich deep green foral pattern, Smooth and soft to the touch,

Ensures the safety of a peacefully sleeping child.

voices

Layla Gonzales

Voices

Little noises in your head

Hopes, dreams, sadness

Louder, and louder

No volume button

Voices

Voices

Insecurities, doubts

Headaches

Longing for quiet

Head spinning

Voices

Voices

Quieter, quieter

Ignoring, ignoring

Happiness, strength, bravery

Not a volume button

But a change of mind

Voices

I have a love, A love that’s exclusive.

This love is a well; Though kind of elusive…

my love

Gloria Jeremias

But if you fnd my love, Toss it a dime; be collusive.

It might take a liking, though, Hope it’s not obtrusive.

a cup half empty

Gloria Jeremias

I fnd myself in a place where I belong. This place has the name of whatever reality I rely on.

I spin in place thinking of what I should do, but at the end of the day, it’s always about you.

You take up my brain when I’m talking with you—it’s come to the point where I do so even without you.

It seems kind of silly, but why should I care? There’s people complaining over splits in their hair. Try as I may, it doesn’t ever end, as I keep constantly fghting over what I should send.

You drop a quick “thank you” which, I guess, made it okay, but it’s never me at the end of the day.

I’m there for the second you needed a shoulder, but is it perfectly fne for me to always play as your boulder?

I leave you and go to where my legs will take me. Always feeling unfulflled, but, hey, can you blame me?

I give and you take, but what does it matter? It’s always alright since you’ve got a full platter.

A cup, if you will; it’s always half empty, and you don’t care where it’s from as long as there’s plenty.

I take off my jacket—maybe my shoes, put down my hair, and fnally let loose.

It’s when I’m alone that I really have company; you know what they say: none is sometimes better than any.

loudest unbearable silence

Velia Trujillo

After sister died, the silence flled through all the house, loud creaks heard from across the house, as mom walked to the bathroom, loud bangs from the kitchen as mom set dishes down. unbearable and sometimes excruciating.

When birthdays and anniversaries came, we hibernated while others kept living and enter taining. Going days at a time in our rooms, what seemed like a prison. But even prisoners saw more sunlight than any of us. We continued to live but were so dead inside, Our rock, our stabilizer, our person was gone.

There mom laid in bed in the same clothes for days, waking up wishing she hadn’t, with no desire or will to keep living. From family dinners and movie nights, the smell of her Carolina Herrera perfume fowing through the night breeze her smile in the stars.

We lay on the trampoline in the quiet nights staring into the dark skies looking for her face. Her kids and I just looking up wishing on any and every star we saw, under blankets snuggled with one another to keep warm, yet we could feel the grief and pain piercing through our skin.

We wake up to mom laying on the foor, cradling sister’s clothes, and the smell of cigarettes and liquor flling the house. There she laid next to her bed, clenching on to my sister’s clothes, to her picture, to a blanket.

She cried that my sister needed a blanket, as she was cold. Mom caressed the foor next to her asking to go lay with her, she cried she didn’t want her to be out there on the cold foor alone.

We lived a full yet empty life, full of people who loved us yet so empty, because sister who held us together was no longer together with us. Everyday we woke up to sadness, as the sun shined through the window. Reality that sister was gone set in all over again, the emptiness flled within.

APHRODITE & ADONIS

Fos ter

Eva

equal exchange

Reese Pretlow

The sacred texts describe a terrible famine. It’s painted as a heavy, black fog that sucks the nutrients out of the fertile land. It sweeps through the village suddenly, harboring diseases within its gloom. It contaminates the river, existing crops, and livestock, rendering the village helpless. Then, the fog turns to the people. It grasps onto them, murky hands gripping over the villagers’ heads, and plants viruses to erupt into plagues. Anyone infected is promised to go delirious. Promised a long, painful demise as their lungs collapse, as their blood clots under their skin.

The texts claim that such a punishment will one day come from the gods they revere. One day, the village will anger the gods. And the gods are not merciful. Their supreme deity, a maiden most commonly referred to as the Lamb, stands for equal payment. Even if the texts fail to mention what exactly angers the gods, the people understand that their promised punishment is of equal weight.

So every morning and every night for the past two centuries, the villagers had gathered around temples and shrines dedicated to their gods bearing offerings, prayers, and gratitude. They took extra care of the land in fear of disrespecting a deity. Everything bestowed upon them—from the rushing river and thriving forest to the plentiful crops to their healthy children—were gifted from the divine.

That year’s autumn harvest, however, was bare. The land offered few crops, and half of what grew sported dark blotches and rot. Not one person could quite give any ideas as to what they might’ve done to upset their deities, but they knew better than to doubt the warning.

Once the sun set behind the distant mountaintops, the start of night marked by a coyote’s howl, the whole village gathered along the riverbank. Many clutched torches, leeching off the warmth as the brisk breeze brushed by. They faced the river and the willows and oaks on the other side, except for one man who stood before them all. Age and wisdom wrinkled his face, his heavyset brows furrowed. He’s adorned in fner, purple robes made of expensive fabrics traded from a city days away, distinguishing him as the village’s high priest. His sharp gaze passed over the large crowd. Clutched tightly in his hands were the sacred texts.

The crowd was deathly silent. No one dared breathe over the slight breeze or even spared a glance at their neighbor next to them. They waited and stared back at the priest, suspended in a dome of stillness of their own making.

A piercing cry from far behind them shattered the silence. A few people shifted their weight and readjusted their holds on their torches. Soon, shuffing against the mud flled the space, accompanied by heavy dragging and screaming. The crowd made way for two large men to pass through. In their arms, a tiny girl thrashed and screamed. She wildly kicked at the men restraining her, but they only tightened their grasps. No one she passed acknowledged her.

The two men dropped her at the high priest’s feet like trash. She fell into the mud

and snapped her head up to watch them step to the priest’s side. She didn’t miss the way they wiped their hands on their baggy pants. Gritting her teeth, she fxed her glare onto the priest. He looked down at her, scorn twisting his face.

The villagers had gathered around the river like this three years ago. The little girl remembered perching herself in a tree to peer down past the crowd at the ceremony, watching as a young woman stood tall in front of the crowd. Many had rapidly fallen ill with a mysterious disease the village doctor could not identify nor cure. They coughed up blood and lost control over their limbs, each victim succumbing within a mere few days of catching it. Such a plague had to have been their mighty goddess’s doing, so to please the Lamb, a woman bravely offered herself as sacrifce.

She had lost her husband to the plague. Her act of devotion was met with respect from the village, and she was treated like divinity the night before the ceremony up until she stepped into the rowboat blindfolded and threw herself into the rapids of the river. No one cried for her out of respect for her devotion, but the little girl could sense their grief in waves of salty blues.

All she sensed now, on her knees before them all, was disdain towards her and hope that her death would please the Lamb and all their almighty gods.

The girl was not treated like an honorable sacrifce. The two large men had barged into her rickety hut and dragged her out. She was terrifed and unaware of what was happening, reality only crashing onto her as they neared the river and crowd.

Unlike the woman years prior, the little girl was not loved by her neighbors. She was an orphan, a troublesome child abandoned by her parents and the village for reasons she didn’t know. She was a thief, but only because she had to survive. She was a bad omen, but she never knew why. She was not all that surprised they chose her as a sacrifce.

She was angry. Terrifed, but her fear only fueled her anger.

The high priest swept his gaze over the crowd while the girl focused her glare on him. “We are here to acknowledge Her mighty wrath, and we accept the consequence for what we’ve done,” he started, his voice carrying across the riverbank. “We shall not be greedy and ask for forgiveness. We shall not ask of our gods for more than they’ve gifted us. But humanity is naturally selfsh, and we all seek salvation. Mercy.”

She was not bound, but she could not escape. Before her, the river they intended to drown her in stretched out. With the lack of moonlight, the dark night colored the water black, like an endless abyss. All around her, the people she’d known her whole short life bored into her. She could feel their hot, rejecting stares along her spine. The girl’s tiny, bony fngers dug into the mud.

The priest opened the worn cover of the sacred texts and fipped the delicate pages. He glanced down briefy before addressing the crowd. “Three high, mighty gods graciously bestowed to us fertile land for farming, an abundant forest for wood and meat, and a running river for fsh and water, under the condition that

we treat this gift with care and respect. We revere our highest gods and promise the ideal that their land will be inhabited only by fair, fne citizens.” His eyes found the girl’s, abhorrence dripping from them. “We’ve harbored this witch for too long. She is a stain upon our harmonious lives, one who does not belong. We humble servants of the Lamb, the Wolf, and the Rabbit only hope to appease our gods in removing this disruption of peace upon their land.”

Shivers crawled along her skin, and she bit back the urge to finch and duck her head. She could remember when her parents began looking at her differently. She tried so hard to please them and be the perfect daughter, up until she awoke one morning at seven years old to fnd herself alone. She could remember when everyone else began to sneer at her. Never had anyone offered any explanation, and she would die without one.

It was unfair, that they all could abandon her frst and punish her for it. The will to live still coursed strong through her veins. It made her shake, made her eyes well up. All she could do about it now was keep her eyes solely on the priest and pray that no sobs escaped her.

A woman from the crowd slowly stepped in front of the girl, causing her to lose sight of the priest as he droned on about their gods. The woman sat on her heels before her and cradled a wicker basket in her lap. The little girl recognized her, though she’d never seen her delicate face up close. The woman’s golden hair always caught her attention on the streets. She pretended not to notice the girl slipping a coin out of her pockets each time. That small sense of familiarity bubbled from her stomach up to her throat, and she dropped her fearless facade as the woman pulled out olive leaves from the basket.

“They will protect you,” the woman whispered sweetly, sprinkling the leaves over her dark, tangled hair. “I had to beg the church to allow me to do this at all. I’m sorry, child.”

The girl stared into her green eyes and found pity within them. Terror clawed at her throat, and she felt her face crumple fur ther. She swallowed.

“I don’t want to die,” she said. Her voice, barely louder than her breathing, cracked.

The woman offered her a sad smile. Tears welled up in the corner of her eyes, but they never fell. Withholding tears for those sacrifced was a show of honor and respect for those who chose to join the gods. The little girl wished the golden-haired woman would cry for her, just to die knowing someone cared, knowing someone recognized that she wanted to live. A tear slipped down her own face and she quickly wiped it away, smearing mud across her cheek.

The golden woman took her muddy hand and gently placed an olive leaf on her palm. She closed the girl’s fst around it. Then, she stood and disappeared.

The high priest glared down upon her, and she returned her angry stare. She refused to allow him to see her fear or to see her cry.

“May the mighty gods see our devotion. May this sacrifce satisfy their wrath. And,

may each of our powerful gods, high and low, be with us.”

Everyone behind her bowed their heads, signifying the end of his speech. The girl looked around with wide eyes, seeking any last chances at life. Footsteps approached, and she snapped her head back to see the two large men from earlier reaching out for her. She jumped up, startling them, and kept her gaze forward. There were no openings in the crowd. Only the rowboat and the river before her. Dread seeped into her, drooping her shoulders and lowering her head. The priest, frowning at her, gestured towards the boat impatiently.

The widow three years ago had been blessed upon her forehead before stepping onto the boat. A blessing of easy passing and protection. The priest made no moves to bother with her now. She could either go herself like a noble devotee or be dragged by the large men—both without any blessing from the high priest. And that would be it. She’d be blindfolded and rowed out and left to drown. The full reality of her fate clung onto her and squeezed her throat dry and shut.

One of the men took another step towards her. There was no way out but forward. Grasping at some grain of dignity, the little girl walked past him and towards the river. She kept moving until her frst foot was in the rowboat. She would not give anyone the satisfaction of her hesitation, of her defeat, of her fear. The boat rocked under her as she sat on the middle seat. Both of the men got in, one sitting in front of her and the other behind her. The man behind her tied a blindfold roughly over her tangled hair. The cotton tickled the bridge of her nose and completely blocked out what little light the night had offered. All she could hear was the rushing water as it swayed the boat, the huffng of the man rowing in front of her, and her fnal thoughts.

How useless it would’ve been, trying to escape and survive. What would she have done with her life then? If what the village said was true, about her being a bad omen, then why would that have changed anywhere else?

A couple of minutes out, the rocking of the boat grew more aggressive.

The adults and the elders knew everything. They were wise. Whatever they saw in her had to be worthy of sacrifce. She wracked her brain for any moment she had sinned, had done bad enough for her parents and everyone else to forsake her.

The crashing of the waves was louder. She could feel the water’s spray along her arms, smell the fresh water. The man in front of her grunted at the effort of rowing against the currents of the river. They were far from the village now.

She wished she had at least died knowing why she was a burden. She wished she had been treated like divinity before being sacrifced, because shouldn’t it be an honor for her, too? She wished she had died with one goodbye. She clutched her fst tightly, focusing on the olive leaf in her palm.

The crashing water was all she could hear. She barely felt the boat stop with all the rocking and swaying, but the man behind her hoisted her up and panic seized

her muscles.

Defeat weighed down on her. Behind her blindfold, where no one else could see, she let her tears fall and soak into the cotton. The man shuffed her to the edge. This was really it, she realized. She’d go with no blessing. No knowledge of why. The last of the dignity she clung onto escaped with the sob that clawed its way out of her throat. She prayed, unsure if the Lamb or any other god would even listen. She prayed for a quick death.

She felt his strong hands push her over the edge. Full terror paralyzed her as she plunged into the icy water.

Blood pounded in her head. Every muscle in her body ached, and her chest throbbed as if it had been crushed. A burst of pressure pressed into her chest and suddenly disappeared before returning just as quickly. The sharp pain grew worse with each press over her ribs.

The girl shot up and immediately doubled over, coughing up water and phlegm over the grass. Her arm shook under the weight of her upper body, the rest of her tiny body shivering—from the way she convulsed as she spat out vile or from how she was freezing, she couldn’t be sure. Everything around her was overwhelming, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. She was dimly aware of the gentle trickle of the river somewhere nearby and of the muffed voice that kept calling to her. She forced an eye open long enough to glance at the bulky, long-haired man kneeling beside her in the grass.

The night still hung, yet the world was too bright and her eyelids were heavy. She slumped over, slowly blinking down at the ground to try and adjust. The palm she clutched tightly in death was wide open. She looked around the ground half-heartedly, knowing that the golden woman’s olive leaf was long gone.

The man grasped her shoulder and moved her wet brown hair that had fallen over her eyes. Though it took her a moment to process his words, he spoke slowly and clear enough for her to hear.

“You’ll be all right, just breathe in and out.”

Every breath she tried to take in sent pins and needles puncturing into her lungs. A few dry coughs scratched her hoarse throat. He scooped her up, frantically promising simple assurances. How strange, hearing someone fret over her so. At least she’d die with someone worried for her. He sounded anything but calm, yet she couldn’t help but smile inside just knowing he was there. Whoever he was. He was warm though, and she was oh-so cold. She clung onto his warmth, wondering if the Lamb would welcome her with open arms.

***

The girl wasn’t sure if she had died or not. She could still see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Still feel the shock of drowning, the strain of her muscles, the shivers across her skin even while sitting huddled in a thick blanket. Yet, she

was amongst at least one god, so she must’ve joined them.

The God of Oaths did not reside within his designated temple or in a palace atop the clouds. He slept in a cot hanging from the ceiling, which she sat on now, inside an otherwise empty cabin. She awoke in the cot, dried and bundled in a blanket, to the god hovering over her long after she felt well enough to sit up on her own. She’d been prepared to join the divine, yet being around one still made her dizzy. She had spoken no words to him, and he didn’t push her for any. She only focused on readjusting. Having recognized the God of Oaths, she’d been convinced that she was dead. As the minutes ticked on of her sitting in the god’s personal cabin feeling very much alive, she began to doubt it.

A single lantern by the door glowed, illuminating the space just enough for her to study the dusty walls. It was warm and smelled of hickory from the freplace the god had lit before leaving. The girl, over her coughing ft and breathing easier, had watched attentively as he paced around the foorboards. He had rushed out the door, immediately ducked his head in to check on the little girl, and left again. She could still hear his dragging footsteps outside as she stared at the walls.

She thought he was strange. He did not wear pure white robes and gold adornments like gods did in their murals. He wore baggy trousers and many necklaces, the longest one holding a purple stone. And though he favored witnessing oaths and mortal affairs through the eyes of crows, rarely ever making physical appearances, elders described him as collected and aloof from the one or two times they’ve seen him. He was not a high god like the Lamb, the Wolf, and the Rabbit, but he was still important and highly revered. Yet, he seemed frazzled and clueless over what to do with her. Not at all collected like a deity. The girl fgured he’d gone outside to pace around and wait for the God of Death to arrive and retrieve her.

The god returned and shut the door behind him. No one else was coming. She watched him skeptically as he sighed and looked around the room. She waited for the complete shock of being within a deity’s presence to hit her, but it never came.

“Shouldn’t the God of Death be here for me?” she spoke up, her voice scratchy.

He peered at her. She caught something akin to pity in his eyes, like from the golden woman, but he blinked and it was gone. He walked over and sat back on his heels before her. His silky, raven hair pooled around his broad shoulders and stopped just above the bottom of his back.

“My name is Ajal.”

He maintained eye contact, his expression serious. She stared back, doubts about not actually having drowned becoming more prominent in the back of her mind. The god didn’t say more, waiting as if he expected something. Unsure of what to do, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself and averted her gaze. He clasped his hands together and asked, “And yours?”

He had given his name frst. Had he done that expecting equal exchange or to be honest? Her people followed the Lamb and believed in equal exchange, the God of Oaths had to be aware of that. She swallowed.

“Naila.”

“How old are you?”

“Will you tell me if I am dead or not?” she asked. The elders warned about pressing gods for answers and speaking out of turn, but she would not give up more information than he would present to her.

He nodded once, seemingly unoffended. “Yes.”

“Eight,” she answered.

Ajal inhaled sharply, readjusted his hands, and spoke clearly. “Naila. The sacrifcial ceremony failed. You are alive. The God of Death has no reason to visit.”

The freplace continued to crackle. Burned hickory overwhelmed her senses and bloomed a headache. It was not so surprising to learn what she had begun to suspect. Had she not been desperate to live? Yet, having the confrmation welcomed terrifying thoughts. She could not return to her hut in the village. Would they try to kill her again? Would the harvest next time produce zero edible crops since she had survived? The hatred and scorn would be too much to bear, that much was guaranteed. She could not return. It was suddenly too hot, but she still shivered and did not want to let go of the blanket.

“I can’t go back,” she told him, fear clutching her.

“Where are your parents?”

Her thoughts quickly soured. “Away,” she said.

The god sighed. He glanced at the door briefy before returning his attention onto her. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “I brought you here ready to provide shelter. I will keep providing that to you until someone suitable can take you in.”

She rubbed her cheek, letting his words settle. They couldn’t quite ft in her head in a sensible way; did he really mean she’d live around him indefnitely? She already owed the god for saving her, and now he wished to shelter her. She did not know him, yet her debt was quickly piling up. What use did the God of Oaths see in her? Surely, he was only offering because he wanted something in return. Equal exchange. She wasn’t sure if she could accept. Wasn’t sure if she truly understood the weight of the offer. Her head ached too much and she was too exhausted to try to decipher now what that meant for her.

“You do not want me around. I am a bad omen,” Naila said.

Both continued staring at each other. His eyes looked into her as if studying the kind of person she was. She didn’t know what he saw, but soon enough he blinked and stood up.

“We will fgure everything out tomorrow. Get some proper rest.”

cabin.

Thomas Bryan

MONSOON BLEND

THROUGH CLIMBING ARMS

Thomas Bryan

Careening toward The tantrums I fantasy My doom explores, “Coax no other and I will guide thee”

My respite bonded I decline, “No need”

I oak no yawn From midnight Her lap is for the Tame and I am a Frenzy

I hark where Phantasms play And where others mire I only briefy delay

There is no vain Half heart in me And stale greed is Wanton and Chaste

Allay qualm and Confound, for I have felt to The very depths of righteous feeling (There expounding Aloof esotery)

Keen explorers

Of the quaint and right Beg parley to abate The torpid noose of Morose afternoons

And doldrums, Though having sworn My cellar doors

To kind and tender Secrecies, Implore:

“The tangle of Serenities That breeze

night shift

Aric Gillis

Are taken With your barely able Ambitions, And your tired Ambulations meek In coventry”

But I dash with the sword Of languid squalor, Needing nothing more

My schemes So conceived, Ne’er entangle To expound On those who covet And are bound to Thin jealousies

My skin the armor of Eons past Impervious to Language cast

And at their hour Witches harbinge No spell I compass their realm With ease

And I pass there unerring While now

Prancing toward the Loping dawn Find here

The ancient homes Of deep Epiphanies

These are the Ranges that I home Far and beyond The castles of the Insincere and Ordinary

And now Carrying on toward Dike and jetty Just beyond the quay Leers the next Untamed frontier, Morning

WHAT IT WAS LIKE IN THE ARMY

Aric Gillis

Winter swarmed in storms of calm And taught me how to be I was a nuance even to myself

Back then

The wellspring madly gave December the name for spring

So that I was primed to New year gladly

A trellis stumped the falling snow

Finding no liable way to cling

You were like Emily Dickinson Peeking out at me

Buttressed on a roof top haunch

Cool taunts paunched

At typewriter keys, A love letter writing

I was an open book

Going door to door

Overcoat pulled tight to warm And then we met

“I cape to crawl at your facade” I spangled gallantly

My poached breath fogged, Catching death

Finally, drunk on thought I collected in shallow pools

On the bedroom foor Dripping in through the ceiling

Angels bummed a mop

Sopping up the mess

Pots and pans after stuck In odd places

“I would have loved you,” I was told “But this was so alarming” That is what it was like in the army

Katherine Kiefer

CAN’T MAKE A SOUND

Jonathan Wheeless

I never thought this is where I’d end up. Things like this you see on TV shows or movies and think ‘Oh, I bet I could live through that’. But, really, you can’t. And if you can, does it really count as living?

The basics were all I thought I needed when all this started. A tent, some non-perishables, sleeping bag, knife, and whatever else had come to mind. I wasn’t one of those big ‘doomsday’ preppers, but I knew my way around.

In my naivete, I didn’t think about the fact that living through this wouldn’t be all fun and games, like I’d seen all over the media for years. Now I know that years of this, years of walking through deserted cities, months without seeing another living thing, never knowing if you’re completely safe, have done nothing but disconnect me. I stare at my refection in ponds and windows, wondering why I still subject myself to this.

***

I’ve always been stubborn. That was my parent’s defning characteristic of me. At the time, I didn’t believe it. I just didn’t do things I didn’t want to. But, how have I survived this long without being stubborn? I don’t know how many are left alive, don’t know if my survival is something unheard of.

I’m not scared anymore when I see them, I no longer gag at the smell. I can walk through towns, staring at the rotting wood of the buildings, spotting them in the distance and the thought of running isn’t something I indulge in. I hide, if need be, but I never run.

Were they ever scary in the frst place? Who knows, I can’t ask anyone. I can look into the paleness of their skin, stare at the rotting gums of their mouths, watch as one falls over, fesh scraping against the ground. When it stands up, I can see the bone of its knee peaking through. My face no longer twists in disgust, I no longer fght the urge to vomit. I watch from my perch on someone’s roof, see them limp down the street.

***

Is this really what living is? I walk, day in and day out in search of one person, anyone. As the days go on, I am so alone and I wonder how much longer I can take it. As I glance through windows, I no longer recognize the man staring back at me in the refection. Who I see is someone, years ago, I would’ve yelped at the sight of. Face sunken in, eyes dark, hair long and matted, I wonder why I’d let myself get to this point. I am a horror to behold, a living reminder of the death and disease around me.

I search on and on, but I never see anyone else. This was something I’d feared so

much when I was younger, yet I’d never admit. When asked what my biggest fear was, I never said to be abandoned, to be left alone without a single soul. I said what they wanted to hear, telling tales of how scared I was of the dark or of the uncanny faces of the paintings my parents like. Now I’m doomed to be my only company till the day I die. It’s harsh, isn’t it? I wonder what I had done to deserve this. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.

The sun beats down on me as I walk down another deserted highway, cars abandoned to rust and corrode. When things had been normal, I didn’t know how to drive. I wish I had learned. I wish someone had taught me. I wish for so many things, so many things I had overlooked when I was well and truly living. I miss the food my mother used to cook every night. I miss the cakes my father would bake. So many things I hadn’t thought I would ever live without are nothing but distant memories now.

I look through the memories and am no longer happy to remember them. Why should I be? The only reason a memory stays happy is because you know you’ll be able to make new, happier ones.

What memories am I making now? What joy in my life am I going to remember and reminisce about for years to come? My memories are happy no longer, replaced with a deep yearning that pulls at my stomach so hard it feels like hate. I try not to miss things, try not to remember how many people I’d loved, but sometimes I fail. Sometimes I fail and I am flled with a sadness so crippling I’m unable to move for hours.

As I lay curled in on myself, I secretly hope (is it really a secret when there’s no one there to hide it from?) for something to come take me. In the way a young person yearns for the fun cliches of high school, I yearn for any sort of cliche that comes with these circumstances. I listen closely, forehead pressed against the rotting hardwood foor of some decrepit house I’d chosen to collapse in. Silence. Always silence.

In the early days, it was dangerous to move as much as I have been. They had been ever ywhere, fooding the streets, hiding in houses, in nearly every building you could get into. I don’t know why there aren’t as many now. I don’t know why they only travel in hoards. It makes it easier, though. I can always escape, always run if need be.

Is that what I want anymore, though? Do I wish to run? Do I wish to prolong this lonely suffering? As I pick myself up from the foor, this is what I wonder. I peer through the broken windows, seeing nothing but the peeling paint of the surrounding houses. Sighing, I peel myself away and walk through the front door, grabbing my bag of food and clothes from where I’d dropped it.

On the street, I hum a song from years ago. Some America song that I can’t remember the name of, can’t even remember the lyrics to. But, I hum, something I haven’t done in a long time. In a moment of manic joy I began to laugh, near hysterics as I shuffed down another dirt road. Tears fall from my cheeks, my dry lips

cracking and bleeding as they’re pulled into an exaggerated grin. I know I looked crazy, but I didn’t care. No one was around to judge any longer.

The state I’m in is something I rarely know. A sign saying ‘Welcome to Idaho!’ was the last I’d seen, but those signs were few and far between. I do not know where I am now. I do not care where I am now. I no longer look at signs identifying the city, have forgotten what state fags look like. In another life, lacking knowledge like this would’ve made me stubborn, dumb, or truly any other label. Now, it means nothing. There is no one around for me to ask about the fags. I am alone. I am alone and I have no identity any longer. Is it possible to live without someone knowing you’re alive? Is it possible to live without someone to live with?

I realize it has been some time since I had said anything out loud. There was no one around to say anything to, so what was the point? You lose track of these kinds of things, these insignifcant things that had taken up so much of your regular life. I don’t have conversations, I don’t have people to warn, to debate, to barter with, so I rarely talk.

As I walk down another street, the hot asphalt warming the bottoms of my shoes, I open my mouth, try to will myself to talk. But, I get embarrassed. There is no one around, yet I am embarrassed.

There was something childish about my want to talk at that moment. Like a child told to sit in a corner and be quiet, I feel the urge to go against what I have been told. But, I open my mouth once again and fnd I don’t know what to say. Tears are stinging my eyes as I clench my jaw shut, worn teeth grinding against each other in frustration.

In that moment, I think that’s where I decided I would try no longer. I would walk, I would eat, I would drink, but if I did not happen upon anyone soon, I would let the hordes take me. I had nothing left, I didn’t even have my voice. If I couldn’t speak, if I couldn’t use one of the few things I could call my own what was the point?

That was what I thought to myself as I walked on, wiping the tears from my face with the threadbare sleeve of my sweater.

I am grown now. I wouldn’t have called myself grown prior to this. Before, I had been so immature and so fragile, fretting over the most trivial things. I was nineteen when all of this started, and my biggest worries had been the friends I had chosen to surround myself with and my second year of college. I envy that self now, the self that could worry about such things like school or relationships. Now, I rarely worry. I am not often in danger, I can fnd water everywhere. I only worry about food.

Another town is approached. Another town is left. There is nothing for me there.

It seems, now, that there is nothing for me anywhere.

Is there anything for someone living in a world so full of death? I am the minority now, I am no longer thought of. There is no one out there to cater to my needs.

Near the edge of town, I entered a gas station. Most of the shelves had been picked clean by now, but I was able to grab a few cans of vegetables for my bag.

I have not eaten a good meal in so long. I do not expect to any time soon.

***

Looking back now, I can say this is what I will remember. Most of the days had blended together, all a big clump of the same day over and over again. But this, this had been different. Something so strange in the middle of all that had become normal. ***

The foorboards of a house creak as I step in, the door shutting behind me. The sun had started to set, and I didn’t like traveling at night. Too cold.

This town had been just like any other. I was going to leave in the morning. Didn’t see a point in staying. I slept through the night undisturbed, tucked away in the closet of one of the bedrooms.

Peering both ways down the road from the porch, that’s when I noticed them. A horde of them from the left shambling in my direction. They were close. I could make out the faces of the ones in the front.

I stepped down onto the sidewalk, then onto the road and began walking away from the zombies. Not fast. I knew they would catch up, wanted them to catch up. This was my opportunity to be done with all of this.

We walked. We walked through town, down a few streets till we got to the more dense areas. I knew they were behind me, could hear the ragged, wet breathing of them behind me as I stepped past another stop sign.

***

Dragging them around had been fun, something to waste a few hours on. But, I knew my time was coming soon. They were only a few paces behind me. If I stopped for a second, I would be done.

I led the horde down a street, looking behind my shoulder at them as I walked. For a second, I turned my head to stare straight ahead, making sure I didn’t see anything. That was my mistake. Turning my head back and forth so quickly, I didn’t think to look down.

My feet caught around a branch, making me stumble. I threw my hands out, felt the tiny rocks of the sidewalk dig into my skin as I hit the ground. I cried out, scur-

rying to try and get up. I looked back at the horde, then forward.

Under a street light stood a horse. Though the light wasn’t on, the horse seemed to be glistening underneath it. Its blonde mane waved in the mind, shining in the sunlight. Its light brown coat glittered like velvet. I stared for a few seconds in awe. It was alive.

The groaning and slobbering behind me grew louder, and I knew in seconds they would be upon me. I stared at the horse, and in those last few moments before the cold hands of them were upon me, it stared back at me.

1

CREATURES

Stefani McNutt

CREATURES 2

Stefani McNutt

Stefani McNutt

THE BROTHEL

Desiree Bustamantes

The quaint little town of Mesilla, New Mexico was delighted to fnally have a brand-new schoolhouse constructed in 1930. It had fve classrooms and was built in territorial-style fashion with adobe bricks lining the structure, fnished off with coarse tan stucco.

Ricky glanced up at the octagon-shaped wooden clock that hung on the wall behind Ms. Thompson’s desk. He had to take sharp looks to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he was anxiously awaiting the end of the school day. He must have failed, because Ms. Thompson abruptly removed the clock, aggressively placed it beneath her desk, and scowled. Ricky’s friend Todd was not only the smartest kid in the ffth-grade class, but also apparently Ms. Thompson’s spokesperson. He leaned over and whispered to Ricky, “Ugh, she wants us to pay attention and you just keep looking at the clock.” Ricky determined both the absence of the clock and Todd’s commentary were equally annoying and unhelpful. “You don’t get extra credit for having a big ol’ brown nariz Todd,” said Ricky as he rolled his eyes. Before the banter took a more serious turn, the school bell rung in the start of the weekend. “Yahoo, vamanos!” shouted Ricky as he shot outside the door. Todd was a shoelace string behind him and outside of school hours, had a mischievous side.

His father owned a tiny mercantile store adjacent to the “Corn Exchange Hotel.” Originally, the hotel was constructed in the 1860’s and was known as the “La Posta Compound.” It then operated as a freight and passenger service line and was a key stop for the Butterfeld Stagecoach. Mesilla began to experience booming commerce and constant traffc, making it quickly become the largest U.S. town between San Antonio and San Diego. The inn hosted a myriad of guests over the years, and consequently housed secrets from those visits as well.

“I don’t have all day. Do you have the money?” Todd questioned a group of three boys, one of which was Ricky. Each of the boys dug deep into their denim pockets and pulled out a mixture of lint, half-eaten pieces of Good and Plenty candy, a few loose pennies, and fve nickels. After Ricky did the tallying, he glanced up and asked Todd, “So what, is 28 cents enough?” He crossed his arms, spat on the ground, and after a couple of seconds fnally said, “Well. . . I guess that will have to do. Meet me at the Plaza tonight at 2 a.m., and if you chicken out, no refunds.” He strolled away from the group and produced a boisterous villain’s laugh while simultaneously chanting, “Bawk, bawk, baw-kaw!”

Ricky stared at the white faky ceiling while laying in his bed that night and thought of all the ways he could in fact chicken out without seeming like that was his intent. With every thought, he sighed, and fnally whispered aloud, “No, this was my crafty idea, and I can’t let Todd win anything other than a spelling bee.” He had already set aside his black boots, long-sleeve shirt, and knee-length shorts to make as little noise as possible when it was time to head out. Although, he still thought it would not be terrible if his mother heard his stirring and halted the plan. While he slid on his clothes and tied his boots with a double knot, his mother slept soundly through both his preparation and departure.

Ricky was the frst one to the Plaza Square and kicked around a few pebbles in the simple dirt lot while he waited for the others. He was mindful of remaining in the shadows because at this time of night, there were patrons of the El Patio Bar across the street heading home after their libations. “¡Oye!” Todd screamed as he jumped out from behind a bulky dumpster. “Shut up, people are going to hear you,” muttered Ricky.

Fortunately for Todd, the other members of the troop arrived right before his neck was wrung. Todd led the way as the group silently climbed atop the roof of his family mercantile and leapt diagonally to the side ridge of the Corn Exchange Hotel. They climbed up the short fre escape that led to the top of the building. The boys carefully peered into the rusted circular openings of the tin roof and thus into the lives of the travelers who occupied the rooms. As they observed, Ricky enjoyed imagining what each of their journeys looked like and what led them to and from his tiny town. He took three giant steps towards the far left side of the roof as he wanted to distance himself from the group. The others often interrupted his thoughts, especially because they were more intrigued by fnding the designated brothel areas. The room at the end was certainly operating as such, although Ricky kept it to himself as he looked on. He wondered what circumstances led these folks here and found himself most curious about the woman. She was expressionless, placed her palm out fat to collect the money, and quickly saw the gentleman out. Ricky felt a familiarity about her as she swept up her hair with one hand and pinned it back up tightly with several bobby pins. She sat down slowly on a leather bench in front of a wooden vanity. Ricky stared as the woman slipped her long black skirt back on over her legs until it touched the edge of her corset. She gazed at herself in the mirror and Ricky looked intently at her refection before suddenly falling ill. He vomited as silently as he could over the edge of the roof and shooed the rest of the boys away, wailing his hands as they attempted to aid him. He found his way to the others and told them, “Let’s get out of here guys, no me siento bien.” He offered them no alternative, so they made their way to hop off the roof. As soon as they hit the ground, Todd advised, “I told you, no refunds.” Ricky replied loud enough for the others to hear, “I don’t care about that, this was a dumb idea anyway. In fact, I am going to spend my money on better things from now on.”

Over the remainder of the weekend, Ricky used his irresistible infuence to convince the rest of his crew that spending their money elsewhere was the sensible thing to do. When Monday morning rolled around, Ricky felt a tightness in his chest while getting ready for school. He took deep breaths of the fresh cooked green chile wafting through the kitchen air before swiping his backpack off the counter and sprinting out the door. Once in the classroom, he settled in his seat along with his classmates. He held his breath as Ms. Thompson entered the room. She looked vastly different today, in the daylight, formal clothes covering her from limb to limb, and a sharpened number two pencil behind her left ear. For the rest of that school year, he felt as though he and Ms. Thompson had a secret connection that no one else knew about. The thing is, Ms. Thompson did not know about it either, and Ricky made certain it remained that way.

COTTON CANDY

Lori Coleman

Lori Coleman

PAC-MAN EGG

Lori Coleman ARMAGEDDON

Lori Coleman

MODERN LOVE

Victoria Young

I like wine with my fsh, said Mrs.

Would you prefer white or red, said Mr. Red, please, Mrs. politely responded.

Pardon me, you must have white, said Mr. It is very important for me to explain. White is served chilled with white meat and red is served room temp with red meat.

If white is conventionally served with white meat, why did you give me a choice?

I just felt the need to give you the illusion of a choice, hoping you’d go with white, said Mr.

You know, even after being married for so many years, it’s still possible to discover surprising details about each other.

Yes, like how you love to chase the schools, every afternoon at the dock, said Mrs. Geez, I wouldn’t take you as being so refned, with all your knowledge about wine.

I wouldn’t assume a refned person would use a word like geez, said Mr. Anyway, just because I like to catch quantity doesn’t make me a beast. Nice fsh are becoming scarce, so I have to cast my net wide and take what I can get. Now shhhh! and try the creamy tartar sauce. Don’t forget the squeeze of lemon. It will tantalize and make your mouth water. Top it off with a frond of fennel.

Yes, I see, said Mrs. slowly caressing her teeth with the tip of her tongue under her top lip. If I peel back its soft scaly skin, I expose the tender meat. I just worry that the fne bones will puncture my intestines or get lodged in my throat.

I thought of that beforehand, said Mr. I had the bones removed. You can just spread it wide on your plate and enjoy with the savory sauce.

Shall I massage the cream into its delicate slits, said Mrs. with a puckery pouty smile, sensually fngering her wavey mane from her smoky eyes.

Yes, with a glass of white to go with your white, meat.

Don’t you fnd those mnemonics demeaning? said Mrs.

I don’t know, some say less is more. I’d like to see, less, whispered Mr.

Yes, I understand, spare me the AC/DC foreplay, whispered Mrs. The next time you’re in the mood to heat something up, remember that I like my meat raw and bloody together with a glass of crimson wine. Now, be a dear and pour me a nice tall glass and afterwards we’ll watch a movie, said Mrs.

WHEN ANXIETY & I MET

Joselin Frias Valenzuela

Walking to a gloomy room; a cage in the far corner lies, there are no pictures on furniture, they were already gone when I met you. I look up, and you are there; lonely cage, fearful cage, let me free cage. I hear you; do you know that your voice makes me feel like I will die? You wait for me every day and the drums start to play. My drum palpitates like a drumstick with heart problems, I know that you have water inside; I can’t breathe. The four starts to cut like knives that reach the deepest part of my soul; holes in me. My heart thinks that it could run a marathon, but my body is melting; I knew a fre was inside you. Oh, lonely cage, fearful cage; let me free cage.

Oh, lonely cage, I am miserable company, I don’t even fght, your silver and rusty bars take my breath away; let me die cage. It has been a week, are you still here? I wish I could walk to the room and see the bed again, but all I see is you. Perhaps a cage is a close friend, friends are always there for you, fearful cage, are you my best friend? Yesterday I thought I could escape but the simple image of you made me feel the winter of your gelid bars. Oh, let me escape cage.

Sometimes I think you want to teach me something but all I know of you is pain. I fght lonely cage, fearful cage, and harmful cage. All we do is fght and it is always a failure. Cage, you push my heart that I almost feel like it is coming out of my chest, all I have left is to resist. Perhaps you are evil because reconciled to sleep is impossible to you; cage I never close my eyes nether. The solution must be not to fght or perhaps die. Which one will you choose, cage? Oh, lonely cage, fearful cage; let me free, cage.

a girl who doesn’t know

Graziella Ferrara

I feel everything with a good heart Because I trust, My faults are not everything. I just grasp happiness, I matter because I love. That’s who I am. Is it bad to be who I am?

BROAD-TAILED HUMMINGBIRD

Hannah Jones

CHIHUAHUAN RAVEN

Hannah Jones

DARK-EYED JUNCO

STELLER’S

Hannah Jones

JAY

Hannah Jones

santa fe

Jerimy Williams Jr.

There I am in the middle of the hot desert air. My heart stops beating and drops to my empty stomach. Just me and my orange Rocky Mountain Thunderbolt mountain bike. I thought to myself, “Oh crap, I’m fying.” I heard my mom, my dad, and my brother in the background of my black and white helmet. Inside, it’s so hot I’m sweating a river.

An hour before, I was discovering some of the trails and jumps, feeling adventurous. Then I remembered that the day before I saw a guy hit a wooden drop off, and it kept going on, so I wanted to see if I could do just the frst jump today. As I was doing a run, my mom and dad showed up from walking and I told them I was going to try and jump, at least the frst one.

So I am going back up and hyping myself up: “You got this, you got this, just do it.” Pedaling down, trying to estimate the right speed... I choked up at the last second.

My dad said, “You got this.”

My brother was also hyping me up, not knowing if I was going to actually do it or not.

Going back up again, I was fnally going to do it. “Just do it, just do it, just do it,” I was telling myself. I started pedaling a little harder. I thought to myself that if I over-jump, it will be better than casing the jump. I was fnally on the two-foot-wide wooden platform. Thud, thud, thud, thud I heard my tire on the janky wood, and I lifted off, making it almost perfect. I was stoked, so happy I just did that!

I go to the second one in the line of possibly four or fve.

”I got that,” I say to myself.

“I think I can do the second one also,” I told my parents.

I rode onto the wood platform almost before the drop-off, then there was a huge gap of about fve or six feet until the dirt landing, which looked a little scary to me. But I told myself, “I just did it, this is basically the same thing I just did.”

I went back up to the top, did the frst jump, which was still heart dropping, and I got all the way to the edge of the second jump. Not only that, but I then pedaled back up and started to shift into the right gear going down. I hit the frst one, and then I just told myself to send the next one, and I landed pretty good.

So at this point, I’m wanting to do the next jump. This time I rode on the wooden platform, went slightly right, then kept going a little ways and dropped off the ledge. Instead of jumping, I just ride off, and it drops a little over six feet. So I then repeat the process of what I’ve been doing, but I just go and leap right off of the ledge, feeling some of the breeze in my face.

Onto the next, I think to myself as my parents follow me down the path, encouraging me and cheering me on. This jump is a wooden platform that drops down to the dirt. Then immediately I had to jump a big gap and step up over a big spot that looked like the water few through and there was a big log in the gap. I kind of second-guessed myself on this one because if I did the frst one, there would be no stopping, and I would have to full send the dirt gap right after. So I pedal back up, which at this point seemed such a long distance. I eventually got to the top and took a small break to catch my breath.

After I caught my breath and felt ready, I started to pedal down, trying to remember the correct speed for the frst jump. I went a little low and cased the top, and it messed me up for the next jump, but I kept going and hit the next one. I got that one pretty nice, and I’m riding the wooden platform drop-off, and I made it with ease. Likewise, I was about to do the next wooden platform, and I choked up and got tense, but it still didn’t look that bad for me, so I looked at it some more and fgured I had it.

After a second of talking with my parents about the jump, I pedaled back up to the top. By now, I had a path that I have been taking, and I knew exactly where to go. I made it to the top and gave myself a little pep talk, telling myself, “You can do this; you got this; just do it”. So I started to pedal down again, like it’s my new routine. I got the frst jump, as if I’d done it before, and then before I knew it, there was the wooden platform. “Just go, just go.” Budum budum budum. I heard my tires on the wood. Then it stopped because I was not on the wood anymore, I was in the air, and I had to prepare myself for the next dirt step-up gap jump. I landed, and didn’t slow down. I pedaled once or twice more and pulled up on my handlebars to make sure I could clear the jump. That is when my heart dropped. Heavily breathing... I made it! A loud, excited yell: “I did it!” I told my parents and brother excitedly. I also did the full thing a couple of other times. I only intended on doing the frst part— really, only the frst one—but I pushed myself to do more and have fun.

INVISIBLE

Linda Wellner

I grew up trying to be invisible. I thought if no one saw me, no one could hurt me. It didn’t always work, so I made the walls thicker. Friends were few and far between. Who could I let in? Who could I trust? Teasing and bullying were a way of life. I withdrew until I no longer felt the stings and taunts. I tried to live in my own little bubble, but it took only one person to burst it. I still hear my mother’s voice telling me, ‘Never bring yourself down to their level.’ I learned how to ignore and brush off those mindless words. And in learning that, I have grown stronger.

THE disc-golf trip

Gideon Staab

My alarm yammered, waking me up. My brother Caleb and I were going to a disc golf tournament in Red River, New Mexico. I was excited to participate in a new tournament this year that my brother and I hadn’t participated in yet. I had also recently gained an appreciation for learning about the land and the environment around New Mexico, and all the life contained within. The structures that life and environment took on also fascinated me, as well as the mechanism behind them. So, we woke up quite early to enjoy the drive and observe what we could given the vast array of landscapes and sights that New Mexico has to offer. So, my brother and I hopped in my little black Mazda pickup truck and took off.

The frst part of the trip, though through familiar grounds, still provided some good eye candy. Alligator Junipers dotted the mountain side sitting like gnarled old men whereas the various pines clustered together covering the mountains like grass. Once down from Alto, through Nogal, and past the turnoff to Highway 70 you can see the full expanse of the mountains that surround the area. We turned west, following Highway 70, the Sacramento Mountains on the left with Sierra Blanca standing tall and the Capitan Mountains on the right. I always found the orientation of each range interesting. The juxtaposition created a T shape where the Capitan Mountains were the ones crossing the T going east to west.

“Why do you think the Capitan Mountains go east and west compared to most mountain ranges that go north and south?” I asked Caleb.

“I’m not sure,” he responded, “but I do know that there are only a few mountain ranges that do go east to west.”

About midway between the turnoff and Carrizozo, off to the right, two lesser peaks stood like two monstrous tidal waves that came off the Sacramento Mountains only to be frozen into stone in an instant. Currently, thin white clouds hung over each set of mountains. The wisps were like brush strokes against the blue canvas of the sky and the bright sun, the perfect lighting that highlighted the landscape below.

The next few hours drug by. After turning north in Carrizozo, the land was fairly fat and grassy without much to look at. Though there were plenty purple thistle, sun-yellow dandelions and yucca that lined the sides of the highway. Many plants do well near areas disturbed by people and a lot of these areas include roads and paths that people travel. Every shade between brown and green smeared the uneventful landscape. The rest of the Capitan Mountains faded off to the right and behind.

“What kind of combination of colossal events could raise such massive structures like the mountains? And why do we fnd things like that beautiful?” I wondered to myself. I always fall into such questions when I see amazing things. “Is it the sheer size we fnd majestic?” I asked my brother much of what I was thinking.

“I think in part the size, at least that is what leaves the lasting imprint,” he said, “but, I think it includes most other things that are included in the idea of mountains. Whether it’s thought of as a resort, a large underground cave for a dragon to hoard its gold, grounds for a mining operation, or the source of many important rivers.”

“So, you think the context of how we personally see and experience things along with how society sees things, like mountains, mingle together into how we understand those things?” I asked, confrming if I had the gist of what he was saying.

“For sure,” he agreed.

It was a humbling feeling realizing all these things stood here long before and will continue standing long, long after any of the happenings of my lifetime. The funny thing is the mountains ranges near and around Ruidoso are dwarfed by the northern mountain ranges that we are going to and those are dwarfed by the Rockies which are dwarfed by the Himalayas. It was kind of curious how all these crazy mountain building events all happened before our times just like how all the strife and troubles that shaped society to what it is today all happened before we were born, too.

Eventually we passed I-40 and continued through Las Vegas, New Mexico. The land was slowly rising as we went north, and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains began to loom on the left. The brown dirt began to shift more to red matching the shift in architecture with many of the buildings being made from adobe. The shrubs turned to pine and the looming mountains quickly blotted out the sun, us being on the east side. The forest covered the mountains like green hair held stiff by gel. And these trees were huge. There are few trees in Ruidoso that get to the height of some of the ones I saw in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The tallest ones were the Douglas fr reaching well over two-hundred feet in height. Many others got close including the Engelman Spruce and the Ponderosa Pine. Being in the Northern mountains is a sensory overload especially after the rains we had that year. White, purple, yellow, and orange fowers fowed through the trees and across the valleys. Mountain life was dense. It seemed like there wasn’t any space left or opportunity squandered.

After the six-and-a-half-hour drive, we fnally reached Red River. My brother and I picked a close spot to the ski area where the tournament was being held. We set up a tent and got a fre going settling down for the rest of the evening. We cooked steaks that we were marinating in bags we had brought when we packed earlier that day. The slow-cooked steak with marinade and smoke favor was top-notch. Next to the campsite was the Red River itself, the fowing water like a lullaby in the background. My brother and I sat next to the river, watching it fow past. The fow was fast, too. The rainfall that year was record setting in New Mexico. I could see where the swelling waters reached, leaving its mark gouged into the banks. I fell asleep to the sound, the smell of the campfre in the cool crisp wind.

The next morning, the sound of singing birds and bright sun woke me up. Caleb and I had a light breakfast before we took off to the ski lift. Unfortunately, we

had to ride one to get to the top. My brother and I fgured we would have to, but heights were never our strong suit. I had ridden scary rides before at amusement parks that went quite high, but I never found comfort with them. I also worked with my dad remodeling houses going a few stories off the ground but for some reason the same fear persisted. And I suppose it wasn’t as bad as a fear, but I was uncomfortable during the ride. I tried to appreciate the vantage point the lift gave me seeing the beauty the mountain held. Near the midway mark there was a lady taking pictures. She had a shop downtown that printed the pictures she took. It was a perfect spot for it, since going back down the gondola was the backdrop of the Red River in the valley fowing past the town with more mountains reaching the same heights of the mountain we were currently on. I remember my body being stiff from the tension I had during the entire ride up. At least I had a bit of adrenaline going into the start of the tournament. There were many people riding around the ski lift just to take in the sights provided by the beautiful area. At the top the trees were dominated by tall white trees with yellow leaves, known as the Quaking Aspen. The white color of the tree reminded me of when I was little growing up in Las Cruces. The pecan trees there were painted white at the bottom by pesticides to keep away pests. Due to the excess rainfall, there were also huge mushrooms that sent out their fruits, some of which were the size of my head. I later learned they were edible, which would have been fun to try.

After the meeting, each card split up to go to their respective holes. I enjoy the chance of meeting each new player and, sometimes, seeing players we have already met that end up on my card each time. I ended up starting on hole three. I always get this mixed feeling of anticipation and expectation before I start a tournament but after I throw my frst shot it usually goes away. The worry made me think again about how our lives are so small compared to how old these mountains are. And even the history and community surrounding the area can be outlasted by the age of a tree. It felt kind of freeing in a way. It helped me step back from anticipation and expectation and experience the moment for what it was. So, I enjoyed the course a lot, we ended up playing three rounds, two rounds on the frst day and the third round on the second day. The course was steep, many of the shots being strictly uphill or downhill. There were many technical shots weaving the disc through the trees left to right and back left at the end of the fight. I also got to play with my brother, too, which was strangely a theme across many of our tournaments.

I ended up in eighth, which was cool, but that didn’t matter, the simplicity of spending time in nature with my brother competing for fun was enough for me. I had the opportunity of experiencing all that beauty throughout New Mexico from mountain range to mountain range. It really held a lot and allowed the mind to explore extremely large forces that shaped enormous mountain ranges down to the small wants and interactions of a disc golf tournament that help shape the community and how they, in turn, reshape us and our thoughts and lives going forward.

THE never-ending loop

Annika Glass-Saiz

I woke up bright and early, did my hair curled with the prettiest ringlets, brushed my teeth till they sparkled, did my makeup well, and picked out a super cute outft it was vogue. I was excited to start my sophomore year on a high note.

I arrived at school at about eight. I walked up the stairs and went to the table that my friends, Pookatini, Pooks, Taquito, and I usually sat at. Their outfts looked strangely familiar; same jeans, same shirts, same everything. I brushed it off although it was slightly unsettling.

The bell rang. I rechecked my schedule and was confused because all of my classes were the same as last year. I thought it was some sort of mistake.

I had this uneasy feeling that I could not shake: the sense that something bad was going to happen but you didn’t quite know what it was. I got to my frst class. It was yearbook class again. I hated this class last year. I was sure I would hate it again this year. That’s when I made the very surprising and horrifying discovery that there were the same people in my class. I tried to brush it off with the pretense that none of them had graduated and that this was just one big coincidence.

I was on edge, my palms cold and clammy, as my eyes darted back and forth. I felt like I was being watched.

I glanced at my schedule and read “English 1 Smythe.” I got into class realizing that once again the whole class was the same people. I was off put, and that’s when she said,“Since you’re all freshmen you all should know each other.”

When I realized what she said it felt like I’d been hit by a Peterbilt. Was I repeating my freshman year? No, there’s no way I thought to myself.

Without a second thought I shot my hand into the air and asked if I could use the restroom, stating that it was an emergency. She sighed and said to hurry. I practically ran out of the classroom and down the hall to the bathroom.

Rounding the corner I turned to look at myself in the mirror there I saw myself wearing that same horrible outft. That one that my dad had snapped a picture of me wearing my frst freshman year. That horrible dark red shirt; it used to be my favorite but I hate it now. I leaned in close to the mirror and pulled down the bottom of my eyelids. I peered closely at them. They were that light pink feshy color. I leaned back and I broke out in a cold sweat. I could hear my heart beating fast in my chest. I was stupidly pale from fear. I didn’t know what to do.

So I called my mom and in a panic, I told her I was a freshman again. “But you are a freshman,” she said, sounding confused.

“No mom, no I’m not supposed to be a freshman, I’m a sophomore, why aren’t you understanding?” I screeched at her between shaky breaths. Next thing I knew my mom had hung up on me. I sat down on the foor and began crying; in walked a girl I knew to be a senior. I looked up at her. “I thought you graduated: you were a senior last year,” I said.

She gave a short chuckle. “No gosh no I’m just barely a senior,” she said to me. I realized that she was oblivious to what was going on. I decided that I needed to go back to class and pretend like nothing happened like I knew nothing about it. I was scared of what people would think about me if I were going around saying that we were in a loop. I stood up, brushed myself off, and walked over to the mirror; I dried my tears, fxed my eyelashes, and started on my way back to class.

On the way, I made sure to take several deep breaths to calm myself. I decided that I needed to fnd out if I was the only one aware of the loop. I would subtly bring it up, and if anyone else was I decided I would befriend them. I inhaled deeply, opened the door, walked back to the classroom, and sat back in my chair as if nothing had happened. I was dazed; everything seemed far away and distant. At this point, I was just waiting for the bell to ring.

I went through the motions of the day and when Taquito asked what was wrong I just said I didn’t want to be at school. She agreed with me and said that she wished it was still summer.

The next few weeks passed in a dreary hazy sort of way. I was just constantly going through the motions of school and classes. It was a very repetitive and monotonous week. I saw a little hope when volleyball games started. Even though I knew the outcome of all the games it created some excitement in my life. I was adjusting to the loop and so far I haven’t found a single person that knew about it. I would hint about it to Pookatini and Basil, yet they still seemed oblivious. I didn’t know how to tell them or if they would ever believe me. I was still trying to fgure out who else knew about it. I desperately needed to fnd someone to talk to about it; I felt like a madman. I was always stressed, paranoid, always felt like I had eyes on me. I didn’t know if this was some type of test. I felt wrong knowing about the loop. I was afraid, what if I wasn’t supposed to know about it? What if someone wanted to get me because I knew about it?

As the weeks went on I began developing dark circles due to the lack of sleep. Every morning they grew darker and larger. My eye sockets look sunken like a skeleton. I would push the feeling of impending doom to the back of my mind.

Volleyball was going well. I was excited for the Portales game because the coach told me I was getting moved up to JV for this game. He said, “You’ll play two games with the C-team and one maybe two with JV.” We began warming up as always. The coach was making us do hitting lines. I was never particularly good at hitting since I was short and didn’t have a good vertical. I was dreading this. I knew exactly what was about to happen.

It was my second time through the line; when it was my turn I waited for the ball toss and did my three-step approach. Left right left arms back, up, swing, down, land. It was a great hit except I didn’t get the land part. I was able to land but when I hit the ground my knee hyperextended and I felt a sudden painful pop.

It felt like someone took a sledgehammer to my knee. Next thing I knew I was curled up on the foor crying. I knew at that instant it was severe. I hated having to feel this pain. There was a bustle of noise and the coach came over to check on me. I told him I was fne and after a minute or two I was back up on my feet and he helped me to the bleachers. I wanted to play badly so I got the bottle of ibuprofen out of the bag and took more than a few. Much more than I should ever have taken at a single time. I was hardly able to play one rotation and then Coach took me out and would not let me back in. Over the next few months, the doctors informed me that I had torn my anterior cruciate ligament and my meniscus.

Hearing this news a second time was just as bad as hearing it the frst time. I was devastated once again: it felt like my world crashed down on me. In every athlete, there is the fear of ACL tears and I never thought I’d ever tear mine, yet here I was (again).

I was told that I’d need surgery. I have a great orthopedic surgeon who told me that he would not be doing traditional ACL repair. Instead, he’d be doing a new program called the BEAR implant. It is a new technology that is supposed to result in quicker stronger healing. I was scheduled for surgery on December 13th.

I went into surgery completely oblivious to the pain I was going to experience in just six hours. When I frst came it felt like my leg was on fre. The next two days were worse. It felt like I was living in hell. Everything hurts. Then three days post op I got in a car wreck causing my leg to be further injured and also suffered a concussion. The entirety of Christmas break is just a big blurry mess. I cannot recount many details from the time as I do not remember much.

The next few months I began the grueling healing process. I hated the healing; it didn’t go faster the second time. After two-and-a-half months I was switched from the locked straight brace to the partially locked smaller DonJoy brace.

At this point, my grades were suffering horribly. I had no motivation to do schoolwork, house work or anything . I didn’t even want to get out of bed.

At this point, it was basketball season and I was in charge of keeping stats, playing time, and taking pictures for my brother as he was on varsity. I would go to all of his away games which caused me to rack up my absences. My grades continued to drop even lower. I let the ball drop in the third quarter of school. I had horrible grades. I never really did anything anymore especially since I got hurt.

Since I was never busy I know I could have gotten my grades up but I was unmotivated to do anything. However, I did take my permit test and passed on the frst try. I knew I was going to pass though because I already knew how to drive. This last fourth quarter I did better on my grades but still not great. I’ve been getting out of the house a bit more but still not much. I’m still worried about the loop. I haven’t found anyone that knows about it. It is still scary. I know everything that is going to happen at every moment of the day. It’s unsettling. I’ve noticed a van following me around and I’m scared what if they’re coming for me because I know about the loop? They’re always around. This is why I’ve written this letter to you. If I go missing it’s because I knew too much.

ceremony

Anthony Coriz

As the sun peaks over the mountaintop, where our ancestors once carried out their ceremonies, where the echoes of deerhooves rattle and holy songs are sung by men, sits a young lady who will take her journey into womanhood.

With the sky turning from black to blue taking the morning star away, the medicine man brings the sun up with a beautiful tune. Each song brings her closer to that way she will have to live the rest of her life. The young lady has proven she cannot be shaken or taken by hard times

Painted white by the man who sang the songs that lead her one step at a time to the beginning of her fnal run, to the east she goes fast. Run hard, run ferce, you can never be slowed. Reach down below and grab your feather, live your life for the better, as you run home wipe your paint with the hide hanging at your side.

As the people gather in prayer and rejoice, we have all witnessed the most beautiful right for an Apache woman; we celebrate her way of life she has chosen. We now throw gifts to those who have never opposed. Once she is home we feed and leave no one unfed. We take everything we set out for the next young lady who will be brought out.

wrendessa

Fiona Roberts

As Wrendessa sat upon the highest branch and looked upon the vast night sky, she thought. She thought of the stars and how they were like the eyes of someone dear, the moon and how it was like the way melodies brightened her life, the dark sky and how some put on a masquerade to ft in with the rest of the people around them, and the black shadows of the branches as one’s self refection. Then she looked down at her own dark faun legs and spread her large wings. She thought of how the world works like the night sky. How the sky is just a painting, one of inspiration, and how we use this inspiration for our own blank canvases of life. She pulled out her fute, graceful and quick, and started playing. The tune lifted off the air sweet and melodic. The smell of pine trees, the feel of an embrace from one you hold near to the place most valued, and the sight of empathetic eyes after a long hard day of hardship and heartbreak all wrapped into one gentle melody neatly handed to you in a song, a tune, and a heart. The birds sang a soft sweet chirp and the sky danced along. This is where she belonged, this was her home.

natural time

Rita Williams

I can feel it on my legs, I can feel it everywhere

The tingle and the burn are across my body

Heat is rising, the sweet melody of cells are bursting from the water

The cool air on my face matches the atmosphere from above

My eyes aroused from the cold starry night

So awake, my mind enters peace

The internal body temperature rests at 98.6 degrees

With help from the bright hot sun

Echoes the insides from under my sensitive soft skin

Volcanic body heat erupts boisterous itchy red bumps, more redness leaving intolerable pain

How can something wonderful become so intense?

Rising heat and the explosions of blisters

Such repulsive beauty

An antibiotic, natural cures, relieving cream

Which, oh which?

save yourself

Rita Williams

The forming of tears burn

Eyes of the soul start to rain

Salty should be the sweat from the pores pouring and raging out of my skin instead exhaustion from unwanted anger, sadness, frustration, hatred and love

Mental health, heart disease, breakdowns, when it it time to leave?

Listen to your heart they say

Meditate, go walk, work out, sit in nature

Sanity is key

Save yourself

my shadow

Sydnee Mowery

I met my shadow today. But unlike Peter and Wendy my shadow has scales and a forked tongue that cuts through my self-worth like the frost killing the brave fowers that peek their heads up too soon. She frst appeared as a small unknown hooded fgure when I was young. She was there small and formless in the periphery of my mind. My shadow started to grow a tail the day my mother said “I wish you were more of a cowgirl” and left me alone while she went out to ride her horse. My shadow whispered in my ears that the cookies in the kitchen cupboard would make my tears stop.

My shadow was right. Years later my shadow grew scales and wings the day my dad took me outside and said “It might be good for you to lose some weight”. My shadow whispered that if I started running I would make my dad proud. My shadow was right. My shadow learned to breathe fre the day I realized my mom resented that my running made my dad proud. I offcially was not her little cowgirl. My shadow’s teeth sharpened into fangs when I mastered the art of hiding myself. She whispers sweet nothings that sound like safety and fear. She says to be loved I need to be a different version of myself. I need to be quiet. I need to smile no matter what they say. She reminds me that people will leave if I don’t make them love me. So to be loved she taught me how to mold myself into what people want to see. She took away my voice to keep me sheltered.

My shadow didn’t show me how to fy. She helped clip my wings forced me to be smaller to be likable to be safe to be loved.

My shadow was wrong.

the dance of baba yaga

Sydnee Mowery

“Turn and face me, how your mother set you, with your back to the forest,” another nameless hero commands from outside my window. Why won’t they leave me alone? I know this dance much too well. I feel my poor house turn slowly with each slender avian leg.

The kitchen smells of the autumn earth, a homely mix of green soil and cinders from the hearth fre warming the bubbling concoctions. Rosemary, mugwort, and houndstooth dry in bundles at the window, while the sentient mortar and pestle turn the black protective salt. Scales from the belly of the grandfather bull snake, a bundle of hair from the tail of quick sister fox, the front tooth of grumpy brother badger, and most importantly a wing feather from ol’ wise owl, collected under a dark moon. These treasures simmer in my cauldron crafting cures for the winter ailments of the neighboring villagers. Regardless of how many of their lovesick hearts I cure and barren felds I persuade to grow, they keep sending these socalled heroes to my dancing hut. Eventually one of us will learn.

I have lived many centuries and have done this dance before. One so-called hero wanted forty-one daughters for he and his brothers to wed. When I refused, he took his shashka and plummeted through my left foot as I served tea. His old Babushka told him it would take my power. A few would come at night and steal me away to a courthouse of frosty-haired men. Their favorite was to roast me in the square, my charred fesh crying out pink under the night stars. Others would deliver a trial by water and cast me into the Lena River like a hagfsh, fopping and gasping. The heroes that come change as frequently as the moon. The ones of late have interesting new ideas. One lad threw a bucket of water on my head and asked why I didn’t melt. Another dropped a small house on me. I will give him credit for being unique.

Each time, I awaken and am reborn in my mortar and pestle. Like grain being turned and ground into bread I am something new. In my youth I was beautiful, with long raven hair, ample breasts, and vibrant green eyes. Each time I come back I look more like they see me. My nose is crooked and long, my teeth are sharp and metal, my eyes are white and milky, and my hair is as wispy as the cobwebs in my kitchen.

My dancing hut has fnally settled and I smell the nameless hero approach demanding violence or wealth. It is all the same in the end for I have danced this dance many times.

ASPEN WALL Jack McCaw

CHIMNEY ROCK FALL

Jack McCaw

Jack McCaw

THE SILVERTON 0476 D&RG

Jack McCaw

FALL AT OWL CREEK PASS

Jack McCaw

the watcher

Alora Shaver

My mom is moving in. Yep, my seventy-three-year-old mother is having to move in with me. She has early on-set Alzheimer’s so someone has to take care of her and of course my deadbeat brothers are throwing her onto me, the oops child, my parents did not really plan to have a kid at forty-seven but here I am. Now, I’m not necessarily mad that my mom is coming to stay, I love my mom. She was my best friend but now she’s forgotten all that. I am mad that my brothers think I have no life so I have the time to take care of her. But I pulled up my big girl pants and started to take care of her and it was fun being in the same house as her again until night time came around. During the day my mom was more or less my mom. She has times of lucidity where she’s the same mom that I spent the frst eighteen years of my life with, then without warning I’m a stranger in my own home, well her home. I moved into the house she was born in the Fifties so that might be what causes her nightly episodes because the house is old but I don’t really know.

My mom lounges all day watching TV, knitting what I think is supposed to be a sweater, and sleeping. Which is nice since I have two months left of school and do my intern job from home, her activities don’t interfere with any of that. I am almost an architect. It has been seven long years but I am almost there. My internship is run through the phone or on zoom meetings, with the occasional in person meeting with my advisor. I love working on the planning/designing side of things. Thankfully my internship is a paid one, and I had a full ride scholarship so the extra money I am spending on my mom is not a big deal. My brothers chip in a little too, but… I’m starting to rethink things ‘cause I don’t get paid enough for what happens at night.

At night she runs, she stands, she watches. The second night she was there I woke up to her just watching me from the end of my bed, just staring when I called to her she ran, no arm movement just legs zooming out of the room. I just got up and locked my door. Night three was much of the same, I was careful to lock my room after that. Have you ever seen someone scurry out of your room in the middle of the night, upper body as rigid as a corpse with eyes staring so emptily into nothingness. It’s terrifying especially since she hasn’t really walked let alone run in seven years, she sort of waddles when she needs to move around. Every night I would hear the scurrying but the next morning she would be laying there like nothing happened. Day seventeen she was on a roll screaming, throwing things, I was just a trespasser in her home so I called in reinforcements. The nurse that I helped design a house for told me if I ever needed help, call. So I did: “Hey Bev! How’s the house? Good I hope. Do you have plans tonight?”

“Oh. My. God! Hey girl! The house is beautiful, I love it. Ummm; was only planning on sitting on my couch with the men of Love Island and a pint of mint chip. Why what’s up?”

“Would you be willing to move that party to my house? My mom has had a day and I need a slight break. It would only be a couple hours. And I would be eternally grateful.”

“Oh. Of course, girl! I’ll see you in half an hour. And you better be dolled up cause you are going out tonight!”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. See you soon.” I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. I star ted to get ready for tonight. Thankfully my mom was calm right now. I had one more call to make. “Hey, loverboy!”

“Hi, baby girl!! You change your mind on tonight? God, I really hope you did.”

“Heh, god you have no clue how much I missed your voice” the widest smile gracing my face “and yes! Come whisk me away on an adventure.”

“Ha Ha.” His deep baritone laugh reached my stomach. “I’ll be over in thirty, my love.”

“Can’t wait! Love you.” I hung up the phone and hopped in the shower. Thirty minutes of pampering later I hear a knock at my door. “Damn girl you clean up nice!! Where’s your momma?” Bev’s vibrant voice greeted me when I opened the door.

“She’s right through there, um hey she’s gotten violent multiple times today and I know I’m not supposed to just hand her off but I feel like I can’t do anythi ”

“Hey woah, what are friends for? I got this! It’s all good. Hey Mrs. Curtis, how’s your day been? Do you like mint chip ice cream?”

“Oh yes I do. Do you have some?” my mom’s meager reply came.

“Yes I do! What about Love Island, have you watched that?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, you are in for a treat, we are going to have a party tonight!” A knock on my door drew me away from their conversation.

“Hello baby girl!”

“Hi!!”

“You ready to get this adventure on the road?”

“Yes let me just tell ”

“Nope! Get your amazing ass out of here. I’ve got her I promise. Get Melody out of here, would you, Brett?” Bev’s voice came from the living room.

“Gladly. Bye Bev. Bye Momma Curtis. Let’s go baby” We got in Brett’s car and drove away. “So on the adventure agenda we have Cane’s, The Split, and then my place for my favorite treat, my Mel-O-Dy surprise.”

“Brett!!” I hit his arm laughing. “That sounds perfect.”

I got home pretty late that night, a euphoric feeling all through my body. I went to bed right after Bev left and I forgot to lock the door to my room. I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.

Maybe two hours later there she was standing at the end of my bed staring. “Mom?” My voice groggy. “Mom! Wake up! Hello! Mom!” No answer, she just stood there, hollow eyes staring. After what felt like an eternity she raised a pointed fnger at an old vintage clock on the wall. I moved to look at it and before I could look back. She was gone. There was no more sleep coming for me that night. I remembered to lock my door for many many nights after that.

I had Bev over day thirty-four. We all had a blast, my mom included, Bev left around six ‘cause she had a shift early in the morning. I thought tonight was going to be calm. We had a long and tiring day so I thought my mother would be completely tuckered out. Door locked, mind calm. I fell asleep. Tonight she got my door unlocked, which is weird because it locks from the inside with a smooth knob on the outside, but she got it unlocked. I heard the door creak open, the house was built in the Forties so everything creaked, and there she was pointing at the old clock on the wall. As she watched silently from the dark doorway, too scared to move, I did nothing, but then she scurried in closer mouth open in a silent scream. Before I could react she was gone.

I was convinced I hallucinated it. How could my seventy-three-year-old mother be doing this? How can she just disappear like that? How did she get in, THE DOOR WAS LOCKED! This went on for months, I told my brothers, Bev, and Brett, but none of them believed me. Some of them claimed the October season was getting to me because my mom was my Alzheimer’s-riddled old woman who isn’t capable of that. But I knew! I knew my mother was a demon possessed thing that prayed on me. Night 184 was my breaking point.

I had new locks on my door, four to be exact, a total of fve now. I had a hope chest in front of it as well as extra weight. But nothing worked. She still came like she had for the past eighty-nine nights, but tonight, tonight was the worst. I woke up and she was hovering over me, mouth open in a silent scream, hollow eyes staring into my own, her arm jutted out a crooked fnger at the end pointing at the old clock. Now you may be asking, why didn’t I get rid of that damned clock? IT WON’T LEAVE! It always comes back. I’ve sold it, burned it, wood chipped it, thrown it in the ocean, everything. It. Always. Comes. Back.

There she was just hovering, screaming, pointing I couldn’t take it. I pushed her, straight-armed, in the shoulders, but she just shot up to stand. I screamed at her breaking, “WHAT! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” She just stood there watching, screaming. I couldn’t do it. I ran at her, I leapt from my bed running at her and she just stood there and watched, standing next to the old stupid clock. And then I saw it, I saw that my hope chest was still in front of my door. It was still in front of my door! All fve of the locks were locked, the door still closed. Fear gripping me I slowly turned to look at what was once my mother. Her mouth

agape, blackened hollow eyes staring unseeingly, arm pointing to the clock hanging next to her. I turned fast, shoving the hope chest out of the way unlocking the locks from the top to the bottom when I heard it. A sound I knew so well, a sound I had been hearing for 184 nights, the sound of scurrying. I turned as I got the last lock undone to see my mother coming at me, scurrying at me. I wretched the door open and ran. I left and never looked back. I called my brother Jason on my way to my car telling him that my mother was all his, let her live with him, put her in a home, I didn’t care but I wasn’t taking her anymore.

That was eight years ago, but I can still see everything vividly, I still wake up some nights shaking thinking I heard the scurrying. I live with Brett now in Ireland. I still talk to Bev and my brothers, who have had no problems with my now eighty-oneyear-old mother. Brett and I have quadruplets; apparently the gene that caused my twin brothers was passed down to me, and is very dominant. Benedict and Charles were planned, Amara and Clarke were not. But we are happy and demonic-mother-free. I still work with the same architect company. I started a branch in Ireland. I get packages, a lot with materials, information, anything you can think of. I was expecting a package. So when the bell rang I thought nothing of it, until I opened the door and on the door step was that damned old clock, and a single crooked fnger.

berta

Dennis Robbins

Berta was a busy bee

A very, very busy bee.

Every day she’d buzz by me

And fy down to the Meadow.

The Meadow’s where the wild fowers grew Yellow, red and bright blue, too.

Sweet pollen soaked in morning dew. Berta loved the meadow.

There she’d buzz the whole day long. Buzzing was her happy song. When the sun sank low, she’d soon be gone

To her hive far from the meadow.

One summer day gray clouds arrived. Rain chased the bees back to their hive.

Berta kept her wee wings dry

Beneath a tree beside the meadow.

I hate the rain,” the bee proclaimed. I’d be happy if it never rained. I know we have those clouds to blame For the rain drops in the meadow.

I’d never spoken to a bee, That one could talk was news to me. I dared to share philosophy About the rain drops in the meadow.

It’s the rain that makes the fowers grow, ‘I really thought a bee would know.’

Without the rain where would you go?

There’d be no blossoms in the meadow.

A bee’s wee brain is pin tip small, Little Berta used it all,

As she watched the rain drops fall On the fowers in the meadow.

Now I see, she buzzed aloud, It’s good the rain falls to the ground. But who puts water in the clouds That falls upon the meadow.

Well Berta, I began to speak. Just then the sun began to peek

Between the clouds in golden streaks That shone upon the meadow.

We’ll have to talk another day, She said before she buzzed away. With no more than the briefest wave

She few down to the meadow.

The fowery feld was soon alive With bees returning from their hive. I lost sight of Berta, by and by Amongst her friends down in the meadow.

Left alone, I entertained, How best to her I might explain Who flls the clouds with clear, cool rain, That falls upon the meadow.

I smiled broadly as I thought, I’d teach the bee as I was taught By my mother as we walked Amongst the fowers in the meadow.

The wonders that you see, my son, Are God’s design, yes everyone. He flls the clouds to rain upon, His fowers in the meadow.

Tulie

Dennis Robbins

Green she was and green she’d be. Tulie was a frog, you see. Not please was she with her destiny. As she was, so would she be, Green she was and green she’d be.

The lily pad she sat upon, Floating on a tranquil pond, Was her favorite place to dream dreams on. Night and day that’s where she’d be. Green she was and green she’d be.

Not dreaming like the other frogs,

Who started off as pollywogs, Who learned to hop from log to log. Who now breathed the air as well as we.

Green she was and green she’d be.

One day she spied a hummingbird,

A fighty little fitting bird

If it sang, no tune was heard. But it was a sight to see.

Green she was and green she’d be.

The dream she dreamed that very night

Had her join the bird in fight. They few as high as they both might, High above the tallest tree.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Morning came as mornings do.

Sunlight dries the diamond dew.

Sunlight chases sweet dreams too.

A frog was her reality.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Tulie saw a silver trout. How happily it swam about. Around the pond but never out, The tiny pond was his wide sea, Green she was and green she’d be.

In her midday reverie, Tullie wished a fsh to be.

The pond would be her own deep sea

To splish and splash about in glee.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Fate would have this dear dream dashed Awakened by a chilling splash, What she saw left her aghast,

I doubt a trout’s the route for she.

Green she was and green she’d be.

A human with a meal in mind

Had caught the trout with hook and line. He seasoned it with salt and thyme.

The dish of fsh was savory.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Tulie changed her mind anew. She wished to do what humans do, Just what that was, no pond frog knew.

Mindful of the mystery,

That was what she wished to be.

Green she was and green she’d be.

A sassy sort of gray toned cloud

That no one noticed come around,

Sent bolts of lightning to the ground.

Not wishing to be fricassee,

The human was obliged to fee.

Green she was and green she’d be.

The human fed across the feld.

Lightning nipping at his heels.

Being human lost appeal. Whatever should she dream to be?

Green she was and green she’d be.

An old frog from a nearby pond

Chose her pad to hop upon.

She told him what she pondered on, She thought he’d have a remedy.

Green she was and green she’d be.

The old frog proved to be quite wise, Other frogs are otherwise.

He offered Tulie sage advice, when she asked him timidly.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Should I stop dreaming, call it quits?

I don’t much like the thought one bit, But if you say so, well that’s it. She thought how empty nights would be.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Heavens no, it’s fun to dream!

Some dreams come true, some too extreme. To be like you, some dreamers dream.

Green she was and green she’d be.

A dragonfy that happened by

Caught the old frog’s watchful eye. He plucked it right out of the sky. With his tummy full he took his leave.

Green she was and green she’d be.

To be like me, Tulie thought I hope they like that dream a lot. She liked the feeling that it brought. She hoped they woke up happily.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Green she was and green she’d be.

Tulie was a frog, you see.

She still dreamed of other things to be.

But I’ll tell you as she once told me, I’m happiest when I am me.

the line between

Angelina Brown

“Tick…Tick…Tick…”

Another hollow echo… “Tick….tick….tick”

The clock on the wall continued to chime away as if it’s an empty melody constantly on loop. The everlasting repetition of this broken sound only echoed throughout the room, leaving the only being in the room to turn on its side, seemingly in a desperate attempt to shut it out. The boy himself had been here the whole time, blocking the noise in his head as it built up.

It was not until he could no longer handle the build up that he arose from the bed, lacking either the sway of life or the hope and desire to do anything. Almost robotic movements followed, as if it had been programmed into him for years yet he couldn’t ignore that constant necessary routine. He swayed into the kitchen and exited out the door as he went to another location, a route that had been programmed into him.

The day itself passed as any other day normally would. While being the most bland description, it was the only ftting one that could exist to describe how it was. The grass was risen, yet there was no wind to sway it and no clouds to block the sun from burning the fowers down. The soft chimes of rain couldn’t make it past the intense yells of the people around, those who are constantly in a hustle to get something accomplished.

For being so loud however, it all felt so quiet and uninhabited. The boy himself continued to sway through the obstacles that were in his path. Slipping past every little bothersome thing that was present until he fnally arrived at the only destination any teenage boy would have, school.

School itself wasn’t much to describe, a group of prepubescent and angsty teens in a room all together; nothing more to add beyond that. It was something closely symbolic to that of a prison but with the plans to rehabilitate a sense of learning instead of actual existence. Perhaps that’s what made it so subtle that things that are good could come from it. What does it matter anymore? It’s constantly the same routine. Over….and over….and over. There was nothing to distinguish the days between each other, and hence they slowly all blurred together like the fog in the window, it was there but only blending into the mirror. More of an obstruction than anything, yet still hard to notice.

The school day passed just like time’s arrow, in a constant rotation and never changing. The young man fell into this loophole, existing in and out of every class but never quite there and never truly existing anymore between this. As that school bell rang there was no shift in the emotion, if anything there was more

dread for what had awaited in the end. The young man rose from his desk and from there on the day continued, he walked home calling it a day he gave into the deep sink of his mattress, letting it take him.

The moment he closed his eyes he fell asleep, greeting him in his dream was a grocery store that didn’t consist of much aside from aisles of what could be considered food but was all blurred to create the illusion of clutter. He looked down each aisle seeing nothing, just empty halls followed by desolate lights, illuminating the air more than the items.

The young man continued to wander through it, only until another creature entered; he hadn’t noticed them let alone any defning features of who this could be. Following in this confusion, there wasn’t even a face to distinguish them with. There was nothing to defne what was there, just a creature that only looked forward, never back at the boy.

But he unsuspectingly was drawn to them, almost wanting to run to them as if this was the only thing in his life he desired yet had no clue who it even was. His breath hollowed out as he slowly tried to take a step forward only to stay back and hold onto where he was now. He looked away from the creature trying his best to ignore it, only to wake back up to the ticking clock sounds

“tick…tick….” ***

The new day greeted the young man the same as the other one had. There was nothing new except the same old feeling that could drag even an elephant under in its intoxicating dread.

The routine itself seemed to follow the previous day’s analogous dullness. Wake up, go to school, come back from school, lay in bed, and fall asleep. A constantly repeating schedule that someone could get lost into, like a void that you look for the exit in all the time but never quite fnd it.

He’d return home only to dream again, this time waking up in an empty park. The street lamp would illuminate the setting, it would be the only form of light that was there. He continued to walk through it, trying to fnd a point in this dream only to just bare through and look around. Only again the fgure appeared before him, staring into the distance. He wanted to yell and question what it was, but it still stared never changing the direction it was longing for.

For as long as the young boy can recall this pattern repeated. He would live his life and do his daily routines only to fall asleep and be greeted by something that he himself could not truly understand what it was. Why was it so empty in these dreams? Why is this person there and who are they? What is all of this? Over and over the question arose, and over and over did the young man push the thought away not wanting to handle more than he already knew he couldn’t.

Sweat would begin to roll down his head, he would swipe it off his forehead to ignore it. But more sweat would produce, he would begin to grow so tired of this. As he wiped it away again he would see the person in the distance. Staring..always staring in the front of it. His eyes would burn from being open too long and as he would blink the exacerbating feeling would overwhelm him. Knowing that it would still be there staring. But he opened his eyes to nothing…there was nothing.

He couldn’t handle it anymore, all these feelings would overwhelm him. The fear, the confusion, the desperate begging to understand everything he couldn’t. He wanted it to end, he needed it to end so that he could fnally truly rest. The moment he took a breath again, he would notice a hole in his wall. He didn’t feel it, but all the emotions fooded him leading to him enacting his feelings outward.

“tick…”

That night there was no noise that protruded the silence that engulfed his room. There was no light to allow anything else to stand out, only the intermingled desolation and the inky darkness of the dreams that plagued his mind.

The darkness engulfed his mind like oil that slowly dripped down his face, impossible to get off but covering every part of who he was. There wasn’t escape from this he came to realize, only the constant dreams. Dream after dream, there was nothing else to acknowledge throughout these encounters. And as the dream fnally overtook him, he himself

Gave in

The clock attempted to give a hollowed out tick, but there was nothing this time.

He stood from his bed, the curtains in his room had been slightly opened as a light beam shone in. He slowly made his way over to that window, only to gaze out of it.

For the frst time….he noticed how green the now cut grass was… The fowers that had whittled away…There had been so much rain lately. But that never mattered. Why did it now?

He made his way out of the room and as he walked down the hallway he noticed the picture frames. In it was a stranger, one that he could remember the voice of. That he knew every turn in their life and had imagined what their deepest desires would have been. He stared at these photos for a second before descending back down the hall. When he got to the end it was just a dark and empty room, before him stood the fnal person he once said his goodbyes to. The only light in the room came from them, it surrounded them. The only little thing that could be noticed was a small piece of darkness, it was hard to notice but it stood out once seen.

He stood and stared at the human being before him, for the frst time he couldn’t run away from the darkest crevice of his mind. This wasn’t something he could fee from, only an ideology that he could pretend to outrun. His foot fell forward in the steady march of indecisiveness, stuck between wanting to run away from this, play into this constant cycle of begging for it to end and the denial of what it was.

Or between facing and fnally standing face to face with the darkest part of his mind. Accepting loss, accepting the only thing that ever truly tore the beats of his heart and the color of his world. The loss of...

The only friend he had ever had….

After moments of silence, he took that step forward. The frst time he had truly stepped to a light and not the darkness, it was the only time that he had fnally done something that he hadn’t done. And as he opened his mouth to fnally say something, out fell not just sounds but his heart, but a beat that echoed through the room, shifting the room in its wake.

“How long has this gone on, this constant chase? I looked for you in everything and yet you were gone, but now you come back and instead of gracing me with the love of a friend, you haunted me like a demonic spirit with a vendetta against the very air I breathe.”

He paused, it seemed as if he was trying to catch his breath but in reality he was just trying to process the only words he could even fathom.

“You know, I spent so long trying to avoid everything that had happened between us I had forgotten that you probably moved on, hadn’t you?” There was no response, not even the slight sound of breathing. “You know back then, I always cared for you no matter how I acted or how you grew. I always believed that we would be together forever and that my happiness was tied to you just as yours was tied to me. I wanted to be the only thing you needed, the only piece to fll that hole in you. But you moved on without me and that was it…You were gone.”

Silence was the only thing that graced him as a response.

“I miss you.”

Such hollow words, but perhaps for a second the creature could resonate with some of it. An ancient language that touched the mind of only those who could understand. But the worst part of it all, was that it was still there. And that empty piece remained… It was like a dead pixel on the largest screen, once it was pointed out it truly was the only defning aspect. And while it doesn’t make up the whole screen, it’s always gonna torment him. A dead pixel….That’s all that was left of it, nothing more.

AS ABOVE

Dylan Mercer

The entity rushed through endless geometry, none of which made sense in its mind full of false memories of being something it never was as it had never been before. After what felt like only minutes but had actually been trillions upon trillions of years it fnds a stopping point. An endless expanse of nothingness that looked like the edge of a videogame world far outside of the playable bounds never meant to be seen. The entity had never seen anything like it. At last The One had caught up to it, and with The One’s few shifting bodies, began to speak:

“There is no need to run. I would like to ask a question or two.”

The entity could not speak. It had no language and began to worry what may happen if it did not respond, so the very “world” around it began to fragment. A piece of the fabric that makes up this place began to be used as a substitute for a stone, the very type of stone created before. The One then had a thought, does the ritual even need multiple people? So The One engraved four words in the English language:

as above so below

The entity began to emit a red aura, which also began to surround the “stone” and cause its engravings to glow white. Without input it then fell into an unknown place in the lower plane.

A piece of unidentifed matter of unknown origin suddenly began existing in the empty expanse of space, at the edge of the cosmos where no light could reach and nothing else had reached far enough out to get to. This object was the only source of light this far out with its white glow. It spent ages here, really getting to know and understand the concept of nothing, and so as is the nature of these objects, it soon attempted to replicate this, and failed. You cannot turn something into what it already is. The object drifted through this near-endless expanse until fnally fnding something other than the color black. It saw stars, it saw planets, and went directly into a black hole.

It seemed as if this were the end.

But then the impossible happened. This spacial oddity began to shrink, eventually being replaced by the object. This item had begun to replicate the pure idea of absolute void. While it can be said that black holes are this too, they aren’t, for that is already a thing. The object then drifted once more, fnding itself on a planet inhabited by creatures able to change their own shape. One of them instantly noticed the anomaly. Their understanding soon went from confusion to terror as the very landscape around them began to disappear. This specifc object had plenty of time to understand its surroundings so it spread its infuence much faster than others. Soon a large pit began to form directly under it and the creatures attempted to dispose of the object before it was too late.

The largest of the group made a noble sacrifce, lifting the object to the air and rushing to the highest spot it could before throwing the object back into the stratosphere.

Where it drifted once more.

Ca itlin Daugherty

MASK 2

Cai tlin Daugherty

MASK 3

Cai tlin Daugherty

a guide to hand-making horror masks

Caitlin Daugherty

If you are interested in weird papier-mâché masks and how to make them, this little how-to guide will be your best friend.

The frst thing I do is come up with an idea for a mask. This is usually done by watching horror movies, playing horror video games, and other horror-adjacent media. Once the inspiration strikes, I move on with a simple sketch of the mask, or I just go for it and start creating the monster.

I make sure that my materials are super cheap. Everything I use comes from Walmart. Here is a list of stuff to gather:

—A cheap blank Halloween mask such as the Jason Voorhees mask, which is the one I use

—Toilet paper

—PVA glue (e.g. Elmer’s)

—Water

Foam clay or modeling clay

—Aluminum foil

—Masking tape/painter’s tape

—Spray paint (black and white)

—Cheap acrylic paints (e.g. Apple Barrel brand)

After getting all these materials together, you can start on your mask.

First I like to build a base on top of the mask with aluminum foil and painters tape, just getting the basic shapes there to layer papier-mâché on. Then after everything is secure (eyes, nose, any other defning shapes) I make the papier-mâché.

This papier-mâché is super easy: just mix pieces of toilet paper, PVA glue, and water together in a bowl until it is a gloopy mess. Then smoosh that

all on top of your mask. Wait a couple hours or overnight just to be safe, then add another layer, this time using the modeling clay (I use a big tub of Crayola Model Magic White) to add details to the mask. The modeling clay allows you to get fner details that papier-mâché can’t.

After all of the layers of your mask have completely dried, take it outside and spray it with black spray paint, completely covering it. Let that dry for about 20 minutes, then lightly spray the mask overhead with the white spray paint. This gives the mask natural shadows and highlights and lets you paint it easier.

Make sure that the mask is completely dry. Then start painting the mask with whatever colors you want. I usually use darker, more natural tones. I like to lie down a base coat of neutral paint, and then use watered-down (very watered-down) washes of colors to add contrast. I will apply the wet wash all over and then wipe off certain areas. This gives a cool look to the mask and its an easy way to add depth.

I will also dry brush, take a small amount of paint on a dry paint brush, wipe off as much as I can, and then lightly brush it on top of the mask, which can add highlights without too much effort.

After everything is dried—and this is optional—I spray the mask with an acrylic sealing spray which makes sure that it doesn’t lose its color and protects it from damage.

And there you go! How to make a horror papier-mâché mask for cheap.

road trip to tucson

Marcia E. Williams

Michael, trim aluminum suitcase parked behind him and road atlas tucked under his arm, stood before the clerk serving rental-car club-members shortly before his reserved 4:30 pick-up time. Their business fnished, he lifted his hat from the counter and tucked the fob into his pocket as the young man said, “Enjoy your trip to Tucson, Mr. Millchase.” People waiting for the only other representative in this Las Cruces, New Mexico, offce snaked through the small facility. Frustration showed on their faces as the temperature inside rose—the air conditioner was not running on this frst Thursday of December. A woman in her mid-thirties, apparently with no reservations—either for a car or about suitable public behavior— clogged the front of that queue. “What do you mean you don’t have any cars? My daddy’s sick.” She swept her hand across the full parking lot visible through the front windows. “You have all those vehicles. Rent me one so I can get to Tucson and see my daddy before he’s dead and buried.”

Michael wished his wife, Kate, were with him. She’d left in their car a few days ago to prepare for her brother’s seventy-ffth birthday party this weekend. Michael couldn’t go then due to a board meeting earlier that day for an organization that he chaired. Mulling the boring four-hour drive to Tucson, he blurted, “Would you like to ride with me? I’m headed to Tucson.” What had possessed him? He didn’t offer rides to strangers.

She stopped haranguing the clerk and looked over her shoulder at the tanned, lanky man, wearing black trousers and an elegant straw hat with a feather tucked into the hat-band. The buzz from the line stilled. She cocked her head, auburn hair falling from behind her ear, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Sure.” Applause broke out behind her.

Michael introduced himself, and she said, “I’m Carolyn.”

“Grab your stuff,” Michael said, wanting to maximize daylight driving before the sun set about 6:00.

“Oh, my things are back at the motel.”

Who went to rent a car without bringing their baggage? Michael had learned the world was not populated with people, not even family, who behaved as he did. He stashed his suitcase in the trunk and placed his hat and atlas in the back seat. Even with a direct route—west on I-10 to Tucson—he liked having his Rand McNally, its tattered cover taped; its center pages loose. “How did you get here?” he asked.

“I walked. I was afraid this would happen—that they wouldn’t have any cars—and then I’d have brought my stuff over and would have to wag it all back.”

Why hadn’t she called about a car? Fortunately, her motel wasn’t far. He parked

in the shade and reached for the atlas, intending to read about the national parks. A sheet of paper futtered onto the foor of the back seat. He got out of the car to retrieve it—a printout of his last email exchange with his youngest sister, Dodie. He’d slipped it into the atlas for his intended Austin trip to visit her three years ago. But, things blew up. No, they just fzzled, each of them too stubborn to contact the other again. He tucked the email into an open compartment in the car’s front console and fipped the atlas to Acadia National Park. Carolyn’s motel advertised weekly rates and some time later he saw construction workers’ pickup trucks returning to its parking lot. It was almost 5:00. Where was she? Growing up in a family with fve siblings, he’d run his adult life as on-time as possible.

Carolyn fnally emerged, handing him an uncapped bottle of Mello Yello and an opened bag of pork rinds, and said, “Hold these.” He put the soda in a cup holder and tucked the greasy bag of snacks in his door. She turned and heaved an enormous black garbage bag into the trunk. He moved to press the start button, but she said, “Hang on, one more thing.”

Michael waited and squinted as she emerged cradling in her arms a wrinkled paper grocery bag that might have contained a quarter-bushel of grapefruit. Below staples securing the top were holes that might have been stabbed with a ballpoint pen and worked larger with her fngers. He indicated the trunk, but she said, “This can’t go in the trunk. It’s Muffns.”

“Food’ll be fne in the trunk.”

“Not muffns. Muffns. My cat.”

“You’re bringing a cat?”

She sat in the passenger seat with the cat-in-a-sack on her lap. Michael started the ignition and set the satellite radio to Real Jazz. “I can’t very well leave him here. You’re not allergic, are you?”

“Actually, I am, but I should be fne if I don’t touch him.” The cat seemed pretty calm.

“Yeah, I had to sedate him to sack him. He’s an eighteen pound albino. They can’t hear, albino cats can’t.”

“Your dad like cats?”

“Dunno. I’ve only had Muffns a few days. Found him scavenging in the motel’s Dumpster. How long’s it take to get to Tucson, anyhow?”

“Haven’t you been?”

“Nope, frst time. My mom’s been hassling me to get home.”

“Your folks move there recently?”

“My folks? Oh, no. So, how long’s the drive?”

Michael puzzled. “About four hours unless there’s a delay at the Border Patrol station.”

“What’s that? We don’t go into Mexico, do we?”

“No, it’s a check point where they ask a few questions and let the drug dogs sniff the vehicles.” Was her question due to a lack of a passport or contraband in her black bag? He found Border Patrol checkpoints within the United States too surveillance-state, but if you traveled interstates from Las Cruces, you passed through one. He’d wear his sunglasses until the last minute to thwart the facial-recognition software in the camera banks on the approach.

“Boy, I hope Muffns stays asleep; he hates dogs. Do you usually pick up women at car rental offces?”

“No, I—”

“Somewhere else?”

They hadn’t even passed the Las Cruces Airport’s roadrunner sculpture yet. “No. I’m married. I don’t pick up women.”

“But you picked me up. You must fnd me really cute.”

Oh, Jesus. A horsey, brash brunette, young enough to be his daughter, wearing a shapeless busy-print dress, with a cat and a tenuous relationship with time. She wasn’t his type. She’d never be his type.

Carolyn grabbed the email from the console. “Who’s Dodie?”

“My sister.”

“God, didn’t your parents like her?”

“It’s not her given name; that’s Doreen. But when she was born, my siblings and I—she was the last of six—thought what an awful name! We nicknamed her.” Dodie might not be much better.

“So, your sister. Is she cute?” Carolyn said.

“Well, in fact she is—”

“Looks like you were planning to see her.”

“I was, but, the—”

“So you didn’t?”

“No, I was just telling you that I ended up not making that trip.”

“Tell me more about cute little miss Dodie.”

“She’s a musician, lives in Austin, Texas.”

“She like this crap?” Carolyn pointed toward the radio, which was streaming Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue.

“Probably. She prefers a different genre.”

“La-di-da, getting fancy with the vo-cab-u-la-ry,” Carolyn said.

He’d thought Carolyn would help pass the time on this tedious drive, yet somehow every minute with her seemed longer than sixty seconds.

“You in touch with her often?” Carolyn said.

“Used to be. But we fell out a few years ago.”

“Money?” she asked.

“That’s why the trip was canceled. She called and asked me to send her some money—”

“And you didn’t do it.”

“You sure interrupt a lot.”

“It’s like driving. Leave too much space ahead of you, and someone will jump into it.”

“I didn’t send the money.” Kate told him just to send the few hundred dollars to Dodie. He understood that his sister wanted to make it as a musician, but couldn’t she have kept her day job a little longer, until her music supported her? Now, he wouldn’t hesitate.

“And?”

“I miss her.” His sister was as kind a person as you’d ever know. He decided not to leave the space for Carolyn’s next question and jumped in with his own. “So, when you’re not traveling, what do you do?”

“I used to sell life insurance, but the people I was supposed to sell it to couldn’t afford it. I fnally felt too crappy pushing it on them.”

As traffc merged into a single lane at the Border Patrol checkpoint, Michael thought he heard Muffns stir and asked, “How long does that sedative last?”

“Dunno, never gave it to him before.”

Suppressing the dread rising within him, Michael removed his sunglasses, rolled his window down, and stopped the car. As the offcer bent to ask if they were all citizens, Muffns shredded the bag, knocked the capless Mello Yello into the driver’s side foor, and vaulted out the open window headed for a German shepherd named Krupp, according to his vest. The offcer seemed to signal Krupp to stay, which he did. But Muffns—back arched, tail twitching—stalked the dog. The offcer must have determined that Michael, if not Carolyn and the diabolical Muffns, posed little threat and directed him to park the car off to the right and round up the cat. The offcer and Krupp returned to working the line of vehicles.

Michael called, “Muffns! Muffns!”

Carolyn reminded him that the cat was deaf and said, “You watch for Muffns while I get some tuna.” She retrieved her trash bag and upended it on the asphalt. Clothing. Hair dryer. Food. Make up. Undergarments. Loose papers. She kicked through the debris and extracted a can of tuna and a quart Ziploc of pills resembling a state fair’s guess-how-many-jelly-beans game. Muffns dashed near Michael, who grabbed for the cat. But the albino spirited away, leaving tufts of long white hair stuck to Michael’s shirt. Carolyn continued, “Hey, Michael, put my stuff back in the bag, while I get Muffns.”

Why had packing up taken her so long just throwing everything into a trash bag? He didn’t even handle Kate’s intimate garments and certainly didn’t want to handle Carolyn’s, but Tucson beckoned. Moreover, he was concerned the offcer’s patience might run out. The prospect of being held in a windowless cell without legal representation for an untold length of time did not appeal, though he considered that might be an improvement over traveling with Carolyn. He reloaded the bag and placed it in the trunk. Carolyn, who’d opened the can of tuna, was waving it around near Muffns, trying to entice him into the car. Muffns cautiously followed the pungent delicacy into the front passenger foor. With the cat inside, they shut the doors as the frst of a series of sneezes blasted from Michael. The soda had soaked his black trousers and their silk was now cold and clammy against his shin. Pooled on the carpet the soda squished when he put his foot down. Carolyn plucked out another cat sedative. “I think I have some antihistamines.”

“Better not,” Michael said starting the car, dubious about the mystery pharmacy. The sky had moved from the rich rose light of late day to the dead gray that follows sunset. Muffns, tummy full, crawled into the back seat. When Michael put on cruise control, he heard a faint thwick when he removed his foot from the accelerator. The soda, carried to the pedal on the sole of his shoe, had become tacky. Michael’s eye lids itched and began to swell.

“What’s that?” Michael asked, hearing sounds from the back seat reminiscent of an engine repeatedly turning over but failing to start.

“Sounds like a hairball.” Carolyn looked in the back seat. “Yup.”

“Hairball?” He tried to put his Panama out of mind.

“Oh, cats swallow hair when they groom themselves. It collects until they puke it up.”

Oh, God, Michael thought, imagining a lump of gagged up cat hair in tuna oil on the back seat. “Let’s stop in Deming, the next town.” They could get gas and clean up the car.

“Sure, whatever.”

Deming was only sixty interstate miles from Las Cruces. They’d barely make it before dark. There was still a thwick each time he removed his foot from the accelerator. He stopped at a travel station in Deming. Carolyn said, “I wish I could chip in for gas, but I don’t have any money.”

Fueling the car, Michael wondered how she’d planned to rent one without funds. Surely she had a credit card? Carolyn cleaned up the hairball and tuna mess, then found an empty cardboard box to put Muffns in.

Michael said, “Let’s eat here at the diner. My treat.”

“I’m easy.”

After they’d ordered, Carolyn left the table, and Michael called his wife to tell her he’d be late, not to worry; no, he couldn’t go into details now, just to leave the kitchen door of her brother’s place unlocked. When she returned, Carolyn tossed him a packet of Benadryl. He surmised how she’d acquired it but swallowed a tablet anyhow. He asked, “So what’s wrong with your dad?”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you all of what’s wrong with my father. He only went into psychiatry to understand himself.”

Michael was confused. “In Las Cruces you said your dad was sick; you wanted to see him before he died.”

“And?”

“He’s not sick?”

“Not exactly.”

“But, he’s in Tucson, right?”

“Atlanta.”

“Why’d you say he was in Tucson?”

“I overheard the clerk wish you well on your trip there.”

Kate’s never going to believe this. I can’t even believe this, Michael thought. “Can I believe anything you say?”

“Up to you. Probably shouldn’t believe everything anyone says.”

“So, what’s really up?” He was living the dark side of his father’s lesson that a gentleman keeps his word.

“Mom’s after me to come home. Daddy’s back inpatient after another break-down.”

“But, if they’re in Atlanta, you’re heading farther away from them,” he said.

“Bingo. I’m in no rush to see my father or to talk with my mom, either.” The waitress appeared with a tray and unloaded their food. Carolyn asked, “Why hasn’t Dodie called you?”

“Pride, I suppose.”

“And you, why haven’t you phoned her?”

“Don’t know how to begin.”

“Sounds as if the two of you have lots in common.” She shook her head.

Once the meal was over, Michael left a tip large enough to cover the Benadryl’s cost. Out in the parking lot, Carolyn looked at Michael’s red-rimmed eyes with puffy lids and said, “Better let me drive.”

“You’re not on the rental agreement.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and blotted his teary eyes. She shrugged and got in the passenger seat. Not much later, he parked in a rest area and pulled his handkerchief out again. “I can barely see,” he said and walked to the passenger side. She swapped seats and reset the radio to Willie’s Roadhouse, where Waylon was singing. She wailed along with him, in a roving key. Carolyn had neither the ability to carry a tune, nor the self-awareness to know that she couldn’t. The antihistamines put Michael to sleep despite the din. He woke some time later when Carolyn pulled up to a fuel pump at another travel plaza, and asked where they were.

“Gas station.”

He could see that. “Where?” He shifted his weight to pull out his wallet.

“Outskirts of Phoenix.”

“Phoenix? Phoenix is a hundred miles past Tucson!”

“You and Muffns were asleep, and I thought it would be fun to see Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles? And your father?” he asked from his Benadryl haze.

“Still in Atlanta.”

“I’m not going to Los Angeles,” Michael said while fngering the fob secure in his pocket. Carolyn wasn’t taking him anywhere else he didn’t want to go. Small solace. “I’m driving back to Tucson. Are you coming with me?”

“Drop me at the Phoenix airport. I’ll either rent a car or catch a fight.”

“You don’t have any money.”

“I didn’t have any in Las Cruces either.” She smiled.

Sky Harbor Airport was even farther west, away from his wife, away from his brother-in-law, away from Tucson. He sighed a deep sigh of resignation. He returned to the driver’s seat and drove toward the airport where he navigated the signs and pulled up to the main terminal. Michael took the sixty-seven dollars in bills from his wallet—he usually used plastic. Despite her deceits, his forid allergic reaction, the rental car soaked in tuna and soda, she’d been company. He either didn’t have the energy for anger or the Benadryl had suppressed that too. Giving the cash to Carolyn he said, “Take this.” I wish it could be more

Carolyn’s saying he could get more from an ATM showed he’d been thinking out loud. Both of them still seated in the car, he conveyed by his expression that he would not be withdrawing funds from an ATM. She exited the car, pulled the box containing Muffns from the back seat, and headed toward the trunk which Michael had popped open. She set the box down on the sidewalk while she swung the garbage sack of her stuff onto her shoulder. Michael came around the car to hand her Muffns in the box. He watched them disappear into the terminal, before pulling slowly away. So much for getting to Tucson in daylight. So much for getting to Tucson on time. So much for getting to Tucson on Thursday. At least he should make it to Tucson on Friday, maybe even before sunrise. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his hat. His trousers’ leg was stiff from the dried soda, the carpet still squished, and there was a lingering scent of tuna and pork rinds. There’d be a good carwash in Tucson that could put all that right before he returned the rental. Or maybe he’d keep it a little longer and head to Austin.

forest story

Fenton Kay

Chapter 1

Driving to our frst survey site, Ben regaled us with stories of the Sasquatch. Hearing that Ben would be working in the Sacramentos, one of his smart-ass relatives sent him a book about purported Sasquatch sightings, including Apache tales and a report by a woman near Ruidoso. We all got a laugh and a bit of a shiver from his stories. Our surveys will include the same area where the purported Sasquatch was seen.

What a place. Lofty pines, some with trunks of greater diameter than our arms together.

Many show the blackening from past fres. The open forest foor provided further evidence of the cataclysms that once raged here. There are few shrubs, a lot of open space, and fallen, charred trunks of smaller, less resistant trees. The pine needle duff crunched under our feet as we walked and slid down the slope toward the narrow stream below. The stream also bore witness to cataclysm. Some emergent plants here and there along the edge. Patches of grass and seedling berry bushes here and there along the bank. Had our target survived the inferno?

There, upstream a few yards, a fallen trunk lying with its end in the stream and a now disconnected root mass poking out of the ground. With renewed hope, we hurried to the rotting trunk. A golden-mantled ground squirrel, scolding, took off up the slope as we reached the downed tree. The fve of us, Jeff Baro, Saundra Applegate, Ben Smith, Laura Marquez, and me, Lazarus Raffe, arrayed ourselves around the rotting trunk as the Forest Service and the Fish and Wildlife had trained us. The idea was to thoroughly search for the salamanders without destroying the precious and fragile habitat.

First, we would stand very still; we would watch and listen. No, the salamanders didn’t make noise and were unlikely to move around where we could see it. Rather, the purpose was to try to determine who else might be using the downed trunk for a home. Small forest mice, deer mice, might reveal themselves. The rare Madrean alligator lizard was known to occupy such habitats at this elevation and could be hunting termites around the trunk. Short-horned lizards were also known from the area and fed exclusively on the big carpenter ants that were often found in downed tree trunks like this one. Although the elevation of the stream was a bit high, if the trunk was hollow, it might harbor a spotted skunk, which we would defnitely want to avoid disturbing.

Having heard and seen what was there to see and hear, we would begin the actual search for the salamanders. Oh, yes. And well, you might ask, what salamanders were we looking for?

Before the confagrations reduced this forest to a few trees and a lot of ash, Sac-

ramento Mountains salamanders were known from along this tiny creek. They were considered to be seriously threatened by excessive logging then and may be extinct after the fres. That is our goal today. See if that small, lungless salamander still exists in the Sacramento Mountains.

So, with that in mind, and after carefully searching around the stream end and the root mass end of the fallen tree, we carefully roll the trunk back slightly. Underneath are lots of carpenter ants and termites in the wood itself. There are no salamanders evident under the log, nor are there any eggs to be seen. Oh, yeah, Sacramento Mountain salamanders require moist duff, not open water, to reproduce. They lay their eggs in the moist duff and ground under fallen logs.

The eggs develop in the duff and hatch directly into little salamanders. At the stream-end of the log, Saundra Applegate lets out a small whoop. She sees a tiger salamander in the stream under the log’s end. That is a good sign. If there are tiger salamanders, there surely must be Aneides.

Tiger salamanders, Ambystoma tigrinum, are endemic to this area. They can be found from the Rio Grande River up to about our elevation in the mountains. Ambystoma require free water to reproduce but burrow into the stream or pond banks during winter and drought. It is thought they may eat baby Aneides, but no one knows that for sure. In the Rio Grande Valley, they are released into ponds and cattle tanks and harvested as fsh bait. Interestingly, there is a morph a growth form of the salamander that never becomes an adult. They retain their larval gills and live out their lives, including reproducing as totally aquatic creatures with gills. They can exist for a while out of water; hence, they tend to be favored for bait. If a pond or stream where they are living dries up, they apparently can fnish metamorphosis changing their mode of life and become full-blown semi-terrestrial salamanders. Now, there’s an arid-land adaptation for you. They are sort of like axolotls that can transform. Apparently, the fully salamanderized adults can live for extended periods—years perhaps—under the ground, awaiting favorable conditions—water.

Lazarus Raffe records Saundra’s observation on his iPad, and we carefully return the log to its place. After a bit of searching up and downstream from the fallen tree does not turn up any more potential salamander sites in the immediate vicinity, we continue our search. We spread out on either side of the rivulet and head upstream toward the small spring that feeds it. As we walked, a cottontail rabbit fushed from a small copse of mountain mahogany. Because cottontails were never very common in this area, Lazarus made a note of the occurrence. Another good sign of recovery in this part of the forest.

Just before we got the source spring for the creek, we came across another fallen tree. It was also close to the water, and it sort of bridged the stream. We examined the downed tree trunk following the same procedure we had earlier. When we rolled it back, two salamanders, Aneides, were under the fallen tree. Saundra grabbed them gently. We took a series of measurements, and Laura determined that they were a male and a female. Ben took pictures of the salamanders and the

habitat. We returned them to the duff under the log and replaced the fallen tree to its original position.

Altogether, it was a successful day. The Forest Supervisor will be pleased with our report and the positive changes and restoration of the burnt forest indicated by our fndings. Tomorrow, we are scheduled to survey a wetland area not too far to the east, which is probably a recipient of the fow from today’s stream. There will only be four of us; Saundra has been reassigned to a team working on the Mescalero Reservation.

Chapter 2

Wow, it’s a nice little wetland area. Big bunches of cattails, rushes, sedges, and horsetails. Lots of grass and small shrubs around the margins. It looks like it may have been a beaver pond in the past. Hmm, I don’t know if beavers were ever in this part of these mountains. They are known from the Rio Grande but may not have gotten this high. There is clear evidence of some sort of a dam-like structure across the stream. Ah well, nice wetland, whatever the source.

Enough rubber-necking. We are supposed to look for and set live traps for jumping mice—Zapus. They were known from this wetland before the fres; now we must see if they are still here. It will be interesting to see what our live traps catch, however. White-footed and or deer mice Peromyscus are likely, as are chipmunk–Eutamias. But probably not either species unless we set traps in the pines. We saw a chickaree Tamiasciurus on the hike to the wetland. It sat on a tree limb and yelled at us as we passed. However, I don’t think our live traps are big enough to take a chickaree.

We expect tiger salamanders here a nearly perfect habitat and Sacramento Mountain salamanders may occur if there are downed trees. The remaining big pines are growing close to the margins of the wetland, so there is plenty of pine needle duff. We may come across New Mexico spadefoot toads, but probably not. It’s a bit high for them here. Same for Woodhouse toads.

So, we spread out and walked around the margin of the wetland, watching for evidence of tiny trails through the grass or any critters skittering off. Laura spotted a tiger salamander, and near the far end of the marsh, we found a nice old log propped against a slab of rock. We checked out the log and found a female Aneides with a batch of eggs under it. Super neat. Ben looked carefully at the eggs and thought they were close to hatching. That and the female’s measurements were put on the iPad. We saw several LBBs little brown birds but they scooted away before I could put a name on them. No sign of Zapus or their trails, but that doesn’t mean anything. It was time to set the traps, move ourselves up into the pines, and set-up camp. We’ll check the traps just before sunset, later at night, and early in the morning. Crossed fngers, toes, and eyes that we score a jumping mouse.

Summer, yes, but colder than a witch’s hiney at night. No wonder we are at nearly 8,000 feet on a north-facing slope. In fact, there are still tiny patches of

snow under some dense shrubs. The sunrise was something else. Dark blue, almost black sky, then a faint glow on the horizon which consists of several rocky peaks—then yellow-orange followed by almost white, then the sun. You know, the orange-red sun you see in those nature documentaries. There it was, slowly growing on the horizon. It’s no wonder so many ancient people worshipped the sun. Checking traps. The grass was wet, and it was cold, but who gave care? Well, the mice, I guess—nothing in the traps. We’ll reset the traps a little later; right now, it’s time for coffee and food—in that order.

Chapter 3

Breakfast was done, coffee nerves set in motion, and it was time to reset the traps. After that, we will scout the area, looking for evidence of whatever might be active here. One of the team said they saw cat tracks along the edge of the marsh yesterday while setting traps. An active small predator sure could explain the apparent lack of jumping mice. We would hope for a bobcat, but feral domestic cats can’t be ruled out. Feral cats will add a new twist to the fauna. Given the devastation from the fres and the fact that many pets just disappeared from cabins that were burnt to the ground, feral cats—and dogs, for that matter—are not impossible.

Jeff, Laura, Ben, and I got our stuff together and went to the place where Ben saw cat tracks in the mud. Yep, there are feral cats up here or a small bobcat. I’ll have to tell the Boss that when we get back—we can’t call in from here—no cell phone towers—they all went with the fres. We don’t have a cat-sized trap, but Jeff thought to bring a trail camera. There’s a burnt snag a few yards from the marsh’s edge; we can put the camera there. Ok, that should work.

We’ll check the camera tonight when we run traps and again in the morning. Thanks to Jeff for the foresight. Now for a nice walk in the forest. We’ll stroll around and see what signs of critters we spot. It sounds idyllic, but it’s actually work—that’s what we get paid to do—yeah, rough life.

We saw nothing of interest on our wander. Jeff picked up a huge puffball mushroom. It’s the size of a football and appears to be in perfect condition to eat. That should go well with our meals-ready-to-eat later tonight. When we got to the marsh, the sunset had painted the western horizon a gorgeous orange-red. Much like the sunsets when the fres were going. Luckily, not from a fre this time. We ran the traps and got a jumping mouse. The boss will be happy about that. We were ecstatic and argued for fve minutes or so about whether it was a Zapus. Ben checked the trail camera. There were some pictures on it. We’ll take the chip to camp with us and look at the photos on our laptop. Ben put a new, blank chip in the camera. We’ll check it again tomorrow morning. It’ll be too dark to do that when we check the traps tonight. Back to camp. Jeff says he’ll fx the mushroom, or at least part of it—it’s too big to eat the whole thing in one go.

We heard a screech owl as we ate supper, and Jeff thought he saw a fammulated owl tree hole near our trapping area. He says he will check it out tomorrow. We keep hoping to hear a wolf, but that’s not likely to occur. Mexican wolves were released in the Sacramentos just before the great fres happened. It’s assumed that the wolves didn’t survive the fres.

Wow—the camera chip had a bunch of neat pictures and one mystery picture. A skunk, a bobcat, and a couple of deer going for a drink. A chickaree climbed over the camera and gave us a big nose view. There is one shot of something big, apparently bipedal, just out of clear focus range on the other side of the marsh. We’ll have to check that area for tracks tomorrow. Probably a bear. That would be great.

Chapter 4

Morning—another gorgeous sunrise. I never knew that mushrooms for breakfast could be so good. Jeff made scrambled eggs with puffball: yummy and flling. He said there was enough mushroom for at least two more meals. Thank you, Mama Nature.

Ben put two more trail cameras into his day pack. We wanted to fnd out what that big bipedal critter was. We sat and argued into the night. Ben thought it could be the Sasquatch. Ben’s book has stories of a Sasquatch from Arizona’s White Mountain Apache Reservation. Off and on over the years, according to Ben, stories of a big bipedal man-like critter have popped up from folks living in the more remote parts of the Sacramentos. He also mentioned the report from near Cloudcroft that he had told us about. Laura and I poo-pooed that theory. It must have been bears, people in winter fur coats, or something more realistic and rational. So it went—back and forth until we fnally crashed for the night.

We checked the traps and reset them. No more jumping mice. One chipmunk, which we photographed, measured, and released. Ben swapped chips in the trail camera, and we looked for a good way across the marsh. We had to walk about a quarter of a mile along the creek before we found a decent crossing.

After crossing the creek, we hiked the quarter mile back to where the bipedal critter had been—at least as well as we could tell from the picture we had. We spread out and walked back and forth over the area between the trees and the marsh for about an hour. Suddenly, Ben let out a whoop. He had found a footprint and a narrow but well-worn trail heading into the forest. I photographed the footprint and took some measurements. The ground was wet, and the footprint was anything but clear.

The print appeared to be headed into the forest. We stood around the footprint and, with much arm-waving and sometimes loud voices, debated what we should do. We had to be back by sunset to check the traps. We all had plenty of water and lunch stuff. We decided to follow the trail for a mile or two. If we found nothing, we would return. Our best guess was that would get us back to the marsh just about sunset. So, off we went along the trail and into the trees.

As we walked along the trail, I began to think about what we would do if and when we found the source of the prints and our picture. If it turned out to be a Sasquatch, what the hell would we tell the boss? What would we tell the boss if it was a person living rough? If we found nothing, what would we tell the boss? Hmm—my central worry was what we would tell the boss.

Ben was in the lead, and we were strung out behind him. He suddenly stopped

as we approached a large rock outcrop and signaled for silence. I walked up beside him and looked where he pointed. There was a cave opening at the base of the outcrop, and a thin ribbon of smoke added to the blackening on the face of the outcrop. So, our Sasquatch has discovered fre. As we watched, a large man walked out of the cave, stepped off to the side, and relieved himself in some bushes. The sound of kids’ voices and laughter echoed from the cave. Ben coughed, and the man turned and looked in our direction. He quickly entered the cave and emerged a few moments later with a very large rife, which he pointed at us.

He could see us. We raised our hands and walked toward the cave. The man directed us into the cave. As I recall, several kids, a middle-aged woman, and a large someone were inside the cave. The cave was large and appeared to extend back into the mountain. The unknown person was sitting off to the side in a shadowy area but appeared hairy and dark-colored. The man asked us to sit down and asked about what we were doing. Ben told him we were forest service employees doing a routine faunal survey of the area. The kids stayed back away from us, and the woman looked worried. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.

That is the last thing I remember. I woke up back in our tent with a terrible headache. The rest of the group also woke up as I staggered to my feet and moaned. First, I needed to fnd our frst-aid kit and get something for the headache. The Ibuprofen in the frst-aid kit worked for all of us. We realized that it was the next day. We had traps to check and were due back at home- base in a few hours.

The traps were all closed and empty. The trail camera chip was empty—no pictures. My camera had no footprint picture, and the picture of the strange bipedal critter was gone from the iPad. Ben found where the footprint and the trail had been. Both were gone. The mud was just a stirred mess, and there was substantial brush and pine litter where the faint trail had been.

Sasquatch? We will never know. I guess that we will have to tell the Boss nothing. No one would believe us if we reported what happened.

Bob the sheriff: a children’s bedtime story

Ron Peeler

On the outskirts of Dry Gulch, a small, dusty town in the desert southwest, stood the town’s faded wooden sign right next to an abandoned wagon wheel and a hungry old buzzard waiting for a meal. Once, it had read, “Dry Gulch. Population 650.” But now, those words had been messily painted over, and replaced with a new message in big, bold, black letters that read: “Sheriff Bob, Git Outta Town!”

The threat was unmistakable. Someone was after Dry Gulch’s favorite lawman famous for his tough as nails reputation and whom the townsfolk referred to as their beloved “Bob The Sheriff.” Bob was known throughout the hard scrabble territory for being a no-nonsense type of guy that did not suffer fools lightly and treated them accordingly. The townsfolk were never sure about where he came from or who exactly he was, but rumor had it his mother was a southern belle from New Orleans and his father was a hard-riding lawman on the Chisholm Trail, protecting cowboys from lawless desperadoes determined to rustle their beeves and take hard earned money out of their pockets.

There was even talk of a sister back East that practiced medicine and worked with a high falutin medical hospital in one of them big fancy cities. These were all rumors you understand because the sheriff kept to himself, never wore a gun, and liked his milk in a tall glass. Because you see, regardless of what the townsfolk did not know about Bob The Sheriff’s personal life, they did know this, and that is, he could really take care of business, and he was only fve years old.

That’s right, you heard me, he was just fve years old but had locked up more reprobates in the eight months he’d been in Dry Gulch than Sheriff Bat Masterson had managed to do in a year of being a lawman in Dodge City, Kansas. And that, ladies and gentlefolk, is the problem. Because what you don’t know, is that Bob The Sheriff had captured and locked up the brother of the wily old desert dog that had painted over the town sign with those reprehensible and threatening words. Well, who was this criminal mastermind that was hot on the trail of the Sheriff of Dry Gulch. Population 650?

It was none other than Black Bart McBart. The older brother of Billy Ray McBart, the lunch time cookie thief Bob The Sheriff locked up for the charge of “loitery with intent to mope” which got Billy Ray a hard time, hard luck, time-out session of fve years in the Yuma Territorial Prison, in Yuma, Arizona. And that is why Black Bart was angry. So angry in fact, that he threatened Bob The Sheriff’s personal well-being and was determined to run him and his little milk drinking bottom out of Dry Gulch forever.

And today, was that day, April 18, 1876, was the day Black Bart McBart decided to make his move. The sun was tall in the noon day sky and the temperature was wickedly hot when McBart rode into Dry Gulch astride a big Morgan horse he’d

won from an innocent sodbuster in a fxed game of Go Fish. As he approached “Big Pappi’s Saloon and Sundries” he could not help but notice the sheriffs own multi- colored Appaloosa named “Giant,” tied up outside the establishment just to the right of the big swinging doors. McBart squinted nervously at the Sheriff’s horse as he slowly eased his up next to the sheriffs, because Giant was known far and wide for taking large bites out of the unprotected backsides of criminals who looked at the Sheriff sideways or otherwise acted out. Especially, if them criminals was giving the sheriff a hard time.

As he got off his stolen horse, Black Bart fgured he’d get straight to the business at hand and strode directly into the darkened interior of Big Pappi’s and right up to the bar, where he ordered a pink dirty water spritzer with a dollop of hot sauce to spice things up a bit from Skip the barkeep, who mind you, was the only dirty water slinger in Dry Gulch that parted his hair down the middle, had long sideburns and a handle bar mustache. After giving his two bits to Skip the Barkeep for his spritzer. McBart took a long thirsty belly satisfying swig from the slightly dirty mug, then slammed it down with a loud thud, turned around, leaned back against the rickety bar and angrily eyeballed the clientele until he fnally caught sight of his prey. There he sat, just to his right on an elevated platform called the “Gunfghters Lair,” taking quick sips from a tall glass of milk and every now and then dipping animal crackers into the milk with his little fve year old fngers.

“Well, well, well. Looky here, looky here!” McBart shouted at no one in particular, trying to sound tough. “If’n it ain’t Bob The Sheriff. Hey! Milksop! I see you still dippin’ them animal crackers of your’n into milk. And by golly Sheriff, I’ll tell you another thing, right here, right now. I most surely will. And that is Mr. Lawman, just because your name is the same spelt backwards or forwards, don’t make you special in my book. Look at me when I commence to talkin’ to you Sheriff! Cause if’n you don’t you’re gonna have to draw. Cause one way or t’nother, you’re leavin’ town today, diaper bottom.”

Unfazed by McBart’s shenanigans, the little sheriff pushed his chair back, scraping it against the wooden foor with a rasping noise that sounded like fngernails scratching a chalkboard, and slowly stood up on his tiny, booted heels. Just as he had requested the Sheriff looked directly at the wayward cowboy named Black Bart McBart and continued staring at him with his cold steely eyes until McBart’s gaze wavered, and he began to sweat. That’s when the sheriff said: “Not that it’s any of your business, McBart, but I been diaper free for a long time, and as you can see, yeah, I’m still dippin’ them crackers. Now I’ll tell you another thing…I don’t have a bedtime neither, and unlike you I actually enjoy my bath time. But that ain’t important right now because none of that’s gonna save you today. Because you see, straight up or draped over the saddle, is your choice, but either way you’re going to the hoosegow today. First of all, McBart, you came heeled into a gun-free town and you also defaced town property, all of which are jailable offenses. Now get ready desperado because I’ll be taking you in for both of those crimes. And by the by, McBart, leave my name out of this cause it ain’t got nothing to do with you and me.”

“I ain’t goin’ no where’s with you, Sheriff, not today and not tomorrow, you hear

me, diaper bottom?” McBart sneered, as he went for his shootin iron. But before anyone could even gasp or knew what had happened, McBart’s dusty pants were suddenly down around his ankles exposing his pale bony dirty knees, torn socks, and unwashed Sunday bloomers. Because you see, Bob The Sheriff had a secret and that secret was he was the fastest star throwin, fve year old, diaper free, sheriff in all of the southwest. As soon as Black Bart McBart went for his gun and in the tiny length of time that exists between the ticks of a clock, the sheriff whipped off his big silver badge and sent it spinning through the air where it hit McBart’s belt buckle dead center, dropping his pants, and exposing all of his worldly secrets. Upon seeing this spectacle, all the customers in the saloon began laughing and pointing at the shamed gunfghter.

Thoroughly skunked and humiliated McBart tried to pull his pants up, but it was too late. To all the people in Big Pappi’s Saloon and Sundries, it sure looked like another outlaw cowboy had been stopped in his tracks by Sheriff Bob. It was at that moment, with his pants down around his ankles and the laughter of the townsfolk ringing in his ears that McBart knew his goose was cooked and everyone in Big Pappi’s knew it too.

The rowdy bunch of now riled up customers celebrated McBart’s demise by showering him with leftover drinks, a large piece of broccoli, a half-eaten banana minus the peel, some asparagus, an old apple, a smelly lunchbox sandwich, and even two green pickled eggs. Being the outstanding lawman that he was, Sheriff Bob quickly took control of the situation and waved the crowd away and said to the boisterous patrons, “Hear, hear, now. Stop that! Everything’s over folks, so let the man be.” As the Sheriff made eye contact with people in the crowd, he spotted two of his former deputies and said: “Hey, you two standing over there, yes you two, Bill Johnson and Kyle Withers, kindly escort McBart over to the jailhouse for me and lock him up…here’s the keys. I’ll be along shortly after I collect statements from these good folks about what just happened.”

And that ladies and gents was the end of Black Bart McBart and his reign of terror because not long after his pants down around his ankles terrible, horrible, no good bad luck day at the hands of Bob The Sheriff. He soon joined his brother in the Yuma Territorial Prison for a much needed fve year, no afternoon snack for you, sit in the corner time out.

Was that the end of Bob the Sheriff? Oh my, no! The Sheriff went on to do many more great things in Dry Gulch, so many in fact that history books lost count of his famous exploits. But this story, the one you’re listening to right now, the story of Bob the Sheriff and Black Bart McBart lives on as one of the town’s favorite bedtime stories, retold by parents to their children and their children’s children.

The End!

ENMU-INSPIRED POEMS & ART

Robert Ruiz

ENMU ESQUINA

SALUDE BENDICIONES Y MUCHISIMAS GRACIAS.

ESTOY MUY FELIZ AQUI CONTIIGO.

ENCONTRAMOS SON RISAS BONITAS ONDA QUERRA.

CLALO QUE SI NOSOTROS LE GUSTAN AQUI.

DE VERDAS, DE VERDAS, DE VERDAS,

ENMU ESQUINA VALLE!

THE LABOR IN PLANTING

New to the area, amazed and uncertain, It’s great to be part of ENMU for certain. Planted trees in wildfre areas all around, There’s a lot to learn about the ground. It really is magical, mystical & enchanted, I will not take this opportunity for granted. Laboring in books not shovels ‘n hooks. A tree of knowledge is planted in me, and now ENMU growth rings you see!

ARTIST & WRITER BIOGRAPHIES

Ridgeline review issue 5 spring 2025

PAM BONNER

Pamela Bonner was born and raised in San Diego, California. After moving to Lodi, California, she was a frst-generation college graduate who attended San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton, California. After receiving double major AA degrees, she transferred to The University of the Pacifc on a full-ride scholarship where she received her BA in Communication Studies. She continued her education at the same institution receiving her MA in Mass Communication Studies. After moving to Ruidoso over a decade ago, she held a position with the Ruidoso News as a reporter and photographer. However, she made the diffcult decision to leave her position after much consideration. This was because of the huge wave social media now affects the media and the impacts communities have on journalists labeling news as fake, and the potential risks of threats. She enrolled in the Culinary Arts Program at ENMU-Ruidoso the Spring semester of 2024 and graduated in May of 2025. Her “new found passion” for fne dining has motivated her to excel and she graduated with honors and a. member of the National Honor Society with highest honors. She is a mother to one amazing daughter, a grandmother to an eight-year-old grandson she adores, three step granddaughters, and became a great grandmother in February 2025. She has traveled extensively in the US and abroad. Her passions extend beyond cooking to a great read, music, fne dining, movies, and the love she holds dearest to her soul for her family, her friends, and her community.

ANGELINA BROWN

Angelina Brown is an aspiring writer who has spent many years of her life dedicated to reading different types of writing and fnding interest in the psychology of the human mind. She spent a lot of her time making art of the stories she created, or writing out more stories inspired from different media she had taken in over the years. She currently works at the theater but hopes to go to college to fnish with a law degree and advance her knowledge in psychology so she can make more stories in the future.

PATRICK BROWN

Patrick Brown has been working with digital artwork for ffteen years. Most of his pieces begin as either ink or watercolor paintings and are then altered digitally, often creating digital collages with other paintings, photographs and textures creating complex images from simple paintings. As a profession, Patrick Brown is a scientist and teacher, creating art in his free time. Initially inspired by microscopy to create art, his Instagram handle is @dropletworld referencing the diversity of life that can be seen in a drop of pond water.

thomas bryan

Thomas Bryan is a Ruidoso-born artist currently studying at ENMU. He works at Noisy Water Winery and spends his free time drawing, playing guitar, and hiking. His colored pencil drawings are highly blended and favor mood over balance. Monsoon Blend, set in White Sands National Park, depicts a summer love in abstraction. Through Climbing Arms embraces imperfection and refects the growth he experienced while moving over the months—on and off—it took to complete the piece.

Desiree bustamantes

Desiree Bustamantes is a Nationally Certifed School Psychologist for Las Cruces Public Schools. She serves students across grades Pre-K-12, and also works in close collaboration with colleagues and student families. She grew up in Mesilla, New Mexico and has been a good ol’ bookworm since her early years. Her children’s social/emotional books follow a charming little girl named Rosie along her many life adventures. Her second book in the series is in memory of her late grandmother and explores the topic of grief and loss. The collection is available on Amazon in both paperback and eBook formats.

efrem carrasco

Efrem Carrasco is a seven-time published winner of writing contests and one magazine publication. His passion for writing began in the third grade and he later went on to study fction, memoir writing, and the editing craft at the University of Denver. Efrem has personally met and received writing advice from Jackie Collins (Hollywood Wives) and harsh writing advice from Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove). He has taught fction and memoir writing, and is currently the writing instructor for the Las Cruces Writers. When not writing, or editing for other authors, Efrem is happily working outside on his small ranch.

lori coleman

Lori Coleman is the Owner/Operator Spanish Stirrup Rock Shop in Alto, New Mexico, and SS Stone Gallery in Deming, New Mexico. Lori’s pursuit of rocks began as a hobby and has now morphed into a complete obsession. Lori and her husband Bruce mine rocks in New Mexico and turn them into pieces of art. Getting to play with rocks everyday hardly makes it a job. You can watch her create and visit their gallery out in Alto, New Mexico.

anthony coriz

Anthony Coriz is a student at ENMU-Ruidoso, who wrote “Ceremony” in Introduction to Creative Writing.

caitlin daugherty

Caitlin Daugherty creates masks and illustrations of monsters in her home in Nogal New Mexico. She explores the weird and surreal through her horror masks and the whimsical and comedic through her paintings both traditional and digital of fantastical creatures. She has a youtube channel, larryngitisart, where she talks about her artistic journey and her own strange creative inspirations.

graziella ferrara

Graziella Ferrara is a passionate and creative individual with a love for exploring new ideas and experiences. Known for her friendly demeanor and curiosity, she enjoys connecting with others and sharing her insights. With a keen interest in learning, Graziella continually seeks opportunities to grow and inspire those around her. Graziella’s hobbies are making fowers, writing, and drawing. Graziella also works in the summer at alto lakes golf and country club. And Graziella also does ballet six days a week.

eva foster

Eva Foster is thirteen years old. She moved to Ruidoso when she was in the fourth grade. She is currently in seventh grade, and she helps out in her parents’ shop, Happy Hiker, in Midtown. She usually works in the summers. She plays drums and percussion in band, but art has always been her favorite hobby. She is still experimenting with all types of media, but she really likes the variety of mixed media. A big inspiration for her has been comic books and graphic novels, such as Wings of Fire. She really loves the art style and technique of Mike Holmes’s art work. Another favorite inspiration is Spider-Man 2099 Special Edition. She likes the poses and action scenes of the vigilante super hero. She made “Aphrodite & Adonis” partially by accident. She was wanting to draw a strawberry because it is her favorite berry. She was looking for stories to inspire her artwork, and she stumbled upon an old Greek myth. The story is about how Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, and much more, lost one of her frst lovers, a mortal named Adonis. Adonis was foolish and not very bright, but he was a mighty hunter. One day, he went to hunt a wild boar, but Aphrodite knew he might get hurt and begged him not to go and to be careful. Adonis left anyway. He was attacked and killed by the wild boar because its tusks were very sharp. Aphrodite found him dead in a forest and wept over his lifeless body. She didn’t want him to truly die, so, as she cried, her tears mixed with his blood, and Adonis became the frst strawberry plant.

chris fulcher

Chris Fulcher lives with his wife, Roxanne, and three dogs outside beautiful Ruidoso, New Mexico at a convenient elevation of 7,550 feet. After spending thirty-three years at the University of Missouri running a computer mapping center, he now works at a national nonproft called Trust for Public Land. Chris, a life-long cartophile, loves hiking, reading, writing, and exploring. What better place than the Sacramento Mountains? Chris would like to thank the Ruidoso Writers’ Group for their encouragement and camaraderie.

aric gillis

Aric Gillis was born in El Paso, Texas. He spent seventeen years living in New York City before returning to the southwest. His poetry is inspired by the classic literature, philosophy, and poetry he grew up reading. His family has been visiting Ruidoso for generations and he currently resides in Las Cruces, New Mexico. These poems mark his publication debut.

annika glass-saiz

Annika Glass-Saiz is a sixteen-year-old sophomore at Ruidoso High School. She is an athlete and participates in wrestling, track, and volleyball. She works at K-Bobs Steakhouse on weekends and during the summer. Some of her hobbies include knitting, fshing, camping, welding, and doing nails. She aspires to either go to cosmetology school or become a veterinarian. Her dream college is Texas Christian University. She loves her pets including her bird Mango, her cat Zoey, and her two fsh Pebbles and Black Fish. She wants to be a tan, rich, hot trophy wife with as many pets as possible.

layla gonzales

Layla Gonzales is a sixteen-year-old writer at Ruidoso High School. She is involved in Ruidoso High School Volleyball, Cheer, and Golf. She also participates in Educators Rising, for which high school students learn to become future educators. Layla aspires to attend NMSU to major in Psychology and minor in Journalism and Media Studies. She hopes in the future she will be able to get her certifcation in Sports Psychology and eventually to write about her experiences. Layla writes poetry that touches the hearts of those who read it, creating a sentimental feeling with every word. Her poem “Voices” was written to allow people to see that there is a way to stop the voices that degrade you. She lives by the quote “If there’s a will, there is a way,” so if you have the will, you will fnd the way.

gloria jeremias

Gloria Jeremias is a member of the Ridgeline Review and a student at ENMU-Ruidoso. She loves all things cute with a knack for drawing and writing/journaling, and she can listen to Lebanon Hanover for a timespan she probably shouldn’t brag about. Poetry is her favorite form of self expression and she also loves to hear others’ interpretations of her works as she believes that verbalizing our abstract thoughts can serve as a glimpse into our inner worlds. Despite the fun in having a manifold imagination, Gloria consequently fnds it hard to live in the moment and wants to encourage others to “stop and smell the fowers.”

hannah jones

Hannah Jones is a Texas-born student residing in Alto with her family. In her free time, she enjoys writing and reading, art, playing video games, collecting knickknacks, and occasional photography. Her Fall 2024 biology course’s hikes encouraged her to photograph the local wildlife around her home and the greater Ruidoso area.

priscilla kadayso

Priscilla Kadayso is Kiowa Apache and Chiricahua Apache. She is the granddaughter of Elbys Onea Naiche-Hugar, who taught her many Apache traditions, such as the “Apache Cradleboard.” Additionally, her family lineage can be traced back to the Chiricahua Chief, Cochise. She is a mother, grandmother, and friend who resides in the mountains of the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation in New Mexico. She has worked in the business feld for the past thirty years and her hobbies include creating, designing, and sewing Native American Regalia, cooking, attending and participating in traditional ceremonies, visiting and spending time with her family and friends, and collecting Stephen King books. She also enjoys learning about other cultures and religions.

fenton kay

Fenton Kay is a retired biologist who worked in the Sacramento Mountains and Ruidoso on a variety of projects over his ffty-plus years of experience. He currently resides with his wife, grandson, three dogs, eight cats, two aquaria, and a red-eared slider turtle, with its own pond, in Las Cruces. Fenton has carried out biological studies in a variety of habitats and countries, and that work is refected in his ten mysteries and three kids’ books. Fenton has a web/blog page at kaylibros.casa, and his work can be found at www.lulu.com/spotlight/fentonkay, www.amazon.com/author/fentonkay, and www.borderlandsmedia.com.

katherine kiefer

Katherine Kiefer works at ENMU-Ruidoso as a graphic artist, website and social media content manager, campus publications coordinator, and amateur photographer for the college. In her spare time, she creates commissioned portraits using colored pencils, gel pens, and pastels. Her piece “Daisy” was created from a photo of a dear friend’s new puppy, Daisy. Kathy loves animals and nature, reading and listening to rock music (turn up the bass!).

stefani mcnutt

Stefani McNutt works in many different medias. She lives and creates art in Ruidoso. Find her online at @Stayloststudios

jack mCcaw

Jack McCaw is a semi-retired Professor at ENMU-Ruidoso, where he has taught many science courses over the past eighteen years. Professor McCaw began his photographic interests early in life, taking family and vacation snapshots, and quickly progressed into 35mm photography by junior high. His interests in nature and photography grew steadily, and eventually he attended New Mexico State University, where he received a B.S. in Wildlife Science and a M.S. in Wildlife Biology. McCaw worked his way through college using photography as his main fnancial means, working at three camera shops along the way, as well as in darkrooms for several studio photographers. Professor McCaw is in the twenty-eighth year of his teaching career, where he continues to teach as a resource faculty at ENMU-Ruidoso. He loves to travel, photograph, and share the beauty of nature. You can fnd his photographic work on Instagram @jackmccawphotography and my website at www.jackmccawnature.photos

dylan mercer

Dylan Mercer is a sixteen-year-old junior at Ruidoso High School, who loves to play Minecraft with my dad. He enjoys doing clay-type art, making vases, and playing different online games. He has an awesome cat named Max, and also two other black cats and an English Bulldog named Luna. When people ask him what he wants to do when he graduates, he tells them he is still working out the delicate edges of life and does not want to rush into anything. An interesting fact about him is that he has Asperger Syndrome, but he does not let it defne him; it does have its quirks, like he is not really good in social situations. He has two really supportive parents who help him with anything that he needs help with.

sydnee mowery

Sydnee Mowery escaped to the mountains of Ruidoso from Dallas in 2020. She and her husband, Gray, adopted their two boys in October 2023. Before moving to New Mexico, Sydnee played roller derby and worked professionally in theatre as a set designer and painter. She now works at ENMU-Ruidoso and is a founding member of both Oso Productions and the Lincoln Forest Renaissance Faire, organizations created to offer a welcoming, creative space for the community. Her poetry refects the same spirit of storytelling and the desire to build an accepting community and found family.

reese pretlow

Reese Pretlow is an eighteen-year-old, freshly graduated student who aspires to become a publisher and editor with the hope of one day writing her own novels to share with the world. Her love for reading and writing started in elementary school and has only grown stronger. Growing up in a military household and moving from state to state constantly, she took in the many different experiences and cultures around her and implemented them into her writing.

ron peeler

Ron Peeler, M.Ed., is a retired USAF Security Forces veteran, Park University graduate, and the President/CEO of Advise, Train, Guide (ATG LLC). He is also a husband, father, education and training manager, certifed online instructor, and the author of fve books. His soon to be released book, Codename: Crystal Ruby Top Secret/SC/SS/CR//LT, marks the beginning of a thrilling new science fction adventure series, featuring the exploits of Colonel Xavier “Tank” Abbott, a seasoned military offcer, as he embarks on a covert mission that could change the fate of humanity forever.

DOROTHY ROBERTS

Dorothy Roberts is a retired registered nurse. She teaches at ENMU Ruidoso, a prerequisite CNA course for students going into the nursing program. She loves to quilt and to design. She loves to think outside of the box when she creates her designs. She has a joy of writing poems and short stories. Most of her poems come from the soul and just come to her. In her poem, “Tears,” the sadness and heartbreak were her way of coming to terms with why all this was happening, and when she fnished writing it, she felt at peace.

fiona roberts

Fiona Roberts is a sixth grader at Capitan Schools who lives in Alto, New Mexico. She loves to attend Renaissance Faires, read fantasy books, and enjoy entertainment with storylines based on epic journeys in fantastical worlds with detailed landscapes. Her current favorite movies are The Hobbit trilogy. Fiona also enjoys crafting costumes for her characters that she writes about. Fiona is currently working on her frst novel which includes her short story characters as they embark on their own journeys.

dennis robbins

Dennis Robbins fnds himself a twice-retired vintage writer who enjoys writing children’s books. Blaming the “60’s” for his leaning on rhyme to tell stories is his only defense. He refers to himself as “a writer of seldom-read rhymes.” His hope is to share stories with young readers.

robert ruiz

Robert Ruiz is a frst-year student at beautiful ENMU and he loves it. He loves artwork and wishes to be an English / Art teacher one day soon! Robert is new here to town and comes to us from Nacogdoches, TX. He is forty fve and his mother and father are his best friends in the whole world! Robert would like to give a special Thanks to Professor Frawley for his kindness and leadership in helping Robert succeed.

faithe samora

Faithe Samora loves taking pictures of sunsets and, when she can catch them, sunrises. She lives in Carrizozo and the view from her front porch is amazing! She has three children and currently works for the County of Lincoln.

alora shaver

Alora Shaver is nineteen years old. She has lived in Ruidoso, New Mexico her entire life, but longs to move to Florida or Ireland. She is a Dancer at Ruidoso Academy of Ballet and Dance, where she has been dancing for almost seventeen years now. She is auditioning to dance professionally. She enjoys reading and taking long drives, and she dabbles in writing. Her biggest inspiration for writing is her brother, Wesley, who has written a book but is yet to have it published. She hopes you enjoy her short story “The Watcher.”

gideon staab

Gideon Staab is an ENMU-Ruidoso student who wrote “The Disc-Golf Trip” for his creative writing class.

velia trujillo

Velia Trujillo is an emerging writer who recently rediscovered her passion for storytelling after returning to school following a twenty-year break. Born and raised in the small town of Roswell, New Mexico, she is the youngest of four siblings and a proud 2003 graduate of Goddard High School. Velia began her college journey at ENMU-Roswell, attending for a year before taking a break to work in inventory across various cities and states. Her deeply personal story, ‘Loudest Unbearable Silence,’ draws from her own experience of losing her sister to suicide. Though the challenges she faced left a lasting impact, Velia has turned them into a source of strength, using her journey to inspire and support others who have lived through similar struggles. This compassion led her to the medical feld, where she currently works as a medical assistant in a behavioral clinic. Velia is also a dedicated wife to her husband, Jerry, and a loving mother to her two children—a boy Josiah and a girl Jennavecia. She balances her roles as a full-time student, mom, and medical professional with remarkable determination. She dreams of joining a nursing program to earn her bachelor’s degree and continue her mission to make a positive impact in people’s lives. In her free time, Velia cherishes moments with her family, actively supporting her children’s sports and school activities. Living away from her hometown, she enjoys sharing glimpses of her children’s lives on social media, allowing her extended family to witness their growth and milestones.

joselin frias valenzuela

Daughter of Inocencio Frias and Maribel, Joselin Frias Valenzuela was born and raised in Chihuahua, Mexico, and is a student in Psychology at ENMU-Ruidoso.

linda wellner

Linda Wellner lives in Carrizozo, New Mexico.

jonathan wheeless

Jonathan Wheeless is a lifelong New Mexico resident. Born in Ruidoso, he plans to pursue an English major at the University of New Mexico in the fall. He enjoys all things literature, from just reading a book to overanalyzing what it could mean. Most of his time is spent either reading or working on his next writing project. Jonathan dreams of one day becoming an author, but hopes to start his career in publishing and editing.

jerimy williams

Jerimy Williams Jr. is a junior in high school in New Mexico. He is an outdoors person and loves spending time with his family. Some of his hobbies include riding his bike, running, collecting hot wheels, wood burning, playing with his dogs, building bike jumps, and hanging out with friends. He enjoys doing lots of different sports including track and feld and cross county. He likes mechanics and welding and is a hard worker. When it comes to writing, he enjoys free writing and telling others about his experiences.

marcia williams

Marcia’s memoir Departures will be published by Cornerstone Press in 2026. With an MFA in creative writing from the University of Montana, she has worked as an assistant editor at Narrative Magazine

rita williams

Rita Williams lives and works in Ruidoso, New Mexico.

victoria young

Victoria Young is an experienced online ESL teacher and a substitute teacher with Pfugerville ISD in Texas. She holds a master’s degree in teaching English as a Second Language and is pursuing a second bachelor’s degree in Spanish at ENMU, with a minor in creative writing. Victoria’s passion for writing shines through in her work, where she explores various genres and styles to enrich her teaching methods. Her creative writing skills help her connect with students on a deeper level, fostering a love for language and literature. Victoria also enjoys gardening, spending time with her family, and hiking with her dogs.

the 2025 ridgeline review team

ENMU-Ruidoso students interested in working for the Ridgeline Review? Contact Professor Jeff Frawley @ jeff.frawley@enmu.edu. We need creative people, writers, artists, computer whizzes, graphic designers, social media gurus, and anyone else interested in fun and weird stuff!

(Left to Right): Gloria Jeremias, Jonathan Wheeless, Reese Pretlow, Jeff Frawley

SUBMISSIONS

We welcome your creative submissions all year long! Whether you’re a writer or an artist, we want to showcase your work in our ENMU-Ruidoso literary and fne arts magazine. Share your stories, poems, essays, artwork, and photography with us. Feel free to submit anytime, and let your creativity shine!

GUIDELINES

- Fiction & Nonfction (up to 10 pp.)

- Poetry (up to 5 poems)

- Art & Photography (300 dpi JPEG)

- Please submit written work as a Word document

- Include a 50-100 word biography when submitting

QUESTIONS & SUBMISSIONS

email: ruidoso.ridgelinereview@enmu.edu check us out online

ruidoso.enmu.edu/ridgeline-review Instagram & Facebook: @ridgelinereview

Who are we? We are a 501(c)3 foundation board comprised of ten community leaders, some of whom have been instrumental for this campus since the 1980’s. Board representation includes educators, administrators, representatives of the fnancial, energy, insurance, medical and real estate sectors.

We are committed to expanding the impact of this Foundation for the Ruidoso campus and community and to expanding our perspectives through board member growth.

What do we do? We support our students through scholarships, campus support and student engagement opportunities. We are constantly exploring and expanding the scholarship options available to our students. We have the capacity to assist students with emergent situations that have the potential to disrupt their progress.

We currently offer 25 scholarship options to Ruidoso Students covering a range of programs, student interests and backgrounds. We support non-traditional and adult education students as well as traditional students. The Foundation also manages endowed scholarships. The management and growth of educational endowments will assist students into the future.

With the addition of athletics in Fall 2025, we are positioning to impact our student-athletes through scholarships, program support and housing support.

Why do we do it? Because we are committed to student success. As this campus continues to grow, this Foundation is committed to exploring new ideas and conversations that will provide opportunities for our student population of traditional, non-traditional, adult education and community education students.

We appreciate the opportunity to explore individual and corporate partnerships to move the needle forward as we desire to expand scholarship offerings, endowments, planned gifts and capital campaigns. Please consider partnering with the ENMU-Ruidoso Foundation. We appreciate your time and consideration.

Contact Rochelle Lentschke for additional information: (575) 315-1216 or rochelle.lentschke@enmu.edu.

How

can you help ENMU-Ruidoso Student-Athletes?

SCHOLARSHIP FUNDS

Rodeo: Full teams consist of 6 men and 4 women athletes.

Tuition and fees for 12 hours = $1,000 per Student athlete ($10,000.00)

Cross-Country: Full teams consist of 5 men and 5 women athletes. ($10,000.00)

Golf: Full teams will consist of 5 men and 5 women athletes. ($10,000.00)

EQUIPMENT AND SUPPLIES FUNDS

Rodeo: Attire: Uniforms and vests must be worn with NIRA designated attire at competitions. Travel/lodging: Student competitors are required to pay their own entry fees for events as well as maintenance fees for their animal partners.

Cross-Country: Attire: Uniforms, shoes and outer garments as NJCAA designated attire must be worn while attending competitions. Travel/ lodging: Travel and lodging expenses as well as proper nutrition at all practices and competitions.

Golf: Attire: Uniforms, shoes and outer garments as NJCAA designated attire must be worn while attending competitions. Travel/lodging: Travel and lodging expenses as well as golf supplies.

Contact Rochelle Lentschke for additional information: (575)315-1216 or rochelle.lentschke@enmu.edu.

PAM BONNER | ANGELINA BROWN | PATRICK BROWN

THOMAS BRYAN | DESIREE BUSTAMANTES | EFREM CARRASCO

LORI COLEMAN | ANTHONY CORIZ | CAITLIN DAUGHERTY

GRAZIELLA FERRARA | EVA FOSTER | CHRIS FULCHER

ARIC GILLIS | ANNIKA GLASS-SAIZ | LAYLA GONZALES

GLORIA JEREMIAS | HANNAH JONES | PRISCILLA KADAYSO

FENTON KAY | KATHERINE KIEFER | STEFANI McNUTT

JACK McCAW | DYLAN MERCER | SYDNEE MOWERY

REESE PRETLOW | RON PEELER | DOROTHY ROBERTS

FIONA ROBERTS | DENNIS ROBBINS | ROBERT RUIZ

FAITHE SAMORA | ALORA SHAVER | GIDEON STAAB

VELIA TRUJILLO | JOSELIN FRIAS VALENZUELA | LINDA WELLNER

JONATHAN WHEELESS | JERIMY WILLIAMS | MARCIA WILLIAMS

RITA WILLIAMS | VICTORIA YOUNG