L I T E R A R Y & A R T SM A G A Z I N E

Cochise CollegeCochise & Santa Cruz Counties, Arizona

EditorsCappy Love Hanson

Julia Jones

College AdvisorsShirley NeeseJeff SturgesJay TreiberRick Whipple

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Front and Back Cover Art

Art: “Vida” by Marcela C. LubianDesign: Rick Whipple

About Mirage

Mirage Literary and Arts Magazine is designed and produced by stu-dents of Cochise College and/or volunteers from the community,with help from faculty advisors. Those interested in participating inthe production of Mirage should contact Cochise College at 520-515-0500. Visit us at www.cochise.edu/mirage. Hard copies ofMirage can be obtained at both the Douglas and Sierra Vista cam-pus libraries.

Acknowledgements

The Mirage staff would like to thank the following people for theirhelp in producing the magazine: the staff of the Copper QueenLibrary, Bisbee; and Elizabeth Lopez, Diane Nadeau, Tracey Neese,George Self, and Curt Smith, proofreaders.

Creative Writing Celebration Winners

Mirage publishes the first-place winners of the previous year’sCochise Community Creative Writing Celebration competitions inpoetry, fiction, and nonfiction, if available. The Celebration takesplace in late March/early April and is produced by Cochise College,the University of Arizona South, and the City of Sierra Vista. Visitthe Creative Writing Celebration at www.cochise.edu/cwc.

The following are the winners of the 2012 competitions:

Poetry – Nadine Lockhart: “As It Was”Fiction – Candy Adams Terry: “More Than Just a Dream”Nonfiction – Beth Colburn-Orozco: “Natalie”

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Mirage Mission Statement

Mirage Literary and Arts Magazine has a three-part mission:

1.Mirage serves Cochise and Santa Cruz counties by showcas-ing high-quality art and literature produced by community members.

2.Mirage serves Cochise College by establishing the College as the locus of a creative learning community.

3.Mirage serves Cochise College students by providing them an opportunity to earn college credit and gain academic and professional experience through their participation in all aspects of the production of the literary and arts magazine.

Font

This year’s Mirage is printed in Minion, an Adobe original typefacedesigned by Robert Slimbach. Minion is inspired by classical, old-style typefaces of the late Renaissance, a period of elegant, beautiful,and highly readable type designs.

Copyright Notice

All rights herein are retained by the individual author or artist. Nopart of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic,mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without writ-ten permission of the author or artist, except for limited scholarlyor reference purposes, to include citation of date, page, and sourcewith full acknowledgement of title, author, and edition. Printed inthe United States of America.

© Cochise College 2013

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TABLE OFCONTENTS

Literature Individuality Overdose . . . . . . . .1Xymyl

Family Steakhouse . . . . . . . . . . . . .3Leslie Clark

ArtWork Will Wait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4Mary Fogleman

Toujours L’Amour . . . . . . . . . . . . .5Katherine Baccaro

Monsoon Landscape . . . . . . . . . .6Kristie Sullivan

The Path . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7Stacy T. Smith

Recycled Steel Dragon . . . . . . . . .8Lindsay Janet Roberts

Break of Dawn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9Xo Terra

Mr. Giraffehead Does Shakespeare . . . . . . . . . . . .10Alan Potter

The Edge of Glory . . . . . . . . . . . .11Nischa Roman

Arlene’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12Lynda Coole

Main Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13David Day

Vida 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14Marcela C. Lubian

Decay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15Jesse C. Waite

Sumerian Maiden . . . . . . . . . . . .16Katherine Baccaro

The Peek-a-boo Goat . . . . . . . .17Kristie Sullivan

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Pink Heart Ornament . . . . . . .18Lindsay Janet Roberts

Ducks at Sunrise . . . . . . . . . . . . .19Natalie Melton

Literature Crop Circles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20Sergio Lalli

Lover, Since You’ve Taken a Night Job . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25Lavendra Copen

Said . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26Xymyl

Raining Somewhere, Never Here . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27Leslie Clark

ArtUnder the Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . .28Dawn Edmonds

The Yellow Field . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29Jack Miller

Spin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30Jesse C. Waite

Midnight at the Oasis . . . . . . . .31Xo Terra

The Wasa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32Paul Teza

Saturday Night Stomp . . . . . . .33Katherine Baccaro

Red Hot Chips . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34Michelle Barber

Sandhills at Sunrise . . . . . . . . . .35R. J. Luce

Rise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36Nischa Roman

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Flowers in Green Valley . . . . . .37Elizabeth Gibson

Historically We WolvesHave Been Misunderstood . .38Alan Potter

Forces United . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39Archie William Sutton

Butchart Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . .40Jack Miller

Daredevil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41Nischa Roman

Wood–to Be or Not . . . . . . . . . .42Michelle Barber

Steer Skull . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43David Day

Literature Love Advice from an Older Woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44Lavendra Copen

The Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45Xymyl

Snapshots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46Lavendra Copen

Literature - Creative WritingCelebration WinnersMore Than Just a Dream . . . .50Candy Adams Terry

As It Was . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55Nadine Lockhart

Natalie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62Beth Colburn-Orozco

Biographical Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71

Submission Guidelines . . . . .77

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INDIVIDUALITYOVERDOSE

Xymyl

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Stan was like every other boy his age in that he wanted to be justlike everybody else but still retain a vague sense of individuality. Inall other ways he was totally different from other boys his age. Andif you say that the other boys are also boys, then I'll remind you 1) you are talking to a story that has already been written, so youwon't convince the story to change now, and 2) you are not allow-ing the story to unfold naturally like the petals of a flower, a soggyaccordion, or the pages of a book.

So back to the story . . .Stan was keen to be influenced by peer pressure but was hard

pressed to find a peer who was forceful enough to influence him.He was the equivalent of an autistic savant who only understoodhis own need for social acceptance. His comprehension of his ownisolation was so profound that people would come from milesaround to see just how lonely he could be. One and all, they wereimpressed by Stan's stark portrayal of loneliness. Comments rangedfrom, “Looking at Stan is like you’re drowning in his own sorrow,”to “Staring at Stan was like being microwaved to death in a sensory-deprivation iron maiden.”

As the years wore on, many other attractions were added nearand around the Stan exhibit. A slacker exhibit which blurred thelines of slack by its use of coma patients rather than actual slackerswas a particular hit. Examples of displays that never quite caughton were such flops as Dudes with Suds, Jocks with Zubaz, and TurdFlingers. The Turd Flingers debacle was a shock to the parents whoarranged the showing. They assumed that since monkeys were sopopular, humans with the same antics would be a boon. The realitywas that most families weren’t willing to pay great fees to see thesame things that happen on a daily basis in their own homes.

A stark comprehension of a singular petrifying reality was stillworth coughing up some serious bread. Anyone who knew anyoneknew that they could never be as alone as Stan. Seeing him suffer inhis chronic involuntary detachment remained a great comfort tomany. The thousands of onlookers somehow intensified andfocused his already obscene estrangement.

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One day a particularly depressive dental school dropoutdecided to walk through the displays because he had a few minutesto spare before killing himself. When he got to the Stan exhibit, hewas shocked by what he saw. A single hand movement. Was that awave? Again, there was another almost undetectable movement of ahand. ExPreDent waved back and saw what appeared to be a smile.Although ExPreDent had never visited the Stan exhibit before, hehad heard about it and seen Stan on all the magazine covers. Heknew this was Stan, but he was acting so different, and even thoughthe communication was minimal, Stan was expressing himselfmore than ever before.

Having been there to see all of this made ExPreDent change hismind. He climbed down the steep concrete wall, using a piece of asturdy vine to lower himself to Stan's level. He said to Stan, “Why ofall people did you pick me to communicate with?” Stan replied,“Because I knew no one would believe you.”

Stan and ExPre sat up all night talking and laughing aboutuninteresting thoughts they had had throughout their lives butnever felt like sharing with anyone else. At least that’s what appearsto have happened. Both Stan and ExPre were found dead the nextmorning, lying in a pool of their own sarcasm. Shards of crystalizedthoughts were found as far as thirty meters from the corpses, andthe fragments seemed to make up complex hyperbolic, allegoricpalindromes written in some hybridized variant of Pig Latin,Esperanto, and calculus.

Without Stan the exhibits seemed pointless because there wasno longer a clear benchmark for isolation and sadness. The loneliestperson in the world could be just about anybody.

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FAMILY STEAKHOUSE

Leslie Clark

The barn-like structure squats in the center of a desert town. Plasticwood paneling, wagon-wheel lights, paint-by-number art. A manwith wisps of hair strolls in, arm weighted by a tremendous bagplastered with portraits of Mickey Mouse. He sets its gaudinessdown in the center of a white-clothed, empty table. The square barhas quilted sides, padded rim. Self-defense. This here’s a drinkingtown. A ring-laden woman sighs as she sips her chartreusemargarita. Been a long time coming, she mutters. An infant’s squealsreverberate in the cavernous room. Behind the cash counter, a bus-boy in baggy jeans gesticulates, holding to his ear a phone overwhich a sign proclaims, Business calls only. Two waitresses rest buttsagainst the bar. One says, Went to Wal-Mart without kids today. Itwas great—spent an hour in the candle section, just sniffing. Theother smiles and bobs her head, eyes scanning the room for theslightest customer signal. An ancient woman, as drooped and frag-ile as the potted vines, creeps to a corner table. She orders filetmignon and fries. Longevity earns the right to scorn cholesterol-counting. The red light in the exit sign pulsates like a strobe.

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WORK WILL WAIT photograph

Mary Fogleman

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TOUJOURS L’AMOUR acrylic

Katherine Baccaro

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MONSOON LANDSCAPE photograph

Kristie Sullivan

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THE PATH photograph

Stacy T. Smith

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RECYCLED STEELDRAGON recycled steel

Lindsay Janet Roberts

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BREAK OF DAWN oil

Xo Terra

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MR. GIRAFFEHEADDOES SHAKESPEARE ceramic

Alan Potter

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THE EDGE OF GLORYacrylic

Nischa Roman

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ARLENE’Sphotograph

Lynda Coole

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MAIN STREET photograph

David Day

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VIDA 1 acrylic

Marcela C. Lubian

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DECAYphotograph

Jesse C. Waite

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SUMERIAN MAIDENacrylic

Katherine Baccaro

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Kristie Sullivan

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THE PEEK-A-BOOGOAT photograph

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PINK HEART ORNAMENT metalwork

Lindsay Janet Roberts

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DUCKS AT SUNRISE photograph

Natalie Melton

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CROP CIRCLES Sergio Lalli

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Allow me this night,moonlit and still,to draw golden ringson the wheat fieldsof Wiltshire.

Your lovely ley lines,submerged in the soillike veins on your breasts,brought me hereto English soilon this blessed spotwhere I've locateda nice quiet placesmelling of dung.

Mark the location:a boundary of stonein disrepairthat encloses a swardof rectangular patches,corn-rowed and sownwith care.

Let us bend shoots there.

Have no misgivings,Gaia my dear,mathematics is with us.Our love is drawnalong geometric linesdescribed by Euclid.Do not tarry.I know the rules. Give me your kernels

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so I may formulatethe Pi and the Phi,the golden meansneeded to etchexquisite designson your bosom.

Let us bend shoots there.

Chorus of Fieldhands sings:

We must go down to the crops again,to the lonely crops in the field,for the call of the crops won’t let us bebe they wheat, corn, barley or rye.

I can depicta rhombus aloneor in a series.I can polygon and trapezoidor triangulateyour asymptoteequilaterally, soI assure you . . .but a torus is tricky.

Over cereal, over grainOver shoots, o’er the stalksI go.

There’s no end to the shapes,angles, and curvesI can relate.

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I can depictintertwined serpentsin double-helix embracethat happen to look likethe twisted chromosomesof home-sapient Dee-En-Aye.

Over cereal, over grain,Over shoots, o’er the stalksI go.

If you like diagramsa wee more exotic,I can depicta lotus blossomwith flaming petalsemblazonedin the heartof a mandala maze,where grow tallstalks of maizewith red, gold, and bluekerns on the cob.

Chorus of Fieldhands sings:

We must check out the crops tonight,the lonely crops in the field,for the call of the crops won’t let us be,be they wheat, corn, barley, or rye.

Let Professor Hawkinstry to explainhow it is done.Dear Dr. Hawkins,

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what does it mean?What's behind it?Who's responsible?Professor Hawkins,answer this only:Who is the artist?

Could it possibly bea wanderlust wolf gang of incorrigible quarks?A quantum tattooof traumatized ions?Are these the bosons of Professor Higgs?Or merely bovinemuons belchingin dark space?Gluon soap bubblesescaping the hub tub?

We can’t rule outthe musical possibilitythat this phenomenonis harmonic in nature.

Are crop circlesa holograph plottedby quasar musiciansin pointy blue beards,playing gamma-ray tuneson ultraviolet saxophonesand infrared clarinetsfrom the far reaches,the very outer bleachersof Albert Hall?

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Intelligent jotsor meaningless rot?

Gaia’s been laid,she's been lovingly bent,she needs her rest,she knows the answer,she knows what love is.I merely discharge,but I wouldn’t rouse her.She's sound asleep,she needs to dreamon sheaves of wheatin the braw fields of Wiltshire.

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Lover, since you’ve taken a night job, my bodydrifts like a life raft on a sea as flat as sheets. Becalmedbeneath a blazing moon, I dream bananas, mango juicerunning from the corners of my mouth, enoughto waste. You are my tropical paradise, the islandon the morning’s horizon my eyes continuescanning for beneath my starry lids.

LOVER, SINCEYOU’VE TAKEN ANIGHT JOB

Lavendra Copen

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You stare back at me in my own special way of making you feellike I feel the way you do when you look at me in my way. You arenever far from me and my way of staying close to you and me, when Ifollow what you’re saying to me just like me. Your every word is mine,like when I’m telling you what I just said and you repeat what I had inmind when I reminded you of when you said what I just said. I’mnever far from you, and you never shy of saying exactly what I toldyou to say or what I already said. When I hear your lyrical voice, Ihave an image of something better, the words you recited almost per-fectly that I already said. And now that you have captured my essencein my own sweet voice, feel free to venture on and tell the worldeverything I ever wanted to express but was afraid I had already said.

SAID Xymyl

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The sky at a distance is a patchwork quilt of ghost greys and whites.Over us, a solid stripe of blue. As we watch, broad veils of rain drapehills and valley, arc mountainson either side, circle us warily.Wind races through long grasseslike a herd of sleek animals.Insistent bass of thundervibrates the windows of our house.The dog cowers in corners.

We watch intently,as if the magnets of our eyescould pull the rain our way.But darkness taunts from a distance,delivering its wetness to otherparched lips of land.Raining somewhere, never here.

RAINING SOMEWHERE, NEVER HERE

Leslie Clark

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UNDER THE BRIDGE photograph

Dawn Edmonds

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THE YELLOW FIELD oil

Jack Miller

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SPINphotograph

Jesse C. Waite

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MIDNIGHT AT THEOASIS acrylic

Xo Terra

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THE WASA photograph

Paul Teza

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SATURDAY NIGHTSTOMP acrylic

Katherine Baccaro

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RED HOT CHIPS gourd

Michelle Barber

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R. J. Luce SANDHILLS AT SUNRISE photograph

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RISE acrylic

Nischa Roman

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FLOWERS IN GREEN VALLEY photograph

Elizabeth Gibson

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HISTORICALLY WE WOLVESHAVE BEEN MISUNDERSTOOD ceramic

Alan Potter

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FORCES UNITED water color, acrylic, enamel

Archie William Sutton

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BUTCHART GARDENS oil

Jack Miller

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DAREDEVILacrylic

Nischa Roman

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WOOD—TO BE OR NOT gourd

Michelle Barber

STEER SKULL photograph

David Day

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LOVE ADVICE FROMAN OLDER WOMAN

Lavendra Copen

The fire’s the most important part,she counseled, fire and the patienceof roots. Spend your morningsetting logs and kindling just so,your afternoon fanning them to flames.Burn the whole day down to coalsyou can cook with all night long.

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There once was a poem that was fined for rhyming too much.Had the papers covered the incident, the poem could have certainlybenefited from the negative publicity. But everyone knew thatnobody would read a newspaper that carried such a story for fearthat the poem would be mentioned by name, or worse, quoted. Theother poems were saturated with readership opportunities—sittingat the bottoms of newsstands, under newspapers at coffee bars, nearparakeets, and even in the minds of people who thought they lovedpoetry.

The little poem wept incessantly while pondering its tiresomeredundancy, yet it was this same redundancy that made the feelingsof the little poem ring false. Short of becoming a limerick and long-ing to be a children’s fable, the sad little poem took its own life bystapling itself to a firecracker. In the true spirit of art, life sprangfrom death, and inspiration from pain. Love no longer rhymedwith above, dove or even shove. In fact, love was entirely missing,which made the whole pile of disfigured prose seem somehow newand true.

THE POEM Xymyl

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House Fire

Manifest destiny at last: fulfillmentfor the bored boards and beamsthat always pictured themselveswild with flames.

Picnic at the Pond

The quick, tan duckjumps over the lazy, white gooseto nab the crumb—the wonderof Wonder Bread.

Santa Fe Existence

lived like a New-Age poemthat tries to use all the right words,from past life to paradigm,at least once.

SNAPSHOTS Lavendra Copen

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CREATIVE WRITINGCELEBRATION WINNERS

Presented in this special section

are the winning entries of the

Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration,

2012, in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.

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First Place, Fiction CompetitionCochise Community Creating Writing Celebration, 2012

Please, oh please, let her be there, Judith begged silently as shepeeked through the stage door for the eighth time that evening. Hereyes strained to search the dark aisle at the side of the audience inthe Valley Community Center but without any luck. She hardlydared to keep hoping, but she couldn’t stop. Please let the creek godown! Please let Mama get through with my costume and toe shoes!

Twelve-year-old Judith was well acquainted with floods. Everyspring, when snow in the mountains melted, dangerous muddywaters churned over the grassy flats by the creek, often cuttingslightly new channels for the water’s flow in future days and confus-ing Judith, who understood that the border of her family’s propertywas the middle of the stream. Dead limbs and other debris pickedup by the rushing water would swirl around the cottonwood treesand the land sloping up toward the ditch which separated the creekfront from the dry rocky hills above. Her family’s rabbit hutchesand their chicken coop above the ditch were never threatened by aflood, and Judith’s home was even farther above the flood zonethan they were.

This flood came at an unexpected time of year, though, and itbegan suddenly while Judith was at school. Maybe it was a flashflood, something Judith had never seen but had been trained toexpect and fear so she and her brother would stay out of the creekwhen skies were dark and threatening anywhere between theirhome and the distant mountains upstream. Maybe flash floodscame and then went as quickly as they had come. Judith didn’tknow, but she did know that Mama was waiting by the crossingwith her costume and her beloved toe shoes. Mama’s dear friend,Lucy, had told her so when she picked her up from school. Mamaknew better than to try to ford a flooding river, but she was ready tocross the creek in the family’s dark blue Volkswagen Beetle theminute the muddy waters subsided and allowed the cement of thecrossing to appear again.

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MORE THAN JUST A DREAM

Candy Adams Terry

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The beautiful music played on. Judith fingered the heavy velvetwing curtain as she watched the little kids in soft ballet slippers runout of the wings onto the stage to perform. She remembered beinga little kid six years before. Pride had filled her heart on her first dayof class as she had imitated her teacher’s demonstration of firstposition, second position, third, fourth, and fifth on the barewooden floor of this very same big rock building. Her dance in therecital that first year might have almost represented the dream thatwould soon follow—the dream of entering the world ofprofessional ballet. One small Sugar Plum Fairy among many,dressed in a pastel green leotard and tutu adorned with tiny pinkrosebuds matching the pink ribbon rosebuds tucked into herbrown curls, she tiptoed cautiously into the world of the Queen ofthe Fairies.

People really could become professional ballerinas! Judith knewfor sure! Mama was always taking Judith and her brother toconcerts at the Valley Community Center, but one time it was to aballet there instead. Judith sat entranced as the dancers—grownwomen and men—actually danced for their living. It was their job!Instantly, those ballerinas became her role models as she and Mamamet them backstage after the performance. The ladies, elegant withtheir hair pulled back in a bun as if to not attract any attentionaway from their graceful movements, smiled and thanked Judithand Mama for coming to their performance.

With memories of ballerinas floating as if on air, Judithdreamed and practiced long and hard. For years she pretended todance the dance of the Queen of the Fairies, gladly performing foranyone who would watch, fervently hoping each time that her audi-ence of one would not realize that she was making up the steps asshe went. She had to make them up because that dance had beenchoreographed by her teacher for students at a higher level of skill;she had not yet even learned the steps included. Gradually, though,she became more skilled and more poised through tireless practicein the flattest space afforded by the hill on which her small homestood. Often she could be seen behind that little trailer house

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dancing to one song or another from the Nutcracker Suite coaxedout of the 33⅓ RPM record by the spine of a prickly pear cactus,expertly inserted into the arm of the portable record playerpowered through a long extension cord.

Judith never thought of practicing outside in her pink satin toeshoes, though! They surely never touched the dirt! In spite of thesmall floor space inside her home, her toe shoes were merely worninside to practice ballet positions en pointe and to take numeroustiny steps on her toes. With each step, her extra-short toes cried outin pain in spite of the lamb’s wool Judith wrapped around them ina never-ending search for the wrapping method that woulddecrease the pain. What a small price it was to pay, though, for thedream. Yes, the dream—her dream.

Judith fought back tears in the dim light filtering from the stageinto the wings as she ran her finger down the list of performanceson the program. Her finger stopped as she came to her name. Shehad missed her place, and the recital had gone on without a hitch,as if she hadn’t been on the program at all. Judith hung her head. Atleast Mrs. Oliver said she’ll let me dance later if Mama can just gethere with my costume. She forced herself to look back at theprogram and continue tracing down the list with her finger. Twomore dances. Just two more after this one. Maybe . . . just . . .maybe?

Judith looked at her dance teacher near the back of the wings.She remembered her excitement when Mrs. Oliver had chosen herfor this solo—this solo! Only the best dancers got to dance solos!“Me? You want me to dance a solo? Oh, yes! Oh, yes, I’d love to!”She longed to be a professional ballerina someday, but right then, asolo seemed like almost the same thing. The solo dance became herdream coming true.

Actually, if this dance could, by some miracle, be performed yetthis night, it would be Judith’s third performance of the dance, thegrand finale in front of the whole valley. The first performance hadreally just been a dress rehearsal attended by families of the dancestudents. The second had been a little spot in the regular school

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program at Judith’s small rural school, which always welcomedadditional presentations from its sparse student population. Thesehad been exciting, but they really only led up to the big recital.

Judith stood ready, except for her costume and her shoes,thanks to Lucy, whom Mama had dashed back home to call whenshe couldn’t get across the creek to pick Judith up from school.Lucy had seemed to have everything planned out. First, a little restafter school. Then a little supper. Next, a rose-scented bubble bathsuitable for a young lady about to dance the most important dance,so far, in her life. Finally, make-up! Before taking Judith to town,Lucy had brightened Judith’s face for the stage with lipstick and alittle rouge, strictly forbidden substances at age twelve, except dur-ing stage presentations. If Lucy had been worried about a singlething, her worry hadn’t shown.

That was before the recital started, though! Anxiously, Judithheaded for the stage door one more time. She hesitated for amoment, trying to gather courage to face the disappointment shefeared. She took one foot after the other out of Lucy’s slippers toadjust the lamb’s wool borrowed from a classmate. Please, oh please!She cracked the door and peered through the opening into the darkauditorium. A sliver of light from the Center’s lobby pierced thedarkness this time, though, as the door at the far end of the aisleopened—or closed.

She’s here! She’s here! I can dance! I can dance! Judith wanted torun to meet her mother, but she knew that she shouldn’t disturbthe audience. Instead, she ran to her dance instructor in the wings.“Mama’s here with my costume!”

“I’m so glad, Judith! You’ll have enough time to change, dear,but do hurry!” Mrs. Oliver walked briskly toward the lady who wasin charge of playing music for the program.

Judith ran back to the stage door. “Mama, Mama, thank you,Mama! I was so afraid—”

“Here, Honey! Let’s go!” Mother and daughter hurried to thesmall changing room beyond the wings of the stage as music for thelast dance listed on the program began.

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Visions of Sugar Plum Fairies didn’t dance in Judith’s head. Shedanced—in her head and in her heart. But no, the dance couldn’tbe real—not until she was really on the stage! She crossed the pinksatin ribbons of her last toe shoe, tied them in a bow high on herright ankle, and then scurried back to the wings of the stage toawait the first strains of her song that would follow the last dancelisted on the program.

Judith caught her breath and closed her eyes, soaking in theimminent reality of her dream as she waited. Then, as her musicbegan, she stepped out onto the stage.

The music transformed the stage into a magical storylandwhere nothing existed for Judith but the dance. Implicit in thedance was the story it told. It was one of longing, searching, andfinding—but then losing and finding again. Judith danced the storywith all of her heart, unaware that it had become her story. Theaudience appeared to her, blurred by stage lights and tears of joy,only when the music ended.

After the recital, it was Judith’s turn to be greeted backstage.“Beautiful!” “The best you’ve ever danced!” “Will you sign my program, please?”

It seemed that everyone loved the dance, but none so much asJudith, who had danced the full expression of her love for ballet inthat one dance on that one evening. The dream was complete.Judith didn’t know that at the time, of course. She didn’t even real-ize it when she broke her leg the next week at school as she jumpedoff the merry-go-round to take her turn to push. By the time hercast was removed, however, Judith was caught up in dreams of jun-ior high school in town, a very big step for a girl from a smallcountry school.

The dream of a career in professional ballet had morphed into adream of one solo performance, which could then settle into itsplace in the fabric of Judith’s life. No longer just a dream, it finallybecame a resilient fiber, weaving dreams, effort, family, friends, love,and expression together in Judith’s innermost being.

AS IT WAS Nadine Lockhart

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First Place, Poetry CompetitionCochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2012

It beginsa simple grammar—

the naming of colors is socio-economic, more words: moneyhoney apple yellow=rich,just red/less net, poor.

It’s logical to conclude,after careful comparison,at least two of threesame-age, same-gendercousins are superior to you:

Hair color, piano playing,boy, and later, man-catching—which is the endpoint of everything really,

don’t be anxious about it . . .

Who moves West?Into complex sunsets—deep muted fuchsia, some other colors.

When you see your auntthe summer before last, she asks, Are those teeth yours?

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Two years and a mouth-ful of implants later,she’s dead. That’s howit would read in a novel,like a math problem,congestive heart failure.The newspaperaccounts for gravesrobbed of bonesburied with microbes.

—————

She left the East. A youngerversion of an Aries mother,abrupt, professional—three blueleather suitcases packed fat,and a few hundred dollars.

That’s not her train. It’s a littlehome on the track for four daysand several cities. She sipsstrong coffee in New Orleans,sunrise over the water.

So she is here, then there,A finger on the globe, spinningtoward the darkest future (she suspects),toward herself in a material covershe wears tight around her boundaries.

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Her complement—outside herself, self-consciousshe speaks to quiet that mindshe questions, a satin-glovedhand, mouth on fire as a vision—black ringlets and lips—turns to love.

—————

It wasn’t something I would bringthis early, but the dreamlast night, invariably sexual,about a man with wings and a few miraclesattributed to him—he told me he knew me better than I knew myself. The room: blank

adobe walls in a lighterbeige, and the two queens . . .I’m trying to leave things out—counting, and counting

lots of numbers even dice,safe like teeth in the mouth, evolvedfrom an evil star pressed in sequins.Another man knocks on the motel door.The winged one lets him in without hesitation.

I could be more specific.His sheets were alwayssent out, clean and cold.Even on the surface this is true.

—————

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Her aunt didn’t die,not yet. It was the faux death, so semi-precious the way her cousin’s concern fills the fridge with Fresca,boiled beef and dietetic chocolates.

—————

A postcard of Chagall’s La Guerre:holds your place in the book,a war of color, flamesorange and oxen milky-blue,dark figures wail and grabthe blood-foot of the crucifiedman.

In Sanskrit,it means “desire for more cows”and just the other day, you mayhave been thinking about the ox.

—————

I think about oxen, how I desireone of my own. The A, wherethe whole alphabet beganon the yoke of an animal, lungsfull of mercy, dust for sleep.

—————

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Some are too stubborn to heal.The ceiling light.

I stare at it between glances of blade,the clock. When will this be over?It is all mortal—sun and oleander leaves in layers through blindshalf-open. You can’t always tellwhere the pain begins, he explains,using his hands—maybe a winggets in the way—pullsthe congestion from the heart.

—————

Years set the scaffold as an on/off switch.She knows a little, but lessthe world than an infinity inside her head. She chooses: Things she obsesses and thoseshe glazes over . . . .

She’s convinced that yellow devilcame through the hell gatein her backyard OR she isn’t.She let go of free will,finds rainbowsa source of frustration—an order of refracted light: redon top, or red on the bottom? Guesses, destined to questionI wonder how long my aunt will live, how long any of them will? The sisters like the Pleiades. Seven. Lucky seven.

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—————

Years, she thinks. Years.They will live many moreYears—shouts to her headoffset earlier thoughts whichmight make them die. It’s herreligion, to bind up and repeatOne wish—to end this burden,replace it with a husband.

—————

My aunt works harsh brush to the beast,bent knees to the floor,hands big like a man’splunge into soapy water,weight shifts with a rhythm.

She moves forward, pullsthe bucket toward her, scrubsthe kitchen greasesaway from the surface searching square by square.

Her dress lifelessagainst shoulders, tangled jet hair, her own coloringmistaken for Asian,her eyes, too—almonds on a vase.

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Missing a dampened tile, she cleans. Is it even known to her? Yes, says the aunt, Yes.Everything from desire.

—————

I want them back, the magazines,the years, something that feelslike an integrity to the body.I want them . . . to be young, namingthem: Mary-Anna-Helen, sour cherries dropping from the trees like a child’sideas or wrong thoughts of the world,sounding out “ju-bi-lee,” the buffer of fathers,grandfathers: Z is for zero, nothing left.

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NATALIE Beth Colburn-0rozco

First Place, Nonfiction CompetitionCochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2012

My father-in-law is making toast for himself and spreads it withpeanut butter while it’s still hot. The smell of peanut butter meltinginto the toast is what wakes me. From my in-laws’ small guestroom, I watch their morning ritual from bed. W.H. pours Natalie acup of coffee (she drinks it black). He holds out his hand. “Youneed to take your pills.” She crinkles her nose, takes the pills fromhim, and sets them on the counter next to the sink when he turnsaway. I know by mid-morning they will exchange unpleasant wordsuntil my mother-in-law agrees to take her pills.

Natalie wraps both hands around the coffee cup as though she’sstanding out in the yard where the temperature is still in the forties.In the house, where I lie still, it’s at least seventy-five degrees. I wantto toss the blankets back but do not want to disturb the scenebefore me. While Natalie stands quietly in her bathrobe, as thoughtaking in new surroundings, W.H. takes a bite of his toast thenreaches into the cabinet next to the refrigerator for a small crystalbowl. He fills the bowl with cottage cheese and fruit cocktail hetook from the refrigerator before I woke up. Natalie seems to wakefrom her trance-like state, and both murmur apologies as they nav-igate the kitchen while W.H. searches for a spoon for Natalie’sbreakfast. He hands her the crystal bowl, and notices the pills sittingon the counter. He scoops them up and again she takes them fromhim. “Sweetie, you have to take these.”

Natalie purses her lips. W.H. turns to grab a napkin for her, andshe again sets the pills on the counter. This time she slides themnext to a plant near the sink. W.H. sets the bowl of cottage cheeseand fruit on the kitchen table. A signal that breakfast is ready,Natalie sits down. W.H. picks up his toast with the napkin andwalks into the living room. I hear the quiet banter of the morningnews team on the TV and know he’s sitting in his overstuffed chair.They met long after each left their first marriages and have beentogether just over thirty years. Their morning routine seems a

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testament to years of compatibility. I continue to watch my mother-in-law as she sits alone, slowly

eating her breakfast. I want to escape the covers that are now caus-ing me to sweat, but the scene is so peaceful I don’t want to be thecause of disruption. She doesn’t know I am watching her, and evenif she did, she wouldn’t know my name.

Natalie has Alzheimer’s. I came into her life years after familyand friends knew something was wrong with her inner world. Shesits so serene, so quiet. Once I get up, my day with Natalie willbegin, and I check myself, wondering if I’m ready for it. I have hada good night’s sleep. My plans for the day include cleaning both thekitchen and bathroom at the log house Natalie bought several yearsback, which my husband Ron and I are in the process of fixing up.It sits on 160 acres adjacent to W.H.’s ranch.

We’re all adjusting to the move. Ron and I still work in SierraVista, Arizona, so we only have weekends to spend in Animas, NewMexico. It’s a three-hour drive, or an hour in Ron’s Cessna 172. Theplane doesn’t hold much, so we usually drive out Friday nights witha truck full of dogs and a trailer loaded with all the things ourempty house requires.

We thought the move would cut down on the stress of comingout and staying with W.H. and Natalie. Over the past year, Nataliehas become anxious with all that was once familiar, and thatincludes us. It can often be stressful having people in her house,especially me. Ron is her son and often fills in the gaps when I havequestions. Recently, he told me she once loved to entertain. I believethis is why she doesn’t like me fussing in her kitchen, making herbeds, or setting her table.

I immediately think of tasks I can have Natalie do alongside meor I won’t get a thing done all day; this will cause me frustration,something I can’t risk while I am with her. She will feel it deepinside her in that often neglected place most of us ignore, maybebecause we are always too busy moving forward. Natalie’s thoughtsno longer move forward. They seem more like random, convolutedmisfires that either slow her down or speed her up without warning.

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If I am frustrated, Natalie is frustrated, which can cause theroutine of a regular day to turn on its heels, leaving slammed doorsand angry walks into the desert in its wake. Because we are only atthe ranch on weekends, I don’t have the extra time it takes to chaseher down and redirect her. As I continue to watch her eat, I have anoverwhelming desire to go to her and wrap my arms around her,but I remain still.

Having Natalie up at the house has its challenges. Each time wewalk through the front doors, I remind her it is her place. “This isyour house, Natalie. Would you like to help me clean thebedroom?” She usually eyes me suspiciously, as the place is still amess.

She walks around picking things up off the counters and floors,using only her thumb and forefinger like someone might pick up asoiled dish cloth. She then hands them to me one by one. “You . . .this house . . . ” Then she rolls her eyes, as though I don’t have thesense God gave me to sweep a floor or clean a window. It’s timeslike these I gather her in my arms and hold her small frame tightnext to mine. This is my way of controlling any unkindness I mightharbor towards her unintentional judgment.

Lately, Natalie’s shoulder has been giving her trouble, but lastSaturday, she seemed fine as we washed windows. I gave her plentyof paper towels and a bottle of glass cleaner. We worked together inthe bedroom, where her windows turned out much better thanmine. It was a good day until she wanted to use the stepstool I wason to clean the corners. “Natalie, why don’t you finish the windowyou’re on? We’re almost done. I know your shoulder must be both-ering you.”

Before I could get over to her window, she swung her arms upinto the air bringing them down hard, and then began swingingthem in large circles. “Does it look like something is wrong with my. . . with this . . . ?” She stopped circling her arms and pointed at hershoulder. She is oftentimes at a loss for words.

It had been a long day. I knew in that instant I had demandedtoo much of her, and she was tired. Like a young child, Natalie

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needed a nap, and I had ignored the signs. As soon as she startedwaving her arms, I remembered that, an hour before, she had askedto go home. I told her we would leave in a little bit. Even though Iwas startled by her anger, I knew it was my fault. I quietly walkedfrom the room. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go home.”

Immediately, she followed me to the living room, where weboth put on our jackets and hats. Before we walked outside into thecold, she took my hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.

The words broke my heart. Sometimes the veil of incoherencelifts long enough, and she seems embarrassed for her actions. “It’sokay. I love you, Natalie.”

She had tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”I have learned over time that her gentle thank you is her way of

expressing appreciation and, I hope, her love for me. After all, I ama stranger in her world. I do not occupy a past memory that mightfind its way to the surface, and this must confuse her. She oncereferred to me as The Woman Who Works Hard. I smiled when Rontold me. It is better than The Woman Who Keeps a Dirty House.

Arms linked, we walked back to her house. I sang a children’ssong while she hummed along.

Mornings are most difficult for her. She usually wakes, comesout into the living room, looks around as though the housereminds her of someplace she’s been before, and then goes back tobed. Sometimes for an hour, but lately she may stay in bed untilnoon.

It’s just after eight o’clock now. She sits with an air of eleganceat the kitchen table. She has beautiful posture. When I am with her,I am reminded to stand up straight. She was a teacher for years,then an elementary school principal. I often wonder if there is ageneration of grown-ups out there who have notably better posturethan the rest of their family members simply because they hadNatalie for a teacher. Always aware of her gestures, she is a dignifiedwoman. When we are in a restaurant, no one would imagine shecan no longer read a menu or order for herself.

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She looks as though she is waiting for the Queen of England tojoin her. Back straight, spoon held just so, napkin in her lap. Herdark, thick, wavy hair is cut short. Too short right now. She may notknow my name, but she remembers that I am the one who took herto the salon two weeks ago. Yesterday, when we arrived, I told her Iliked her hair. She grabbed a mass of it in her hands, scrunched hernose, and pointed at me without a hint of humor. I’ve heard fromjust about everyone that Natalie always wore her hair long, nearly toher waist. I have only seen pictures.

This reminds me that today, before we go up to our house, sheneeds to take a shower. W.H. and Natalie have two battlegrounds.One is in the kitchen in the morning, where the two may spendhours negotiating her pills. The other is the shower. Natalie’s inde-pendence is all but gone, and she knows it. She still has control overher bodily functions, and bathing fits into this category. “Gal’ dang.I can’t get Natalie into the shower anymore. I told her I’m not tak-ing her to town until she takes a shower,” W.H. has said on severaloccasions.

Getting Natalie to bathe involves being sneaky on my part. Icannot tell her she needs to take a bath, as she finds even the sug-gestion an insult and will avoid getting into the shower at all costs.Instead, I tell her we are going to a party. Ron doesn’t like that I lieto his mother, so we began having parties up at the log home in theevenings.

After I get her into the shower, I gather her clothing and stick itinto the washing machine. Because she is nervous when I work inher house, I get as much done as I can when she’s not watching me.I found out recently she has been wearing things and then puttingthem away dirty. Each week, I quickly rummage through the closetand take out anything that looks soiled and add it to the laundrybefore I start the washing machine.

She’s no longer sure what to do while standing under a streamof warm water, so I lather up a shower puff. She often hums while Iwash her. She loves to be touched. After she rinses off, I wash herhair and am happy I had it cut short. It tangles easily, and I don’t

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want to hurt her while I brush it.Before she gets dressed, I rub lotion all over her. Even though

she is an extremely modest woman, the human touch is always toomuch for her to resist. She rolls over on her belly then onto herback. I often marvel at how soft her skin is. Her body is free of thescars and, therefore the trauma, associated with each one that somany women endure during their lifetime. No cesarean scar,though she bore children: two sons. No hysterectomy ormastectomy scars. I am reminded that whatever suffering Nataliehas experienced, it is locked inside her in places I cannot see.

She wiggles her toes while I massage her feet with lotion. I helpher with her bra, panties, and socks. She chooses something specialfrom her closet, fit for a party. Usually it is a bright colored sweat-shirt to wear with a pair of jeans. Once she is dressed, I dry her hairwhile she dabs herself with perfume she has on the bathroomcounter.

She often studies her reflection in the mirror. “Old . . . so old. Idon’t see me,” she says.

She pulls the skin on the tops of her hand or near her wrist.“Look! Old. When so old? Me . . . I’m old.” When she lets go, Ismooth her skin back into place as I might a wrinkled sheet. I thank God for vanity each time she confronts her aging. Nataliemay not like what she sees in the mirror, but for now, she still rec-ognizes herself. She still primps for our parties until the femininebeing who is very much a part of her is satiated.

When we are finished, she looks radiant. This is when we golooking for W.H. and Ron, whom we usually find in the barn or upat the log home.

“Doesn’t your mom look great?” I ask them.Natalie smiles sheepishly. “We’re going to go get ready for the party,” I say.At our house, Natalie and I prepare dinner. After a wonderful

meal, there is dancing. Natalie still keeps perfect time and knows allthe right moves. Her beautiful posture would lead any onlooker tothink she had years of professional training. We always have a good

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time at our parties.

I believe she is content sitting alone at the kitchen table. Hermannerisms often speak for the words she no longer possesses. Herhands are on the table and not in her lap twisting her napkin. I seeher eyes are set somewhere distant, not darting around as thoughshe’s afraid someone might jump out of a closet.

Watching her sit so calmly, I put our day in order. Natalie and Iwill go for a walk this morning. Afterwards, I will help her take ashower. This will take the whole morning. Up at our house, I havetwo loads of laundry that need folding and another in the dryer.She likes to fold clothes. It will take her quite a while. Enough timeso that I can get started in the bathroom.

A while back, I picked up some books loaded with photographs:animals, puppies, and children. Things she’s always been drawn to. Ialso bought colored beads, felt, scissors, stickers, and other arts andcrafts supplies. After setting up a project, I learned she doesn’t liketo do those kinds of things, and she told me so. “I didn’t like thisstuff before, and I don’t like it now.”

Her declaration was so clear I felt I saw Natalie for the first time.I gathered everything up and put it back in the closet, knowing oneday someone with children would drop by and they would havesomething to do.

Ron is working on some equipment today. It’s going to bewarm, so this afternoon Natalie can go out with a bucket and pickup things on the ground. We have enough nails, screws, glass, wire,and whatever else to keep her busy for hours.

She can’t walk by something and leave it in the dirt. She wrestleswith this part of herself. It is a recent compulsion she is not yetcomfortable with. She will pick up a small, rusted piece of wire andhold it out to me. “I don’t know why I do this. The glass . . . thingshere . . .” She waves her hand over the ground. “I can’t leave it. Idon’t know why.”

Yet when I am not with her, I watch her pick up things in theyard, and she appears content. She is even eager to share with us the

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things she has collected. With our day mapped out, my mind begins to wander. As I look

at her cheeks, the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, all thosethings my husband inherited from his mother, I wonder what hewas like as a little boy. Natalie can’t tell me, and sadness fills me. Ihave no anecdotes of him. Natalie holds the secrets of my husband’schildhood deep inside herself in a place no longer available to us.Did he cry when he fell off his bike or when he scraped his knee?Was he in constant motion as a child, yet patient, always curious,needing facts to make sense of the world? I wish she could tell me.

My husband has an amazing singing voice, a deep tenor. He’sshy about it. I have heard Natalie hum along to Patsy Cline andFrank Sinatra. She sounds beautiful. Did Ron inherit his perfectpitch from his mother? Perhaps he learned it from her while shesang him songs when he was young.

And what about Natalie? Who was she when she was still able torecognize a friend or cook for herself? What were her dreams? Hersecrets? I realize the progression of the disease slowly took herdreams into the darkness. Even though there is no one to curse forwhat continues to happen to Natalie, I sometimes wish I couldpoint a finger. Dreams are meant to die with a person, notdisappear.

My Aunt Claire, a farmer’s wife in Wisconsin and ninety-sixyears old at the time, told me her dream had always been to go outWest. “I’ve always wanted to see a rattlesnake. Maybe meet a cow-boy.” As soon as she said it, she became whole to me. Not just myaunt, but a vibrant, passionate woman who still carried with her thequiet dreams of her youth.

As I lie there, I realize I want desperately for someone to knowmy dreams. I want to go to Ireland, rent a house on the west shorenear the place where my family originated centuries ago, and writewithout interruption. I want to see the puffins off the coast ofMaine and ride an Andalusian through the mountains in Spain. Iwant to tell a heartwarming story in Gaelic or Greek, maybe Frenchor Italian. It doesn’t matter, really; I just want to be understood andseen. Most of all seen. Not as a wife or daughter, caretaker or

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teacher, but as a woman, a feminine creature. I stir as my thoughts roam far from the bedroom then notice

Natalie is twisting her napkin. It’s time to get up. As I pull on myjeans, Natalie appears in the doorway. “Good morning, sweetheart.I watched you eat breakfast,” I say.

She crinkles her nose. It is her signature gesture and makes mesmile. I walk over and hug her. “I love you, Natalie.”

She holds me tight. “Thank you.”

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BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION

Katherine Baccaro, a frequent contributor to Mirage, has been aSierra Vista resident since the Gulf War, when she was evacuatedfrom Turkey to Sierra Vista. She is the author of three books,Precipice, Catscratch Fever, and Discombobulated. Writing andpainting have been her interests since her retirement from theDepartment of Defense schools abroad.

Michelle Barber has a passion for working with natural materialsthat began when she took woodworking classes in junior highschool. While working on her BA at College of Saint Mary, she hadseveral articles on scroll sawing published. She now specializes inwood and gourd art.

Leslie Clark has worked as English faculty at Cochise College forseveral years. She retired in May 2013, after forty-one years ofteaching English. Her poetry and short fiction have been widelypublished, and her poetry chapbook, Cardiac Alert, was publishedby Finishing Line Press in 2009. Leslie is editor/publisher of anonline poetry journal, Voices on the Wind.

Beth Colburn-Orozco is currently pursuing her MFA in fiction atSouthern New Hampshire University, where this year her shortstory, “Stolen Grief,” was published in the university literary journalAmoskeag. She teaches Creative Writing at Cochise College andEnglish at the University of Arizona. She also enjoys teaching writ-ing workshops in both fiction and nonfiction.

Lynda Coole, born in Chicago and a 1971 graduate of RinglingSchool of Art in Sarasota, Florida, was a significantly creative par-ticipant in the Marshall Field Christmas Windows on State Streetfor almost ten years. Now, newly relocated to the Bisbee area, shehas grand plans for all the fabric she has accumulated through theyears, but is enjoying the immediate satisfaction of the world ofdigital photography.

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Lavendra Copen is an Arizona native who attended college in Albu-querque, New Mexico. She taught school in the Four Corners areabefore moving briefly to New York, then settling in the HuachucaMountain foothills, where she is raising her granddaughters Chellaand Celine. She makes a living selling organic produce andfreelancing as a medical and legal transcriptionist. Her favoritecolor is that special mauve before sunrise.

Dave Day has been taking pictures since he got a Kodak Instamaticwhen he was thirteen years old. He loves to live in and photographthe Southwest. Today he works with digital images taken with dif-ferent cameras from DSLRs to an iPhone. Dave loves to share hiswork on Facebook, Instagram, and Flickr, and has displayed hiswork in many galleries and shows.

Dawn Edmonds lives with her family in Hereford, Arizona. She is afirst-year student at Cochise College, pursuing a business degree.She developed a love for taking photographs in her teenage yearsand has never lost the passion. Her photographs have beenpublished in the Sierra Vista Herald, as well as in the Cochise Col-lege newspaper, Kaleidoscope.

Mary Fogleman currently works as an administrative assistant inthe Cochise College library. She has lived in Cochise County forthirty years since moving from the Midwest. Creativity has longbeen a part of her life—mostly expressed with needle, fabric,recipes, photographs, and more recently, oil and watercolor paint-ings. This year Mary traveled overseas and looks forward to moreopportunities to travel.

Elizabeth Gibson was a self-employed mobile dog groomer formany years. She needed a creative outlet after retiring andhappened upon photography while living in Virginia and hikingnear her home. The rest, as they say, is history.

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Sergio Lalli began studying English as a second language when hewas a mere soccer child, after his parents brought him to Americafrom Italy without even asking him if he liked baseball. He went onto become a newspaper reporter and the published author of a fewbooks. He now mostly rides a bicycle up and down the red hills ofBisbee.

Nadine Lockhart received her MA and MFA from Arizona StateUniversity; she is currently in their PhD program. Her most recentartistic passions are theater and artists’ books. Performing in sixplays since 2008, she received a Kennedy Center American CollegeTheater Festival nomination for her lead in Albee’s AmericanDream. She also won Juror’s Choice in the 2012 ABBA exhibit forher Twin Towers Palm Leaf Book. Nadine lives with Badger the cat.

R. J. (Bob) Luce was a wildlife biologist in Wyoming before retiringto Arizona. He lives near the San Pedro River and photographs it inall seasons. He has traveled extensively for bird-watching and pho-tography. He has authored technical wildlife publications andmagazine articles; provided photos for books, outdoor magazines,and field guides; and written two outdoor mystery books and aphoto-essay book: River of Life, Four Seasons along Arizona’s Rio SanPedro.

Marcela C. Lubian was born in 1974. She is a self-taught artist whodelights in the independence and flexibility of her eclecticeducation. A resident of southeastern Arizona for the last nineyears, Marcela does work ranging from the pragmatic to the whim-sical.

Natalie Melton, an Army brat born in Germany, has always enjoyedmeeting new people and experiencing new things. She has six won-derful children and a husband she adores. As an Army wife, she hasthe opportunity to see many things most people only dream about.As an avid photographer, she tries to capture those splendid sightsin order to share them with others.

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Jack Miller is retired from the packaging materials field. Hereceived his BFA and MA degrees from the University of Arizona.He is a soft-edge painter and colorist influenced by the expression-ists, impressionists, post-impressionists, and others of themodern-art movement. Jack lives with his wife, Valla, in SierraVista.

Alan Potter studied ceramics at Trinity College of Vermont. Hisconcentration is sculpture with a focus on animals. “I have alwaysbeen drawn to the personification of animals. Not only is it goodfor an easy laugh, but it can be instantly provocative. If a viewerstops, observes, and in a few seconds creates a backstory for thepiece, I’ve been successful.” His studio and home are in Palominas,Arizona. His work is represented nationally.

Lindsay Janet Roberts has a BFA from Columbus College of Artand Design and an MEd from the University of Arizona. She has ahuge passion for recycling goods, and most of her work is madefrom recycled materials. She had taught eighth-grade art in springof 2012 and graphic design at the high school level 2012 to 2013.She currently teaches fine art at the high school level. In her sparetime, she keeps several galleries stocked with her art. She lives,breathes, and teaches art.

Nischa Roman has lived throughout the West, and has found thatCochise County is the most welcoming place for artists. Old Bisbeein particular appeals to her adventurous spirit. The explorationthere of unusual styles and media inspires her creativity. Her acrylicabstract art expresses her fascination with color, line, and space.Found objects add dimension to her collages. She frequently can beseen looking down at the sidewalk for supplies.

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Stacy T. Smith was introduced to photography by his father, whohad turned a family bathroom into a dark room. Once, smelling thefumes and accidentally opening the door while his dad was process-ing negatives, Stacy was bitten by the photography bug. As hetraveled the world in the U. S. Army, he saw faces and vistas thatcontributed to his love of this medium. “Listening with the eyesbrings many conversations to light.”

Kristie Sullivan is a retired veteran, who served twenty-one years inthe Army. In March 2012, she moved to Sierra Vista to enjoy theretirement life and to finally spend time with her family. Sherecently graduated with honors from the American Military Uni-versity with a BS in sports and health. New to photography, sheenjoys capturing the beauty of the surrounding area and of thepeople who live here.

Archie William Sutton is drawn to doors and metal as art and isattracted to the allegory that doors are created to open to an innerplace of pure substance. Enjoying the look and feel of copper in theraw, he applies an unruly patina and works with different mixed-color applications. He adds liquid plastic, vinyl, and/or mixedmedia to the fashioned-hanging. He occasionally tries his hand atprose, painting, and poetry.

Xo Terra has always had her hands in art stuff. After receiving herBA in art, she was a general contractor for fifteen years in Califor-nia. While living in Hawaii, she sold all her tools and startedpainting with twenty-year-old paints and brushes. Her first paint-ing won the largest juried show on the Big Island. She’s beenpainting ever since. She’s lived off the grid and in the countryaround Bisbee since 1994.

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Candy Adams Terry is a retired elementary school teacher livingwith her husband of forty-three years in rural Cochise County, Ari-zona. They have two grown children and four grandchildren. Whenin the classroom, Candy especially loved to inspire children to writefrom their own experiences, a practice which sparked a love ofreading and writing in her students. Today, Candy enjoys writingfrom her experiences and encouraging others to do the same.

Paul Teza lives in Willcox, Arizona, after moving from New Hamp-shire about nineteen years ago. Developing an interest inphotography, he became a student at Cochise College. As time wenton, his main interests became nature, wildlife, and still photogra-phy, although he engages in the challenges of portrait shootingwhenever the opportunity presents itself. “Photography has openedmy eyes to the beauty that rests within the desert.”

Jesse C. Waite grew up right here in Cochise County. Despite beingfrom a family where all the men joined the Army, he broke from thenorm and got very much into visual arts. Although he started as acharcoal artist, photography became his passion after taking ablack-and-white photography course at Cochise College. Sincethen, he has journeyed across Cochise County to snap photos of thebeauty and despair the land has to offer.

Xymyl is ____________ (please share your experience in the spaceprovided).

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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

General Information

Submissions are accepted from Cochise College students and residents of Cochise and Santa Cruz Counties in Arizona. All entries must be the original work of the person or persons submitting them.

Each person may submit up to five pieces of writing and five works of art.

Writers and artists who wish to have their works considered for publication must submit their works for the year in which they are solicited. The Mirage staff will evaluate only works submitted specifically for the upcoming issue of the magazine.

Mirage welcomes writers and artists to resubmit material that was not previously accepted for publication. However, they should also consider submitting fresh works that represent theirmost recent and accomplished artistic achievements.

Works are selected for publication via an anonymous process: Each submission is judged without disclosure of the writer’s or artist’s name.

The staff of Mirage reserves the right to revise language, correct grammar and punctuation, revise formatting, and abridge content of any literary work, including the biographies of writers and artists. In matters of mechanics and style, the Mirage staff defers to A Writer’s Reference by Diana Hacker and Nancy Sommers.

The staff also reserves the right to crop, resize, and modify works of visual art in any way deemed necessary to ready them for inclusion in the magazine.

Submissions will not be returned.

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Requirements for All Submissions:

A single cover sheet must accompany submissions with the following information:

• submitter’s name• address• phone number• email or fax number• a list of the titles of all works• a brief autobiographical statement of seventy-five words or

less, written in the third person

To preserve anonymity during the selection process, no name should appear on the entry itself.

Please submit works in electronic form. Submissions may be attached to emails. Compact discs or flash drives may be sent via U. S. mail or hand delivered.

Requirements for Prose:

Prose must be submitted as Microsoft Word document files, using Times New Roman font, size 12. Prose must be double spaced. Unless unique formatting is integral to the piece,literary works should be aligned on the left margin and not printed in all upper-case letters. There is a 2,000-word limit for prose entries.

Requirements for Poetry:

Poetry must be submitted as Microsoft Word document files, using Times New Roman font, size 12. Single spacing is permissible for poetry. Unless unique formatting is integral to the piece, poems should be aligned on the left margin and not printed in all upper-case letters. There is a 2,000-word limit for poetry entries.

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Requirements for Visual Art:

Artwork and photographs must have titles or must be identifiedas “Untitled.” If necessary, artists should indicate correct orientation.

When taking photographs of artwork for submission, pay attention to lighting and orientation in order to prevent shadowing, glare, skewing, or unintentional cropping.

Artwork and photographs must be sent as digital files.

Compression: Please do not compress photos when emailing them. Compressed photos lose information that cannot be restored. It is not like zipping or stuffing files; photos cannot be “unzipped” or “unstuffed.” Many programs will automatically downsize photos for emailing and viewing on a computer screen, but there is usually an option for sending the photo without reducing its size. Please choose that option.

Resolution: Printing on a press requires high resolution: What looks good on a computer screen or from a laser printer will not necessarily look good when printed on a press. An image copied from a webpage will not have the proper resolution. Filesof artwork need to be at a resolution of at least 300 dots per inch (DPI) and at 100% of its original size. Photos should be atleast 6 x 9 inches. A minimum resolution of 2700 x 1800 pixels in JPEG format is best. Any attempt to resize or resample may cause problems because print resolution will depend on how the photo is ultimately sized for the magazine. The minimum size is important. If, for example, a photo is only 640 x 480 pixels, it is too small for the magazine.

IMPORTANT: Unless digital photographs of art are submitted according to the guidelines above, the magazine cannot use them.

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Where to send submissions:

Email: mirage@cochise.edu

Mail: Cochise CollegeATTN: Mirage4190 West Highway 80Douglas, AZ 85607