Ridgeline Review Spring 2023 Issue

Ridgeline Review About Ridgeline Review

Ridgeline Review is ENMU-Ruidoso’s literary and fine arts publication, featuring work from students, faculty, staff, and community members. We define “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.

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 reflect those of ENMU-Ruidoso.

Submissions

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

Guidelines

• Fiction & Nonfiction (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 3, Spring 2023

Editor: Jeff Frawley

Managing Student

Editors: Ami Bhakta, Caitlin

Daugherty, Dade Girven, RJ Gonzalez, Miriam

Lucker, Jayli Lueras, Arabella Snead-Schmitz

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

Helping ENMU-Ruidoso Students & the Ruidoso community reach new creative peaks!

Special thanks to the Community Foundation of Southern New Mexico and the Devasthali Family Foundation for their generous support.

Front and rear cover illustrations by Caitlin Daugherty.

From the Editors

It has been a pleasure to work on this year’s issue of Ridgeline Review and see it to fruition. Reviewing each piece from these talented artists and writers has been a delight and I am thrilled to be able to highlight each of them. I look forward to other members of this community being able to appreciate each of these talented individuals through this issue.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to work on this issue while being dual-enrolled at Ruidoso High School which has given me unique perspectives and opportunities. I’ve been able to be a part of a wonderful team of talented individuals including several other high school and college students. It has been a thrilling and hectic semester with each and every one of these lovely people. I have gained a newfound appreciation of art and literature as I have been able to be inspired by each of these artists and writers.

I hope that you enjoy this third issue of Ridgeline Review and can be as inspired and influenced as I have been this semester.

Dade Girven, Managing Editor

For the last three years, Ridgeline Review has brought together artists from all regions of New Mexico. From poets to photographers, painters to short story authors. Creators big and small from all walks of life, coming together to be recognized by a community that loves artwork as much as they do.

This third issue brings you what you have come to know and love from the artists of your local community, plus some national and international artists with whom we’ve connected via social media as the magazine’s online presence has grown. Fresh new pieces of art, hot off-the-press essays, and imagery that makes your heart yearn for the great outdoors.

This year brought together some incredible individuals, including Ruidoso High School seniors working on college dual credits, a familiar face from last year, and two fresh faces who never realized something like this would be their calling. By celebrating individual creativity, we’ve created a platform for others to be celebrated. We hope you will join us in recognizing the artists in these pages, and allow their thoughts, feelings, and experiences to inspire you to create something too.

Remember, you cannot create a shadow without first lighting a candle.

Jayli Lueras, Managing Editor

Table of Contents

Cori Cox

I remember sitting in English class, joking with my friends, when my life suddenly changed. It was sunny outside and I was in my second to last class of the day. There were about ten to fifteen of us in class that day. The classroom was always hot so the windows were usually open, but they were not on this particular day. My teacher was letting us have an easy day since it was towards the end of the year and we had already taken our AP exam. I remember her outfits always looked so pretty and her hair was always slightly curled. She usually had a bright smile on her face, but sometimes I could tell she was tired and just trying to get through the day. One of my friends was sitting next to me, I’ll call him Cole, and I remember him saying it smelled like smoke. He had bleachblonde hair that laid flat with a slight curve at the tips. He was always the guy to be joking about everything and never took anything serious. I didn’t think much of what he said, until I looked up and suddenly there were a bunch of clouds in the sky. I thought they were clouds, but when I looked out the window I saw the whole side of the hill in front of the middle school engulfed in flames and smoke.

I did not really think that this could be happening. I immediately thought of my sister who was at the middle school, and my other siblings who were at the house. The house was pretty close to the middle school. I was just hoping my Mom was at home with them, because sometimes they stayed at the house for a short amount of time by themselves. What also worried me was that there were many tall pine trees surrounding the house and our RV with the propane tanks was parked next to them. I tried calingl my Mom and Dad to tell them what was going on, but we didn’t have any service. I didn’t know what to think about the situation; I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening at the time.

While I was trying to stay calm, my mom was able to finally call me back. I could tell that she had been crying, but was trying to hold it together. For me, that was when it finally sunk in that this was really a big deal. When my mom gets anxious or mad her neck flares up a bright red and I could just imagine her in that state at that moment. She told me that she got the kids from the house and that my Dad evacuated them to Capitan.

“What about Casey?” I asked. She is another one of my five siblings.

She told me that my Dad would get her. “Make sure you stay with Kyler and do exactly what the teachers tell you to do,” she advised.

Kyler, my brother, also went to my high school, but I had no idea what class he was in. He always stayed calm during situations and never expressed a lot of emotions, so I knew he would be okay. Especially if he was with his friends,. I knew he would find a way to joke about it. I promised my Mom I would look out for him and she told me she loved me and that it would all be okay.

When I get nervous, I get really quiet and some of my friends noticed I was sitting by myself on the floor, not talking to anyone.

Our teacher was trying to keep everyone calm and I remember my two best friends (whom I’ll call James and Noah), coming up to me and saying, “Cori are you okay?”

I didn’t want to talk, but Cole came over and said, “Cori, it’s going to be okay. The fire won’t burn that far to your house.”

I just said, “Okay.” It helped a little bit, but I wasn’t completely convinced.

I remember feeling a little better and telling my friends that if anything happened I loved them, just kind of joking around to lighten the mood. James was a football player and was passionate about the sport. He had dark brown hair and dark eyes, but very light skin. He only wore under armour shirts and shorts. He always looked out for me. Noah I had known my whole life and even though we didn’t get along a lot of the time, I knew he was always there if I really needed him. He was a hunter, so he had dark tan skin and matching beige hair that was always cut short in the back. What they said to me and how they acted that day, I will always remember.

It felt like we sat in that classroom for hours, hoping the fire wouldn’t jump the road to our vehicles, and waiting for administration to tell us what to do. The sky was becoming more and more clouded from the smoke and all we could see on the hill was the flames. We had no idea what kind of destruction it had done yet. It was one of those moments when I knew what the worst outcome could be and I knew it was possible, yet I just couldn’t fathom what would happen if it actually did. When someone finally radioed that we were going to be evacuated, I had so much anticipation as to what was going to happen. I was able to sit by Cole on the bus and we both looked out the window at all the damage the fire had already done. The bus was crowded with over 30 kids all packed in tight. It was a very surreal experience and gave me anxiety wondering whether I might go home to that tonight.

The service was finally working, so I was able to text my brother. I remember

the next moment and how it happened exactly. We were passing the soccer fields on our way to the convention center, and my brother told me that my Dad said our house was most likely gone. I had been holding in all my emotions until that moment. I started crying uncontrollably and couldn’t stop. Cole asked what had happened and all I could do was show him. He looked shocked and said he was so sorry. He put his arm around me and let me cry. He’ll never know how much that meant to me at the time, just him being there for me.

We got to the convention center and I walked out of the bus. All the other students from the high school and middle school were there. There were what seemed like hundreds of people there. I imagine we all looked like little ants running around, trying to find our way back to our home in the ground. I still remember crying and friends asking me what happened. I either showed them the text or just said we lost our house. Most of them were very sincere in their apologies and hugging me, but I remember my best friend Noah, who I had known since I was a baby, who made me feel worse that day. I went to go find him, because he had been there when it all happened. He was standing with his girlfriend and talking to her and her parents. With a red face and tears still in my eyes I showed him the text. I have never felt so isolated and upset when all he said was, “Oh, I’m sorry.” He just stood there looking at me and that was all he said, so I just walked off. He was the one person to whom I wanted to tell what had happened and he didn’t even care.

It was chaos trying to look for Kyler and Casey. Everyone was agitated and worried that they couldn’t find their children. I had to work my way through what felt like mobs of people, all unsure what to do. I found my brother. I also saw my English teacher. I told her what had happened and she gave me the most heartbreaking look. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, but tried not to show it. She then helped us to go find Casey.

The traffic was insane and I wasn’t sure where my Mom was going to pick us up. We found Casey and by this time I had stopped crying. I remember her looking like a little girl then, even though she was already twelve. With her dark brown hair and big brown eyes. Her navy blue top and khaki pants that she hated wearing. She had no clue that we weren’t going back to our house tonight. She asked what was going on, but she could already tell by the look on my face what the answer was. That was when this girl who had always acted so tough started to cry. Kyler figured out where my mom had parked and my teacher walked us to the car. When I saw my mom I immediately knew it was true: we lost our house in the fire. My teacher hugged her and said she was sorry and to let us know if we needed anything. My mom got all of us loaded up in the truck and she came to me and said, “We’re going to be okay.” Her face was red from

crying and she looked so fragile. I felt even worse for her, because she was the mom and she had to know what to do with her six kids who were all grieving in different ways. Some were crying, some were quiet, and others wouldn’t even comprehend what had happened until much later.

I had felt my phone vibrate several times since I got off the bus. When I checked it, there were several messages from my friends, people I hadn’t even told yet. They were all checking on me so I decided to text them back. I didn’t want to talk to anyone in person yet, but I was able to text. Everyone said the same thing. They were sorry and said to let them know if I needed anything. It was a hard situation because I knew they meant well, but I also knew it was a little awkward for them because they didn’t know what to do or say. I really appreciated that they did check on me and were there for me.

My coach, whom I have known since I was two years old, told us we could go to her house. She lived in a respectable house that she had filled with memories with her husband and two sons. She is basically my second mom and has taught me so much. Not just about gymnastics, but life lessons. If I have a question that my Mom can’t answer, I go to her. My coach is amazing, but she is very dry and strict with us as gymnasts. I have never ever seen her cry or look upset in the fifteen years I have known her, but when she came to my door of the truck to help me get out in her athletic sweatpants and Under Armour top, she was welling up with tears.

My mom only told me recently that she remembered telling my coach, “Cori needs some TLC.” She said that my coach’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

We walked into her house and I just sat on her couch, silently crying. I still couldn’t comprehend what was happening. It just didn’t make sense and it was no one’s fault, but why out of all the houses in our neighborhood that survived, did the fire take ours? There were a couple others that the fire took, but mostly everyone’s house around ours was fine.

It took me several weeks after the fire for me to finally even want to consider talking about that day and the days that followed. There were two things that I really regretted losing. One was all my journals that I had kept from my freshman year, writing all of my experiences down. The second, the day before this happened, my boyfriend (he wasn’t my boyfriend at the time) asked me to go to prom with him and gave me a promposal. He gave me flowers and a poster. I just wished I could’ve kept those flowers.

That day, I learned so much about who my true friends were and who I could

count on. This event impacted my family and my life in a lot of different ways. I know each family member’s story is different. Take my dad, who saved all our vehicles while everything else burned. And who stayed up all night helping our friends keep the fire away from their house, even after ours burned. I remember when he showed up to the house we stayed at the night the fire happened. He didn’t get there until around three in the morning. He was covered in black soot and ash from the fire. I have rarely seen my dad look sad, but this was one of those times. He looked so worn down, like he had been beaten even though he did everything he could to save our house.

My mom had just wanted all of her kids together, but we were all so spread out either at the house or at our school. She’d also felt panic because the wind had blown a tree down in our driveway and she couldn’t get out. All my mom wanted from the house were the pictures of her kids, photos she could never replace. That day, my little sisters had been at home with our mom, and one had a double ear infection. Since there was no service, Mom couldn’t call Dad to get the tree out of the way, but by a miracle he showed up just in time to cut the tree, help my mom and siblings out, and move the vehicles out all in under forty-five minutes before everything burned up. My littlest sister, Cambrie, who was only four years old, is the sweetest, most manipulative, and ornery little girl. She has the brightest smile that will draw you in and convince you that you should let her have whatever she is asking for. I remember that night as I was laying in bed with her, comforting this sweet, innocent human being that had no idea what was going on. All she said was, “I want to go home.” I just felt for her, because she was too little to comprehend what was happening. She told my dad in the morning that she wanted her toys and I could see it in his eyes that his heart broke even more for his little daughter. Yes, the fire was an unfortunate event, but my mom kept reminding us that it could’ve been so much worse had my dad not shown up to the house.

One thing I never realized until my dad pointed it out was how depressed our dog was. We were able to get our two dogs out, but the cat ran off somewhere. One, a female mutt, was over fourteen years old and had lived in that area her whole life. After the fire, she was not herself anymore. She would lay around and you could see the sadness in her eyes. There was no sparkle in them anymore. The other dog, a female mix, was a year-and-a-half old and had not lived there for as long, so she was not as affected.

Not only was my family and I affected by the fire, but our companions were as well. Some also had to witness losing homes, had to deal with grief like we did.

Going back to what was left of our house after the fire had run through was an

experience I can’t even explain. Seeing the ash and dead trees and everything that had been affected by the fire made me feel like I was in a scary movie. Everything was gray and black and made me feel like I was in a cemetery, but without the people there. As I got out of the car and walked up the driveway, I tried to hold back the tears I knew would come. The black stove that we used to cook on and heat the house was still standing, but what was left of the walls was piled up in white clumps around it. I walked to where my room was and I saw the clumps of what used to be white paper on the ground. I tried to pick it up, but it just crumpled in my hands. Seeing what was left of my jewelry and my favorite books I loved to read and write in is what made me finally give in to my emotions. I silently cried because I didn’t want my family to know how much this upset me.

I was glad for my mom, though, because she was able to find her wedding ring and her grandfather’s rings in the middle of all the mess. That made her really happy. I continued to look through the remains of my belongings in the ash and it was heartbreaking to find all of my medals from gymnastics melted together. I had over one-hundred-fifty medals dating back to when I was just five years old. I had worked so hard for those, and they were all gone in the time span of one hour. I never really took the time to walk through the rest of the house; I only focused on my corner of the house. I do remember, however, walking along the trail that led from our house to the other piece of land we owned and coming across a branch that was still lit with fire. I just sat there next to it, warming my hands against the small flame, because it was so cold outside. Wondering how and why this all happened.

Alto Winter Wonderland

Paul Maxwell

Santa Fe Reflections

Paul Maxwell

Ruidoso Aden Kelly

There is a village ensconced in the fallen needles of pinyon juniper and ponderosa pine, surrounded by the rising Sierra Blanca range.

In the east, wind drafts ride waves of foothills into the horizon. In the west, a snow-capped crag receives each setting sun. The mountaintop stands sentinel, its peak a place where gods have long held sway.

I know nothing of mountain gods. I am seven, and I have not slept. Today, my family will make the journey.

The night has not yet broken into day. My world is cobalt. Above, a moon slice hangs where flat-black cedars yearn skyward.

The moon flings its muted light on my father. He has defied physics; our luggage is packed in the trunk of our van. My father’s face is stern and important. We file in line behind him, appraising his miracle.

The sky has transformed from blue to indigo, and in the east, cerise rays of dawn draw through seams in a shroud of low-slung limbs.

It is time to go.

My brother is comatose, dreaming. His head raps a muffled staccato against the window. A pillow has slipped down to his shoulder and suspended there, collecting drool in a single rivulet.

I do not know how long we have driven. I have seen sloping green hillsides become desert – a barren expanse of dirt and sun-bleached shrub. I do not know this alien land.

We are crossing over now. My mother issues a soft whoop and flicks a page of her book. My brother’s head knocks in gentle enthusiasm.

I catch my father’s eye in the rearview mirror. He grins.

Everywhere, there is magic.

It is night as we approach the village. My brother is awake; my mother has closed her book.

Our headlights reach into the darkness. Their warm glow reveals a forest of thick pine, sections coppiced to accommodate rough-hewn signs: Welcome to Ruidoso.

We snake upwards through ancient black growth. Our van slows, crunching spent brown needles. The air tastes crisp, new, and electric.

My father let loose a contented sigh. He turns the key, snuffing out headlights. Our family is enveloped in shadow. This is a secret place. We are quiet; our van whirrs and clicks, then sleeps.

My mother turns to face the back seat. She sings our arrival. Her eyes are diamonds.

I step out and into the night. Above, at hands’ reach, stars wink through latticed pine.

I reach for them. They are diamonds.

It is dawn, and snow has fallen.

My family is wedged into our van. It is unimaginably hot; we are bundled, and layered, and bundled again. I swish and chafe as sweat rolls down my spine. I try and fail with mittened hands to unzip my outermost coat. I am undaunted.

We are ascending a mountain.

The road is narrow, and my brother is green. He moans and asks if we have arrived. My father shakes his head. My mother chuckles.

There is no sun. Ice rains from the sky in invisible sheets, crackling and disappearing into our windshield.

I have ascended a mountain.

Ahead—below—my family swims through powder with impossible grace. Their skis throw walls of snow in their wakes, carving parallel trails, crisscrossing down the mountainside.

Briefly, I am alone.

Ahead—below—my father defies physics. He cuts and halts smartly, leaning casually on one pole. He looks up to me, one gloved hand raised to block the glare.

Behind me, above: a white-hot sun escapes from ashen clouds. A horned lark trills.

I lean forward.

It is dark now. In the fireplace, a log pops and hisses. Eight damp socks hang limply on the grate, steaming.

I wear a blanket as a shawl. In a mug on the table, the cooling dregs of chocolate dissolve a single marshmallow.

The table belonged to my grandfather.

A dusty radio mutters a warm and crippled tune. From the kitchen, my father whispers. My mother laughs. The glowing fire casts their shadows across the room. A barn owl hums—sweet, and low.

My head is heavy; my eyes are closing.

I am alone with my father, atop a mountain where old gods guard.

We stop in a thicket of quaking aspen. He steps out of his skis, lifting them and spearing them upright into a snow mass. He helps me do the same.

He stands for a moment, then flops backward into the snow. He smiles at me.

I flop backward into the snow. A pair of sparrows land in a tree’s branches. We say nothing.

I do not know what Ruidoso means. I turn to him and ask. He waits, watching the sparrows flit from branch to branch.

“Noisy.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending. Around us, snowdrifts hush all wind, all sound, all time.

He glances back at me. He puts a finger to his lips. He points to his ear, looks around the aspen, and looks back up.

I listen. Above, two sparrows dance in thunderous silence.

Northern Lights

Jacob McCaw

Explaining the Speed of Light to a Universe Within Carella Keil

Dreams in a spiral galaxy spin around like revolving doors, as we move closer and closer to the end.

Time is like a balance-beam. Walking through Desolation City, I feel your pulse in my Achilles’ heel. Emotions and energy mingle. My heart hangs from every sentence and dangles from every tree branch.

My heart is stopped like a clock. Like a trapdoor, I fall through.

And then comes a time, when our dreams no longer overlap, and the ocean forgets its shore.

In the time of broken petals, my mind loses its shine. The stars wake up in someone else’s sky, and I forget how to breathe fire, rolling the syllables of the sun off the back of my tongue.

Promises crumble like chain-link fences, no more fairy-tale worlds or wishing wells made of crone and maiden tears. The galaxies evaporate from our eyes, leaving behind pillars of salt.

Cotton Candy Skies Anthony Dockter

Flamingo Self-Reflecting

Susan Travis

Elephant Anita Hittle

Inflection Point

Diana Kurniawan

Memories wisp like picture slides

My thoughts race after color burst

His face and hands in my frontal lobe

Intonations of a criminal speaking to me

Familiar billions of times before, but

It comes in spurts during aggravated heat

Moments of anger, irritation, edgy silence

Spit on the ground vomits my hatred

World spins as I stood still, in faith

Let it drop to the core and bubble it

Breathe and let it fly out of my senses

Inflection in, reflection out, breathe…

Tears come but let it drop down

Letting my soul shake for a moment

Sob in five minutes, quench it out

A good cry is my anxiety releasing

Not always worth the tears or thought

Flashes of negativity gone from me

Voices knot in silence at my throat

Closing my eyes letting it soothe out

Shenanigans (Excerpt from the novel Death of A Telenovela Star)

Teresa Dovelpage

Aboard the North Star were five thousand travelers and one open bar. What could be expected from such a crowd but shenanigans? That’s what Marlene Martínez thought as she looked around her with suspicion. With so many passengers crammed onto the one-thousand-foot boat, something bad was bound to happen.

Her grandfather, bless his soul, used to say, “Somewhere, something bad is happening to somebody right now.” Years ago, Marlene had laughed at his unabashed pessimism, but now, watching from her lounge chair the noisy throng waiting by the pool for their cabins to be ready, she couldn’t avoid a sense of dread.

Something bad is going to happen to somebody on this ship.

It was the first cruise Marlene had ever taken. A short one, just seven days’ roundtrip from Miami to Belize, Costa Maya and Cozumel. Though she had initially booked the trip on impulse for her niece, Sarita, as a quinceañera present, she’d found herself anticipating a fun, relaxing vacation. But there was something in the air. A hint of danger that, as a former detective, Marlene knew too well.

Sarita was celebrating her fifteenth birthday that month, and the only thing she wanted was to get away from “Culo del Mundo.” She lived in Albuquerque, a city that Marlene agreed was the rear end of the world. Sarita screamed and hugged her aunt when she heard about her present, saying a Caribbean cruise sounded fantafabulous.

The trip was also a reward for Sarita, who had stayed out of trouble after a rough start that year, a shoplifting incident at the Coronado mall and what her father—Marlene’s brother—called “the pot problemita.” She had been caught smoking dope in the schoolyard with her best friends, Lupe and Jane, and all three of the girls had been suspended for two weeks and sent to a counselor. “The others were the instigators,” her father told Marlene. “It was peer pressure.”

Fortunately, the girls were all careful to stay on their best behavior afterwards. They started an online newspaper for their journalism class and ran articles about Latino nights at The Cooperage—a popular Albuquerque steakhouse— hiking the La Luz trail in the Sandia Mountains and the state’s incentives to

the film industry in New Mexico.

Sarita loved being a reporter so much, she’d taken a two-month internship at the Albuquerque Journal. She deserved a reward, and Marlene was happy to provide one. But just in case, Sarita’s mother had cautioned her sister-in-law to keep the girl on a short leash for the duration of the cruise.

That wouldn’t be easy, though. Just before boarding, Marlene had found out that Carloalberto, a part-time model and aspiring actor from Cuba who went by only his first name, was among the passengers. It wasn’t uncommon to find celebrities on these short Caribbean cruises, particularly when those celebrities were C-listers, as Carloalberto happened to be. Besides starring in several telenovelas, he had been made almost famous by his appearance on The Terrific Two, a TV program that featured actor-screenwriter pairs competitively pitching their movie ideas to Hollywood producers. The winning team would receive enough funding for their proposed project. They were down to the last round, and Carloalberto and his partner, a screenwriter named Helen Hall, were among the three teams left.

Marlene had never heard of them. Her Miami bakery, La Bakería Cubana, kept her too busy to watch much TV. But Sarita hadn’t stopped talking about Carloalberto since she’d arrived in Miami. She even showed Marlene headshots of him that she for some reason had on her phone, so her aunt couldn’t quite ignore his presence. He was a tanned and tall, in his early twenties with gym-rat muscles, a chiseled jaw and what Sarita described as “a kissable mouth.”

And here he was, a few feet from Marlene. She looked for her niece, but the girl wasn’t around, so she allowed herself time to admire the man—just for fun, of course. He was far too young to take seriously, and Marlene hadn’t yet recovered from her last love affair, which had ended quite poorly—though she supposed it could have been much worse. Still, she could admit that Carloalberto was a handsome specimen, although there was something alarmingly familiar about him. What was it?

Carloalberto was talking to an older blond man in a Hawaiian shirt. After exchanging a few words, the two of them walked behind the pool bar where a frazzled bartender chain-served mojitos and daiquiris.

They seemed to want to hide from the fray. Marlene watched their mouths. In her time on the Cuban police force, she had learned to read lips. It helped that their conversation was in Spanish.

“I don’t have it yet,” Carloalberto said, his well-defined jaw shaking. “You’ll have to wait until the show is over.”

“How do we know you’re going to win?” the other replied. “There’s no guarantee those Hollywood pendejos don’t get rid of you tomorrow.”

“They won’t. I promise! As a finalist, I practically have that money secured.”

“Practically won’t cut it.”

“Please, be patient. I’ve always come through before, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but now you’re late. I’m not a patient man.”

“Look, I had a source of income that’s . . . no longer available. But I have money coming my way. Please, just give me a month.”

The man eyed him carefully.

“You get a week,” he said through clenched teeth. “One. If you don’t come up with something by the time the cruise ends, you’re in trouble. Got it?”

Carloalberto nodded. His perfect tan looked slightly paler. Mr. Hawaiian Shirt left. Carloalberto stayed motionless, staring at the Miami lights shimmering along the coastline as the boat sailed out to sea.

Marlene had been so focused on the exchange that she didn’t realize Sarita was there until the girl grabbed her arm.

“Did you see him, Tía?” She pointed to Carloalberto. “That’s the one I’ve been telling you about! Isn’t he the most beautiful papichuli in the world? I can’t believe we’re going to spend a whole week on the same boat as him! Do you think he’ll notice me?”

“I hope not, mijita.”

Sarita whipped out her smartphone, which had a pink case covered in glitter. She punched in a number and started talking a mile a minute. It surprised Marlene. Her niece seldom used her phone to make calls—only to text and send WhatsApp messages.

Shenanigans are brewing, thought Marlene.

Screwdriver or Hatchet

Sadie Roser

When an infant cries, it is held. Sending a message. To whoever will listen. Wailing for love with fresh lungs. Gasping for Air. A mother’s familiar, clean scent is suddenly near. Her warm hands and jangling gold necklaces soothe better than a cotton swaddle.

When a child cries, it is comforted. Sending a message. Using the few words they know. Their miniature heart. Pumping blood in fear. A father’s assured, deep voice is suddenly near. His muscular arms and silk golf shirt soothe better than a sweet sundae.

A change occurs.

Somewhere between the line of time

and new neurons formed.

When a teenager cries, it is quieted. Sending a message. To the silence that surrounds them. Tired eyes. Begging for a rest. Their own, broken, internal voice, is suddenly near. The smooth bottle of Titos and burn of the throat soothe better than the comfort of a mother and tight hug of a father.

There comes a day, when they learn.

About the damage they’re doing. Friendships, livers, innocent drywall, broken and beaten beyond repair. So a choice is made.

Screwdriver or hatchet.

Heal and restore, or fall and split. No jangling bracelets. No muscular arms. No Titos.

When an adult cries, it is welcomed. Sending a message. To the therapist in front of them. Regenerating brain. Sensing serotonin. A ringing phone, is suddenly near. An area code etched in their bones. Distant, filled with static, but they are finally going home.

Kathleen Cotton

Seaside Floral

Looking On Marie Chaffin

Silver, grey, dirtied deer walking through the ghostly forest. He sees the ones alive, prancing, giddy happy. He wants to be happy. Why can’t God let him be happy? He can only observe in jealousy the alive bright, happy, brown deer strutting along mocking him, the one who can’t be seen. Trapped behind the glass, watching watching watching watching forever forever forever. They get happier and happier and happier and he only becomes angrier and angrier and angrier. To him the growth he sees is a putrid color of pink but to them all they see is beauty: green and lush, the forest is happy it’s warm not cold. The embrace is accepting of their little happy faces, beaming in the searing shine of the sun. But it burns and burns and burns and he hates seeing them so happy, they’re too happy. He hates the window of looking through the life he wants, the life he cannot have. Dirty and grey and silver and why are others not like him, why are they different and happy and living better than him?

He’s become sick. It’s sickening. The fresh shiny brown coat on the others, they are well-fed and plentiful. He leers at himself, a fly-ridden corpse. A disgustingly rotten skin stretched over every protruding bone, insects crawling over him. Behind the eyes lay carcasses of centipedes and monsters that shouldn’t be named. Every part itches, it feels like hell, death is hell, the beyond death where he resides is hell, the eternal watching making the gnawed ears on him ring in absolute devastating hatred. The only feeling ever felt anymore is hatred. He is watching the beauty of life leaving him because death loves him more. Hatred will make them die, he wants it to burn burn burn, the entire life will burn in the hatred of death, he will take and take and take until nothing is left and everything feels as bad and decrepit as him. Happiness cannot leave one out or everything will never to be able to feel it.

What It’s Like Living Next to Walmart... Ami Bhakta

I went to Walmart today and I saw a nice cool shirt that had flowers and stripes and rainbows and the words “I Heart Hot Moms” on it... I moved to the right and saw some of the most amazing, cool, awesome, magical, matching sweatpants to go with the nice cool shirt I saw that had flowers and stripes and rainbows and the words “I Heart Hot Moms” on it... Suddenly, I heard loud yelling coming from behind me and I thought it was just another stupid kid being mean towards their mom, but it wasn’t... It was some dumb dude yelling at the clerk check-out person, and they were yelling about how the clerk check-out person can’t check-out their items because they are Mexican... This dumb dude was yelling dumb-ass stuff like “Go back to your country” and I was like “What the hell is his problem? Literally almost half of the New Mexican population is Hispanic... I thought we were over racism why is it still a thing like goddamn it’s not that hard to be accepting and not racist...” Anyways everyone was still looking at this dumb dude and some lady called over security... “Security” as in old people who watch the front and look at receipts to make sure that no one stole anything... The dumb dude got kicked out by security and the dumb dude was literally still yelling at all the “security”... Everyone looked at each other and at the clerk check-out person and I felt bad for them... It’s not even funny... A couple of people gave her some money because they felt so bad for her... I also gave her some money, because obviously I am not racist, and I wouldn’t want to be yelled at for just trying to do my damn job... I ended up leaving because I needed to get home and tell my parents about this dumb dude and his racist ass... Even my parents were really mad... I mean, who wouldn’t be?... Clearly not that dumb racist dude... On second thought, I should have bought the shirt and sweatpants while I was there... God damn it, the shirt and sweatpants were so cool... Oh well.

Eyes

Arabella Snead-Schmitz

Bejeweled gateway to the soul, why do you gaze so? You’re my reflection, staring so. Why, in your pools deeper than an ocean dream, do you lament? Why, when you can see the very mandala of the universe in front of you, do you look so sad?

Is it because the deep ocean of your soul is turbulent, the waves crashing inside of you and making you sick? Is it because of the clouds, whose pallor mocks your aquamarine with their navy imitation? Is it because you’ve got all the life under you to protect, and the strain on your surface is filled with little white bubbles? If it is, what could I have done? You are an ocean. Not a grassy meadow, not a still lake. An ocean, with its tides and excuses and self-destruction at every storm. What could I have done to change that?

I stare at you, at me, and wonder. I watch the pattern in your iris dance around and around and I wonder if, in your infinite pattern, there’s wisdom. I notice your idiosyncrasies and I smile knowing that every difference makes a difference in others’ perceptions. What will you do, endless sea? What will you become, and what will I see? How will your beauty influence me, your enchantment enthrall me once again?

But now, you still only stare back with your pity, your shame. You see me, and I see you, and I cry. You are me. Your blue is my blue. I feel your navy sorrow, haunting. It’s a part of me I threw away into the black pit of my heart. I watch your pupil dilate and shrink as you think about yourself, a black ring that defines you. It’s the same blackness I see in me, the subconscious wishing well. I’m wishing I didn’t feel this way, that I’m not staring back at you. But I am, and it’s the ugly truth, and you’re crying and I’m crying and the pain is laid bare. But in that darkness there’s comfort, and I’m grateful to have learned from you.

Eyes, oh eyes, with your perfect mirror, you’re the perfect hassle and the perfect marker. You see me, and I see you. I don’t want to see you, but I do, and that hurts me. But you’re something I must accept, and I must acknowledge your beauty, even if it’s with heaviness and contempt. I may as well learn something then, looking at my own reflection.

Bird Illustration

Ayla

Yarbrough

Delbert, the Cow Shoes and the King Ranch

Madison Seamans

One evening I was talking with a friend about the anatomy and function of the equine foot. This fellow had a horse with navicular disease which had failed to respond to several attempts at treatment.

“Nothin’ short of a foot transplant is gonna help ‘im, Doc,” my friend said with a discouraged tone. “How come a horse don’t have a split foot like a cow? That way, if he went lame on one side it would only hurt ‘im half as much!”

This sounded pretty good to me because I had been frustrated by chronic lameness before. Actually “curing” many of these patients is unrealistic. Sometimes the best we can hope for is the ability to manage the problem and keep the horse comfortable enough to do his job. I had thought that it would sure be handy to be able to transplant feet, but I had not thought about the possible advantage that cattle had with split feet to spread the load out over a larger surface area.

The bovine foot is cloven, or split, from the fetlock (ankle) down. Instead of having just one digit, like the horse, the cow has duplicates of all three phalanges along with the associated tendons and other soft tissue structures. The analogous structures in man are found in the hand. The finger nail is our hoof. The underlying bone, the third or distal phalanx, is like the coffin bone. The middle knuckle is the short pastern bone and the next one towards the main part of the hand is the long pastern bone or first phalanx.

The horse is standing on his middle finger, or “freeway finger” as my friends in town call it (I really don’t know exactly why they call it that…). But the cow stands on their middle and ring fingers. This provides a fairly efficient way to distribute the weight of the cow over a wide surface, but I guess that it is not the best design for sustained speed. Given enough space, even a slow horse can outrun most cows.

Every time I think of this cloven-footed construction of cattle, I think of my uncle, Delbert. Not because he was a brilliant anatomist or gifted bovine surgeon, but he did have a real novel use for a set of bovine feet.

Delbert is a retired chemist, school teacher, real estate broker, and mayor of a small town in South Texas. It’s not that Delbert can’t keep a job, it’s just that he is a man of many interests, or maybe just a short attention span, nobody in the family is quite sure. Many families have their metaphoric “crazy aunt with

three hundred cats”. Delbert was ours—without the cats.

To know my favorite uncle, you’d have to go way back. I guess he was a favorite from the time he was born. He was the youngest of four children, thus, “the baby”—a position he used well for most of his life. As a young man, he wasn’t really a “bad guy” and he surely believed in rules, he just believed they applied to everybody else—not him. As a teenager, he loved hot-rod cars and had no trouble keeping them full of gas at the expense of the local oil refinery. He apparently had developed a useful, if nefarious, skill of picking locks and this provided an almost unlimited source of gasoline from a place he called “midnight gas”. But he loved his kids, his nieces and his nephews—and he loved to hunt deer.

Entertainment in his part of the world does not include ballet or opera. A big night out in South Texas would involve high school football (which is more like a religion than entertainment) or two stepping to the local country music band. While these were popular pastimes for most folks, the one thing that could truly get Delbert fired up was deer hunting. For seven weeks every fall for the last fifty years or so, Delbert, like thousands of other Texans, pursued his one great passion in life: a shot at a big buck white-tailed deer.

Most Texans do not own large tracts of land on which to pursue the wily white-tailed deer. Hunting from public roadways, even in a primitive place like Texas, is against the rules (more about “the rules” later). Instead, a hunter may obtain permission to stalk private land by purchasing a legal instrument that has become a mainstay of South Texas agriculture: a hunting lease. Even if the price of cattle drops below profitability, many ranchers manage to remain solvent, though often at the cost of their sanity, by temporarily selling the hunting rights to their land on a seasonal or yearly basis. The ranchers get additional income and an interesting combination of alcohol and high-powered rifles seen in no other aspect of Texas agriculture. The hunters get many joyful hours in the freezing rain awaiting their chance at a true trophy buck. The delightful humidity of South Texas winters also provides ample time to compose stories about the one that got away.

The fees for this privilege can be as much as several thousand dollars per person for a season, or even for a single day, depending on the ranch. Regardless of the price of the lease, there are seldom any frills included. The type of hunting lease most Texans can afford do not include fancy lodges with hot tubs and mints on the pillows. No, if you want any shelter on your hunting grounds, you either have to build it or haul it in. I have seen a wide variety of architectural interpretations of the legendary hunting cabin ranging from

blue-tarp and plywood creations to luxurious motor homes with satellite TV and microwave ovens. Although the comforts of home may be important to some hunters, to the ever pragmatic Delbert, the location was the key.

A landmark that many folks associate with South Texas is The King Ranch. For many years, it was the largest ranch in the world. It is the home of some famous cattle, pure blooded horses and perhaps the finest population of white-tailed deer in the western hemisphere. While the cattle and horses are raised with careful husbandry, the deer have needed little or no cultivation. They have been well adapted to the brushy, coastal plains of South Texas for thousands of years and even in the face of competition for grazing land, the deer still flourish.

Over the past hundred and fifty years, The King Ranch has become more than just a large agricultural endeavor, it is an institution. There are generations of people who were born, educated, employed and buried on this almost sovereign state. This story took place in 1950’s—a time when the only way you could hunt on The King Ranch was to be the governor or somebody important, there were no public hunting leases available. In fact, the residents consider outlaw hunters as the thieves that they are and treat them as such. If caught, poachers can expect stiff fines and maybe even a little jail time. Of all the dangerous avocations we Texans enjoy, poaching The King Ranch would be among the most perilous. Like spitting on The Alamo, it is simply not done. However, Delbert always loved a challenge and the concept of rules was often a little fuzzy for him.

In Zapata County, Texas, there was another ranch that was available for lease to would-be hunters. This ranch was not ideal in its vegetation, watering holes or deer population, but it had one attribute that was of interest to Delbert: it bordered The King Ranch.

Delbert saw this as an opportunity to share in the harvest of the bountiful King Ranch deer. Of course, other hunters had similar thoughts and the owner of the Zapata ranch explicitly warned them against caving to the temptation of bagging one of Captain King’s finest. The land owner informed each hunter that he could expect extra fence riders on The King Ranch side that would point out the presence of the fence to hunters who may not have seen it.

One chilly fall night shortly after Delbert had arrived at the Zapata ranch, one of The King Ranch vaqueros “haloed the camp” and cautiously rode in to the amber circle of campfire light. In broken English, he explained to the hunt-

ers that he had seen tracks on his side of the fence made by a man wearing tennis shoes. Since none of the vaqueros or their horses wore tennis shoes, he assumed that somebody may have mistakenly crossed the fence. The vaquero casually touched the rifle he carried under the fender of his right stirrup—a clear warning to the hunters. Then, like a wisp of wood smoke, he vanished.

Delbert thoughtfully looked at the soles of his almost new sneakers and decided to spend the rest of the weekend on his side of the fence, but with the resolve to, somehow, hunt the mighty King Ranch undetected.

Over the next few days, as Delbert worked he devised a plan. Since The King Ranch was a cow outfit, the easiest way to move around on their land would be to turn into a cow...or leave a track like a cow. He knew a guy who was the foreman at the local slaughterhouse and decided to pay him a visit over his lunch hour. Although the foreman had often been approached for dog bones, or a deal on a side of beef, nobody had ever asked him for a whole set of bovine feet.

“What the heck do you want feet for?” the foreman asked.

“Oh, just a little science project for my son, little Delbert Jr.” Delbert was nothing if not quick on his feet.

Soon Delbert was at work in his garage. With some effort, he managed to screw, nail and glue the feet to the bottom of some old soccer shoes. Although they were somewhat bulky to get around in at first, they left a track that looked a bunch more like a cow than that of an out-of-work chemist. With practice, Delbert could walk around in his custom shoes with comfort and a fair degree of stealth.

Armed with an accurate rifle and the cow shoes, he was able to poach the forbidden pastures undetected for almost ten years. He had killed many large bucks and was so used to the cow shoes that he doubted he could shoot without them. (He shot one that could have been a record, and I asked him once why he didn’t’ submit it to Boone and Crocket—the who’s who of trophy hunters—for documentation. He replied: “I couldn’t tell ‘em it was off the King Ranch…it wouldn’t be ethical.”) He always hunted alone and he never let anybody see the shoes. Many times he would return to camp carrying a trophy-sized deer much to the dismay of his less fortunate compadres.

“How come you always so lucky?” they would ask.

“Ain’t luck,” Delbert would reply smugly. Every year, the same group of hunters would return to the Zapata ranch determined to out hunt Delbert, but they never did.

Finally, figuring that his luck at dodging fence riders was bound to run out sooner or later, he decided to retire as a successful, anonymous poacher. After one last hunt, that is. Just “one last” is the fatal flaw in many a tale.

The last hunt was unsuccessful, but not uneventful. Leaving camp long before sunrise, Delbert walked along the road that roughly paralleled the fence for about a mile, slipped on the cow shoes and vanished into the vast, mesquite-thicketed pastures of the legendary King Ranch. He did get a shot at a nice buck later that morning, but his aim was off, the bullet fell harmlessly in the brush and the deer escaped with a good story to tell his friends about the silly man with a bad aim and feet like a cow. Although he hated to quit, Delbert decided to head back over the fence hoping that the shot had not attracted the attention of one of the fence riders.

As he carefully rounded a clump of brush, Delbert almost ran under a halfwild mustang and an equally wild vaquero astride him. It’s hard to say who was more surprised. There was no escape. With the extra appendages attached to his feet, Delbert knew he couldn’t outrun a slow horse, much less the range-bred, cat-like brute that stood in the trail before him.

The vaquero looked at this character clad in army surplus camo fatigues complete with the flaps-over-the-ears Elmer Fudd cap, carrying a bowie knife and a sportsterized “06” rifle and knew the answer before he asked the question, “Que paso, what’s up?”

He continued to size up Delbert thoroughly as his gaze fell upon the bovine-adorned soccer shoes worn by the now very pale gringo poacher. The vaquero asked to see one of the shoes. Delbert, thinking that this trade may save his life, instantly removed both of the treasured shoes and handed them to the vaquero.

At this point, Delbert didn’t know what to expect. He knew that some poachers had received harsh treatment from fence riders, but what followed left him speechless. Slowly a curious look appeared on the vaquero’s face as if he had just got the answer to a long-hunted question.

Just about the time Delbert thought he was going to get shot, the cowboy burst out in laughter. He continued to laugh and Delbert swears to this day

that the vaquero’s laughter was so infectious that even the horse slipped a reserved chuckle.

Once he regained his composure, the vaquero explained that the feet on Delbert’s shoes were from a bull. The toes of a bull’s foot are blunt and broad. The toes of a steer, however, are pointed and more narrow, similar to those of a cow. With both hands the vaquero expressively pointed to the ground and said, “These pasture ees for vaca, cow, solamente. I look for thees bool teen years an’ no fine heem. All time thees bool ees you, senior! I thenk thees ver’ funny!”

The cowboy was so tickled with the situation and, apparently envious of Delbert’s ingenuity, that he let him go with a stern warning not to return. He even let Delbert keep the shoes, saying nobody would believe him, anyway.

Still shaking, Delbert returned to his camp and, later that day, home. He never went back to the Zapata ranch. I suppose his hunting buddies are still wondering why he was such a successful hunter and why he quit. For almost fifty years, Delbert and the vaquero with a sense of humor were the only ones who knew the secret. Now you do, too.

Love to be Bent

Airalyh Magana

I love my crooked spine bent and almost torn. Where I stand and sit like a goblin and when I try to stand tall like the sky.

I love my short torso and long legs. Although uneven, they balance each other. They flow together. Long thin legs with veins running down, short and skinny torso curving in and out into my hips.

I love my dip hips like waves crashing against each other, or like a tall hill on a farm, without knowing what’s on the other side. But I drive my hands through to feel soft and sometimes bruised skin until it reaches my toes.

I love my crooked fingernail. Ring finger pale almost a little blue. Crevices and dents surround every angle. Every crevice turns like corals in the deep sea reaching for the sun.

Fingernail bent and crooked like a never-ending highway, old and full of potholes. The type a serial killer would drive and dump bodies in.

Fingernail bent and crooked, smashed and shattered-looking like an old man’s fragile bone, or a severed glass door.

Still handy like a hammer in a broken home, or a storage cabinet in a house of all girls full of a hundred hair combs.

My ring finger itself is crooked as well. I love my curvy finger. Long and wrinkly, it defines itself. My cuticle hugs my crooked nail like a child holding her favorite blanket as tight as possible, never letting go. Holds a ring or two. Shimmers like a pirate’s tooth.

I love my unsymmetrical body full of dents and never-ending mountains. Every different curve is a different road to a mystical part. Like my wide nose full of mucus, always runny like a river in the Amazon forest with nose hairs peaking, like exotic bushes. And tree branches that are long, fat, short, skinny, different sizes. Just like the rest of my body’s destinations.

I Decided As Long As I’m Going to Hell, I Might As Well Do It Thoroughly: A Queer Subtextual Analysis of Twilight and Its Personal & Cultural Impact

Dade Girven

(Note: This “cultural artifact” essay from Composition I won First Place in the ENMU-Ruidoso Fall 2022 Writing Contest)

The artifacts that I chose were the Twilight books written by Stephanie Meyer, because of the impact the Twilight community has had on my life and identity. The books, and the community surrounding them, are closely tied to the LGBTQ+ community and my identity because of that. Vampires — as a concept — are very closely connected to homosexuality so it is no wonder that the Twilight series would be as well. The gay themes of Twilight are what kicked off the “Twilight Renaissance” in recent years because a newer generation is looking at the series through a more modern lens. My love for Twilight began in 2020 during this Renaissance, when I watched the first movie instantly relating to the series in a unique way.

I want to begin with the history of the whole series and how I found myself greatly enjoying and connecting with it. The series was written by Stephanie Meyer, a very Mormon woman, after she had a dream of the main characters in 2003. Her first book faced major acclaim which made her quickly write three more sequels; the films are what catapulted the series to the phenomenon it was. The films created a predominant majorly female “fandom” in a space that was dominated by men, which led to backlash and ridicule. The hate was very gendered, the fans were considered “hysterical” or “obsessive” in ways that no male film fan ever would have been. This acclaim quickly dissipated in the 2010s until being resurrected in the 2020s as a new group was able to interpret the themes in new ways. This is around when I began to hear about it and take interest in it because of how deeply hated it was. My dad despised the series while my mom actively participated in the “Twilight craze,” so I had always known it existed as some divisive series. I was able to watch the films and fall in love with them, mainly because I related to them in a very queer way.

Twilight, at its core, is a story about obsession, isolation, persecution, and found family. These themes and the character’s feelings were ones that I could relate to as a gay person. The story, on the surface, is a supernatural love story between a girl and a vampire, but it is so much more. Vampires have always been a symbol of “sexual deviancy” which could not be truer in the books. These vampires can pass as normal people but harbor a “dark secret” that

makes them unable to truly fit in with society. Revealing themselves as vampires was a deeply personal affair, much like coming out is for many people. I and many others were able to find a deep relation to the vampire characters because of their status as people who could never truly fit in. The Twilight community was also deeply connected to many online communities, primarily Tumblr, that were already homes to many subcultures of people who did not necessarily fit in. Tumblr especially had a very vocal group of people who were LGBTQ+ that also fell in love with Twilight because of the reasons that I had. I was able to find representation in a very unlikely place, especially in a world where my identity was not often represented. Due to this, I was able to find a community of people like me who were also able to be represented by this series. This community had a large overlap with many queer spaces online which is where I was able to join it.

The language used in the Twilight community is very deeply engrained in internet culture, which may be difficult for an outsider to understand. During its original popularity, fans were labeled as either “Team Jacob” or “Team Edward,” depending on which love interest they liked more. It was a very binary choice for a very long time, and there was a lot of infighting between the two groups until the Twilight Renaissance. This created a new group of people, those who called themselves “Team Alice” named after another female character in the series. This new group distinguished themselves by being unafraid to enjoy the series and able to understand and appreciate the subtle subtext as well. They were able to enjoy the series despite the hate and backlash for it, and they were also able to adapt it to fit their sexualities and gender identities. In this way, Twilight reflects not only my sexuality and personal identity, but also my social identity and my identity on the internet.

The goal of this essay was to explain why I love Twilight so much and why it is such a pivotal part of my identity and community. The series has allowed me to become closer with my friends and even my family while also being able to understand and be comfortable with my identity. It has also led me into other communities because I began fostering a love for queer literature and media. It also pushed me to enjoy watching movies more because of how hated they were, and how much I liked them despite that. It has also pushed me into several online spaces where discussions about queer subtext are common and that has been exciting. I am not only able to feel represented, but also discuss my own identity in film and literature with other like-minded individuals, which is a very freeing feeling.

A Great Love Lost Mayjah Cervantes

The first time I had to experience a significant loss came at the cost of Noel. His every feature will only be a memory that is stuck with me. When I close my eyes, his oddly straight brown hair, his rosy cheeks, his big dark eyes, and his pale, smooth skin all seemingly come to mind. He had my small ears and nose but he looked more like his dad. Part of me always thought that although he was his father’s twin, he would grow to have my big personality. I still believe that if he were here, I would be right. Every time I saw Noel’s little smile I would grin from ear to ear, even on my worst days. He was happy, so happy that it brought me to be happy too—which I wasn’t before I had him. He couldn’t yet speak but he always gave me this look that seemed to say every I love you back or at least that’s the way it felt. I never knew that I could feel so connected to a person till Noel came into my life. He had that effect on many.

Noel drastically changed my life for the better. I found out I was going to have him at a time when I was lost and searching for myself. I couldn’t shake this feeling that Noel was going to be my reason to not give up on myself. I knew he was meant to be my son when I first laid eyes on him. His whole existence freed me from the dark and I was thrilled to be his mom. A simple glance at Noel made me grateful for each and every day. I thought it was so crazy how this little baby taught me to love and to be more understanding. Even on restless days, he brought me joy and a purpose to carry on for the both of us. Truthfully, happiness found me through him.

October 29, 2018 was a day like any other. That evening, Noel was at daycare while I was at cheer practice. Right as we started to wrap things up, one of my coaches came up to me and said she got a call saying we needed to head over to the hospital. She couldn’t tell me much because whoever called said very little. We both sprinted to her car and once we were on our way I didn’t know what to do, so I sat there and prayed. I prayed that all my loved ones were okay and for everything to be alright. The drive from the school to the hospital could not have been more than seven minutes. Each minute the fear that something happened to my mom, sisters, or my son grew stronger. I started to panic from this overwhelming feeling that had a hold on me.

My coach repeatedly told me, “It’s going to be okay.” I looked at her and saw that she had a sense of hope every time she tried to reassure me.

I held onto that hope and kept telling myself the same thing—that it was all going to be okay. I knew there was nothing more to do but to try and con-

vince myself that this was true. But the feeling of the unknown still lingered.

When we finally got to the hospital a nurse told us to sit in the waiting room. I quietly sat in one of the cold chairs alongside my coach where we waited for someone to tell us what was going on. I stared at the clock that hung on the wall right in front of me, time felt slow. My thoughts were everywhere and I wanted to be anywhere else but sitting in that cold chair. A couple of minutes later two officers walked in. First, they asked if I was Mayjah and then they kneeled down to where I was sitting. My coach quickly grabbed my hand, almost as if she knew what was coming next.

“We’re sorry to inform you,” one of the officers said. He stopped there and just looked at me.

The other officer finished for him, “Your son, Noel, is no longer with us.” They both looked down after that sentence.

As soon as they told me my heart sank and an uncontrollable amount of tears ran down my face.

I replied: “No, that’s not possible. He was fine this morning, there must be some kind of mistake.”

My disbelief was followed by silence.

After a few minutes of sitting there, they led us to the back to see him. And there he was, lying in a bed, wrapped in a white blanket. He was still, with all these tubes coming out of him. My mom stood by his bed crying with no words. All I could do was say the word no because I refused to believe that my two-month-old baby was gone.

“Why is no one helping him, please help him!” I shouted at the nurse standing near the bed.

“We did everything we could, I am so sorry sweetheart,” the nurse said. She began to tear up and walked around the bed to hug me.

At that moment, I knew there was nothing more anyone could do but I still thought to myself, “No, this can’t be happening.”

The same nurse asked, “Do you want to hold him?”

I simply nodded, yes, and just as he was being placed into my arms, his dad walked in with the same look of disbelief on his face.

“What happened?” he asked, as the tears quickly began to trickle down his face.

I didn’t have the answer, nor did anyone around us.

I looked down at Noel. His big brown eyes didn’t have that same shine, and his lips were no longer a pink color, they were blue. His skin was cold to the touch and all I wanted was for him to wake up, to come back to me. We sat there with the only noise coming from me and his father crying. I don’t know how long I sat there looking at him, but no time was long enough. The room was filled with people. My mom, stepmom, and sister stood there along with Noel’s dad. No one really said anything. What is there to say after something like this? Maybe an hour later, I was told that Noel had to go so they could find his cause of death. I couldn’t find it in me to let him go. Letting go meant coming to the realization that he was gone and I didn’t want that. I was left with no other choice but to give him to some stranger in a black suit.

That night I came home to Noel’s crib that was left empty. I walked to the room he slept in and noticed his freshly washed clothes were right where I left them; neatly placed on the dresser next to the changing table. I couldn’t help but notice everything of his after this, like the swing that played a soothing melody as he napped. I then stared aimlessly at the white bin that held the same sheep pajamas he had on that morning. I walked over to pick them up. They smelled of his formula which only reminded me of what a messy eater he was.

My mom came in during this and embraced me with a hug. “Come on,” she said gently as she led me out of the room.

The first night without Noel was hard. The feeling of being alone consumed me above all else when he wasn’t sleeping in my arms. I didn’t get much rest because of this and when I did, I would wake up screaming, crying, and asking why? When this first happened my mom ran in to lay with me and tried to soothe me back to sleep. But how could I sleep after all of this? As the morning came around, so did the messages from nearly everyone I knew. I didn’t have it in me to look at them so I let my phone go off for hours as the text continued to pour in. I knew if I looked at every “I’m sorry” it would only remind me of what I lost and I couldn’t take any more of what I was already feeling.

I knew that I would eventually have to talk about what needed to be done following Noel’s death. It was still pretty early in the morning when my mom came into my room and I could tell by the look on her face we were about to have that talk sooner than I thought.

After she took a deep breath, she sat next to me and said, “I know this isn’t easy for you but soon you’re going to be asked to make some pretty tough decisions about Noel. I will be right here to help you but ultimately I want these decisions to be what you want.”

I knew the hardest part was yet to come from all of this.

I murmured the word, “Okay,” as my mom held me tight.

Almost a week after I had lost Noel, my days consisted of people coming and going to send their condolences. I got used to the hugging and the tears. Sometimes I tried to put on a smile when confronted with a lot of people at once but really the pain was very much still there. It only heightened when having to arrange his funeral. Many of us were waiting to get the call that finally would tell us his cause of death. And soon enough, in the midst of getting everything together, my mom finally got the call. That day, I was sitting on the living room couch surrounded by my mom and siblings. I noticed my mom’s phone was ringing and she quickly left for another room to answer. She wasn’t gone for long and when she came back I could tell it was time for another one of our talks. One which crippled me with anxiety. I wanted to know what happened to Noel, but part of me also wasn’t ready to deal with facing the fact that something could have been wrong with him without me even knowing.

She touched me on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go talk in my room.”

There was really no way to prepare me for whatever she was about to say. We both sat down on her bed and immediately my leg started to shake uncontrollably. She noticed and placed her hand over my right knee to comfort me.

My mom then went on to say, “That was the coroner with the autopsy report. She wanted me to first let you know that Noel was a perfectly healthy baby and you did everything right as his mother.”

Part of me was relieved he did not suffer in the moments that led up to his death, but I was also struck with confusion: why we were in this position?

“Unfortunately, there were no indications that give us an exact answer as to what happened and the doctor told me it was most likely SIDS.”

I asked, “What…What is SIDS?” She replied: “It stands for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and it only happens to a few babies when they stop breathing in their sleep.” To me, this made no sense. I could not wrap my head around the fact that Noel, my baby, just stopped breathing? I voiced this to my mom and she herself didn’t understand it either.

There were a lot of emotions that followed this kind of news—but mostly I was angry. I was angry at the fact that there was no real explanation as to why my son wasn’t here. I was angry that no matter how much research I did surrounding Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, my mind somehow refused to understand that it was possible for Noel to suddenly succumb to it. Websites kept saying the same thing—that death like this in infants is unknown. No warning signs, or symptoms, could have ever predicted this but for some reason, I still couldn’t bring myself to accept it for what it was.

Noel’s funeral was held that same year in November. I drowned out a lot of what was happening that day because I was tired—tired of the pain, the tears, and the feeling of being lost in life yet again. When I sat there listening to all the nice things people had to say about him, I realized he was really gone. All I wanted was to go back to when Noel was here but I knew that could never be. I had no words when we were laying him to rest, just the feeling that I was burying a significant part of me. Though some time has passed, I still feel this way. I often go back to wishing I was holding him and I continue to remember all that was of him.

I was in denial for months after Noel died and I was ridden with pain. The grief that followed was a lot to bear, and I knew there was no way of avoiding any of it. Every day something reminded me of him; whether it was coming back from school to a now quiet home or having to look at all his belongings that were in the same place I had left them. It was honestly a lot, and all I can say is that I miss him.

A few years have passed since I lost Noel, and though I may never fully accept that he’s gone, I want to keep living for both of us. The last time I was able to hold him, I told him that everything I do will be for him. I plan to keep doing things for him and for us. I want people to know his name, and I want him to know that though he isn’t here with us, he isn’t forgotten. I want him to know that I still think about him and that I’m doing my best to keep going for the both of us.

Angel

Irina Tall Novikova

Growing Up in Zuni

Felisha Yawakia

Growing up in Zuni was the best life I could ask for. I grew up with three of my oldest cousins: Darrell, Shaun, and Alander. We all spent our childhood days with each other daily. We all grew up with our Grandma Amy, Grandma Betty, Grandma Jean, and their brother, our Grandpa Johnny. Our grandparents always had us working. Because I was the only girl growing up with boys, my grandmas always took my side whenever one of my cousins got me in trouble. Our grandparents took care of all of us when our parents worked their day jobs in order to provide for our family. Growing up with boys, I ended up always going to my house dirty from playing outside and doing yard work with my Grandpa Johnny. Our grandparents taught us many things, such as planting, hauling water, feeding livestock, baking goodies, and washing dishes. After so many days spent with our grandparents, we all became fluent with our native language. The English language was never spoken until we started elementary school. Slowly, we all started learning to read and write in English.

Before we started school, my late grandma had her own daycare for us four. Every morning, our Grandma Amy and Grandma Betty would wake us up early and fix us breakfast. I would eat breakfast with my two amazing, hardworking grandmothers while we waited for the rest of the crew to show up. Once they showed up, we all ate breakfast together. After breakfast, we would clean up, and she would ask, “Do you all want to go for a ride?” Of course, we would gladly accept the invitation, and my cousin and I would gather our toys and hop in the back of her 1983 Blue Chevy Silverado. The two older cousins, Darrell and Shaun, would ride in the front seat. Riding with her was always fun. She always had snacks and drinks for our little road trip.

She drove us ten to fifteen miles east of the Zuni Village each day. Nowadays, you can’t have children sit in the back of a moving vehicle. Once we got to the family field, we all raced down to greet the pigs, chickens, and roosters. Once we fed all the animals, our grandma would take us down to the fields to tend to her waffle garden. My grandmother created her own waffle gardens that were sixteen inches by sixteen inches. My grandma sure had a green thumb, she always planted cabbage, tomatoes, radishes, carrots, watermelon, beets, green chili, and a variety of corn, yellow, white, and blue corn. Back in the day, our ancestors were known for growing crops in waffle gardens. She would take the hoes and rakes. While my cousin Alander and I trimmed the weeds growing in the garden, Darrell and Shaun would go down to the well and start filling water in the water tank. Once they returned with the water, we would

grab buckets and pick our own section of the field to water the plants. When we didn’t work at the field, I always found myself in the kitchen watching both my grandmothers bake goodies, tortillas, frybread, and oven-baked bread. And if I wasn’t in the kitchen, I would be outside playing in the piles of sand with my cousin Alander. Alander would bring out his toy trucks and we would imitate the sounds of the big machinery, crawling all over the sand pit. Alander and I were so close growing up, we called each other brother and sister since he did not have any sisters, nor did I have any siblings.

As we got older, we figured out that our grandma lived next door to an arcade parlor and a restaurant. We always wondered why there was always a crowd of people that gathered at the building next door. Then one day we asked, “Grandma, why are there always vehicles gathering at the house next door?”

My grandma would smile and respond, “Do you not know what that place is?” and we would all shake our heads “no.”

She grabbed her purse and asked her siblings if they wanted to join all of us. Her sister Betty agreed to tag along with us. We never knew what that place was until we walked over and saw an arcade room inside of the local restaurant, Pat’s Chili Parlor. When we all walked in, the restaurant owner greeted us with a “Hello” and motioned us to sit anywhere we liked. Darrell and Shaun, as curious as they were, walked into the arcade room while Alander and I stayed close to our grandparents. My grandma Betty followed Darrell and Shaun into the arcade room, and they all later came back with big smiles on their faces. Alander asked his brother Shaun, “What’s in that room?” Shaun replied with a smile, “It’s a place for big kids, you two won’t like it.”

Grandma Amy replied, “Be nice to your little brother and little sister. They can both go and see if they like it.”

Alander and I looked at each other and we both raced into the next room. Once we ran in and saw all the games in the dark room, we both felt like we were in heaven. That was the first time we ever saw video games. Darrell and Shaun came back into the arcade room and started playing table hockey together. Alander and I didnt know how to play so we stood around and watched the two play against each other. Our grandma ordered food and called us when it arrived. We were all in heaven and did not listen when we got called to the table to eat. Grandma Betty came charging and said, “Come back to the table, your food is getting cold.” Alander and I got scared and raced back to the table and saw our Grandma Amy sitting there alone waiting for all of us. Darrell and Shaun got in trouble for not listening and we all

eventually got banned from going there for the longest time. After some time, if we all listened and did our chores, our Grandparents began allowing us to go back and play games and grab a snack. Living behind an arcade room was the coolest. We always had good stories to tell during our school days. Other kids would ask us after every weekend, “Did you go over and play games?” and we would all respond, “Yes, after we finished our chores. Our grandparents gave us time to have fun and explore the arcade.”

Eventually the restaurant and arcade room closed. To this day I miss their delicious burgers and fries and the awesome arcade games.

This is my story of what it was like growing up in Zuni. Things were so fun, and we never had anything to worry about, unlike what our kids must face growing up in this terrible, crazy world. I am so scared to have my daughter go into a gas station alone. I am afraid someone might steal money from her or sell her drugs. Times have really changed drastically, from what we experienced growing up to today’s violence and bullying. What I would give to have my own child experience the simpler times that I’ve experienced growing up. I know she would love it. To the fun times!

Me with my late grandmas, Grandma Amy (back) and Grandma Grace (front).

Me, 5 years old, with my grandma’s ’83 Chevy Silverado.

My late Grandma Amy, Cousin Darrell, and Aunt Verina posing in front of the ’83 Chevy Silverado.

The house at our farm in Pescado.

Me and my late Grandma Amy.

Half

Dolores Chacon

Earlier tonight the moon was sliced perfectly in half so that you could share it with your big brother or little sister and neither could possibly complain about not getting their fair share.

It sat balanced at a risky angle and had it been any warmer, I fear its creamy light would spill out and fall the cold distance into the slow river that flows south of here and catfish would lap up the moon milk in quick, silver flashes.

Flakes

Dolores Chacon

It is April in New Mexico and the snowflakes that fall do not melt when they hit my windshield. They are warm and gray and made of ash. On this spring day, the fire is out of the hearth and into the woods, tumbling down the hillside.

The broken, burning bones of the ancients are smoldering on the roadside, consumed by the endless hunger of wind and flame. The orange sun is helplessly watching sons of men weep as they try to extinguish the spreading pain and there is nothing I can do.

Alone

Britny Fitzwilliam

Moved from town to town, I never felt so alone. Wish I had a friend, but don’t want to get too close. I have issues more than you know. The way you might help is by leaving me alone. Probably why I feel so alone. Never had a friend to call my own, they’ve come and gone it felt so fast. It’s just the memories of the past: the past has taken over my mind, I watch it every day, all the time. Time consumes more than you know. We will never reach the future until we grow. When you grow you will learn friends come and go, but you will never be alone.

Hanging Lake Falls

Jack McCaw

Sandhill Crane Flight Jack McCaw

Lake McDonald Morning Jack McCaw

The Hog’s Pen

Daniel Griffin

I have spent much of my youth in a hog’s pen. As a young child my family owned a barn situated on twenty acres, which always held livestock. The barn sits in a dip between rolls. It is a barn right out of a storybook, with deep brick red walls, a tin roof, and big double doors you have to roll open. On the left side is an awning that extends from the roof itself and is also covered in tin. Around that awning is a livestock fence in which live three young steer. Their coats are deep black and their tongues bright pink as they chew the cud of alfalfa, watching you with big, steady brown eyes. One lows, the deep yet somehow high pitched low of young cattle. They watch you, tails flicking the buzzing flies from their hind quarters as your boots crunch over the gravel toward the man door set within the big, rolling double doors of the barn. The right side is also covered by an extended awning, but the livestock gate is covered on three sides by plywood. This is done to protect the inhabitants from the hot afternoon sun that streams in. As you approach your sense of smell is overtaken by the pungent, sharp, earthy stink that no description can capture.

It is a stink I know well. It has followed me from this very barn into the classroom throughout my childhood, clinging to my hair and clothes no matter how many times I changed, or how much Axe body spray I used to cover it up. Mixed in with that stink is the smell of damp hay, also earthy yet altogether different, more vegetative. As I approach the beings inside begin to awaken. They start to shuffle and huff, snort and grunt. I unlock the ancient silver and blue Masterlock, wiggling the key into the small rusted out hole. It’s the same lock that has been on the door for the last ten years, the sole guardian to the interior of the big red barn. The inhabitants hear this and let out a shrieking, high-pitched squeal that pierces my ears. I’m convinced I have hearing problems today because of the sheer mass of sound I endured in that barn for so many years. I open the door and step inside the dim interior. To my left is an ancient Ford flatbed truck.

“An original Model A. Your great grandfather bought it new,” my dad has proudly told me time and again. “He bought it right off the lot with the first load of grapes he sold.”

“And then he drove it home and to this day it still runs,” I would finish the story. I had heard it what seemed like a million times. To my teenage mind, it was like listening to a broken record repeating the same story over and over. I had, by that point, memorized the story down to the cadence and inflection of my father’s voice.

On the truck’s bed are bales and bales of alfalfa for the steer. On my right are eight half barn doors, each leading into a pen that holds two or three of the squealing inhabitants of the barn.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I said as I begin the morning ritual of pulling out the twelve bowls, laying them out by the pens, and filling them with the sweet-smelling protein fortified corn meal.

The hogs are young yet, maybe three months old and no more than thirty to forty pounds. The size of a small child. Some are pink-white with white bristly hair covering their bodies, some are black with a white stripe just behind their front legs, some are pinkish-white with blue spots mostly on their butts. Some have brown eyes, some blue.

“Did you know that pigs can have blue eyes?” my uncle, the leader of the 4-H swine project that I was involved in and the reason for the pigs in the first place, asked me on my trip to pick out our pigs for that year. I was eight years old and had never seen a pig except in the meat aisle at the supermarket.

“No,” I replied, nervousness fluttering its wings in my belly. I knew that this was my choice, and it was my responsibility to pick a good hog to raise up and auction off at the end of the year. The money made would go to my college fund, the only way I was going to be able to pay for college. At eight I didn’t quite understand the importance of college, but I knew my dad cared so I did too.

“Pigs are the closest animal in terms of their physical make up, aside from apes, to humans. Their genetics are similar too. So, if a pig has blue eyes, its parents both carried the gene for blue eyes, just like in humans.” My uncle explained this nuance of pig physiology, but I was focused on the little bodies that came into view as we rounded the corner at the breeders and the choices were laid out in front of me.

Despite their small size, the noise they make is deafening as they scream for their breakfast. The memory of that first year played out in my mind, my uncle and dad helping me pick out the just-right pig for the year, marking it with grease chalk, watching it get castrated (which happened right there on the concrete of its pen) and loaded up onto the trailer. Something else I learned that day is that pigs truly will eat anything.

The walls of each stall in the barn are plywood painted white, the concrete floor is covered with hay and thick black rubber. The hay they have piled in

one corner and the rubber they have nosed up, chewed and scattered. This is impressive because the mats are large and heavy, but they amount to nothing to a group of bored young hogs. In the middle of the pen, hanging from a rafter is a long rope tied to a length of thick chain link. It hangs free in the center of the pen as a toy for the hogs, which they mostly ignore. The pungent stink comes from the grey semi-solid matter mostly smeared across the mats and pen.

This is exactly what you think it is. It is impressive how much waste a small hog can produce, yet alone three… per pen… there are four pens. Now you might begin to comprehend the level of noise and stink that comes from this barn. On the far side of each pen is a full-sized barn door that opens to an open concrete area. This is the area under the awning enclosed by livestock fencing and plywood. This area is also sectioned off into four stalls. It is my job to feed each hog with their black rubber bowls, shovel the waste and soiled hay, and use the hoses mounted between every two stalls to spray it clean for the day.

I don my black rubber mud boots and begin my work. As a teenager I was annoyed with this process. I hated this daily chore, hated smelling like pig shit in my classes for the rest of the day, hated having to wake up extra early for six months of the year to care for these small yet unbelievable stinky and loud creatures. But as I feed and shovel and spray I remember why, at the end of the day, I love being a part of this lifestyle. As I move about my chore, the small hogs playfully bite the back of my ankle, right where my Achille’s tendon is. The bite isn’t hard, just a nip to get my attention while I am in their domain.

“Hey you!” I say as I turn and spray the young hogs with the hose. They turn tail and run away, barking and running by moving their front legs as one unit and their hind as another in a gallop. The joy they feel palpable as they play with me, with each other, with the chain on their own.

As the months pass, these small playful pigs will grow. They will end up being two-hundred-fifty pounds if not more, yet remain just as joyful, intelligent, and playful as they are at forty pounds. I will build a relationship with them. They will become my friends for a time, and I will grow to love them. I will play with them, train them, exercise them, and care for them. I will lay down with them and cuddle them. I will wash and brush them. I will give them their vaccinations and necessary medication. I will diligently monitor their weight lest they get too heavy. If they do, I will put them on a diet. I will monitor their fat to muscle ratio and adjust their exercise and diet as necessary.

Eventually I will take them to fair, where they will be sold off at auction and sent to the butcher. One of them will come back to me to grow more. That one will live at the main house where it can interact with the donkey, ducks, chickens and pot-bellied pigs. Eventually that one, too, will head off to the butcher to feed my family for the coming year and the cycle will start again. New young hogs will enter the barn to be cared for. Fed and washed and exercised and played with. Loved.

“How can you have a relationship with animals you will eventually eat? How can you eat a porkchop and personally know the animal it came from?” one of my friends once asked me when I was about thirteen years old.

“Because I know that the pork chop I am eating was well-treated and wellloved. I know it had a good life until the moment it went to the butcher.”

It’s hard to explain though, the kind of love that comes with this lifestyle.

Make no mistake, because I eat them at the end does not mean I do not love them, but it is the love of gratitude. I am grateful for the nourishment they will eventually provide my family. I am grateful now for the experiences and memories I have, because now I can teach my son what it means to eat his bacon. I can teach him what it is to know, truly know, the animals that provide him with his hot dogs and sausage and pulled pork. I can teach him to love and appreciate those animals, even if he is not yet raising his own, and to be grateful to them, too.

Searching in the Broken Pieces

Jocelynn Benavidez

She’s healing, but she’s still broken. A brief moment later, she seems to have awoken

The pride of harm’s way lingers in her mind. The boy who had lost her, hasn’t said his goodbye. She craves the smell of love,

Searching for her to find

But once again, it left her deprived. She sees the light at the end of the line. Will it be her or will it be a guy?

Chew on This

Charles K. Carter

Sometimes one becomes a man-eater to survive.

We have all heard about the quick decapitation of a male mantis –when she is done sexing him, preying before she feasts on his body.

The female anaconda could not stand her smothering man so she wrapped herself around him so tight that he lost his breath.

The blue octopus did the same with her tentacles –dragged him back to the cave, man. Seafood is on the menu tonight!

The male redback spider performs his best bedtime moves before finishing with an acrobatic finale –

flying high up in the air, completing a fine double-flip, before lowering himself into the gaping mouth of his mate.

Sometimes one becomes a man-eater. Once a man tried to break me and I won’t make that mistake again.

Sights in the Nearby Sky

Stefani Christenot

Dark orange rays envelope

In the afternoon hour, Seeking whom he may kiss Grey limbs of clouds saunter Into the offsite dumpster.

Pink and purple indigo rays now come

Of the late songs the birds ring, And the whales do recoil

The sounds of a child wailing for his mother.

The Bird from Hell Sage Bennett

Turkey day, as they call it, was here at last. The bird shot out of the oven and rocketed into the air. It knocked every dish off the table and partly demolished a chair. Scarecrows were yelling across the house, “Get that bird back in the oven!” The bird was plucked like a porcupine being pulled from its quills. The guts blanketed every appliance. There was no way of stopping it. The bird was out of control, out of reach. Breaking every kitchen glass. The game has begun, and the bird would be captured. Meanwhile, blackened rolls were now weapons that would be used to knock out the bird. The feast now flew in every direction. Sweet potatoes were black as the soul of this evil bird. Oinking came from the ham, which appeared out of nowhere, likely the same place as the bird. Bacon bits covered the floor. The ham was no longer a threat, with a shotgun bullet to the head. The little boy grabbed the potato gun out of the closet and filled it with the blackened sweet potatoes. The war has really begun, and the bird has fallen, breaking its poor neck. Back into the oven it goes, only to be torched and never seen again. Snowflakes start to fall outside and the temperature inside the house cools. This has been a day of hell, but we must enjoy it with laughter. All we want to do is eat and leave. Would you please come out, sweet bird? Pretty, pretty please? We want our sweet bird to fill our Thanksgiving needs. Pretty, pretty please.

Cowgirl Illustration Mason Zabel

After dad was hospitalized, the world felt stagnant, like I was living the same day over and over again while the world around me kept moving forward. I can still hear the beeping following the rhythm of his heart mixed with the occasional sniffle of sadness from the family.

I saw my dad lying there, looking weaker than I ever could remember; he was always so incredibly strong in my eyes –so strong that I even feared him for quite some time. When did that fear melt away? When did I start to resent him?

Back and forth, stories were shared memories of him and his many actions. Hearing about the man known as my father from the tales of others bewildered me to no end. He was funny. He was kind. He was hardworking.

The white walls of that room seemed burned with the words shared and the raspiness of his breaths. He was my father and yet I felt I knew nothing about him, just as he knew nothing about me. I was his oldest. His “biggin’.”

There was so much to say and yet I bit my tongue; somehow I think he knew, though. Maybe that’s why his last words to me were “I love you,” a parting gift left to me when he barely had his sanity.

Songs of our culture filled my ears, songs we knew he cherished so dear. Those were the last songs he heard, his hand held in mine on top of that black and yellow Steelers blanket. Just as fast as the world seemed to stop, it came crashing down when the endless beep of the monitor rang harsh in my ears.

Cold December

Jviaondra Proby

December 28, 2019 was really a shit show. On the 27th my 5-year-old sister was in the hospital. The doctors were trying to stabilize her. My mom was already going crazy from the sight: my five your old sister lying there, barely conscious. All the family sat in the hospital, at least 50 people, sitting there waiting. Waiting to see my sister. For hours we waited and waited and waited. Everyone going in to tell her something big or small. Everyone told her something. I told her that I loved her and I would see her when she got off the airplane. Smiled, then gave her a kiss. In the hospital there was nothing but pain. I was anxious and nervous, scared and sad.

I just wanted her to be alright. She was finally stable. And the plane was finally there. Black as night at around midnight, a flashing red light taking my sister away from me. We left for El Paso but before we got there my mom called.

Crying and screaming: They took my baby, my baby is gone.

My brother and I in the back seat instantly cried a river with no words. In shock, disbelief.

Our Beautiful Sister was gone.

Sandy Day in the Saddle

Kay Smith

Alarms

RJ Gonzalez

Every day I wake up to alarms running around my house. They are loud and noisy, but fun to watch as they go outside whenever a large delivery truck drives by or when someone walks along the street in the back. Some mornings, they are not up before I am, and so I try my best to keep quiet so as not to set them off. Sometimes I am quiet enough to keep the blaring alarms from loudly sounding and waking the rest of my family. Other times, they see me and act as if an intruder has broken into the house, despite knowing me very well. But inevitably, they go off, no matter what I do to keep them from making their loud noises.

There are six alarms in my home. Four of the alarms are usually quieter than others. Throughout the day, those alarms keep to themselves, and only let out small beeps and chirps. Sometimes they come up to me and gently let me know that they love me. They are very sweet alarms.

But the other two are not so quiet. They are still very sweet, but as soon as one of them starts ringing, the rest get riled up as well. Every time I think that things are calm and that I can rest easily—

RING RING RING RING!

And suddenly, they’re all off, and there is nothing that I can do to stop it!

Sometimes, one of the two will start off with quiet chirps before they ring very loudly, making everything become a loud shouting match between me and the alarms. Sometimes, it gets so bad that I must take the alarms outside and lock them out, just so that I can have some peace in the house.

But, in the end, I would never trade those alarms for others, even if I could get quieter or less rowdy alarms. No way could I ever do that. These alarms may be loud and annoying and frustrating, but they are like family, and are very easy to love when they are not ringing. They are loud because they love me, and sometimes it’s fun to watch them go off every now and again. Especially when they go off at me, because I play with them and talk back to them, which makes them talk back to me.

Besides, you never know when you need the best alarm system in the world to wake you up in a time of need.

A Monster Died in the Night

Jayli Lueras

A monster died in the night, one who was a master of disguise. He had the village thinking him a hero, and how they mourned his defeat.

But I was there.

I witnessed the descension of the Valkyrie. There was no sorrow for a fallen warrior in their eyes. No.

Not one cried out in woe lined celebration. No.

This creature would not be raised to sit next to the All Father. No.

For where the village saw a hero, the Valkyrie knew the truth.

Great Odin saw the monster and sent his maidens not for the ascension of Valhalla, but for the dragging to Helheim.

And I watched. How I reveled in their malice. How I wished to dance to the screams and twisted laughter.

A monster died in the night, and the village mourned.

As the ground beneath my feet swallowed the being, I ran and embraced the shieldmaiden he left behind. For it was her truth that stripped his spell, exposing him to the world, though the world was too blind to see it.

And there we sat in Freya’s embrace, and there we shall remain.

For in the night a monster was slain. Now we await the dawn.

Undercover Unicorn: A Children’s Story

Kai Brown

Here I am on the job. I am a unicorn but, usually, I work undercover as a dog. I look for kids to play with. Some days I walk with my owner, but she doesn’t know about my undercover job. As you know, most unicorns like to keep secrets. Actually, I keep many secrets to myself and try to look happy and wag my tail to please my owner who thinks I’m a dog. (I am really my own owner, but, again, that’s a secret.) Oh, and the blackbirds know I’m working undercover but have promised not to talk.

Here’s my morning schedule. I wake up very early, put on my dog outfit, and get to the schoolbus stop before any of my friends show up. I do this so that I can count the kids as they arrive and make sure no one is sick at home. If someone doesn’t show up for the bus, after the bus leaves, I head to the missing kid’s house right away. By the way, I can smell sickness, so I can tell if someone is pretending. (That is a secret ability.) You should know that sometimes if you eat a lot of peppermint ice cream, the smell can cover up the sick. I am very careful if I smell peppermint ice cream.

Today everyone is on the bus. Whew, a good day to visit the kids who aren’t old enough for school. They are really fun to play with. I think they like me because of my black, fluffy, furry coat and my smile. Here’s the difference. Maybe you know this. The really young kids don’t try to make me tired by throwing a ball, or fake throwing a ball, or tying me to their wagon to pull them around, or put me on a leash so I can’t go where I want, or give me a

bath and make me do tricks. Young kids put their faces near to get sloppy kisses and bury their noses in my fluffy, furry coat and use me as a pillow and feed me candy and Cheerios. You see what I mean?

So, it’s a good day. I’m happy, little kids are happy, the neighborhood moms and dads are happy, except Mrs. Grumpy who doesn’t like dogs, but not just me, ALL dogs. I don’t like her either, but that’s a secret. I just smile and feel sorry for her because she doesn’t know I’m an unicorn undercover. If she knew about my job, she would probably be nicer.

OK, back to work.

Embrace Life

Twila Lemons

No agenda—No plans—Spread the arms—Let the spirit free to soar.

Don’t care who is watching or what they say Happiness—pain—laughter—joy and love Express it!—Your life—Live it as if it’s your last day.

Time passes so quickly, too many minutes wasted Take the new day you have been given—live it wisely Embrace life before it becomes dated.

This day may not be about you—but a stranger or another Remember—everyone has a story!

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Live hopefully—always prayerful

Keep the faith

Miracles still happen—look for them

The miracles await.

On Our Son’s First Fishing Trip with His Grandpa

Nisha Hoffman

He sat there and stared at that old fish hook. At the worms in the can he tried not to look.

Grampa was watching with a line in his brow. “Hurry up, boy, get the worm on there now.”

The boy’s face showed fear for the worm in his hand, As it wiggled and squiggled and felt of the sand.

“Don’t get acquainted, boy, just bait the hook. Give the line a jerk and throw it in the brook.”

Small fingers reached out, the worm was caught. He dragged the worm around the hook in a knot.

The worm it rolled. It curled. It fell. Grampa shook his head and just said, “Well.”

“Try again, boy, put the hook through the worm, double it over when it starts to squirm.”

The little boy’s eyes filled up to the brim. Didn’t grampa know the worm was a friend?

He had played with the worms that filled that can, let them climb over his fingers and into his hand.

Into the can his hand quivered and dipped. Next came the splash and “Aw, Grampa, it slipped.”

Our Fights and Injuries: A Photo Album As Essay

Johanna Michaels

My family has always been strange. We are accident-prone and sickly. Every generation has its own fights and injuries. These things are what make us a family, and they bring us closer together. We have many great stories about our fights, injuries, and illnesses passed on with love because that is what makes our family who we are. All of our stories, no matter how small, bring us together and define us as a family.

When my grandma was raising her kids, she got a fork stuck in her foot. My grandmother was sweeping the floor barefoot. She hit a fork and it lodged in her foot. She went to the hospital to get the fork removed. The doctors didn’t believe she had a fork in her foot at first since she had walked in completely on her own.

When I was a baby, my papa was supposed to be coming home on his motorcycle. He wasn’t there when he was supposed to be and I wouldn’t stop crying. My grandma couldn’t figure out why I was crying, until my papa dragged himself up to the house from the gate. My papa had crashed his motorcycle into the fence. His leg wouldn’t heal and got infected. They eventually had to amputate it, and as a child, I would always poke at his stump.

For a year when I was in kindergarten, my grandparents lived in New York. I came back before they did, so I wouldn’t change schools during the year. We were told we were going to a lake to go swimming. I called my grandparents that day, and they said they would be back in a few days. My instincts told me they were at the lake waiting for us, so I was smiling and giddy the whole way there. Everyone had said that they would be there, but when we got there, I said, “I knew you would be here.”

When Grandma was six, she moved to the U.S. from France. She came on the Queen Mary. She didn’t speak English and didn’t bring many belongings. I remember her telling me about this one doll she brought. She still has it. My grandma was one of the almost three hundred thousand French immigrants to the United States a year in the 1950s. According to PRB in their article “Trends in Migration to the U.S.,” the United States admitted an average of 250,000 immigrants a year in the 1950s.

My parents got rabbits that my sister, Kristanya, had to take care of. One day, she left the cage open and her dog killed the rabbits. She claimed it was an accident, but had told me that she no longer wanted to care for the rabbit. My dad cooked up the rabbits for them to eat. Kristanya came over and asked, “Do you want some? It tastes like chicken.” I politely declined the offer.

When Kristanya did an official sparring match during a tournament, she accidentally broke a guy’s ribs. They were both wearing gear, and the guy was a lot older. They were sparring, and my sister kicked him in the side. He went into the bathroom, and when he came out, there was blood, and he said his ribs felt broken. When his kids came to the next project, they said his ribs were broken.

Our yard was always messy. There were all kinds of vehicles and tools lying around. Some kind of glass had broken on a rock. That day, Jr. went outside without shoes and stepped on the glass. The glass cut open his foot. He got a rock stuck in his foot, so they went to the hospital to get it removed. When Jr. got back, he was so happy and proud of the rock.

When we were in New York, we stayed with my uncle Jay and his family. I was much younger than everyone else there. David loved wrestling. We would wrestle, and even though he was in fifth grade while I was in kindergarten, I would beat him. David and I were really close.

Grandma was walking around the RV when she hit her head on the hitch. She didn’t realize that she was hurt until I mentioned it. She was bleeding, but not very badly. We got her all fixed up. So Papa bought a pool noodle and cut it so he could cover the hitch, so nobody would bust their heads on it again.

My dad, Jean, Jay, and Charles got into a fight as kids. Dad broke his nose and

passed out. The boys thought they had killed him, so they got a trash bag and took him outside. They started digging a hole, and while they were digging, my uncle woke up. When he started getting up, it scared the other boys, but they were also happy that he wasn’t dead.

Me and Tyler used to pretend we were monsters who were going to put Jr. in the oven or the pot of oil. We would chaise Jr. and, once we caught him, we would carry him to the oven or pot. Once we got there, we would set him down so he could escape. Tyler would pretend to be angry while I was frustrated. We would continue in this cycle for hours.

Jean wasn’t a talkative kid. Actually, she wouldn’t talk at all. The kids, especially uncle Jeannine, would blame everything on Jean. One day, Jean had enough. Jeannine was blaming him for something, and he yelled “No” and started saying that it was them who did everything he was getting blamed for. Jean started hitting Jennine with what he had in his hand. The kids knew that they had pushed her too far at that point.

One Christmas I got strep, so I couldn’t be around every day. I sat in my room and watched as everyone decorated the tree. Grandma saved some decorations for me to put up. When everyone else was done, I got to put up what was saved for me. Our friends came over, but I had to stay away from them. I had to open my presents alone.

My dad was into karate when he was a kid. He got a black belt at about the

same age as me when we were just starting out. During one of his competitions, he was up against an instructor. Dad kicked the instructor, and the instructor went back to the table. Dad won a trophy, but the instructor ended up in the hospital.

If I had any questions about school, Grandma would help me. I would ask her, and if she didn’t know, she would look it up and help me get to the correct solution. I usually understood after she started to explain, even if she didn’t. I would tell her that she didn’t need to look it up anymore because I understood, but by that time, she wanted to understand too. If we were both still confused, we would look at more stuff till we understood, or at least I did. We had a trampoline from our friend who had moved away. We were jumping as usual, but Tyler and Kristanya had gotten into an argument. They were upset at each other, but we were all playing. Tyler did a really big bounce, and while he was in the air, Kristanya pushed him. Tyler flew off the trampoline and into an old kid’s toy we had lying around. The toy was broken, but Tyler was fine.

My sister and I were playing hide-and-go-seek tag with some friends. Rose hid behind a tree but didn’t notice the poison ivy. She was covered in poison ivy oil and spread it on me when she touched my back. For days, we were both itchy and uncomfortable. We learned that poison ivy affected us and that we had it in our yard.

When my papa was in the Navy and married to his first wife, he got into a wreck. A kid ran in front of him to get his ball. He dodged a kid and hit a tree. Papa had glass all in him. They sowed him up with the glass in him to save his life.

I used to dump salt into my mouth or on my hand to eat it. One day, instead of grabbing the salt, I accidentally grabbed the pepper. I just poured it in my mouth and started choking. Grandma realized and came over to help. After that, I made sure it was salt and stayed away from pepper.

When Grandma was in high school, she was bullied. She told the staff about it, but they didn’t do anything. Grandma put up with it for years, but one day she finally snapped. When she snapped, she beat the bully so badly she had to go to the hospital. The school tried to suspend Grandma, but everyone, including the bullies, stood up for you.

We went camping where there were these tall water slides. I learned to swim in New York. My sister told the lifeguards that I didn’t know how to swim, so when I got to the bottom, they all rushed to get me. It was super embarrassing, but when Grandma found out, she was pissed. Grandma told the life guards what happened and mentioned that Kristana hadn’t had swim lessons. Kristana had to prove that she could swim.

Papa got back late from a hunting trip. He had several deer in the ice chest. Since it was the weekend, we got to help with them. Papa hung them up, and I sat on the truck while he and dad skinned and gutted them. Sometimes I would play with the antlers on my head.

Grandpa, who is my great grandpa, would always say it was Hanna time when he wanted ice cream. He called me Hanna, so he called ice cream time Hanna time. Hanna Time was our special time. We’d have Hanna time every day. I would sit in bed with him as we ate and talked.

On one of my birthdays, we were going to Gattiland. This was what we usually did for a birthday. When we were backing up, my parents ran over our dog, Frosty. They put him down while we waited in the car. I didn’t want to ruin my birthday party, so I ignored it and just went on with my day. I had fun at Gattiland, and when we got back, I was too exhausted to think of anything.

My grandparents would help me while I was studying for school. Me and Papa were outside grilling while I was doing my school work. I finished my homework and was studying for a big test. While Papa read out the flashcards, I was in control of the grill. I would answer, and we would stay out and grill for as long as we could while studying.

I was tickling Kristanya on her bed. I hadn’t realized the crate was pulled out. It had plastic spikes all around the edge. Kristanya was wiggling and knocked me off the bed and onto the crate. One of the spikes hit and went through my head. I got stitches, then I was fine.

Showcase from Professor Dolores Chacon’s Graphic Design & Art Appreciation Courses

Digital Media I Patterns

This project introduces the Pattern Tool in Adobe Illustrator and reinforces the creation and manipulation of shapes, object editing, color and composition. It requires analysis and critical thinking to visualize how to apply the use of patterns in an ad layout or product design.

Lollipops Pattern

Irie Nichols

Desert Pattern

Jacob McCaw

Space Pattern

Rita Williams

Art Appreciation Soap Sculpture

Students used the Subtractive Method of sculpture to cut away or subtract the part of the medium that isn’t part of a design. Students created a design on paper then, using a toothpick, traced the design onto a bar of soap. Then they used a paring knife to carve out the design and used a spoon to carve out larger areas and for smoothing out.

Soap Sculpture

Andrea Elias

Soap Sculpture

Adam Zamora

Soap Sculpture

Angel Kaydahzinne

One Thoroughly Contented Muse

Paula Pavanis

The rickety, tiny old house reeked. Silent and shrouded, ephemeral ghosts of booze, bacon-grease and chain-smokers lingered deeply ensconced in those old walls. And the daily drills of its resident adults endlessly added to those ungodly stale scents. The other broken-down homes on the block at least sat in the light and closer to the street, but not ours. We were backwards, concealed from prying eyes behind hideously overgrown shrubs and trees. And the setback placed us precariously close to the dingy pest-infested alley. Those thirty-five yards to the street may as well have born the stench of a medieval moat: inhospitable and dank.

Submarine-style quarters dominated the tiny inside, the kitchen its hub. Bumping into something—fridge, stove, sink, table, chair, TV—was just the way of things. The spotless living room, hidden behind a forever-closed pocket door, exuded all the lifeless welcome of a museum exhibit. It also housed the front door. I loved that door. Its handcrafted cut-glass knob and clear windowpanes held a portal to the magical world of outside. But I lived in the basement for eight years.

Its door was always closed. There wasn’t enough room in the small hall to even open it all the way. And opening it was a bit scary. Exceedingly steep and narrow, the steps to my room were more like a modified ladder. Peering down an open submarine hatch comes to mind. They weren’t even wide enough for my little eight-year-old feet. Although fully finished and furnished, that basement was dark. Dim and diffuse, daylight filtered in only through two window-wells full of spider webs. Despite the antiseptic cleanliness habits of my mother, it was a basement. It still smelled musty like dirt. Creepy but harmless vinegarroons loved it. Millipedes and scorpions found it a welcome refuge too. I never dared set foot out of bed without the light on and checking under that bed. Children, especially those from insular families like mine, families with secrets, seldom realize how something like living in a basement seems to the outside world. During a visit, my adult daughter saw that old house for what it was: “run down.” My upbringing was indeed debasing: categorically subterranean. Run into the ground, to be precise.

Light exists along many wavelengths. Some are rendered imperceptible and unavailable to limited human anatomy. Ultra-violet for one. But the humble bumblebee sees it. That light not only guides them directly to dinner, but also serves us up our needed human dinners via their pollination. Light means life for many, and fortunately travels more than one path.

My childhood environs were unmistakably, forebodingly dark. But fortunately light seeps in through even the smallest crack. Against all odds, light not only found its way in, but found a way to stay. It had come once before. It was the light, and life, that music affords. But the parental units were having none of it. Refusing to take me to school for music practice, they left me to walk yearround that forty-five minutes to school on a busy road with no shoulder nor sidewalk. It might be easy to believe I was less than loved, but folks who grew up with dirt floors and no indoor plumbing until 1963 believed we were living the life of Riley.

Not surprisingly, eleven seemed the zenith of their tolerance for anything deemed play; anything not directly related to the dollar. After all, graduating from eighth grade was seen as the pinnacle of academic achievement in Mom’s family. Abject poverty’s demons tormented the poor souls who endured the Great Depression. In their defense, many we knew valued only work. Creativity was unheard of. It was the purview of the wasteful, country clubbin’, snooty, stuck-up, rich folks. They came to Mom to have their hair done. The parental units used every trick their pea-pickin’ brains could think of to keep me on the straight and narrow road of hard tack survival. Their task? Insuring creativity’s muse, her light, would never touch me. That was their version of love.

Words were mere formalities to them and therefore nearly meaningless. They read the bills and Reader’s Digest. Words weren’t creative. Ever stealth, that muse never once took her eyes off the light and the love of words she saw in me. Creeping unseen past that dark and overgrown yard, she quietly snuck past their archaic notions in our back door.

“Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly—they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.”

—Aldous Huxley, Brave New

World

She arrived in the form of a dictionary. Not just ANY old dictionary mind you. No way. My dictionary, The Reader’s Digest Encyclopedic Dictionary, published by Funk and Wagnalls in 1966, was as big as the ones sitting on their own stand in the library. It was so different from the boring student dictionaries at school I couldn’t believe what I’d been missing. There were extensive explanations of possible meanings and usage for even common words. Etymologies, timelines of usage, antonyms, and synonyms covered each of those fifteen-hundred-and-sixty-five pages. And that was just the English dictionary. The supplement held French, German, and Spanish dictionaries, a dictionary of quotes, popular baby names, medical terminologies, and more.

It was my birthday gift. And I was only twelve.

I knew for certain then and there that miracles and muses, and the glorious light they bring, actually exist. Daddy the fall-down, horrific drunk could never have imagined such a wondrous gift for me: one I would fall in love with. I always wondered if one of his more literate women “friends” recommended it.

With the gift of that dictionary, words became my best friends. I spent hours in my basement reading my dictionary. Life was pretty lonely during those times. I wasn’t old enough to visit friend’s homes after school. And I desperately needed something inspiring and creative to pierce the darkness that surrounded me.

On the rare days he was sober, Dad would sit at the upstairs kitchen table with the Reader’s Digest. After my dictionary came, he figured it might be good for us to use it together. The “It Pays To Increase Your Word Power” vocabulary builder was a Reader’s Digest regular feature. Dad would read me the word, but not the definition. I looked it up in my spanking new dictionary. This was a happy time for us both. We would laugh and talk about the silly multiple-choice options the editors offered. Since laughter was nearly non-existent at home, I cherished those moments connecting over words. I’m sure my Dad never imagined just how true the statement “It Pays To Increase Your Word Power” would become for me. Addiction creates dark walls in families. His birthday gift and our time together over words were our only connection.

After we finished upstairs, I was nowhere near done. I would retreat to my basement and read every entry of every word we had just learned. The roots and usages fascinated me. I would look up the synonyms first, pick out the ones that called to me, and then look them up too. The antonyms came next. My creative muse wasn’t content to sneak in the backdoor and hide in a corner. Not a chance. She was in full form now. I was learning both the power and nuance of language: learning to paint convincing pictures with words.

It served my adolescent self well in important ways. Progressing in school at that point meant essays and essay questions. I soon learned I could write my way through just about anything, even if I barely had an inkling of the answer. Papers kept coming back with A’s. With the vocabulary and nuance of language I was learning from my dictionary, my social status began to improve. I helped friends write papers. When I got into trouble for something or the other, I could reason and talk my way out of it with adults. My poorly edu-

cated parents were no match for my new found skill, and that quickly drove a wedge between us that, rightfully so, was much needed for the survival of my sinking spirits. They’d successfully kept the muse and the light of music out of the house. But once the muse of words came carrying her torchlight, I was on fire. Now determined to escape the darkness of the dungeon they had created, I, predictably for an adolescent, sometimes morphed into a smug smartypants too big for my britches. Whether good or bad, the power of words was taking up permanent residence.

I still have my 1966 Reader’s Digest Encyclopedic Dictionary. Last year my best friend even bought me the stand I had always wanted for it. It stands open, always ready for a new discovery. Reliably thorough, I prefer it to the abridged definitions provided by online dictionaries and etymology sites. Sixty character explanations aren’t enough for the nuance I seek: for the word paintings that still light my internal fires. I recently found an identical unused copy of my dictionary at an estate sale, so sadly I let the original go. It was fifty years old and sat open next to me through every paper I wrote: Vocational School, Undergraduate Studies, and Graduate School. It was also the only dictionary my children ever knew.

The power of words my dictionary gifted me presented a unique challenge in graduate school. A twenty-three year old teacher’s aide, of course trying to prove his mettle in a bid for a paid position, failed my first paper. Always the learner despite my advanced age, I shamelessly consulted the writing center tutor. After reading the rubric for the assignment and my paper, her first words forever ring in my ears. “The first things I notice is that you are a writer.” She continued, “We don’t write here. We follow conventions. They are so much easier than what you do.”

That was music to my ears I’m sure my word muse smiles her contented assent, her job well done.

Courage

Dr. Mary S. Lemmond

Did it take courage to make a big change in your life?

Perhaps you moved to Ruidoso to attend college, or for work, or to retire. Maybe you changed your marital status, had a baby, or provided care for a person who was ill or dying.

The change might have caused you to experience fear or anxiety. Once you made the decision to change you might have thought there was no turning back or shouted, “NO WAY” when you thought ‘can I do this.’ Once the challenge was achieved, or at least you lived with it for a while, you might have reflected on the experience and said, “Piece of cake!” or maybe, “How did I ever do that?” Change elicits many emotions. Change takes courage.

Courage is an emotional strength that involves the will to achieve goals in spite of difficulties.

How does a person get that will? We can look to Positive Psychology where courage is one of six Virtues. According to frontiersin.org, “Virtues are the core characteristics valued by moral philosophers and religious thinkers. [These virtues] put the emphasis on character strengths.”

Courage’s character strengths are bravery, perseverance, honesty and zest. These strengths help us show fearlessness while dealing with difficult situations.

Look at the changes you’ve encountered or will encounter in the future - can you be courageous, persistent, truthful or enthusiastic? Whether the answer is yes or no, the character strengths of courage are accessible. But being available isn’t enough. We must cultivate the character strengths just like we build strong muscles.

The character strength bravery builds resilience when people actively cope with challenges and overcome them. Building courage might be done in steps. Start by concentrating on the result(s) of a courageous task. Try doing something small and relatively safe – karaoke, for example, or trying out for a sport, or acting in a small theatre. Build on successes, then take bigger steps to accomplish what you really want. As confidence soars and boldness grows, you can use bravery in ways you never dreamed possible.

Another courage character strength is perseverance. Before you can think about sticking with it, you might have to reframe past failures that didn’t go quite as well as you wanted and caused you to quit the challenge. What is reframing? It’s looking at events, ideas, and tasks differently. Once you see possibilities instead of failures, perseverance can help with success and achievement. An outstanding book on this subject is Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance, by Angela Duckworth. Her information is a roadmap for pushing through to the end of a project, degree, book you are writing, or enhancing physical stamina, or whatever other challenge you are facing.

Honesty is an act of courage as it helps you show respect for yourself, your objectives, and the promises you’ve made. Honesty is hard sometimes because we might not know ourselves. There also can be a fine line between being honest and hurting someone’s feelings. If we use rationalization or excuses for our behavior, we need to stop and become mindful. One way is to think about situations after they occur. Reflecting on what you did or said might help determine a wiser way to respond the next time you are in a similar situation.

My favorite courage character strength is zest. We can take on change if life is approached with joy and energy. One way to incorporate zest into our lives is to analyze everyday tasks and actions. What brings liveliness and passion? Investigate activities that motivate you. I love to write. The time I spend writing just breezes by. This is called flow. I’m totally caught up in the project and lose track of time. Being like this energizes me, and my mind then considers other things that I can write (or paint or build or study). Courage becomes instinctive. You look forward to it! Another way to build zest in your life is to share good things that happen each day. This can be one-on-one or recorded in a journal. When you realize all the good things in your life, it’s easier to grab courage.

We need courage in many areas of life. Many times, change requires courage. Change can be something we choose, or it can be something that arises abruptly, like COVID 19. When you are in the middle of a change, take a deep breath and contemplate bravery, determination, sincerity, and excitement. Could these character strengths help nurture your courage?

The phrase “take courage” is one we can live. It’s possible to study and grow the attributes of courage. Courageous can be who we are…

Contributor Biographies

jocelynn benavidez

Jocelynn Benavidez is an early college high school student who has big dreams! Writing short stories, poems, and songs is one of her favorite hobbies. Jocelynn is obviously a strong writer with lots of emotions and ideas behind her work. She loves to use free verse in her poems to express how she’s finding her way through life. Still so young, Jocelynn’s work has such strong meaning behind it; when you process and take apart her work, it reflects what she is currently facing in her life. Hopefully in the next few years to come, she will find her path.

sage bennett

Sage Bennett attended ENMU-Ruidoso during the Fall 2022 semester, during which she wrote “The Bird from Hell” for ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

AMI BHAKTA

Ami Bhakta is a high school senior at Ruidoso High School and a dual-credit student at ENMU-Ruidoso that graduated as part of the Class of 2023. She became an editor at the Ridgeline Review Magazine because she finds reading others’ stories engaging. She has been accepted to California State University, Long Beach, where she will study business administration and finance. She enjoys working out, playing video games, and spending time with her friends.

kai brown

After a 30-year career in big business, in retirement, Kai Brown is busy expressing her creative visions through ceramics, watercolors and children’s books. A safari with her daughter inspired her first children’s stories about giraffes who are born different, followed by a children’s cookbook available on Amazon. Most recently, Kai published a children’s book that she both wrote and illustrated. A full-time resident in Alto, Kai participates in 2 art shows a year, both in the Alto area.

charles k. carter

Charles K. Carter (he/him) is a queer poet from Iowa. He holds an MFA from Lindenwood University. His poems have appeared in several literary journals. He is the author of Read My Lips (David Robert Books) and several chapbooks. He can be found on Twitter and Instagram @CKCpoetry.

MAYJAH CERVANTES

Mayjah Cervantes attended ENMU-Ruidoso during the Spring 2022 semester, during which she wrote “A Great Love Lost” for ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

DOLORES CHACON

Dolores “D” Chacon is an instructor at ENMU-Ruidoso. She loves to sing, play ukulele, and make art using Adobe computer programs, painting, sculpture, or whatever media is at hand. D also writes poems and songs when the muse is near. She also loves to travel and is working with her husband, Richard, to refurbish

their home in Ruidoso Downs. After working for newspapers, ad agencies, and whatever paid the bills, she earned her Master’s degree in Digital Art from California State University Fresno, and has taught art and graphic design at colleges in California, Texas, and New Mexico for almost 20 years.

M ARIE CHAFFIN

Marie Chaffin was a dual credit high school student during the 2022-2023 academic year at ENMU-Ruidoso. She wrote “Looking On” during the Fall 2022 semester in ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

K ATHLEEN COTTON

Kathleen Cotton is a native of the shores of California. Her paintings speak to her journeys among the Spanish missions of Baja and the cobbled markets of Mexico. Her love of culture and color shows through her various landscapes, impressionistic copies, and abstracts. Cotton began painting after a 2010 community education art class, and her work now offers a cornucopia of texture and color that amazes and delights art lovers far and wide.

stefani christnot

Stefani Christnot has been writing since the age of 11 at the request of her teacher in school. She published FEAR in 1999 and it won an Editor’s Choice Award. She won many more of those awards, and is still writing poetry books to get published. She has recently been published with Silent Sparks Press and is writing emotional poetry. She is looking to make an ezine.

cori cox

Cori Cox is a senior this year at Ruidoso High School. This was also her last year being a competitive gymnast. She has dedicated almost 16 years of her life to the sport. She plans to go to NMSU, after graduating with her diploma and associate’s degree, to pursue a degree in the medical field. Her writing was inspired by the fire that her family lost their house in. It was written more for personal growth and a way to work through everything that had happened, but wanted to share her story with others as well.

C AITLIN DAUGHERTY

Caitlin Daugherty is a 19-year-old artist and poet from Nogal, New Mexico. She has many interests, including writing, drawing, sculpting, painting, and videogames. She lives to make the world weirder with each art piece she creates.

A NTHONY DOCKTER

Anthony Dockter is 19 years old and lives in Capitan, New Mexico. He likes photography, fishing, and birdwatching. In his photo in this issue, all three come together.

TERESA DOVELPAGE

Writer, translator and professor, Teresa Dovalpage is a Cuban transplant firmly

rooted in New Mexico. She is the author of twelve novels, among them the Havana Mystery series, three short story collections and four theater plays. She lives with her husband, one dog and too many barn cats in Hobbs, where she teaches at New Mexico Junior College.

A NDREA ELIAS

Andrea Elias created her soap carving for Art Appreciation at ENMU-Ruidoso during the Fall ‘22 semester.

BRITNY FITZWILLIAM

Britny Fitzwilliam is an ENMU-Ruidoso student who loves to hang out with family and friends, make jokes, drink Starbucks, garden, and get her tan on while swimming. This is her first published poem.

DADE GIRVEN

Dade Girven was a dual-credit student at ENMU-Ruidoso who graduated this past May. He plans to pursue a bachelor’s degree in psychology this August at WNMU. He enjoys gardening, cooking, listening to music, watching movies, playing video games, and sleeping.

RJ GONZALEZ

RJ Gonzalez is an aspiring author, student at ENMU-Ruidoso, and editor of Ridgeline Review Magazine. He enjoys playing video games, reading books, and writing personal projects. After graduating from ENMU-Ruidoso, he hopes to continue his education to become a professional creative writer.

DANIEL GRIFFIN

Daniel Griffin wrote “The Hog’s Pen” during the Fall 2022 semester in ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

A NITA HITTLE

Anita Hittle began her artist’s journey in her fifties, in 2005, with a watercolor class. She slowly discovered that she was seeing the world in a different way. She was seeing everything as colors and shapes, lights and shadows. The ordinary became extraordinary. She started to pay attention to the marks people made on the world from ancient times. She noticed the impact of nature, and wanted to share that impression with others. She found the eccentric, and liked looking past the obvious to get to the essence of her paintings. What a treasure to be an artist!

NISHA HOFFMAN

In her first life some twenty-three years ago, Nisha Hoffman was a Preschool Director/Pre-K teacher. After retiring and moving to Ruidoso, Nisha has been a living history performer with the NM Endowment for the Humanities, a storyteller, a docent for local museums, an advocate for Fort Stanton, a newspaper columnist, and a creator of a preschool/childcare community for Community Methodist Church. Currently, Nisha is writing western novels, children’s books, and poetry.

ANGEL KAYDAHZINNE

Angel Kaydahzinne created her soap carving for Art Appreciation at ENMU-Ruidoso during the Fall ‘22 semester.

C ARELLA KEIL

Carella is a writer and digital artist who has imagined and created from the moment the world imagined and created her. She is currently writing a novella and a collection of short stories. Her work has appeared in Columbia Journal, Glassworks, Grub Street, Chestnut Review, and The Stripes Magazine in the past year.

A DEN KELLY

Aden Kelly enjoys hiking, drumming, reading, writing, and spending time with family and friends.

K ATHY KIEFER

Kathy Kiefer grew up in southern Michigan, about 90 miles east of Chicago. She dabbled in diferent types of art, and her high school art teacher encouraged her to pursue an artistic career. Kathy received a BFA with an emphasis in graphic design from NMSU in 1989. She has worked for newspapers, magazines, print shops, and has done freelance design for many organizations. Currently, Kathy is the Media Production Coordinator at ENMU-Ruidoso.

DIANA KURNIAWAN

Diana Kurniawan is a graduate of Loma Linda School of Public Health and University of Colorado, Denver, School of Public Affairs. Earning both Master in Public Health and Master in Public Administration, Diana gained valuable experiences in Journalism and Literature while studying at both universities. She was published with by lines from Denver Life Magazine, Longmont Times Call, and The Denver Voice, as she caters her writing niche towards humanitarian efforts. She believes in the power of literature to transform minds and renews the human spirit. She is a survivor and manages to write and work her days, despite Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder and Depression.

M ARY S. LEMMOND

Dr. Mary S. Lemmond, an educator for many years, taught students from preschool through graduate school in Tulsa, OK. Moving to Ruidoso in March 2019 she attended her first Creative Aging meeting at ENMU-Ruidoso. Immediately intrigued with aging as it relates to Positive Psychology, she continues to immerse herself in the topic and leads a monthly women’s group, which explores character strengths. Dr. Lemmond is completing an extensive activity program for older adults, which she plans to publish this year. The curriculum is interactive and will provide members with a website to gain additional topic information, positive psychology suggestions, and community chats.

T WILA LEMONS

Twila Lemons, a native New Mexican born in Socorro, spent the first years of

her life on a ranch outside of Pietown, New Mexico. She has two sons and three grandsons. Twila worked as a nurse for 36 years before retiring. Her dad, Bud Goodson, wrote several stories for True West Magazine before his passing in 1982. His spirit and love for the land and horses inspired Twila to write. She always loves a good story and story telling.

JAYLI LUERAS

Jayli Lueras, or Jay as her friends know her, has been writing since she was in the third grade. To say it is a passion is an understatement. As of now, she has one full novel published online, and is currently in the process of writing the next installment in the series. This year brought has brought new excitement to her life including the discovery of being pregnant with her sixth child, a boy, and being a managing editor for Ridgeline Review!

AIRALYH MAGANA

Airalyh Magana was a dual credit high school student at ENMU-Ruidoso during the 2022-2023 academic year. The reason she chose to submit this piece is because she believes this poem has a deep meaning behind it regarding self-love. She thinks many people like to connect the idea of self-love and having to be “perfect” in order to give and receive love from yourself, yet it is more about acceptance within yourself.

M ARI

Mari attended ENMU-Ruidoso during the Spring 2022 semester, during which they wrote “Stagnant” for ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

PAUL MAXWELL

While having little formal training beyond a few mail-in courses in his early teens, Paul Maxwell has been painting most of his life. He began doing portraits with watercolor and then oils in his late teens and early twenties. After almost five decades focused on his other creative passions in engineering and sciences, Paul returned to the world of art full time in 2012. He works on his fine art painting from his Southern New Mexico studios in Las Cruces and Alto, focusing on landscapes and local subjects using various paint media. In 2013 Paul did a 7-month world tour visiting Asia, Australia, and much of Western Europe, including nine weeks studying at the Florence Academe de Arte.

JACK McCAW

Jack McCaw is a Professor at ENMU-Ruidoso, where he has taught many science courses over the past 15 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 financial means, working at three camera shops along the way, as well as working as a darkroom technician for several studio

photographers. Professor McCaw is in the 26th year of his teaching career, where he continues to teach as a resource faculty at ENMU-Ruidoso. After retirement, he plans to travel, photograph and delve into film-making. You can find his photographic work on Instagram at: @jackmccawphotography.

JACOB MCCAW

Jacob McCaw attended ENMU-Ruidoso during the 2022-2023 academi year, during which he produced some of his work in this issue for his graphic design courses.

JOHANNA MICHAELS

Johanna Michaels grew up hearing stories about her family that made her feel connected to them. Those stories grew into how she thought of her family, whom she had never met or could not remember. Each story had a different feel to it, and Johanna wanted to share that feeling with others even if they didn’t understand. She believes that stories are important because they can make people feel connected even when they can never meet, and they can show a side of someone that will never be seen.

IRIE NICHOLS

Irie Nichols is a homeschooled 14-year-old in 9th grade, and is a dual credit student at ENMU Ruidoso. She has been homeschooled for the past four years and recently started the dual credit program last semester. She has taken a few classes including Digital Media, First Year Seminar, Business Professionalism, and Acting for Non-Majors. She has enjoyed taking these classes, and is grateful the opportunity to earn college credit while in homeschool. In her free time she dances ballet, and enjoys hanging out with her friends, and also plays video games. She also takes pleasure in going on hikes, and traveling with her family.

IRINA TALL NOVIKOVA

Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor’s degree in design. Her first personal exhibition, “My soul is like a wild hawk” (2002), was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology. In 2005, she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, and she often draws on anti-war topics.

paula pavanis

Raised in Roswell, Paula Lorraine made a recent return to the Land of Enchantment after raising her family in St. Helena, CA. A lover of nuanced language from a very young age, she finds an almost magic felt-sense in a finely tuned phrase. Hoping against hope that similar delights might also lift her gentle reader from the trance of the mundane, painting palpable word visions brings her great joy. She fervently hopes said joy becomes a positive contagion of the most welcome type. A retired nurse, Paula holds a BA in Psychology, and an MA from Fuller School of Theology.

JVIAONDRA PROBY

Jviaondra Proby attended ENMU-Ruidoso during the Spring 2022 semester and wrote “Cold December” for ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

SADIE ROSER

Sadie Roser attended ENMU-Ruidoso during the Spring 2022 semester, during which she wrote “Screwdriver or Hatchet” for ENGL 2310: Intro to Creative Writing.

M ADISON SEAMANS

Dr. Madison Seamans has been a professional horseman for over 50 years. He rode bronc horses ‘till his brains came in, and then retired to college life—squeezing four years into 12, which is no easy trick. He started his veterinary career when somebody on the acceptance committee at Texas A&M University foolishly sent him a registration packet and that University and veterinary medicine have not been the same ever since. He finally graduated in 1985, taught vet medicine at UC Davis and did graduate work at the University of Florida. He is veterinarian in an equine specialty practice in Capitan, New Mexico, an internationally published author, sorry bronc rider and a semi-talented cowboy poet and artist. He lives with his lovely, way-above-his-paygrade wife, Annette, two spoiled dogs, two good horses and a flexible population of barn cats.

K AY SMITH

Holding signature status with 9 watercolor societies, Kay exhibits with Alto Artists Tour annually and is the founder of a local group in her home state, Texas. Oft-published since 1993, she has attained national attention for vibrant designs with her licensed work and is in many collections worldwide.

A RABELLA SNEAD-SCHMITZ

Arabella Snead-Schmitz is a editor for Ridgeline Review Magazine, and a graduating scholar of both ENMU-Ruidoso and Ruidoso High School. In the fall of 2023, she will continue her education at Texas Tech University in the field of microbiology and pharmaceutical sciences. She enjoys playing video games, writing poetry, spending time with friends and family, and playing with her dogs.

SUSAN TRAVIS

Susan Travis grew up amid a rich artistic culture and heritage. Her grandparents were well-known artists in Texas, her father ran the first art gallery in Ruidoso, The Artisan’s Shop & Gallery, and her mother taught high school art classes, From an early age, she learned to see the world from an artistic perspective. Susan began painting in 2017. Her paintings integrate her artistic family heritage with her training in mythology and psychology, interweaving elements of whimsy and religious narrative.

RITA WILLIAMS

Rita Williams lives in Ruidoso, NM with her daughter, Hannah, who just turned one, and her husband, Jacob, as well as 4 dogs. She attends ENMU-Ruidoso and

just finished her second semester. She enjoys learning new academics and activies. As a matter of fact, she has fallen in loved with digital media and plans on pursuing art as a career choice. For Rita, the art of creativity has no limits to the eyes and mind; everything you do or see is beyond the imagination, and putting work out there for others as well as yourself is a gift.

AYLA YARBROUGH

Ayla Yarbrough is a duel credit student at ENMU from Cloudcroft, NM. She paints watercolors and writes poetry on the topic of nature.

FELISHA YAWAKIA

Felisha Yawakia is from the Tribal Reservation of Zuni Pueblo, New Mexico. She was born and raised within the Zuni reservation. She grew up with both her parents, grandma and her sisters and brother. She grew up among 3 boys, being the only female. It was quite an experience learning how to grow crops with her late grandparents. She currently resides on the Zuni reservation and works with the Zuni Public School District as a Software Analyst and STARS Coordinator.

M ASON ZABEL

Mason Zabel is currently a student at Ruidoso High School.

A DAM ZAMORA

Adam Zamora created his soap carving for Art Appreciation at ENMU-Ruidoso during the Fall ‘22 semester.

The 2023 Ridgeline Review Team (L to R) Jeff Frawley, Professor of English, Editor; Student Managing Editors: Jayli Lueras, Arabella Snead-Schmitz, Ami Bhakta, Miriam Lucker, Dade Girven, Caitlin Daughtery, RJ Gonzalez.

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!

This year’s issue is possible thanks to a Devasthali Family Foundation Grant from the Community Foundation of Southern New Mexico.

Jocelynn Benavidez

Sage Bennett

Ami Bhakta

Kai Brown

Charles K. Carter

Mayjah Cer vantes

Dolores Chacon

Marie Chaffin

Stefani Christenot

Kathleen Cotton

Cori Cox

Caitlin Daugherty

Anthony Dockter

Teresa Dovelpage

Andrea Elias

Britny Fitzwilliam

Dade Gir ven

RJ Gonzalez

Daniel Griffin

Anita Hittle

Nisha Hoffman

Angel Kaydahzinne

Carella Keil

Aden Kelly

Kathy Kiefer

Diana Kurniawan

Mar y S Lemmond

Twila Lemons

Jayli Lueras

Airalyh Magana

Mari

Paul Maxwell

Jack McCaw

Jacob McCaw

Johanna Michaels

Irie Nichols

Irina Tall Novikova

Paula Pavanis

Jviaondra Proby

Sadie Roser

Madison Seamans

Kay Smith

Arabella Snead-Schmitz

Susan Travis

Rita Williams

Ayla Yarbrough

Felisha Yawakia

Mason Zabel

Adam Zamora