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

College AdvisorsRon HydeJeff Sturges

Virginia Pfau ThompsonJay TreiberRick Whipple

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Front and Back Cover Art

Art: “Mission Girl” by James SchrimpfDesign: 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 and the centers at Benson, Fort Huachuca, Nogales,and Willcox.

Acknowledgements

The Mirage staff would like to thank the following proofreaders:Dennis Gordon, Elizabeth Lopez, Diane Nadeau, Nischa Roman,George Self, and Curt Smith.

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 Creative WritingCelebration is co-sponsored by Cochise College, University SouthFoundation, Inc., Cochise College Foundation’s Diane E. FreundMemorial Writing Celebration Fund, and the City of Sierra VistaLeisure and Library Services, with support from other communityorganizations and businesses. Visit the Creative Writing Celebrationwebpage at www.cochise.edu/cwc.

The following are the winners of the 2014 competitions:Poetry – Lars Samson, “Words These Days” Fiction – Bonnelyn Thwaits, “Community Service” Nonfiction – Deseret Harris, “Korea”

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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 2015

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TABLE OFCONTENTS

Literature Omnivorous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1

Lavendra CopenThe Blessed Suso . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2

Michael GregoryAssignment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6

Lavendra Copen

ArtCanción de Lluvia (MonsoonSong) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7

Marcela C. LubianSanta Fe Ranch, Nogales . . . . . .8

James SchrimpfGreat Zot!! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9

John Hays Draco Baby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10

Lindsay Janet Roberts Dancer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11

Larry Milam Past Traditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12

John HaysScale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13

Yolanda van der LelijDriver of the Bus . . . . . . . . . . . . .14

Lynda CooleDesert Rainbows . . . . . . . . . . . . .15

Gloria Fraze Shells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16

Judy Fitzsimmons

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Literature Inner You Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17

Steve BovéePresence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28

Lavendra Copen

ArtBoats on Parker Canyon Lake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29

Karri FoxAvatar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30

Lindsay Janet Roberts Desert Highlights . . . . . . . . . . . .31

Daniel N. Rollins Whimsey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32

Lynn DottleMission Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33

James SchrimpfAntelope Canyon . . . . . . . . . . . .34

Debi Lee HadleyBisbee Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35

Louise WaldenWhite Blooming Cereus

Cactus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36Angie Rivas

Cochise College Pit Fire Performers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37Sharon Lee

Keyboard Reflection in Cheap Sunglasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38Lynda Coole

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Literature Our Wilderness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39

Leslie ClarkHow Is It That This Comes to Pass? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41

Ruby OdellPlunge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42

Leslie ClarkThe Roadrunner’s Tale . . . . . . .43

Michael EricksonHorse and Willow Tree in the .

Moonlight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47Ruby Odell

Moon Pocket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48Georgia Dust

ArtFollowing Daddy’s

Footsteps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59Rebecca Tyler

Sky Hook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60Russell (Catdaddy) Gillespie

Ladder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .61Yolanda van der Lelij

Vic (Victor) Power . . . . . . . . . . .62Richard Byrd

Piñon Jay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .63Sara Nolan

Sunset Thunderstorm . . . . . . .64Beth Ann Krueger

Tortoise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65Jana Shephard Mardocco

Yellow Taxi in Lowell . . . . . . . . .66Gloria Fraze

Chiricahua Foothills . . . . . . . . .67Sara Nolan

Tlaquepaque . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .68Debi Lee Hadley

Kingfisher Reflections . . . . . . . .69R. J. (Bob) Luce

Arrival . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .70Nischa Roman

Literature Not My Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71

Cappy Love HansonReminisce . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .73

Trinity HiggsAn American Solitude . . . . . . .74

Cappy Love HansonEn el Nombre del Padre . . . . . .75

Beth OrozcoOrigami Tears . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .83

Trinity HiggsPrelude to a Storm . . . . . . . . . . .84

Beth Ann Krueger

Literature - Creative WritingCelebration WinnersWords These Days . . . . . . . . . . . .86

Lars SamsonCommunity Service . . . . . . . . . .87

Bonnelynn ThwaitesKorea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .90

Deseret F. Harris

Biographical Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .91

Submission Guidelines . . . . .85

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OMNIVOROUS Lavendra Copen

Poemsare omnivorous.This one just devouredone porcupinetwo yellow pickup trucksthree crab apple treesand is stilltrying to digest themslapping its bloated bellynot even covering its mouth with its handwhen it belches.

THE BLESSED SUSO Michael Gregory

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The blessed Suso in his youthchoosing Wisdom for his beloved

had her painted in all her beauty by a brother with a gift for that

—the Mosaic prohibition having been for some time now

lifted through imagination as the eastern fathers taught

the punning pope concurring that icons bear faithful witness to

the transfiguration of matter by light—on parchment he carried to his cell

longing to be in touch with her color line shape divine proportion

her presence preceded by desire to know to understand more deeply

found only by those who go slowly in holy curiosity

The beautiful calling to the soul Ecstasy the soul in ascent

despite the risk of monk’s diseasepresenting in various guises

—sloth for one, the noonday demonmaking him indecisive at best

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given to despondency inert before all tasks

falling asleep with his head in the bookwaking into a sense of privation

confessing to being abjectly unfitfor such an ambitious vocation

—hallucinations for anothergiving credence to phantasms

the castrate and cannibal godcasting a leaden pall on things

the god more subtle a certain feelingof uncertainty something not

quite right about to happenin sight of an archaic smile

black humor sotto voce behind the saturnine visage

— eros heroycus yet another that melancholic disorder

the soul pulled towards the beloved imagewritten in the imagination

attendant spirits so agitatedthey soon exhaust the red blood

leaving nothing but black bilea wobbled head filled with vapors

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the brain dried the psyche oppressedungodly visions and feelings

transforming contemplative intention into intimate contradictions

an incapacity to conceivethe incorporeal yet desire

to embrace it a violent lust for the unattainable

which impossibilityexasperated inclination

spiritual depravationmight well drive lovers mad

incontinent as vipers insatiable beyond restraint

like asses having commerce with womenthey claim to despise entirely

leaving the practice in disarraythe order in vile and utter contempt

for which excesses attending physicians concluding that only by a touch of the spear

that caused it can such a mad wound be healedprescribed: coitus and drunkenness

and on the theory that opposites seek balance: fasting and walks

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through flowering meadows by gentle streamswhere birds and minstrels sing the same song

until the fires burn themselves outthe spooks go back where they came from

the mother Christ hold him again a satisfaction in her eyes

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ASSIGNMENT Lavendra Copen

For Jim Sagel, who recognized that poems are all around us.

Poems suggest themselves like assignments, as thoughthe teacher too long dead instructs from stone and sky.

Write the poem of the alien elm, the deep-grooved cottonwood sucking at the river’s breastwork, the high-flung pine shaking off its snowy cloak.

Poem in the millet seed, thistle seed, sunflowerseed set out in hanging banquets for the wild birds.

Poem of the neighbor’s bob-tailed tiger tom, sitting zazen under the feeder tree like a golden Buddha, his rainbow-round leap at sparrow-flesh enlightenment.

The neighbor’s Labrador, rolling at the gate to have her belly worshipped, her easy, upside-down ecstasy.

Poem of the neighbor, walking at moonrise to her mailbox with a single letter like a living creature, its white velum skin and dark stamp eye.

Poem of the crescent new moon caressingher faint, encircled lover.

Poem of the poem living its organic lifein the soil of every present moment, each oneseen for the assignment it compels.

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CANCIÓN DE LLUVIA(MONSOON SONG)acrylic

Marcela C. Lubian

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SANTA FE RANCH,NOGALES photograph

James Schrimpf

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GREAT ZOT!!photograph

John Hays

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DRACO BABY metalwork

Lindsay Janet Roberts

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DANCERlineoleum print

Larry Milam

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PAST TRADITIONSphotograph

John Hays

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SCALEoil

Yolanda van der Lelij

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DRIVER OF THE BUSphotograph

Lynda Coole

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DESERT RAINBOWSphotograph

Gloria Fraze

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SHELLSceramic

Judy Fitzsimmons

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Steve Bovée

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INNER YOU OUT

I couldn't lie to myself any longer—I needed a new face. Really,really needed a new face. Not that there was all that much wrong withthe old one. I’ve seen worse, plenty worse. It wasn't hideous, exactly—it just wasn't appealing. It didn’t please. It didn’t gladden. It didn’t sing.It wasn’t ruggedly handsome, or even rugged. No single feature wasgrotesque, but the aggregate was . . . well, if you found it on your plate,you'd push it away.

Alone, standing before the mirror, I coldly surveyed my entirephiz, inch by unsatisfactory inch. From brow to chin, cheek to ear,above, below, from the side . . . Then I closed my eyes, hoping it wouldall go away. It didn't. That's when I made up my mind. It's intolerable,I thought. It's got to go.

Plastic surgery was the only answer, of course. But quite frankly,the prospect scared me. Which plastic surgeon, for example, tochoose? There were quacks out there, I knew, charlatans who woulddice and chop with reckless abandon and leave you with the face of ahyena. Was it worth the risk? I had just about reached the conclusionthat it was not, when Fate stepped in and took me by the hand. I wassitting, as it happened, in a dentist’s office, waiting on anappointment, and, bored, was leafing through the pages of a glossymagazine—I think it was Celebrity Dunce Parade. Yes, that was theone, I remember gazing with envy at all those impossibly perfect faces.And then something struck me with the force of an electric shock. Ifound that I was staring at a full-page advertisement touting the FacialReconstruction Clinic of one Dr. William H. Pettingil. Fate was notbeing subtle. The ad was everything I was looking for. Pettingil was“Award-Winning” and “Surgeon to the Stars.” The clinic was licensedin various states and had won gold medals and commendations andsuch. And this, I knew, was a source I could trust. Publications such asCelebrity Dunce Parade do not allow any but the very best to advertisein their pages; you can bet your last dollar on that.

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The ad read,

FED UP WITH YOUR LOOKS? IT’S TIME FOR

A NEW YOU!!!!!Below was the image of an archangel. Two archangels, rather—a

man and a woman, and both equally gorgeous. They were smilingrapturously at each another.

YOU can have the face you always wanted! The face hidden within,the face you DESERVE!

and finally,

LET THE INNER YOU OUT.

I could learn more, the ad informed me, by visiting their website.I cancelled my dental appointment on the spot and in less than an

hour, in the privacy of my home, was staring feverishly at the com-puter screen. Boy, what a box of eye-candy the site proved to be!

It started slowly, on a muted tone. Music began to swell—trum-pets, organs, and celestial choirs—and a ghostly, animated somethingmaterialized out of the primordial blackness. It resolved itself into aface—an animated gnome-like face, which magically morphed intoan Adonis. (The gnome even looked a bit like me, I marveled.) Againand again, the miraculous transformation took place as I watched,fascinated. Then the face faded away in a dissolve and was replaced byan extremely realistic cartoon figure, a guy in a mad-doctor's smock.He was wearing one of those reflector things on his forehead. Hecupped his hand to his mouth and announced in the voice of GodHimself that I had found the home of

THE PETTINGIL SURGICAL CLINICSpecializing in Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery

Which was, for a limited time only, offering an “introductory pro-cedure” at an “attractive price.” Dr. Pettingil (or at least his cartoonsurrogate) advised me to “ACT NOW” to learn “EVEN MORE,” andicons began to pop up over the screen like mushrooms.

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Believe me, I acted. I clicked every button on the site, and it waslike hitting the jackpot at the slots. The screen simply exploded. Outpoured info-tainment, edu-tainment, music, sound effects, tutorials,ever-branching “exploratoria,” pyrotechnics! What a smorgasbord!Eyes, ears, nose, lips, chin, cheeks, neck, wrinkles, blotches, bulges,bags, pouches, all beckoned and tempted. Tucks, lifts, implants,spider-vein excision, exfoliation, de-pilation, re-pilation, laser sculpt-ing, flab dispersal vied for my attention and excitement. There waseven something called, mysteriously, cerebral liposuction. It all builtto a frenzied crescendo which subsided, in a masterwork of theatre, toa calm, dignified peroration. A simulated man appeared and filled thescreen. (I’d chosen the male option, of course; I couldn't wait to seethe women’s spokesperson!) He was incredibly, almost supernaturally,handsome. He was wearing a sou’wester and smoking a pipe; hishands were clenching a ship’s wheel. He had a beard, and his “merry,slightly crinkled blue eyes” (which were described in a sidebar) shiftedfrom side to side, seeming to be scanning the North Sea in search ofwhales, or babes, or something. He was Rugged Handsomeness incar-nate. Suddenly, he seemed to look me straight in the eye and began tospeak, in that same God-voice I’d heard earlier. This is what he said:“As you cruise through the seas of life, your FACE is your vessel. Fromthe superstructure of your forehead to the bridge windows that areyour eyes . . . from the hawsepipes of your nostrils to the mighty chinthat cleaves the waters . . . your FACE commands the waves.”

He gave me a stern look and commanded me to TOUCH ORPLACE CURSOR OVER A FEATURE, THEN CLICK.

I was so excited. I hardly knew what I was doing; I stabbed at ran-dom. I must have hit “nose,” for what came up next was “But whatcomes before all else, leading the vessel in stately triumph, juttingproudly ahead and parting the mists of the high seas, is the ship’sPROW . . . your nose.”

I hit pause, got up and half-ran to the bathroom and looked in themirror. My prow needed remodeling, all right. Compared to the guy’sin the picture, it looked like the snout of a garbage scow which hadcollided with a wharf. Back to the screen.

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“A nobler, more seaworthy prow can be yours. Your FACE can be asleek windjammer, a mighty ship sailing life’s seas in search of adven-ture. PETTINGIL’S CLINIC will reshape your bowsprit and set youon a new voyage of discovery.”

Oh my God! I couldn’t wait to get to the shipyards. I made myreservation on the spot. The cost was staggeringly high, but expensebe damned; the seas of life beckoned.

The clinic was located in California, and I caught the next avail-able jet. Exactly twenty-four hours later, I was standing before theblond-oak and bronze doorways of the Pettingil Clinic. I was re-assured to see that the building was smack in the heart of the high-rent district: a neighborhood of fancy law firms, engineering offices,medical specialists. This was no back-alley nose-job arcade—not thatI'd ever doubted, after viewing that website, that Pettingil was any-thing but first class.

I entered, heart beating fast, and the arctic blast of air-condition-ing made me go numb all over. Equally numbing was the splendor ofthe lobby. I suppose Buckingham Palace is decked out something likethat, when heads of state visit, but it could hardly be as imposing. Theplace was a cathedral of glass, stainless-steel, and fine wood. Eachchair was a masterpiece of the furniture-maker's art, each side-table atribute to the tastes of Louis XIV. Even the magazines were of thehighest literary merit, Celebrity Dunce Parade, of course, being promi-nent. A buxom, raven-haired receptionist, a direct descendent ofNefertiti by way of Marilyn Monroe, bade me sit.

I sat. Overwhelmed. Humbled. What was an ordinary shmuck, a . . .a nobody like me doing in a place this . . . magnificent? I didn'tbelong. This was a place for the lords of the earth, not me. Each pass-ing minute made me feel smaller and smaller. And then—a doorwhisked back, and the great man himself entered. It was Dr. Pettingilin person, and I couldn't suppress a gasp. He was wearing a mad-doc-tor smock, like the cartoon in the ad, but that was the end of theresemblance, I can tell you. The doctor was Physical Perfection. Imean his face; I don't know what the rest of him looked like. You sim-

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ply couldn't take your eyes off his face. Every hair was in place, likemolded plastic. His skin was flamingo-pink and burnished to a dullglow. He smiled at me, and his teeth formed such a regular grid itlooked like he had an ear of snow-white corn clamped behind his lips.And his features—chin, mouth, nose, and so forth—were flawless,Olympian; no mere human ever had such features. It occurred to meon some level that Dr. Pettingil must have been his own bestcustomer. Which, truth to tell, was the most powerful endorsementthat could possibly be made. The most amazing thing about his god-like features was that they were absolutely motionless. When he talkedI could see his sugar-corn teeth going up and down behind his lips,but his mouth never moved. He never blinked. His eyes were merrilycrinkled, but they didn't move. If he breathed, it was not visible. Hisnose might have been made of pink marble, his chin of high-densitypolypropylene. Nothing on his face stretched, or rippled, or creased. Itwas eerie and beautiful.

He gripped my hand (you’ve seen the sculpture of David byMichelangelo?—that was his hand, except it was warm) and shook itfirmly as he spoke. His voice was perfect, of course. Not Jehovan, likethe ad, but with a mellow timbre that oozed manly friendliness.

He said, “Welcome to our clinic.” That was all, but I almost faintedfrom the sheer music of it. “Or rather, I should say, welcome to yourhome. Naturally”—he gave a deprecating little laugh—“it’s not reallyyour home. We are a professional clinic specializing in reconstructivesurgery. But it’s our sincere hope that you feel the same level of com-fort here that you would amongst family, in the privacy of your ownfour walls. We at Pettingil Clinic recognize that facial reconstruction isa highly personal decision, and we want you to enjoy the level of trustand support that you would surrounded by your family. Our goal is toadvise you to the best of our professional ability as well as with under-standing and support. Above all, we want our customers to feel com-fortable, at ease, and among friends. At all times we want you to feel asthough you may turn to us for support. If you have any questions, wewill be happy to answer them, in a setting that is private, comfortable,and supportive . . .”

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And on and on like that. It lulled me along like a serene river, andat some point, I must have gone into some kind of trance because Iwoke with a start as he concluded “. . . standards of professionalism,privacy, and support that are second to none.”

“Where do I sign?” I yelped.The musical laugh. “We're getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren't

we? There's no need for haste, after all. Haste is something we discour-age. Let us begin with a cost-free, complimentary consultation,” saidDr. Pettingil. “Now. May I?” He gripped my face very tenderly andscanned it for a full five minutes, making little clucking sounds. “Yes,yes, yes,” he said from time to time. At last he let me go and went andwashed his hands in a sink, then returned and gazed at me with a verybenevolent expression—at least it seemed benevolent, as far as youcould read it on his motionless face. “So, then. Which, ah, deficiencywould you like to have corrected?”

“I was thinking of my—well, my prow,” I said.“Massive, radical, reconstructive rhynoplasty. Good choice.”“I mean my nose.”“Quite,” he said. “Forgive my professional jargon. I’ll use lay terms,

if you prefer. I prefer them myself. It's my belief . . .”“I want a windjammer face,” I broke in. “I want to sail through

life's seas, every sail taut with . . .”“Yes, yes. And sail you will. We'll begin, as you wish, with the nose,

which frankly exhibits an advanced degree of suidate prognathism—but there I go again. It would be as accurate, and more honest, simplyto say you're sporting a regular oinker there—a steel ring wouldn't beout of place in it. But that can be fixed! Similarly, your frog’s chin,your Dumbo ears, your bloodhound eyepouches, your chimp's brow,and your slobbery, anteater lips can all be put in order, with theproper implants, rasps, and grafts.”

“I want my vessel to, um, cleave the, uh . . .”“. . . Cleave the waves, yes. On life's adventure. That iguana neck

could be reefed in. The sunken, orangutan cheeks can be implantedwith honest bone.”

“Can’t we just repair the prow?”

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“Whatever you wish! We can give you a prow like Hercules, or abrow like Aristotle himself. Or any combination of features. Thechoice is yours. But you mustn’t decide on impulse. We want to beunderstanding, private, and supportive, in a friendly, comfortableatmosphere. Please take as much time as you need. Results may vary.Michelle”—this was directed at the Marilyn Monroe-Nefertiti crossbehind the desk—“would you take our new friend on a guided tourthrough some of the options, please?” And he glided away in a cloudof cologne before I could fall down on my knees and beg him tochoose for me.

Michelle was a marvel of silicone and tissue-grafts in her ownright, but for the moment I had eyes only for the display screen. It wasan immense, wraparound panel on which a series of simulated faces,all blindingly beautiful, were projected. The features could be manip-ulated by means of a joystick. Michelle let me try first. I wasn’t verygood at it; the noses all turned into grotesque excrescences under myhands. But the experienced Michelle (or maybe it was the software)produced a matchless array of noses with titles like The Sheik, TheKnife Blade, The Merchant of Venice, The Conqueror, The Scholar,The Pugilist, and so on. I was particularly taken with a model calledThe Roman Patrician. I kept going back to that one. It was a prow tograce an ocean liner. A nose so noble and distinguished that ordinarypeople, I was certain, would fall back in awe at the mere sight of it.

Yes, my mind was made up. The Roman Patrician was the one forme.

“Wise choice, excellent choice!” Dr. Pettingil said an hour later aswe stood before an eight-foot high, shimmering holograph of TheNose. “A very popular model. You have a good eye. The Patrician fitsthe underlying structure of your skull, such as it is.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing.“This nose can serve as a scaffold, or armature, or even an anchor,

if you will, upon which to build the remainder of the face.” “Anchor! I like that nautical stuff.”“There is, however, something that must be understood,” he said.

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He wouldn't do it! That is, he wouldn't do it right away. He told me,quite firmly, that reconstructive surgery was a solemn, momentousdecision, to be made only after lengthy consideration. He said I had tothink it over for a month, or at the very least two weeks, before hewould consent to do the procedure. “You've lived with the face yourMaker gave you all this time. Surely you can stand it for another four-teen days. Many people, in the end, choose to stick with their originalphysiognomy, no matter how unsightly, unfortunate, or repulsive.”

I begged. I got down on my hands and knees—I'm not ashamedto admit it—and kissed his foot, as tears of yearning ran down myface. “I don’t need time to think it over,” I pleaded. “I want the RomanPatrician. I can't live without it! Please, Dr. Pettingil.”

“I'm very sorry.”“I'll pay you anything! Anything!”“Perhaps it could be arranged,” he conceded. “You may make an

appointment with Michelle for tomorrow morning, if you truly wish.”Oh, I did. I sobbed out my gratitude, and the contract I signed

became so damp with tears that Michelle had to dry it out under aheat lamp to be sure the signature was legally legible.

I camped on the doorstep of the clinic that night, and whenMichelle opened the portals early the next morning I rushed in like asteroid-crazed fullback, shouting, “I'm ready! Make it happen! Trans-form me! I'm ready!”

“Easy, tiger,” she said.She handed me a stack of forms—many, many forms—to fill out,

and I signed over money—much, much money, for optional extrassuch as anesthetic and bandages—and then it was time. Michelle hadnever looked better as she gathered up the papers, and I reflected tomyself that once I had my new prow in place, maybe she would lookat me with equal interest. How could she resist the Roman Patrician?

I remember very little about the actual surgery—mostly onaccount of the drugs that were given to me. Dr. Pettingil did notscrimp on the drugs, not a bit. No wonder he was Surgeon to theStars. It all passed in a kind of blurry swirl and float and buzz—andthat was just the pre-op conference. The actual procedure was simply

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a black void. The last thing I remember seeing before going under wasPettingil’s motionless eyes, like plastic knobs staring over his surgicalmask. His nose made a fine white prominence beneath the mask.Soon, I would have a nose like that.

When I came to, I had no idea where I was, who I was, or why Iwas so heavily bandaged. A huge white mound loomed before myeyes. After a long while clarity returned to me. I realized that I was inthe clinic. That I was in the recovery room. That the job was done.And that the white thing in my vision was my new prow! Excitementsurged through my blood like boiling acid. I lurched to my feet andstaggered into the bathroom and clawed savagely at the bandagesand—and then Michelle pounced on me from behind and pinionedmy arms. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, and wrestled me back to myhospital bed. She was strong. She tossed me down with easy contemptand wagged a forefinger at me. “No peeky!” she commanded. I wasnot to touch that bandage, she said, for at least seven days. I was noteven to think about sneaking a look; she would stand guard on metwenty-four hours a day to make sure that I didn't. She wasn'tkidding! She’d have made a great prison guard, that Michelle. Noth-ing got by her. No sooner would my hand make a surreptitious movetowards the bandage, even in the dark, than she would slap it awayand scold me. It pained her to do it, she said, but it was only to assuremy comfort and support during my recovery, she said. And if I didn’tcooperate, I would be sorry.

I cooperated.

Seven days. It was agony. My new nose, my new prow—It!—wasthere within reach, covered only by gauze, and I couldn't even trace itsshape with my fingertips. I was consumed with frustration andcuriosity, but I forced myself to endure. And The Day did arrive, atlast, as all days must. The formal unveiling was orchestrated for maxi-mum effect. I was moved to a special viewing room with opticallyperfect mirrors. The Doctor himself came to unwrap me. His fleshwas pinker and more radiant than ever, his sugarcorn teeth were on

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full display, and his hair was as rigid as porcelain. “Michelle, hold him,please,” he requested. She gripped me from behind; my head was nes-tled between her breasts. And then, with calm, practiced hands, Dr.Pettingil began to unwind the bandages. The beautiful Michelle heldme in a clinical, erotic embrace. The final strip of gauze came away,and at the last second, I clapped my eyes shut and turned away in aspasm of terror and dread.

“Don’t be afraid,” Michelle whispered gently and squeezed myhand. “Open your eyes. Go ahead. Look. It’s you. It’s a new you.”

“A new you,” Dr. Pettingil echoed.I looked.A strange, strangled scream tore loose from my throat. With

bulging eyes I stared. MY GOD! My NOSE! It was EXQUISITE, GOR-GEOUS, MAGNIFICENT. It was more noble than the RuggedlyHandsome Man’s; it was more godlike than Dr. Pettingil’s! It was aMASTERPIECE!

“I believe the procedure was a success,” murmured the good doc-tor, with quiet satisfaction.

I wept tears of joy. Michelle held me steady, her breasts nuzzlingmy ears. I could hear the beating of her heart. As for my heart—well, Ithought it would explode with happiness.

I was released that afternoon, and returned home. Two, then threeweeks passed. Gradually my tearful fits of joy dried up; slowly, I beganto feel a gnawing unease, a disquiet I could not identify. I took tostudying my reflection in the mirror, sometimes for hours on end. Ifound myself exploring not merely The Nose but the rest of my face.With mounting horror, I took it all in: the frog’s jaw, the Dumbo ears,the chimp’s brow, the bloodhound eyes. Nothing had changed. Exceptthat now, in contrast beside the Nose of God, the remaining featureshad become not merely unsatisfactory but unspeakably HIDEOUS.

“They’re intolerable!” I shrieked aloud one morning. “They’ve gotto go!”

Dr. Pettingil was gentle and understanding. Michelle, too, was an

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angel of compassion. “It's a not untypical reaction,” she said, with apitying sigh. “It’s fairly common, in fact, to feel as you do.”

Dr. Pettingil added, “I went through something very like it myself.”He leaned toward me confidentially. “I originally went in for a simplechin augmentation.” His voice fell very low, and I swear a tremor, or amotion, or a twitch, or something, fleetingly animated his face. “Iwanted to get into the movies, you know.”

Michelle laid her soft hand on my arm. “For me, it started withjust a tuck. Just one little tuck!” and a tear spilled over her artificialeyelid and down her reconstructed cheek.

Dr. Pettingil shook himself and became the professional oncemore. He touched my face in a series of places. “The baboon cheekscan be rebuilt into something more human. The yak’s wattle underyour negligible chin can be knotted tight. Your loathsome complexioncan be masked by a series of injections. Your simian forehead . . .”

Dr. Pettingil was generous, as I knew he would be. He gave me adiscount because it was such a comprehensive job: the works, top tobottom, ear to ear. Soon—in no more than fifteen or twenty years, ifmy money holds out—Total Rugged Handsomeness will be mine.And—who knows?—so, maybe, will Michelle. I even got a bonus onthe deal. Dr. Pettingil agreed to throw in the cerebral liposuction forfree.

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PRESENCE Lavendra Copen

There are not just two here now, the human viewer and the stone, but three: the first light that reveals them, each

one to the other.

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BOATS ON PARKERCANYON LAKE photograph

Karri Fox

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AVATARmetalwork

Lindsay Janet Roberts

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Daniel N. Rollins

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DESERT HIGHLIGHTSphotograph

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WHIMSEYceramic

Lynn Dottle

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MISSION GIRL photograph

James Schrimpf

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ANTELOPE CANYONoil

Debi Lee Hadley

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Louise WaldenBISBEE FALLS oil

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WHITE BLOOMINGCEREUS CACTUS photograph

Angie Rivas

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COCHISE COLLEGEPIT FIRE PERFORMERSphotograph

Sharon Lee

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KEYBOARD REFLECTION INCHEAP SUNGLASSESphotograph

Lynda Coole

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OUR WILDERNESS Leslie Clark

Seven small-town New Jersey cousins ventured into our wilderness,in reality, about one square mile of deeply ravined woodland, where no oneon the outskirts of Trenton could manage to perch a house.It belonged to some obscure religious group which had erectedcrude wooden buildings on the woods’ edge and left the rest untouched.We considered it all ours, since they were usually rolling holy elsewhere.

We’d wander from the oppressive safety of our grandparents’ too-warm house,escape from the gathering of grownups, with their boring anecdotesand watchful eyes, to become ourselves in the excitement of the forest.Always something new—a lightning-struck tree, splintered and blackened,a new patch of unearthly plants, monstrous, soggy piles of leaves,their musty odors released by the latest deluge, taunting our nostrils.

Enraptured each year by clusters of Jack in the Pulpit,conjured, we were sure, by the absent pious ones—hence the name.That delicate flower with its sinister life’s mission, its basin filledwith fragrant liquid, attracting thirsty insects in. When bugs were sated,the bloom ensnared them within its slick-walled, lovely bowl.There they remained, slowly digested by the carnivorous plant.

One of our many competitive games was to find the victimsin the most grotesque state of partial maceration.Another was who could run the fastest and farthestinto the darkest part of the woods, where ancient oaksarched out all trace of sunlight, without scaring ourselves so badlywe’d have to emerge back into the relative safety of the group.Who could creep closest to the marsh, without succumbingto the parent-told fable of the girl who got too closeand was gulped down by quicksand before anyonecould respond to her pathetic screams.We all discovered much about ourselves in those yearsand those woods. Tested our resolve, our fleetness of foot,our daring, and our propensity for challenges.Now, the two youngest of us have gone beyond memories

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of that place, or perhaps to where such memoriesare all that still exist. Those of us who remain on earth with that forest still think of it with wonder— a magical realm for innocent seeking,since succumbed to adults’ reality.

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HOW IS IT THAT THISCOMES TO PASS?

Ruby Odell

Our faces turning from a delicate layeringof flesh along the bones to a terrain of rain maps

fine rivulets, deep gullies on a parched desert.

It is not, they say, that the rivers of veins grow swollen and riserather it is that the sensuous flesh withdraws

and appears to resettle elsewhere.What was rounded and soft, or firm, muscularwhat thrilled the blood in our days of the green sap rising

the geometry of fleshcannot remain.There is frost, blight, and drought.There is the natural order of things.

We’re like the trees in their seasons.You can feel it now, can’t you—this pulsing in every living thing?Storms lie down on the contours of our faces, on our very bodies.Our beautiful hair grows sparse.We embrace the return of ancient injuries.

Oh! I love you!

Is the heart of the tree also like this?Bright green beginnings, golden flowering days, the red autumnglorious wind, the wild of winter, forgiving snow?

I’m thinking of the deepest core of it—that part pulsing with forces.Let me remain strong that vultures find a home here!

The sap rises every year.In the summer we danced.I am here nowin that blazejust before the fall.

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PLUNGE Leslie Clark

Diagnosed—a disease out of nowhere, I sit in my light-filled kitchenattempting to choke down some leftovers.Mental shuffling of internet information,printed pamphlets, grim pronouncementsof the white-coated ones, all about a treatmentthat threatens to be more sinisterthan what it attempts to cure.

My cat perches on the chair next to me,staring and purring—to comfort me, I hope,though more likely lusting after the shrimpin my pasta. I pull one out to feed her, whenwithout warning, a writhing, patterned curlicue plummets from the skylight, bounces onceoff the table, then lands at my feet, hissing and coiling.For a moment, I’m stunned into stillness.The feline, intrigued, leaps down to investigate.That thrusts me into motion. I grab the cat and shut her in safety, punch three numbers on the phone,then return with a broomto keep the poisonous one at bayuntil summoned officials arrive.

A friend, upon hearing the story, says,Imagine how the snake felt.Yes.Somnolent sun-baking among tall grasses,snatched by a sharp-beaked creature, which,chased by a smaller bird, screeches, loses grip.The fall to the roof below,then the slither to a clear domewith a baby-snake-sized hole in its side.The wriggle through,the plunge into yet another fray.

THE ROADRUNNER’STALE

Michael Erickson

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I woke up early the other day and decided to take my coffee outin the yard.

I settled down on the bench with my mug. I sat under the wil-low tree, which was just beginning to bloom. The flowers on thewillow tree are my favorite—delicate and lacy, with a beautiful mixof lavender, pink, and white.

The sun was just peeking over the mountains, and a cool, gentlebreeze was beginning to stir. The first bees were buzzing around theflowers, and the dove and the quail were starting their day, flittingaround the yard, stopping for a drink of water, and sitting in thetrees talking about what a fine morning it was.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement. As Iturned my head, I saw that it was a roadrunner. He had been sittingon one of the low branches in the pine tree and jumped to theground and scurried after something. After just a few feet, hestopped. As he raised his head up high, I could see that he hadcaught a small lizard. The little critter struggled in vain as the birdsnapped him up and ate him.

I must have made a sound that got the roadrunner’s attentionbecause he turned around and stared at me. As we looked at eachother, I asked him, “Was that good?”

Much to my surprise, he nodded his head and replied, “Yes, itwas—quite tasty and tender. Just the way I like my lizard.”

With that, he took a few steps and flapped his wings and flew upto perch on the arm of my bench. As I watched him, I suppressed alaugh. But not that well. Roadrunners are not the most graceful ofbirds at any time, and when they fly, it is a most pitiful sight.

He gave me a dirty look and said, “What are you laughing at?Don’t you know that it’s rude to laugh at another’s misfortune?”

I stuttered and searched for the right words, but none came. Iwas caught entirely by surprise. I had never come across a talkingroadrunner, and I explained this fact to him and apologized as bestas I could.

Now, I know what you’re going say. I probably said the verysame thing to myself. But not being one to shy away from

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controversial subjects, and more than a just little curious, I askedhim to please explain how it came to be that he was able to carry ona conversation with me.

“I’ll be happy to do that, but you’ll have to excuse me for just amoment. That lizard was a bit on the salty side and quite dry aswell. Just let me get a drink of water to wet my gizzard, and I’ll tellyou the whole story.

“Contrary to what most humans believe, most animals canspeak quite well. We birds talk among ourselves all the time. Indeed,we birds are quite verbose, due largely to the fact that our penman-ship is somewhat poor. Why, some of the greatest speakers that theworld has known have been birds. This is a well-known fact. Mostpeople don’t realize this because they make too much noise to hearus, or they are just too busy to listen to what we have to say.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I hear the sentry quailas they tell the covey that all is safe and well. I hear my hens whenthey brag about the fine eggs that they’ve just laid. And I hear thedoves as they call to their mates.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get what you’re saying, but all that you reallyhear is just the big, loud stuff. You never catch the important stuffthat we chat about all day long.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I guess you’re right. If you talk to me, I’ll try topay more attention.”

“Alright. Fine. What would you like to talk about then?”“Well, to be honest, I’m curious about something, and I think

that you might just be the one to set me straight. Can you tell mewhy, out of all of the birds in the desert, the roadrunner is the onlyone that can’t fly very well?”

“As a matter of fact, I can. It’s a somewhat embarrassing story,but if you promise not to laugh, I will tell it to you.”

“Okay. I promise.”“It was a long time ago. Long before the people came to the

desert, so long ago that we animals were just beginning to make ourhomes here. We were all trying to figure our place in this newworld.

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“The birds, of course, took to the sky. The mice and the rabbitstook to the fields to eat the grass that grew there. The dove andquail also chose the fields to eat the seeds from the grasses. Thelizards, too, chose the fields and also the trees to eat the insects thatlived there. The hummingbird and the bee and the long-nosed batchose the air—all the better to feast on the nectar of the flowers.The coyote and the snake, of course, went where the mice and rab-bits were.

“Along with the hawk and the raven, my great-grandfatherchose the air so that he could find his meals that much easier. Now,when my great-grandfather looked around, he realized that Hawkand Raven were much better at hunting from the air, and hedecided that it would be best if he could run on the ground as wellas fly in the air. He practiced hard, and he became a great runnerand successful hunter.

“One warm summer afternoon, Coyote, tired and hot fromchasing his lunch, took a break and lay down in the shade of amesquite tree. While he lay there, Raven landed on a low branch onthe tree and asked Coyote what he thought of Roadrunner and hissuccess in hunting.

“‘Well, I personally don’t think that it’s fair,’ said Coyote. ‘I haveto run around all day chasing my meal while Roadrunner can flyaround up high until he spots his meal, and then he not only canswoop down from the sky but also chase the lizards under the brushand catch them.’

“‘You know what?’ said Raven. ‘You’re right; it’s not fair. Butwhat can we do about it?’

“As they conversed, a plan was concocted. To understand whatwas going on, you first have to see that Coyote and Raven were notvery nice guys. Coyote and Raven were petty and jealous. Theywould steal whatever they wanted without a second thought. Theywould do whatever they could to get their way. They knew thatRoadrunner liked to spend his evenings down by the river, and theyhatched a plan to get even with him.

“Raven and Coyote were sitting on the warm sand by the bendin the stream where the water slowed. Studying the stars and speaking

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softly, Coyote pulled a jug of Bacanora that he had found in thedesert and hidden in the sand for a moment just such as this.Bacanora, as I hope you know, is Mexican moonshine.

“When Roadrunner came by, as he most always did, they invitedhim to join them for a sip or two. As they waited for the moon torise, the jug was passed around.

“The jug was just about empty, and Roadrunner was quitedrunk when the moon finally broke free of the mountain’s graspand leapt, it seemed, into the sky. Coyote and Raven pounced onRoadrunner and proceeded to clip his wings so that he could nolonger fly.

“Coyote and Raven burst into a rude song as Roadrunner yelledand screamed nasty curses at them. Great-Grandfather jumped upin the air as high as he could and flapped his wings fiercely. Overand over, he tried and tried until, finally, in a fit of frustration andexhaustion, he flung himself to the sand. As he gasped and wheezedand tried to catch his breath, he slowly sobered up and came tounderstand just what a mess he was in.

“That was the day that Great-Grandfather swore off hard liquor.And from that day on, we roadrunners have pretty much beengrounded.”

At that, the roadrunner stood up a little taller and looked to hisleft. “Now, if you will excuse me, I see a big, fat, juicy grasshopperover by that other willow tree, and I think he would make me a finedessert.”

He then jumped off the bench and ran after the grasshopper. Hesoon caught up with it. And, as he gobbled it down, he looked at meand flapped his right wing as though he were waving a goodbye.

I watched as he sauntered across the yard, heading for the barn.He slipped through the hole that the ram had punched in the boardby the door, and disappeared into the shadows. As I finished up mydrink, I pondered on this rather odd meeting. And I came to thisconclusion: I think that roadrunner was actually quite fortunatebecause I know for an honest and true fact that, when I drink toomuch Bacanora, I hear funny things, and I can hardly walk.

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HORSE AND WILLOWTREE IN THE MOONLIGHT

Ruby Odell

Sung Dynasty 960-1280

A portrait of a well-fed horseshadowy black with white boots

tail and mane of washed charcoaltethered with a slender stroke to a willow treegrazing at the ink-smudged spring-lush grass

Not a glamorous shapeit has the grace of reality

head bowed to the rootslooking inward almostnot truly seeing but full of tasting

I should write a book somedayConfessions of an Image Collector

for this card has lived in a wooden boxwith many others for at least fortyof my sixty-eight years

Even now as it sits on my desknewly found and born again

I love it the same as the dayI first flipped through the card rackof a long-forgotten museum gift shop

And felt my heart stutter and slowthen rush up again to that force

of unspeakable recognition—this is art—miraculous! And through all the centuriesit sustains me!

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MOON POCKET Georgia Dust

“Moon Pocket, come back!” The volume and strain of urgencyin my voice startled me probably as much as it did my saloon full ofdrinkers.

Moon was one of my best customers. At least he always tippedwell—that is, allowing for his meager budget. He left a quarter onthe bar for every sarsaparilla he ordered. Yes, sarsaparilla. I tend barat a saloon that serves some cola-corporation reinvention of thatsoft drink. It’s mostly tourist kids who get served the stuff, SiouxCity Sarsaparilla, when hauled by their parents out of the high-desert sun into the cool stale-beer-scented air of our tavern. Kidsare allowed in the bar during the day and early evening. The placecan get pretty rough at night. There’s plenty of hard drinking in thisbar, but Moon Pocket drank only sarsaparilla.

I work in Tombstone, Arizona, as a barmaid—and now assistantmanager—at Big Nosed Kate’s, a place laying claim to being “TheBest Cowboy Bar in the West.” Coincidentally and somewhat unfor-tunately, my name is Kate. My nose, fortunately, is not all that big.A little long maybe, but not wide like that of the original Kate, whoas the story goes, was the first woman of ill repute in the town andgirlfriend to Doc Holiday. “She Loved Doc Holiday and EveryoneElse Too,” reads one of our more prominent bar decorations, al-though I’ve read elsewhere that no evidence exists supporting theclaim that Mary Katherine Horony Cummings was ever a prosti-tute. Lack of accurate historical evidence, however, never stoppedthis town from thriving on dubious legends and wild rumor.

Sometimes I’m told, as I pour a beer for a new customer—al-ways some guy without a wife or girlfriend by his side—that I looksomething like a dark-haired Barbara Streisand, a compliment I’mnot always sure how to take. I’m a little sensitive about my nose, es-pecially working at this bar with this name.

Anyway, Moon came most nights, arriving early evening so as toclaim the same stool, the one most tourists avoid if any other seat isavailable. But Moon liked to hunker down in the corner, up againstthe far wall, under the old dusty buffalo head. There, by the neonMiller High Life sign, Moon could be found (not that anyone

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would be looking for him) sipping his sarsaparilla as he read andwrote, penciling in annotations in a book’s margins or taking notesin his dirty black leather-bound journal.

If you’ve ever been in one of those best-cowboy-bars-in-the-West, our saloon is not hard to visualize—double swinging doors,squeaking softwood floors, walls decked with wild-west memora-bilia: saddles, buckles, pistols, rifles, ten-gallon hats, the obligatorypainting of the lounging nude. Ours even exhibits a dusty bisonhead, under which Moon Pocket sat, hunched over his book anddusty journal, dressed in his dirty black trousers, long grimy blackcoat, and worn black cowboy boots. He topped off his attire with agreasy black cowboy hat. From a distance, under the profile of thebuffalo head with the sallow glow of the neon Miller sign haloingthe faint but visible coating of dust on his dark attire, Moon’s figureresembled that of an unkempt sulking crow. In a town where atleast half the local men outfit themselves as if extras in a spaghettiwestern, most customers glancing in his direction—unless theywere regulars and had established a nodding acquaintance withMoon—wouldn’t have noticed the one unique aspect of his cowboygarb: the front of his hat.

Moon avoided close contact with those of his own species, andmost bar patrons—both tourists and regulars—steered clear ofMoon. He didn’t smell that fresh, for one. For two, he wore a dirty5” x 6” white card pinned to the front of his greasy black hat withbold but wobbly handwriting in black that read, WIFE WANTED.

I encountered Moon a few times before I started tending bar atKate’s. I spotted him while exploring Tombstone and the surround-ing high desert with my now ex-husband after we first arrived inthe area. Moon would be walking alongside the road with his un-leashed dog and only companion. Horatio, a mid-sized mutt, per-haps a border collie mix, wore a coat as dark as Moon’s and sporteda white patch on his chest. Horatio walked dependably close toMoon’s side. The pair presented a curious sight facing oncomingtraffic. Moon would invariably be reading while he paced the sideof the road, holding before him a hard-cover book of some kind,

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his eyes focused more on the text than the path before him. From adistance, the two dark pedestrians, with Moon’s white card on hishat and Horatio’s patch of white on his chest, comprised a ratherclerical spectacle. Moon, clutching his book against his chest as hestrode the side of the road with Horatio, gave the appearance of astern Western minister reviewing some verse of the Holy Book withhis loyal deacon, Horatio, treading faithfully by his side.

Later, when I made Moon’s acquaintance at Kate’s, I never heardhim call Horatio using the dog’s full name. He elicited some ap-palled reactions from tourists in the form of censorious glances andmutterings when calling his dog: “Come, Hor.”

Dogs are banished from the saloon. In fact, the sign outside thedouble-swinging doors reads, “No Horse Thieves, Card Sharks, orDogs Allowed!” The sign, I understand, has undergone some revi-sions that may reflect a slowly evolving cultural sensitivity in thistown “Too Tough to Die” that prides itself in hosting HelldoradoDays. At one point, earlier in the previous century, the sign read,“No Horse Thieves, Chinamen, or Indians Allowed.” In the late1960s, I’m told, it was revised to “No Horse Thieves, Card Sharks,or Hippies Allowed.” The current version at least has reduced its lastdiscriminatory restriction to that of another species—the species,however, that Moon seems to prefer over his own. Nonetheless,Moon observed the rule, or rather, Horatio did, as he lay outsidethe double-swinging doors, patiently waiting for Moon to finish hislast sarsaparilla.

As I mentioned, Moon didn’t talk much. He pretty much keptto himself and Hor. Nonetheless, since I served him plenty of thosesarsaparillas, I got to know him a bit as my nights at Kate’s wore on.For one, I learned how he got his name, or rather, how he re-namedhimself. He mentioned some book he had read in which one of thecharacters had, upon experiencing a seemingly fortuitous eventduring a time of distress, reassured himself and his comrades thatthey were now in “God’s pocket.” Moon commented that he hadnever particularly felt himself under the protection of divine provi-dence or a recipient of its benevolence but had, on some occasions,

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when walking at night with Horatio, felt some kind of considera-tion or at least acceptance of his existence on his piece of earthfrom the moon. He told me that he felt this most when this celestialbody was in its waning phase. “I’m, at least, if not in God’s, some-times in the Moon’s pocket,” he explained, turning back to makesome note in his frayed journal.

Despite the aversion I shared with my bar patrons over his off-putting demeanor and aroma—not to mention the card pinned tohis hat—in the few months I had worked at Kate’s, I’d developed acertain degree of something perhaps a bit more than tolerance forMoon.

Perhaps it was his literary bent. I had graduated with an Englishdegree from a small college back east, fallen in love—or so I under-stood the sentiment—with another graduate (he had earned an en-gineering degree), and moved to southeastern Arizona, where hehad secured a position at the nearby military installation. It wasn’tlong, however, before I began to distinguish the earlier sentimentfor something else. It wasn’t long before he recognized anotherwoman as something of an improvement over me. You know howthese things go.

Anyway, I read somewhere that desperation is the raw materialfor drastic change. I had the raw—very raw—material I needed atthe time. Part of my change surfaced as a new attitude toward theterrain to which I had been transplanted. I decided I liked it outhere. Something about the landscape, which I had first reacted towith aversion and referred to—in letters to my two friends—as“desolation warmed over,” started to appeal to me. I also grew fondof the eccentricity of living in a western “ghost town” alongsidepeople who did not seem bothered by the irony of populating one.

Moon and I had one thing in common: We both had been re-jected by the local college. I had tried to get a job teaching there,and Moon had submitted some of his work to its literary magazine.Neither of us was successful. So I took the job at Kate’s, while Moonkept reading and writing—and here we were. I still am.

Sometimes, after I had placed a sarsaparilla before him, Moon

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would ask if I had read a particular writer or a particular work. Ihave to admit that, although possessing a masters degree in Englishliterature, I am not nearly as well read as Moon, who seemed tohave read everything I have and much more—and seemingly moredeeply. Moon never attended college but once mentioned that oneof his methods of self-education was to read the essays of Addisonand Steele, copy them, turn them into poetry, and then back intoprose. Moon would often knowledgably refer to a work with whichI was totally unfamiliar or which I could only vaguely recall.

I don’t know if I’ve given you enough background to put whathappened that night into proper context. I’m not sure there is aproper context. But here’s the situation. It was Friday night, and thesaloon was full. Outside, it was cold, but the late-fall desert windthat had swept dust and debris with relentless ferocity through thestreets for the past several days and nights had died down, leavingour high-desert sky calm, clear, and shimmering with stars. Orionand his eternal cohort, Canis Major, were poised at the zenith. Iknow this, for Maggie, the other barmaid and assistant manager,had given me a break during which I took the opportunity to stepoutside the back door for a smoke.

Maggie was about Moon’s age, perhaps a decade older than me.I will turn thirty in July. Maggie stood a few inches shorter than myfive-foot-seven-inch frame. To tell you the truth—with hermedium-length, curly red hair, ruddy complexion, and buxombuild—she fit the stereotypical image of a seasoned Irish barmaid.Her education ended with graduation from the local high school.Like me, she was a childless divorcee. Unlike me, she had little inter-est in literature. Also, unlike me, she frequently called her cus-tomers “Sweetie” and “Honey.” She did so, however, in a smoky,brusque voice, much deeper than mine. Although she also servedMoon his sarsaparillas, and I sometimes saw them engaged in somekind of conversation, I was fairly certain that their talks never cen-tered on literature. I must admit that, although Maggie seemedmore at ease with the culture of Kate’s and could interact with hercustomers in a friendlier and more intimate manner than I—she

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made better tips—I couldn’t help but feel a bit superior with theeducation and literary interests that I shared with Moon. I assumedthat Moon recognized and appreciated the difference.

Inside, it was growing loud and boisterous, Kate’s patrons hav-ing had sufficient time to down enough of our wares to feel them-selves, their fellow bar patrons, and life itself becoming moreamusing and remarkable. What to a sober barmaid can appear assilly befuddlement can be experienced—I know from other experi-ence—as an exuberant and mystic gaze into the hearts of oneselfand one’s companions where one discovers goodwill and common-ality in being human. Most of our customers had apparentlyreached this altitude.

But not one fellow, as it turned out. As I reentered the saloon,Maggie was working the near end of the bar, so I moved down tothe other, where, between Moon and Bill, leaning into the bar,stood a tall, bulky man I had never seen before. At first, he lookedlike a typical biker.

Before I describe him, though, I guess I need to introduce youto Bill. He, like Moon, is one of our regulars. Being one of our regu-lars, however, is about the only thing Bill has in common withMoon. Bill seems to have a hard time keeping to himself. UnlikeMoon, he is eager for attention. He dresses in imitation of BuffaloBill Cody. He does not let much time elapse between his utterances,which most often center on the topic of which he is most fond—himself.

I’ve worked long enough at Kate’s to have some experience withbikers, who often rumble into town, especially during HelldoradoDays. Although often coarse and profane, they usually coexistpeacefully with the mix of other tourists. If fights erupt, they nor-mally occur between the bikers themselves—or, more rarely, be-tween them and the self-styled cowboys who sometimes pit theirown Silverado-and-Ram-pickup-style bravado against that of theHarley riders.

The bikers usually swell into the bar in groups after a final revof engines announcing their arrival. This particular biker, however,

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appeared to be alone as he leaned against the bar between Bill andMoon. He sported a great untrimmed black beard, a filthy blackbandana covering his head like a pirate’s, and the requisite blackleather jacket dangling with chains connecting who knows what.

As I approached, Bill motioned to me with his empty beer mug,indicating he was ready for a refill. I walked up to him, saying,“Sure, Bill,” and reached for his mug. My hand was suddenly ar-rested, however, by a hard grip on my wrist. Startled, I lookedacross the bar into a red-nosed, pock-marked face and beady eyesframed by black scraggly whiskers and his pirate-like bandana.Large yellow teeth were bared as he snarled, “I was next, Bitch.” Hepulled my wrist down to clink Bill’s empty mug on the counter.“Isn’t that right, Cowboy?” the biker pirate scoffed, turning his snarlinto a taunting challenge to Bill.

What felt like the paw of a bear released its grip on my wrist.Blackbeard’s chain-enhanced chest was level with Bill’s head. Thebiker was not only tall but hefty, perhaps six foot six and weighing agood 270 pounds.

Bill, who as I’ve indicated, was not usually at a loss for words,mumbled something like “I guess so.”

Now, I’m not sure what came over me—I’m usually not physi-cally or even verbally bold—but I shot back indignantly, “You’llwait your turn like everyone else,” and reached again for Bill’s mug. More suddenly than it had sprung upon my wrist, Blackbeard’sbear paw was now closing around my throat. “You beak-nosed, uglywhore, bring me a double Jack Daniels now!”

He released his hold on my neck, and I stood stunned for a sec-ond. With some vague hope for assistance, I turned to Bill. Billcaught my eye for a split second and then lowered his glance as if hehad found something of interest to examine on the floor. Maggie,who was at the other end of the bar, turned off the music, and in aninstant, the boisterous din of the bar vanished.

The silence, however, was soon broken. A loud, clear, and confi-dent voice rang through the room: “Well, boys, should we give amisguided youth a chance to apologize to this lady or just go ahead

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and teach him a lesson?” The voice came from under the bison head, and I, along with all

of the patrons, stared with amazement at Moon, who had risenfrom his seat, his hand resting on his journal. He looked like somepublic official taking the oath of office on a Bible. Something aboutMoon’s voice must have done it—a voice perhaps inspired byMoon’s reading of Henry the V’s speech inciting his men to battleat Agincourt.

Whatever the cause, most men in the saloon—locals andtourists—rose, the only sound coming from the scraping of theirchairs against the floor. Maybe twenty in all, the men stood, staringsilently at the biker. Perhaps sensing the safety of numbers, even Billrose from his barstool. Blackbeard turned in surprise to see a barfull of men standing in silence—apparently willing to take him on.His beady eyes surveyed the room for a moment, and in the cornerof one, I saw the flicker of fear.

“Fuck this!” he murmured. Without looking at anyone, staringstraight ahead, his chains jangling, the biker made his way throughthe room to the double-swinging doors, shoved them violentlyopen, and stepped outside. As the doors creaked back and forth,Moon sat down, and so did the other men. Maggie turned up thestereo.

I shambled a couple of feet to Moon’s corner, put my hand overhis, which was still resting on his journal, and stammered, “Thanks,Moon.”

Moon didn’t look up. He just nodded and turned this attentionback to his journal.

I walked toward Maggie’s end of the bar, and as I passed Bill, Iheard him mutter, “Sorry, Kate.”

As I reached Maggie, she put her arm around my shoulder,asked if I was OK, and hearing me reply in the affirmative, told meto take another break.

As I stood outside in back of the saloon once again, fumblingwith my cigarettes and matches, I noticed Orion and Canis Majorstill overhead, and the waning moon rising over the Dragoon

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Mountains. For some reason, I thought of Horatio lying out infront of the bar. I wondered if he had snarled when Blackbeardpassed.

What happened next fills me with humiliation every time I re-call it, so I will attempt to tell it quickly and to the point—if there isone. Maggie was at the end of the bar replenishing Moon’s sarsapa-rilla. As I took my place behind the bar, Maggie approached me toask again how I was doing. I was still shaken but recovering. Thepaw on my throat had scared more than hurt. Maggie and Iswitched places, and as I moved to Moon’s end of the bar and shethe other, I noticed that Moon had been writing on a small piece ofpaper, not into his journal or books as usual.

Two or three male customers approached Moon. They wantedto thank him and shake his hand. Moon turned in his stool and ac-knowledged their appreciation with lackluster handshakes andaverted eyes.

This was enough of a distraction for Bill, who reached over tosnatch the piece of paper on which Moon had been writing.“Look, Katie, what we have here!” announced Bill, as he slappeddown the paper in front of me. Written in Moon’s wobbly hand-writing were the words “Will you marry me?”

“Looks like you got yourself a proposal, Katie!” said Bill in aloud voice heard by most of the bar. “Whoo-hoo! Can’t wait to seethe little Moonies you two will be a’hatchin’!”

The drunken customers nearby joined in Bill’s laughter. And,sorry to say, so did I.

As Moon turned to confront Bill and me, I said between nerv-ous giggles, “Moon . . . just because you helped me out here . . .doesn’t mean I’ve fallen for you!”

Moon took one long look at me, then at Bill, turned, gathered uphis journal and books, placed a quarter on the bar top, and in a fashionsimilar to Blackbeard’s exit, walked to the swinging doors, lookingstraight ahead. Unlike the biker, however, he used just one hand to pushaside one of the doors gently, holding his journal and books under theother arm. The door, unlike it did after the biker’s exit, swung little.

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I stood still for a moment. Bill had stopped laughing. So had theothers. “Moon Pocket, come back!” I yelled, as I made my wayaround the bar and then through the crowd. When I pushed openthe double doors, neither Moon nor Horatio was to be seen. I spentsome time looking up and down two side streets before giving upthe search.

I didn’t see Moon until late the next afternoon on my way tostart my shift at Kate’s. He was walking ahead of me on the woodensidewalk. He walked with a limp, and Horatio was not by his side. Iran to catch up to him, calling his name. When I did catch up, heturned, and I was stunned at what I saw. His face was misshapen byugly black and blue swellings. One red bloodshot eye glared at mefrom under one of the worst swellings.

“What happened, Moon?” my choked voice squeaked, as tearsbegan swelling in my eyes. “Where is Horatio?”

“The biker jumped me. He killed Hor,” Moon answered, turned,and walked away from me.

“I’m sorry, Moon. I’m so sorry!” I yelled after him, too shockedto fully comprehend the situation or to chase after him.

When I entered the saloon and had somewhat recovered fromthe horror of the sight of Moon and from learning Horatio’s fate, Ifound Maggie and began to report what I had just seen andlearned.

“I know,” she interrupted. “I know all about it. Moon and I willbe leaving town next week.”

“Moon and you?. . . Leaving town? . . .Together?” “Yes. The note was for me, Kate. I accepted.”Maggie explained to me that she and Moon had fallen in love

over the last few weeks. She knew his drawbacks and what the restof the town would think and say about their romance, so after shefound Moon in the morning, gotten him some medical attention,accepted his proposal, and discussed things with him, they had de-cided that she would quit her job. They would head to Tucson,where they would marry and stay with her brother until they cameup with further plans for their life together.

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That night after my shift, walking home under the waningmoon, I noticed the gleam of something white in the dust—a pieceof cardstock. Turning it over, I read the words, in Moon’s unmistak-able scrawl, WIFE WANTED.

Later, I dreamt that I saw Horatio running down one of theTombstone side streets. I ran to catch up with him, yelling, “Let’sget out of here, Hor!”

We ran until the street ended. We continued running—nowinto the cold, empty desert toward the sliver of moon on the hori-zon. Then, somehow, Horatio and I were one, running on four legs.And something on four legs was chasing me. I came to a large fallenand hollowed-out cholla cactus and was surprised that I couldsqueeze into it. From inside, I could see that I had been chased by acoyote, who began clawing the end of the cholla, which now ap-peared to be as big as a hollow log. I looked to the other end to seeanother coyote, clawing. I was trapped. Clawing and crunchingsounds grew louder and louder, and just before it seemed that clawsand teeth would reach me, I awoke crying softly, “Moon Pocket,come back!”

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FOLLOWINGDADDY'SFOOTSTEPSphotograph

Rebecca Tyler

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SKY HOOKballpoint pen

Russell (Catdaddy) Gillespie

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LADDERoil

Yolanda ver der Lelij

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VIC (VICTOR) POWERphotograph

Richard Byrd

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PIÑON JAYphotograph

Sara Nolan

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SUNSETTHUNDERSTORMphotograph

Beth Ann Krueger

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TORTOISE photograph

Jana Shephard Mardocco

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YELLOW TAXI IN LOWELLphotograph

Gloria Fraze

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CHIRICAHUAFOOTHILLSphotograph

Sara Nolan

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TLAQUEPAQUEoil

Debi Lee Hadley

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KINGFISHER REFLECTIONSphotograph

R. J. (Bob) Luce

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ARRIVALacrylic

Nischa Roman

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NOT MY TIME Cappy Love Hanson

Not your time, people have insisted,every time death has sent assassins.

When lifeguards dragged mefrom the deep end, where I’d thrashedin my just-learned Australian crawl, eyesclamped shut against the chlorine’sburning blur. Flailed to exhaustion, inhaledwater. Then, face down on hot concrete, bighands forcing fountains out my mouth, retch,gulp of air, light. Not your time, kid.

Years later, a distracted driver, looking right,turning left, screams of tires and twisting steel,shatter of glass, and then the paramedicsrumbling up. No one alive in that little pickup,but later, Not your time.

Sometimes the assassinsstruck within. Hong Kong flu hallucinations:dragons trying to gobble me alive. A medicationreaction mimicking cardiac arrhythmia,face down on a scuzzy movie theater carpet.

An ovary blowing up in midnight lovemaking,its ripped cyst pumping potential deathfrom my diaphragm to my pelvic floor. Surgeonin the recovery room, Not your time.

Food poisoning from bad bacon. Waterpoisoning from too much, from sluicingaway my salts. Telling the 911 operator I mightbe having a heart attack because I thoughtI might and knew they’d roll the ruralambulance. And the driver, Not your time.

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Sometimes the assassins were too bigor too numerous to fight. My fathersucking solace from a bourbon bottleand my body. Soul-squeezing, glass-ceilingprofessional prejudices. Love affairsthat ate my heart raw.

One day they’ll win. But for now,by dumb luck, medical miracle,the fortuitous alignment of starsand cards, playing the hand as dealt,playing it as it lies—by whatmy great-grandmother called sheermule cussedness—I’m still here, readyfor my next allotment of breaths, the nextattempt on my life, and gratefulevery single day.

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REMINISCE Trinity Higgs

Your resentment towards meWas like a strand of hairGrowing slowly and so graduallyThat you didn’t even realize itUntil it wrapped around your anklesAnd tripped you.

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Cappy Love HansonAN AMERICAN SOLITUDE

for Edward Hirsch

Having quit the cactus garden, where I’ve spent this early-summer afternoon chicken-wiring to keep cottontails and jacks from gnawing the prickly pear for their watery caches, I stride out the field-fenced gate and breast waves of creosote that press their natural suit against our cleared caliche island.

Like Wordsworth, I long to stroll the Lake District; like Beaudelaire, the Seine; like Eliot, the thronged bridges above the Thames. Here, monsoons are weeks away, the only water in sight a clutch of clouds across the valley, pleated like accordions, that spit dry lightning and wheeze thunder.

I whistle no particular tune to my boot beats down antique deer and javelina trails, to the airy rhythm of my lungs, and mean to concatenate from these another cadence that the breeze will take up and amplify into a poem about mesquite dangling wizened seed pods against the sunset, while scaled quail gain refuge in the lower branches.

But then the wind shifts, and like a tide cycled by the moon, the clouds heave to and sputter their electric death straight toward me.My impulse to keep my pace indefinitely diesas I turn back and tramp across the stony groundtoward home, with its endless rivers of dirty shirts and dishes.

EN EL NOMBRE DELPADRE

Beth Orozco

Julieta was stabbed to death by her ex-husband before sunrise.Since there was no police presence in the mountainous region ofcentral Honduras, it was up to the village men to take matters intotheir own hands. They were planning an execution. As theyhuddled together out near the front gate of Julieta’s childhoodhome, their broad mestizo shoulders appeared to hold the weight ofthe full moon as it slowly rose in the eastern sky above San Javier.The men were farmers who grew coffee and frijoles on the hillsides.They were husbands, fathers, and community leaders who attendedMass each Sunday. Not one of them owned a gun. Instead theywould use machetes and knives. The women stayed away as wascustomary. The act itself would never reach the ears of those whowere not present.

The men’s torches lit up the night sky, and the honey-coloredbottles they passed around shimmered in the firelight. I knew fromwitnessing similar gatherings that when the alcohol took effecttheir somber tone would turn to wailing and shouting. People didnot run from their crimes. Julieta’s ex-husband knew before he didthe unthinkable that he would pay with his own life. Was he closeenough to hear the men as their voices slowly rose with despair,anger, and fear? I wondered if he felt remorse and drank, too.Drank enough so that his fate would come like a hellish nightmarefrom which he’d never awaken.

In some ways it seemed death pardoned the ex-husband. It wasbetter than being ostracized or sent to prison, as neither is forgiv-ing. For a while, I stayed in a town where a rural jail stood betweenthe hill country and river community. The haunting moans thatarose day and night from behind the adobe walls were a constantreminder that perhaps there was hell on earth. At least in death,God had the final word.

I turned away from my thoughts and the men at the gate to leanagainst the entrance of the small house. The adobe felt cool. Thescent of packed earth was natural and fitting for such an occasion.It was hot in the main room—the kind of heat that crawled overme and made my skin itch. I preferred standing on the porch. The

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warm early evening breeze lightly brushed over my skin, sendinggoose bumps up and down my arms and across my chest.

Earlier in the day my neighbor, Gloria, told me about the mur-der. She explained that Julieta had left her husband months beforeto live with her aunt in San Pedro Sula. Julieta’s husband wasknown for drinking and beating his wife. Her family believed shewould be safe, tucked away with relatives in the city. She hadreturned to San Javier to collect her two children from her mother’shouse. Julieta had been stabbed to death on the front porch where Iwas now standing. I reached out and touched the newly white-washed wall. It was sticky. Someone had cleaned and painted theporch before people began arriving. Afraid I might cry, I aban-doned thoughts of looking for traces of blood in the dirt at my feet.

Death and stories of death were commonplace; from the youngwomen who died in childbirth to the starving dogs in the streets, itseemed pervasive. And I was powerless against it. When I firstarrived and witnessed something I could not tether to my ownexperiences, indignation would rise up from someplace insidemyself I believed moral. I would often cry or rant or blame anunjust God. A wise friend, who observed my outbursts, finally hadenough and told me the story of the ax.

A small group of Catholic priests went to Africa, bringing foodand the word of Christ. Once they were on the continent, they trav-eled three days on foot then two by boat before arriving at a villagethey believed was in need of their services. It was a peaceful village,and the people who lived there seemed to have everything theyneeded. After several days, the missionaries convened. All agreedthere was little they could do to help the natives, until a young mis-sionary mentioned a peculiar custom. It seemed before any workcould be done, someone would approach the chief and ask permis-sion to use the only ax in the village. The missionary confessed hehad been spying on the chief and found that the ax was onlygranted to people who had been kind and respectful. The othermissionaries scoffed at such a custom. How was anything to bebuilt in a village that had only one ax?

The missionaries decided to send word back to Spain with arequest for axes. When the axes arrived, the missionaries handedone out to each family. With their work done, the men set off ontheir journey back home, filled with pride and purpose. Years wentby and the remarkable story of the missionaries was discovered inthe archives by a young priest. He shared what he had found withthe bishop and asked permission to go to the village where the firstmissionaries of their order had traveled. Once on the continent, hetoo traveled three days on foot and two days by boat. When hearrived at the site of the peaceful African village, no one was there.An old man appeared from the jungle and stood in front of thepriest. When the priest asked what had happened to the peacefulpeople, the old man told him that the village had died long agofrom greed, jealousy, and disrespect.

This is not your ax, I reminded myself when I witnessed customsso different from my own that my emotions welled up inside me,threatening to spill out in hurtful ways. Julieta’s death and theimpending murder of her ex-husband would change me in inexpli-cable ways, like countless other experiences I had cataloged duringmy travels. I would not tame or rescue Honduras; rather, ittempered me.

From where I stood, I could see into the crowded salón. Thewhitewash was worn through in areas, exposing the adobe bricks.The dirt floor was packed from years of wear and tear. It had beenswept clean earlier in the day before Julieta’s body was put on dis-play. Not a thing hung on the walls, but there were plenty of holessuggesting that maybe Julieta’s mother had a box stored somewhereholding photos and trinkets she would take out much later torestore the house to its original purpose.

Julieta’s petite, lifeless form was shrouded in thin white muslinand lay stiff atop a woven grass mat supported by a crude woodenframe. I could make out her features and the yellow striped patternon the dress her aunt had chosen earlier in the day before preparingher niece’s body for the grave. Somewhere, I had heard people must

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be buried within twenty-four hours. Bodies in that part of theworld are not neatly packaged after someone dies. Decompositionposes a health threat. Fluids dripped from Julieta’s stab wounds andwere absorbed by the dirt floor in her mother’s living room. Iwatched through the eyes of an ancient biology that understoodwhat I was viewing was natural. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But thesterile world I had come from had not prepared me for this truth. Ithought of the juice stains and muddy footprints my sisters and Ileft behind on my mother’s carpet when we lived at home—whenwe were still girls. This was something entirely different.

Behind Julieta, a framed close-up photograph of her as a girl saton a lace-covered table illuminated by white taper candles. In thephoto, her dark braid came over her left shoulder and rested justabove her heart. The white collar of her shirt suggested she waswearing the national school uniform when the picture was taken.Firelight danced through the flowers, palm fronds, and grassesstuffed in enormous clay pots that rested on the ground next to thetable. A thick musky residue of smoldering incense hung in the air.

Grieving women on wooden benches lined the walls and theinterior of the room. Their shoulders pressed together in solidarity.Those closest to Julieta reached out and stroked her. Julieta’smother was bent over her daughter’s body—her right hand buriedunder the muslin near Julieta’s shoulder. With her eyes closed, sherocked to the rhythm of prayers. Her tears spotted the muslin likedew.

The mourners were led in prayer by a weathered old womanwho held an enormous cracked, leather-bound prayer book close toher chest. Her withered arms quivered in response to its weight. Shewore a floral print dress that perhaps fit her when she was younger,but she had shrunk to the size of a child and reminded me of a littlegirl playing dress-up. She recited a line, and the women repeatedher words. Their soft murmurs rippled through me in cadence withmy own breathing.

I had known nothing of the prayer book the year before whenthe same old woman led prayers for a young mother who died from

cancer. Having at least a small understanding of what I was witness-ing comforted me. The prayer book had been left centuries beforeby the Spaniards. At the time, it was entrusted to a doña, amatriarch, in the village. The old woman leading the prayers didnot open the book. She had never learned to read. Instead, the bookand prayers, recited for years by her mother, had been passed downfor generations. This was her legacy and an honor. Her Spanish wasinfused with an Indian dialect no longer spoken in the village. TheIndians of long ago had left their mark on the Spanish priests’prayers. No one seemed to question the strange words theychanted.

I looked around for a place to sit. A little girl lay sprawled outon a bench right inside the door, and I reached in to tickle her feet.She smiled and moved to curl up on her mother’s lap. Bendingdown to grab my backpack, I was startled by a hand on my shoul-der, but instantly calmed by the voice that followed. “Hi, Beth, sorryI’m late.”

It was Sister Katherine, a friend of mine who lived in San Javier.She had been out of town and received news of Julieta’s death ear-lier in the day. I hugged her, and we squeezed in next to the littlegirl and her mother where the heat enveloped us. Katherine let outa deep sigh and patted my hand before producing a rosary from herskirt pocket.

Minutes passed before the old woman set the book on a smalltable next to Julieta’s body, leaving one hand on the cover. Tappingit, she thanked God for the prayers and the women for bringingfood. She stepped forward and motioned for all of us to follow herout behind the house to the kitchen.

Sister Katherine took my hand, and we walked over to Julieta’smother. The sight of Katherine sent the older woman into hysterics,and she collapsed in her friend’s arms. Katherine led the grievingmother to a bench. My Spanish often drained from me like waterthrough fingers when my emotions surfaced. I wondered what Juli-eta’s mother thought of the güera—the white girl who did notspeak. I was embarrassed for not having the words to express my

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condolences and turned my attention to Julieta’s slight frame. Shewas like an exotic flower pinned under glass, beckoning me toexamine her. I was drawn to the unsettling stillness. Her hair hadbeen neatly combed and fanned out around her head like a darkhalo. From a distance, the muslin hid her wounds. Up close, herthin arms were bruised. Her ex-husband had not come out of thedark wielding a knife; instead, there had been a struggle. Perhaps hehad begged Julieta to take him back, or maybe he had forced him-self on her and she had pushed him away. In any case, anger andviolence had won.

I looked at Katherine. “I need to get some air,” I said.Outside, the women mingled while motioning their husbands

to come in for something to eat. Eventually, the women gave up onthe men, who continued to pass bottles of liquor, and insteadfocused their attention on cooking and watching after the children.The scene was similar to funerals I had attended back home in Wis-consin, but the reality was something entirely different. The menwere drunk beyond reason, while the execution of the guilty partyloomed. Like Julieta’s violent death, the duty the men were obligedto carry out would change the fabric of the community in unpre-dictable ways. Two young children would grow up knowing theirparents through stories and photographs. An eye for an eye is riskybusiness, but I could not stop the inevitable, nor did I have thedesire. My ideals were bound to a culture thousands of miles away.

While I was still on the front porch, a young girl handed me aplate of food.

“Buen provecho,” she whispered before skipping off—her gigglestrailing behind her. I smiled, realizing I was still a stranger.

Even after I had worked alongside the women in health educa-tion for nearly a year, they still didn’t know what to do with me. Iam nearly six feet tall with green eyes and light hair—a curiosity tobe studied among the short, stout women. But it was more thanthat. I was almost thirty, still single and, unlike many of the tradi-tionally clad Catholic nuns I worked with, a laywoman who worejeans and hiking boots. The women struggled to create a place for

me. They were gracious and helpful, but as the young girl whoserved me food reminded me, I was an oddity, an outsider.

The frijoles smelled earthy and familiar. I gathered up my back-pack and followed a footpath out behind the house in search ofsomeplace quiet where I could take in the night. A lush meadow ledto a silhouette of mountains that jutted out of the earth far up intothe sky. I sopped up the juices on my plate with the remainder of atortilla and left the empty plate teetering on a fence post beforewalking out past a small cow pasture into the field until the soundof mourning women faded.

I had given up most creature comforts shortly after I arrived inHonduras, but the habit of looking for them remained. I searchedfigures in the darkness for a log or tree stump to sit on. Instead, Ispotted a boulder that must have been brought to its resting place,as it was the only one in the meadow. The moon was full andimpregnated with the wisdom our natural world craves. I was notalone. The farther I walked from the house, the closer I was toeverything wild. The ruckus of birds and the rustle of ground ani-mals in the tall grass heightened my senses. I belonged among thethings that once terrified me. Resting my back against the boulder, Ilifted my skirt past mid-thigh and set my legs down in the cool,damp grass.

I had never met Julieta, but I grieved for her. She was part of anintricate web so tightly woven that her absence had already begunto erode the peacefulness and wellbeing of San Javier. The shouting,like the howling of wolves, coming from the men who continued todrink, was proof of that.

These mountain villages were small and isolated. People reliedon each other. They also relied on the stories of their ancestors andtheir belief in God to make sense of the world. Those who had suf-fered such a heinous end as Julieta were elevated to near saintlystatus. Her life was not in vain. There would be lessons shared inher name.

The first day I arrived in San Javier, the church bells were ring-ing at San Ignacio, a tiny Catholic Church near the crossroads at the

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edge of town. I wondered why bells would toll in the middle of theafternoon. That evening, I attended the service for the youngwoman who had died of cancer. The bells had been for her. Ilistened closely, and a faint sound rode on the breeze—the bellstolling once again at San Ignacio—this time for Julieta.

The air cooled, and the moon filled the sky with light. I pulledmy knees close to my chest, and from my backpack, I dug out therosary that Sister Katherine had given me. I wrapped the silverbeads around my wrist and pinched the crucifix between myfingers. I sent my prayers for Julieta upward beyond the stars. En elnombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo. Amén.

ORIGAMI TEARS Trinity Higgs

If my tears turned into origami cranes,I would cry one thousand& then wish to never know you.

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PRELUDE TO ASTORM

Beth Ann Krueger

White mares’ tailsPaint an azure skyArms rise to the beautySharing with oneWho walks in clouds

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CREATIVE WRITINGCELEBRATION WINNERS

Presented in this section

are the winning entries of the

Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration,

2014, in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.

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First Place, Poetry CompetitionCochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2014

We pass words with our palms faceddown. So listeners cannot seethat the deck is worn. As ifthe string of noises is allthat is required. And the breath in the wordsjust boring detail.

We flourish words in a fanthat aligns all the corners but showsno face cards. Our wagers hideour uncertainty and bluff playswe have yet to realize.

Just more losses thrown into the pot. Letting itrot. Without sight or breath. Orpalms touching.

WORDS THESE DAYS Lars Samson

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COMMUNITYSERVICE

Bonnelyn Thwaits

First Place, Fiction CompetitionCochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2014

The final class of heavyweight crossbred hogs floats out into thesmall outdoor grassy arena. The daylight has faded to the earlyevening glow that movie directors call the magic hour. Auburn,black, and white hides gleam with oil. A cloud of gnats is stirred upby their hooves. Soon a flickering halo of tiny bugs surrounds theanimals and tickles our eyelashes. Excited pigs cavort in the coolSeptember air. In the porcine world, playtime means a hockeygame—a fight is always breaking out. Burly ring stewards with dirtyknees make sense of the chaos with solid boards to separatebrawlers. A fearless hundred-pound youth is pulled aside by anattendant as he attempts to get between a pair of two-hundred-and-seventy-pound animals with poor eyesight and sharp teeth.The boy's freckled face shines with sweat after the effort to protecthis gilt. As soon as the board is introduced between the squealingpigs, they drop the dispute. Once they cannot see or smell eachother, the fight is forgotten. The white barrow now sports fresh redstreaks on his side as he roots off through the freshly mown grassand tries to lie down, exhausted from the skirmish. The boy's blackand white gilt races off to start yet another scuffle. Her grunts of“wheh, wheh” warn the next victim she is coming. A white hograces across the grass toward a group of pigs meeting and greeting.His trajectory is as straight as a cue ball. The group of pigs burstsapart like a racked set of billiard balls. A little girl with green-ribboned pigtails is knocked over by her copper gilt and comes upwith brown splotches on her crisp white shirt. The pungent manureis ever present, and none of us can smell it anymore.

We can smell the glorious greasy food. The swine showcommences at five p.m. on the first Thursday of the CochiseCounty Fair. By the time the last championship class starts, theaudience is starving. The exhibitors sniff the air, and the exhibitsthemselves trail ropes of shining saliva. The oil from the concessionstands is still new, and the perfume of corn dogs, funnel cakes, and

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fry bread surrounds us and whispers to our noses, blowing softkisses to our lips. My mouth waters.

The statuesque judge takes command of the class and reducesthe field down to the first place animal. The parents, grandparents,and community all murmur while seated on bleachers, sittingcross-legged on the grass outside the ring, or standing behind thefence. Following each class, the audience discusses and dissects thejudge's choice. Everyone will be talking about it for weeks, evenyears. Doubts surface about a woman's capabilities in such matters.Her Irish gift of gab tells us her red hair is not from a bottle.

Children under eight are too young to exhibit animals, so theyare relegated to Frisbee, football, and tag, all played at once on thegrass behind the bleachers. Their shouts and laughter are muffledbeneath the crackling loudspeakers. Little nippy Jack Russell terri-ers, lumbering gentle-eyed Labradors, or crafty black and whiteborder collies are included in the games and are able players. Theyalso act as a quick clean-up crew for dropped or vomited food, acommon problem for the under-eight crowd after enjoying thatsickening pink candied corn.

The crowd knows why I'm here. I am observing the show whileleaning on a cottonwood tree next to the show arena. Sporting apair of pig-feces-colored coveralls, I hold a long wooden broomhandle fitted with a cup holder. My community service is about tobegin. I am the ethics police. After the class, I will collect urine fromthe champions for drug testing. I am flanked by my team of veteri-nary students. These future professionals are so enthusiastic abouttheir calling that they volunteered to collect pig pee. Using bigwords and gloves makes it a professional event.

Every year, drug testing at the tiny county fair is the hardestthing I will do. This year is proving to be no exception. The cham-pion of champions will stand for thirty minutes worth of pictureswith the proud boy, the beaming family, the smiling judge, and thenewspaper. To keep the pig standing, he will be fed out of a dish theentire time. There is a string attached to the dish so it can be towedaround into this or that position. I know that I and my urine

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sampler will not be a welcome intrusion. I restrain myself and mytwo rabid students as his sparkling stream trickles in betweenflashes onto the piece of AstroTurf set up for the photographer. Themost difficult aspect of swine urine collection is excruciating bore-dom. It can take hours. I always memorize jokes for the kids andcrew, as the process can stretch long into the night.

The boy is shaking hands with the judge when the hog discov-ers a puddle where water has drained from the wash rack justbehind the photographer’s backdrop. Worn out from his hour offame, the pig drops to his white knees into the black mud. The fam-ily and boy rush to his side, trying to stop the inevitable crash ofthe massive white hams wavering above the slop. With a deep sigh,he falls over to his side with a loud slap, all four legs stretched outstraight. Black droplets splatter his human entourage. The hogwhispers a few grunts of contentment and then settles into deeprhythmic breathing. Postprandial nappy time has arrived. Despitegentle nudging and offers of food or water, the white mountain ofpork does not move. The champion needs his beauty rest. I settleonto a bale of hay and wait. There will be no cheating on my watch.

"Johnny! Where's Johnny?" I hear yelling behind the bleachers."I told you to watch your brother, Goddamit. Where is he?" Theshouts dissolve into a scream.

Strength of SceneMy scene is rich in all five senses. Something is going to happen;

Johnny is missing. It is astonishing how few readers are familiarwith rural life. How did the kids raise the pigs? You can't just carry apail out into a pen; they will eat you if you fall. When parents go tothe fair, they are focused on the show. Child predators are not. Allthose unattended children are available for the taking. In the midstof an idyllic setting, the show management is aware that the com-petitors will cheat; ironically they have ignored that there are worsethings to fear.

Were you surprised?

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First Place, Nonfiction CompetitionCochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2014

Kathryn’s hands fluttered about, patting one child gently on theback, holding a board book for another. She paused to lift a childup onto the church pew and then dug into the diaper bag for Chee-rios. She held a finger to her lips to quiet her oldest, who hadgotten a bit carried away playing with a toy car, then deftly grabbedher second youngest as she bolted for the aisle. Even after herbrood had calmed somewhat, momentarily content to suck on fruitsnacks and crayons, her hands rubbed against each other as thoughshe couldn’t bear to leave them empty. Delicate hands that easilyswitched from wiping tears to sketching Teddy bears, from whisper-ing secrets in ears to tickling tummies, seemed far too small tomanage four children aged one through seven alone. Her capablehands never stopped moving.

An elegant watch, a stylish bracelet, an expensive wedding ring,and short but carefully shaped and painted nails that matched herlipstick and coordinated with her dress adorned these hardworking,capable hands. Close examination revealed painful chapping fromdaily four a.m. exposure to harsh cleaning chemicals and roughscrub brushes while her children and sister slept. Distance hid thereddened fingers and palms, the split skin at the joints.

The service ended, and Kathryn’s hands guided her older chil-dren to their various classes and then returned to the pew to gatheran hour’s worth of debris into the diaper bag and collect the baby’scar seat. She balanced the baby in one arm and her supplies in theother as she sidled into her own class, late. With a sigh, she sankinto the nearest chair and lowered her load. Exhausted, somehowshe managed a smile for her neighbor, who offered to take the baby.Empty once more, her hands fidgeted, digging under nails for invis-ible dirt, plucking lint off her skirt, and massaging sore knuckles.Gradually her movements slowed and became smaller as her fingersspun her wedding ring around and around. Eventually her handsstilled, clutching each other in her lap until even that tension ebbed,and they lay trembling, right cradled within left, bereft.

KOREA Deseret F. Harris

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BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION

Steve Bovée continues to reside in Cochise County, despite thepleas of the local residents.

Richard Byrd is sixty-six years old and has done photography sincehe was eight. He still has his original camera, a Kodak BrownieHawkeye. He had everything from Instamatics to Hasselblads butnow finds that capturing a meaningful moment, whether in a por-trait or a landscape, is more important than high resolution with afull range of tones. He now shoots with one digital camera with onelens.

Leslie Clark worked as English faculty at Cochise College for sev-eral years. She retired in May 2013 after forty-one years of teachingEnglish and is enjoying her reading, writing, and traveling time.Her poetry and short fiction have been widely published, and herpoetry chapbook, Cardiac Alert, was published by Finishing LinePress. Leslie is editor/publisher of an online poetry journal, Voiceson the Wind.

Lynda Coole humanely shoots a lot of musicians in the CochiseCounty area.

Lavendra Copen grew up on the cattle -ranching, alfalfa- growingdirt roads of Cochise County. After college in New Mexico, her lifetook an abrupt turn that landed her in the maelstrom of New YorkCity. The Big Apple cost her a husband but blessed her with adaughter and two granddaughters. Now she lives and works —andhopes to stay— in the more peaceful Huachuca Mountain foothills.

Lynn Dottle grew up in The Valley of the Sun, a.k.a. Phoenix, Ari-zona. She spent twenty-one years as a full-time Army wife andmother, and worked in the business world. With a muse for allthings creative, she keeps her hands busy taking classes at CochiseCollege, and dabbling in clay, watercolor painting, andphotography, along with a variety of other creative endeavors. Lynn

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lives in Sierra Vista and loves family, friends, and adventures.

Georgia Dust thrives in the high-desert, wild-west town of Tomb-stone, Arizona, where, in her private theater, she produces anddirects plays of her own creation. Her literary criticism and politicaltexts reflect an abiding empathy for the poor. Happiness, for her, isto love and be loved. She asks no one to walk in front of her, for shemay not follow. She asks no one to walk behind, for she may notlead.

Michael Erickson’s grandfather passed on to him his love for writ-ing and storytelling. His parents encouraged him in his passion formusic and history. He and his family are long-time residents ofHereford, Arizona. You can most likely find him in his studio writ-ing and recording his stories and songs. He claims, “Most of mystories are true.”

Judy Fitzsimmons’ ceramic work demonstrates her many years ofworking in the field. She started attending art and ceramics classesin 1996 at Cochise College. She has continued to love and learn thecraft of ceramics by attending advanced ceramics studies at CochiseCollege and numerous visiting-artist ceramics workshops inArizona and at Santa Fe Clay in New Mexico.

Karri Fox, originally from Tooele, Utah, has lived and worked inthe Sierra Vista area for twelve years. She graduated from CochiseCollege with an AA in mathematics and from U of A South with adual-major BS in mathematics and computer science. Her hobbiesinclude photography, drawing, and playing the piano.

Gloria Fraze grew up in the San Francisco Bay area surrounded bynature, ocean, and hills. She has always loved art and photography,but it wasn’t until retiring to Arizona in 2005 that she had theopportunity to explore its incredible desert geology. Her photogra-phy reflects her love of both areas. She works hard to capture every

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image as a reflection of what her mind sees at the moment theshutter opens and closes.

Russell (Catdaddy) Gillespie graduated with a BFA from ArizonaState University in 1981. Over the years, he has had several group,two-man, and solo exhibits throughout Arizona and New Mexico.He has taught air brush at Eastern Arizona College and is currentlyshowing his work at Hoppin’ Grapes in Sierra Vista as well as atMagnetic Threads and Heather Green Studio and Gallery in Bisbee,Arizona.

Michael Gregory’s books and chapbooks include Hunger Weather1959-1975; re: Play; and, most recently, Mr America Drives His Car,Selected Poems, published last year by Post-Soviet Depression Press.Since 1971, he has lived off-grid ten miles from the US-Mexico bor-der in the high-desert grassland of southeast Arizona. “The BlessedSuso” is from his Pound Laundry (forthcoming from PSDP), abook-length poem based on the life and work of Ezra Pound.

Debi Lee Hadley was born in Taylor, Arizona. Her love for the out-doors inspires her art. She has experimented with clay, paint,varnish, and more unconventional materials, producing imagina-tive scenes with raised and carved features, resulting in tactile,three-dimensional surfaces. Debi has expanded this technique toheadboards, doors, and wall art. She is currently a member of theHuachuca Art Association and has art featured in FifthwindsGallery, Quarles Gallery, and Sparks Furniture.

Cappy Love Hanson has been shaped by three distinct lives: on theCalifornia beaches, in the New Mexico mountains, and in the Ari-zona high-desert grasslands. Her work has appeared in Writer’sDigest, The Santa Fe New Mexican, Blue Mesa Review, New Millen-nium Writings, CutThroat, and other publications. She has justpublished a memoir, Love Life, with Parrots.

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Deseret F. Harris earned a bachelor’s degree in English at the Uni-versity of Arizona. She began writing poetry at age five and lovesexpressing her thoughts and emotions through language as well asmusic and dance. She and her husband of twenty-one years, David,have two children, Morgan and Liam, and a dog named Gigi.

John Hays was born in Texas and has degrees from Northern Ari-zona University and Brown in geology and planetary science. Hestumbled into photography after the death of his parents onThanksgiving several years ago. He started with skies (sunrises andsunsets) and photographed his children's cross-country and trackteams. He continues to shoot the skies of Arizona and photographpeople.

Trinity Higgs is nothing but a bug trapped in amber, as are we all.

Beth Ann Krueger has been writing for as long as she can recall.Her works include essays, short-short stories, and nonfiction arti-cles. Poetry is a new venture for her, and she credits this to a veryinspiring person in her life. Her photos have been in severalArizona and Montana galleries, and many have also been published.Beth Ann has a wilderness first-responder certification and enjoyshiking, reading, camping, and birding.

Sharon Lee was born in the shadows of NYC’s skyline and was edu-cated at Pratt Institute and Penn State University, where her love ofart, nature, painting, and photography emerged. With cameraalways in hand, Sharon captures landscapes and people with theintent of telling a story. Several years ago, she moved to Bisbee, Ari-zona. She is an active member of her community, participating inlocal art shows while supporting community artists of alldisciplines.

Marcela Camarena Lubian is a self-taught acrylic painter. Herwildlife, floral, and landscape paintings present a rich collection of

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vivid Mexican colors. Her connection to her heritage inspires her torepresent her passion for it on canvas.

R.J. (Bob) Luce was a wildlife biologist in Wyoming before retiringto Arizona. He lives near the San Pedro River and photographs theriver and its environs in all seasons. Bob has provided photos forbooks, outdoor magazines, and wildlife field guides. He has writtena photo-essay book: River of Life, Four Seasons along Arizona’s RioSan Pedro.

Jana Shepard Mardocco’s first experience with photography camein the form of a film-development class taken by mistake, but afterworking in the darkroom and developing film, she was hooked.This accidental class opened a door into a new world, giving her thechance to capture what she sees. She has since enrolled in morephotography classes and hopes to further her love for the art andmake a career of it.

Larry Milam has enjoyed living in Old Bisbee since 2000. He is afreelance illustrator and creates artwork for both national and localclients. Hiking, photography, and printmaking are a few things hedoes for the fun of it.

Sara Nolan is an associate instructor for Pima, Eastern Arizona,and Cochise colleges. She has taught computer science, digital pho-tography, and nursing courses. She currently teaches at CochiseCollege, Willcox Center, as a CNA instructor. Sara has been a pho-tographer for over forty years. Active in the Willcox Art Societyuntil recently, she has received several awards for her nature pho-tography. Photographs in this issue are from a one-day drive toChiricahua National Monument.

Ruby Odell has been writing poetry since the late 1980s. In 1991,she joined a poetry circle headed by Peter Levitt in Los Angeles. Shewas selected three times to attend Squaw Valley workshops led by

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Galway Kinnell, Sharon Olds, and Lucille Clifton. She has lived inBisbee for three and a half years with gratitude for the love andenergy of the many artists, poets, and musicians who share their artwith such commitment.

Beth Orozco holds an MFA in creative writing from Southern NewHampshire University. She teaches creative writing at Cochise Col-lege and UA South. Beth splits her time between Sierra Vista andAnimas, New Mexico.

Angie Rivas was born and raised in Douglas, Arizona, in CochiseCounty, land of breathtaking sunsets and moonrises. After graduat-ing from Douglas High School, she attended Cochise College,where she took many photography classes. Angie captures thebeauty of chollas, yuccas, and prickly pear cacti. She has a passionfor the night-blooming cereus (pictured), a unique cactus whoseflower blooms only at night, and one night only. Angie lives inSierra Vista.

Lindsay Janet Roberts earned a BFA from Columbus College of Artand Design in 1980 and an MEd from the University of Arizona in2009. She teaches art at Bisbee High School. She lives and breathesart. She also has a huge passion for recycling, so much of her workis made from recycled materials.

Daniel N. Rollins has had no formal education in photography orart; however, his photographs and artworks have received numer-ous local awards. He began with film cameras early on and thenswitched to digital imagery several years ago. Now, he considershimself one of the emerging unknowns who are creating digitalworks of fine art. His unique eye recognizes the unordinary, and hisphotography catches the extraordinary.

Nischa Roman is a recently retired energy healer and counselor liv-ing in Bisbee. She is excited to have more time for creating abstract

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paintings, unusual collages, and new books. Designing wild alter-ations to old books, sardine cans, chairs, and lawn flamingos helpschannel her inner child's rowdiness constructively. Her art has beenshown in Oregon, California, Nevada, and Arizona.

Lars Samson is a retired technical writer and former newspaperreporter and editor. As a journalist, he was a reporter/photographerfor the Beloit Daily Call, editor-in-chief of the Eastern ArizonaCourier, and a reporter for the Phoenix Gazette and CityLife maga-zine. Lars resides on twelve acres near Whetstone, Arizona, withtwo dogs and whatever wildlife happens onto the ranch. He hasbachelor degrees in journalism and U.S. government from the Uni-versity of Arizona.

James Schrimpf is a Nogales photographer who has been publishedin Arizona Highways and was a cover photographer for DiscoverSouthern Arizona. His photographs were featured during the annualChicago Artist's Month. His Icons and Totems series was displayedin a one-man show in Santa Cruz County. His photos werepublished by Nikon Camera Corporation. James was a high-schoolphotography teacher for twenty years.

Bonnelyn Thwaits is a rural veterinarian for all creatures, large andsmall. She has lived with her family at their ranch in Benson, Ari-zona, since 1998. Bonnelyn is grateful for the tremendous supportof her mentors, teachers, and long-suffering husband. She is blessedbe living a charmed and joyful life in a caring, sometimes crazycommunity.

Rebecca Tyler is an artist with a heart for natural-light photo-graphy. She has the ability to see beauty in everything she observesand everyone she meets. From landscapes to the details of the dayto special moments shared between loved ones—through eachexperience captured—her images share unique stories of life.

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Yolanda van der Lelij was raised in the Netherlands. She came tothe USA in 1994 with her family to farm in the Willcox area. Shedeveloped an interest in painting four years ago and took courses atCochise College in Willcox. She has attended workshops fromClement Scott and Glenn Renell. She likes to paint in oils with afocus on objects and still lifes. This year she plans to do more plein-air.

Louise Walden was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in 1952. Sheand her husband, Jim, moved to Willcox, Arizona, in 1990. In 2010,she attended a one-day watercolor workshop and started potteryclasses at the Bucket List Studio in Willcox. In spring of 2011,Louise signed up for Painting for Personal Pleasure classes atCochise College, taught by Karina Stanger. Louise still paints regu-larly and takes workshops when she can.

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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, all of which must be submitted digitally.

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

Writers and artists are welcome to resubmit material that was not previously accepted for publication in Mirage. However, they should also consider submitting fresh works that represent their most 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 con-tent 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, re-size, 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:

All submissions must include a cover sheet 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 fewer, written in the third person

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

The Mirage staff acknowledges receipt of literary and artistic works by email. If you do not receive an email acknowledgementwithin a week of submitting your work, it is possible that your submission was not received, and we suggest that you contact Cochise College by phone for verification at 520-515-0500.

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 4,000-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. All images need to be at a resolution of at least 300 dots per inch (DPI) and at 100% of their original size. Photos should be at least 6 x 9 inches. A minimum resolution of 1800 x 2700 pixels in JPEG format is best. If, for example, a photo is only 480 x 640 pixels, it is too small for the magazine. Furthermore, any attempt to resize or resample may cause problems because print resolution will be determined by how the photo is ultimately sized 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: mirage@cochise.edu