Mirage 2014 by Cochise College

2 01 4

L ITERA RY & A RTS MAGA Z INE 2 0 14

LITERARY & ARTS M A G A Z I N E Cochise College Cochise & Santa Cruz Counties, Arizona Editor Cappy Love Hanson College Advisors Ron Hyde Jeff Sturges Jay Treiber Rick Whipple

Mirage 2014

Front and Back Cover Art Art: “Untitled #1” by John Charley Design: Rick Whipple About Mirage

Mirage Literary and Arts Magazine is designed and produced by students of Cochise College and/or volunteers from the community, with help from faculty advisors. Those interested in participating in the production of Mirage should contact Cochise College at 520515-0500. Visit us at www.cochise.edu/mirage. Hard copies of Mirage can be obtained at both the Douglas and Sierra Vista campus libraries. Acknowledgements The Mirage staff would like to thank the following people for their help in producing the magazine: the staff of the Copper Queen library, Bisbee; and Dennis Gordon, Ceci Lewis, Elizabeth Lopez, Diane Nadeau, Nischa Roman, George Self, and Curt Smith, proofreaders. Creative Writing Celebration Winners Mirage publishes the first-place winners of the previous year’s Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration competitions in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, if available. The Celebration takes place in late March/early April and is produced by Cochise College, the University of Arizona South, and the City of Sierra Vista. Visit the Creative Writing Celebration webpage at www.cochise.edu/cwc. The following are the winners of the 2013 competitions: Poetry – Deseret Harris: “Tantun Cuzamil” Fiction – Shelby Gonzales: “Mela” Nonfiction – Elizabeth Haling: “Memories of Grandma”

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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 showcasing 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 typeface designed by Robert Slimbach. Minion is inspired by classical, oldstyle 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. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the author or artist, except for limited scholarly or reference purposes, to include citation of date, page, and source with full acknowledgement of title, author, and edition. Printed in the United States of America. © Cochise College 2014

Mirage 2014 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Literature Fragile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1 Carmen Megeath Learning To Swim . . . . . . . . . . . . .2 T. D. Barr

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Art In the Dark, I Shine . . . . . . . . . . . .4 Emmanuel Fernando Serrano Refugio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5 Marcela C. Lubian San Pedro Valley Cloudburst .6 R. J. Luce Happiness is Expensive . . . . . . . .7 Emmanuel Fernando Serrano Blowing in the Wind . . . . . . . . . .8 Harry C. Hill Pinos Altos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9 David Altamirano Peacock . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 Lindsay Janet Roberts Shadow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 Lynda Coole Angle of Attack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12 Xymyl Kindred Spirits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 Rick Rhodehamel Dead Battery Hike . . . . . . . . . . . .14 Madeleine Charron Black and White Butterfly . . .15 Katherine La Motte Up the Stairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Jeff Henley La Ofrenda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17 Marcela C. Lubian

Pit Fire Tower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 Karen Corey Lone Cactus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 Kristie Sullivan Literature On Silence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 Pamela Blunt Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 Leslie Clark Jasmine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 Ruby Odell You Donated Your Body to Science . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26 Pamela Blunt Art Untitled #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 John Charley Cowboy Church, Cowboy Sky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Mark Hanna The Beasts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 David Altamirano Isolated Storm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31 Lee Hopper Blue Autumn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32 Katherine La Motte Twister Category 5 . . . . . . . . . . .33 Moni Norng Long Beak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 Jennifer Gomez Some Other Time . . . . . . . . . . . .35 James Schrimpf

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Literature Medio de Cambio . . . . . . . . . . . .36 Julia Jones Sonoran Border, Early October . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38 Carmen Megeath Organic Lust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 Sergio Lalli Poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Promises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43 Lavendra Copen The Calendar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46 Leslie Clark Cooking in the Kitchens of Gaza and Jerusalem . . . . . . . . . .47 Pamela Blunt Living in the U.S.A. . . . . . . . . . .48 Jalia Wilson Literature - Creative Writing Celebration Winners Tantun Cuzamil . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51 Deseret Harris Mela . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 Shelby Gonzales Memories of Grandma . . . . . .59 Elizabeth Haling Biographical Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .63 Submission Guidelines

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Mirage 2014 FRAGILE

Fragile on the earth And this is what it means The yellow winds of drought The fires

Vulture in the sky High above the mountains Slow your circling glide You watch Lone tree on the ridgeline Lost in this burning world Hold on to the green heart Hold on Secret sounds of fear The winds of summer howl Strong hands that I love Help me

Carmen Megeath

Mirage 2014 LEARNING TO SWIM

T. D. Barr

My father the world’s tallest man (when I was a child) taught me to swim not like a fish but to swim like a child learning to swim. My father the world’s tallest man (when I was a child) taught me to swim like this: me, an adolescent statue on the dock, fishing afraid to move, afraid to speak. “Don’t scare the fish,” the words of my father the world’s smartest fisherman (when I was a child). A baited hook waited patiently surrounded by muddy waters. The fish, invisible to the eyes of a child, sent taunting bubbles to the surface and danced around the worm-offering of a child. “The fish ain’t hungry.” I tossed the excuse to

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My father the world’s greatest fisherman (when I was a child). “I’ll check your bait. Something must be wrong. Try minnows, not worms. I’ve the bucket up here.” Reasons and help rolled down the bank to me the child, fishing not catching. My father with the world’s largest feet (when I was a child) tripped and twisted into the river a fall caused by the feet of a child. My father the world’s wettest man (when I was a child) came out of the water angry like a father can be angry. He scooped me up. I dropped my pole and wished that I were a fish because I knew My father the world’s greatest teacher (when I was a child) was going to teach me how to swim.

Mirage 2014 IN THE DARK, I SHINE photograph

Emmanuel Fernando Serrano

Mirage 2014 REFUGIO (SANCTUARY) acrylic

Marcela C. Lubian

Mirage 2014 SAN PEDRO VALLEY CLOUDBURST photograph

R. J. Luce

Mirage 2014 HAPPINESS IS EXPENSIVE photograph

Emmanuel Fernando Serrano

Mirage 2014 BLOWING IN THE WIND photograph

Harry C. Hill

Mirage 2014 PINOS ALTOS acrylic

David Altamirano

Mirage 2014 PEACOCK metalwork

Lindsay Janet Roberts

Mirage 2014 SHADOW photograph

Lynda Coole

Mirage 2014 ANGLE OF ATTACK oil

Xymyl

Mirage 2014 KINDRED SPIRITS acrylic

Rick Rhodehamel

Mirage 2014 DEAD BATTERY HIKE photograph

Madeleine Charron

Mirage 2014 BLACK AND WHITE BUTTERFLY photograph

Katherine La Motte

Mirage 2014 UP THE STAIRS oil

Jeff Henley

Mirage 2014 LA OFRENDA (THE OFFERING) acrylic

Marcela C. Lubian

Mirage 2014 PIT FIRE TOWER photograph

Karen Corey

Mirage 2014 LONE CACTUS photograph

Kristie Sullivan

Mirage 2014 ON SILENCE

Pamela Blunt

It is late on this quiet night. I pick up The Sun magazine and find a poem to read. It is about God and Creation and time. But the incessant tick of the battery-powered clock on the mantle fills the room, so I rise, disembowel the clock, and sit again to focus on the poem about God and Creation and time. But the sound of random clicks overwhelms my awareness: the sonar pest repeller. So I unplug the one whose sound I follow into the kitchen. And as I walk back to finally settle down with the poem, a poem that is full of images of the waxing and waning of sand into limestone into sand, I hear another rhythmic ticking. And for a moment I can’t find the source of its persistent tempo. I begin, also, to understand why mice and insects must despise the bright, intermittent, electric snaps that are designed to thwart their attraction to the easy life in my house. I find this other crackling device: the timer on a hanging lamp. It hums its muffled click, a persistent countdown to “on,” followed by a constant thrumming to “off,” in rotating cycles of light and dark. Meant to ward off thieves— a ruse of light to say that someone is home

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when someone is not. And so I roam the house, unplugging, disabling, disempowering sound after sound. Not caring what time I will NOT know it to be. Not caring who or what might now scurry across the floor. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face it, the delicate spiders I find in every corner must be deaf anyway or they would have frantically scurried away long ago at the first clicks and snaps. Layers of unnecessary noise finally peeled away leave the wind chimes singing a song of moderate breezes, a distant owl, a branch scratching the windowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s itch. Now even the very occasional car whizzing past outside is rendered more welcome and is actually heard. This pen scratching these words across paper and the friction of my skin against fabric become interesting music. I resist the urge to unplug the refrigerator when it kicks on. I hear a very, very high-pitched zinging. Is it some real technological buzz that is always there? Am I usually too dull to notice? Is it some audio-hallucination brought on by my sudden intolerance of these mechanical sounds? Sounds I have blithely ignored for years? The decision to type this poem becomes a conscious choice to hear the clicking keys and humming fan of my computer.

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And finally, I pick up the magazine again to read that poem about God and Creation and time, to savor it in the near-silence I have created. But, now, I only want to sit and listen to the silence. 22

Mirage 2014 GARDENS

Leslie Clark

My mother’s New Jersey garden was sentenced to a linear life. Up against the fence line, like a row of prisoners, stood the tulips, daffodils, hyacinths—disciplined bulb blooms of early spring, no straying onto the sparse green lawn for them or for their companion bushes. A spindly rose or two, some stunted azaleas, the faint yellow hope of forsythia. After such restraint, her own riotous late blooming was inevitable. 23

Gardens in Virginia were domineering, their azaleas bearing no resemblance to those of cooler climes—aggressive, overblown lusciousness of fuchsia, flushing pink, branches scratching at brick walls of houses, bullying one another for garden space. Summers ripe and rank with gaudy greenery, the jungle growth of every flower, the tangled mass of weeds, grass that demanded the daily songs of mowers. In such a setting, humans pale. High desert flowers conceal themselves among tall grasses, must be searched for to be seen—delicate violet stars, ground-embracing yellow. Only after winters with generous rain do they emerge in sheets of poppy gold and lupine stalks that rival the sky in their marvelous shade of blue. One must step gingerly, eyes to ground to avoid the trampling of such tenderness. The flowers of dry summers are girded with other-worldly thorns, daring desert dwellers to attempt to glean moisture from their succulence. Here, nothing’s given free.

Mirage 2014 JASMINE

Ruby Odell

I have planted a star jasmine in my garden plot which is such a small one this time but there is one corner with the right balance of sun and shade I did not detect how pervasive its aroma diluted as it was in the nursery by roses and manure and everything else but here inside the gate of our little court its perfume is all and it soothes me this friend with her white flowers and unconditional fragrance Not the first time I have planted jasmine far in the north in two square pots that fit the corners of a porch jasmine with a brief sweet blooming there I heard a poet tonight, Birgit Pegeen Kelly she tells me what cannot be told but what I love is the insistence in the telling it could have happened but it did not necessarily happen but that it might not have happened does not mean that it isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t true we are listening instead to what really happens a song where the sounds wear colors having made pathways to the wild interior here, it is in the shape of this petal, it is in this tangle of stems, it is in the paw, the tooth, the turn of a head it is in trees and reflections and always it can be found in the stars Drifting home now the spell of poems in my ears I see the great moonchip hanging over the jeweled town

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a scribble of clouds in the smokey black sky I know as I continue the city lights will die back and the multitude of stars with their heads and dippers and belts and hooves will appear I will claim them again

They were lost to me they were bound to a memory of loss our bodies pressed breast to spine my arms around his waist my hands clasped at his belly both our heads tipped back watching for their shapes to orient us or for one to fall or for the eternal the jasmine blooming then too far across the field

Mirage 2014 YOU DONATED YOUR BODY TO SCIENCE

Pamela Blunt

For my parents, Julie and Andrew Blunt You, who are nowhere No grave to stand beside No place to place a stone Ashes only ashes And even those will not return to us. I make of my heart an urn But it is unnecessary. In the shape of my hands And jaw And mouth and eyes You already live Having owned those shapes yourself Before you made them mine. When the winter curls around the ground And the trees stand stark And completely brown with want of warmth I hear the bones Come clanking down Come clinking down Finding the rhythm of Their disarticulated song. When the Day of the Dead Gathers us into it To hear your whispering To send you our longing

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Then you open my eyes And my ears My tongue and my skin. Wide—you say Drink and drink and drink Until the shapes of the earth’s vibrant aliveness The soup of mad poets The palettes of so many ancestors Mix with the music of all things Humming their shape-changing ways into being And you—you say—you must Sing and sing and sing Dance and dance and dance Now.

Mirage 2014 UNTITLED #1 photograph

John Charley

Mirage 2014 COWBOY CHURCH, COWBOY SKY photograph

Mark Hanna

Mirage 2014 THE BEASTS acrylic

David Altamirano

Mirage 2014 ISOLATED STORM photograph

Lee Hopper

Mirage 2014 BLUE AUTUMN photograph

Katherine La Motte

Mirage 2014 TWISTER CATEGORY 5 digital collage

Moni Norng

Mirage 2014 LONG BEAK photograph

Jennifer Gomez

Mirage 2014 SOME OTHER TIME photograph

James Schrimpf

Mirage 2014 MEDIO DE CAMBIO

Julia Jones

Con el dinero de mi corazón He regateado por el mundo— Pesos de gracias y de cortesía, Reales de risas y de sollozos, Y los grandes doblones dorados de amor— Con centavos de sonrisas Compré el alba del amanecer Y la gloria del día creciente. Mis canciones compraron las flores y el arco iris. Por este terreno seco lleno de arena y mesquite, Y por la vista de las montañas, Di honor. El coraje pagó por el sol. Con las pesetas de recuerdos Adquirí las gemas de lluvias, Como las lágrimas de primaveras pasadas. Y cuando me haya gastado todo, Y sólo me quede la última moneda de mi alma ¿Necesitaré dársela a la muerte? ¿O quizás sean gratis— Una porción de tierra Y el cielo completo?

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MEDIUM OF EXCHANGE With the coinage of my heart I have bargained for the world— Dimes of courtesy and grace, Dollars of laughs and of sobs, And great golden doubloons of love— 37

With the pennies of smiles I bought the early dawn And the glory of the growing day. My songs bought flowers and the rainbow. For this dry land of sand and mesquite, And for the view of the mountains, I gave honor. My courage paid for the sun. With pieces of remembrance I got the jewels of the rain, Like tears of forgotten springs. And when I have spent it all, And all that’s left is the last coin of my soul Will I have to give it to death? Or will it be free— Six feet of dirt And the heavens above?

Mirage 2014 SONORAN BORDER, EARLY OCTOBER

Carmen Megeath

(for A.) If the clouds were to come closer to these bare desert mountains they would slice themselves open on the ridges that cut into this turquoise sky. October sails for a thousand clear milesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; golden sphere of apple and pear, moon will rise full, the earth falling ripe into night. So we drive the curving road and rising hills in silence, sunlight streaming sharp angled down upon your strong hands, in the long slow dream of traffic through small border towns.

Mirage 2014 ORGANIC LUST

Sergio Lalli

We find ourselves in a disheveled co-ed dorm room, swaying on a squishy sofa that hides its tattered shame under a faded coverlet teeming with wrinkled, bulbous daffodils.

The door is secured by a chair leaning against the door knob. So, you’re an English major? A rosy-cheeked lass, slightly plump, glowing with good health, she be, and her face a pretty flower. Yes, I admit it, I oblige. Please don’t hold it against me. Oh, I wo-ooon’t, she squeals, an octane-octave higher. So, what’s your major? I inquire. I probe her mind like a horny psychologist, pretending to listen but actually doodling phallic petroglyphs on her muscular calves. Herbs. I’d like to major in herbs. I like getting on my knees—

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You do? I interrupt. She pretends not to catch my lascivious drift and doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t skip a beat. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;and putting my hands in dirt. But gardening is not a major, not even an elective. Neither is knitting, my second lust, I mean love. I also want to have children and school them at home, where I'll grow my own orgiastic vegetables, such as eggplant and ragwort, and raise free-range chickens that lay big thick brown eggs. And how does that make you feel? She ignores me and continues. When I meet the right man, I'll fly off with him to Nepal for an extended honeymoon, to turn prayer wheels, to watch the wind play with those darling little flags on a string, to bathe in hot mineral springs deep within secluded valleys guarded by snow leopards, to gather saffron in bushels and flop wearily at sunset on a bed of purple poppies, there to make passionate Kama Sutra under chartreuse and mauve clouds.

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Her smile is a chromatic display of irresistible self-content. I love her madly. She crosses her legs. Is that body-code language? Her flimsy skirt sidles up her thighs like a thin silk shade, revealing a solitary freckle on her right kneeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a one-eye, black-eyed beauty, all alone, waiting to be kissed. Not the-eeere, she shrieks. It tickles. Well, then, do you want me to pet your pituitary instead? Don't talk dirty to me, talk organic. We proceed like mummers in our dressing room after the hurry-burly parade and the performance is spent. We pull down our masks, unpin our wigs, kick off our shoes, doff our costumes, speechlessly, routinely, in a matter-of-fact way, but with an urgent disposition to celebrate a sudden inspiration.

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Holy cow! I bellow nakedly, in an organic tone I hope will turn her on. It does! -----That's the story, kids â&#x20AC;&#x201D;the entire unexpurgated holistic storyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; of how I met your undergraduate mom. How many times do I have to repeat it? Now go to sleep and dream of becoming English majors, one day when you learn how to talk. The twins look at me adoringly.

Mirage 2014 POETâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S PROMISES

Lavendra Copen

This year, I promise to be more disciplined. I promise to write early in the morning, when the sun is still sleeping off a hangover, or late at night, when the horned moon blows sultry jazz, and heat lightning rides the snares.

I promise to be more aware. I promise to curve my words like birdsong, the way the Wright Brothers watched flight and learned to warp their wings. I promise to be gentle with the poem that perches in the silk oak at first light, wings outstretched to dry the dew. I promise not to rush out and frighten it into flight but to sit at the kitchen window and watch it become exactly who the dawn finds. I promise to be kinder this year. I promise not to turn away the poorest metaphor, the most down-at-the-heels allusion. I promise to put itinerant rhyme schemes to work, splitting wood like Frostâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tramps at mud time, feed them meat-and-potatoes meals from my best earthenware, my good stainless. I promise to be an equal opportunity poet. I promise never to discriminate against any muse on the basis of race, creed, color, religion, gender, sexual preference, national origin, handicap, slant, or point of view. I promise never to turn away an angel standing at the foot of my bed with a pen in one hand and the back of last weekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grocery list in the other.

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I promise to be more maternal this year. I promise to say, “God bless you,” when one of my creations sneezes. Spoon-feed it sugar water for hiccups. Tuck it into bed when it comes down with the flu. Give it chicken soup. Sponge its forehead. I promise to look for a house this year. I promise to give my words a yard to run in. I promise not to scold when they write on the newly painted walls with crayon, and to read every word before I scrub it off. I promise to fill the rooms with old plants and new verse. I promise to let poems vine all over the headboard and run rampant across the dresser top. I promise to be more domestic. I promise to organize my closet once and for all, to hang the subjunctive verbs together on one side, the adjectival phrases on the other, the conditional sentences shoulder to shoulder next to the proper nouns. I promise to fold the gerunds in thirds like fine wool sweaters and stack them on the shelf, rainbow-wise. I promise to clean out the conjunctions I’ll never be thin enough to wear again and the adverbs I haven’t had out of drawers in years, and take them to the thrift shop. I promise to tend my garden this year. I promise to water it with leisure, to compost all my experience into it. I promise to plant marigolds around the rhythms, so bugs can’t chew holes in them.

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I promise to pick the poems when they’re ripe and can and juice them while they’re still firm.

And last, I promise to fill the pantry with seedless sonnet preserves and pantoum jelly. Years from now, I’ll still be finding jars of free-verse sauce and cinquain compote in the back of the bottom shelf.

Mirage 2014 THE CALENDAR

Leslie Clark

It was a gift from my sister, this one-day-at-a-time calendar. Each page inscribed with the month, a number for the day, a packaged laugh. The user is expected to unveil each day, a fresh start. Discard what's past, reveal the new. Are there people who acknowledge time in such ordered increments? When I recognize its presence on my desk, the date reveals my harried history. A week or two has passed while the days sat untended in silent censure, their jokes unread. I thumb through to find real present time, grab the neglected cluster of dates and tear, fluttering a sheaf of days into the office trash. I deal best with time laid out in blocks of thirty days, accept the past, scan the future, and ground myself in now. A monthly quilt of time, more comforting than a single square.

Mirage 2014 COOKING IN THE KITCHENS OF GAZA AND JERUSALEM

Pamela Blunt

In her kitchen The doors And the drawers Are many colors. She shuffles and dances. She rattles her pots and pans. And always, She pulls out her blue measuring cup That holds the yellow light. She puts it into everything. She puts it into baba ghannouj. She stuffs it into pockets of pita bread. She dips the green mint leaves into this yellow glaze And kisses rice with saffron and turmeric until it gleams. She slides it into the pockets of strangers as they arrive. She glides it down the backs of friends as they leave. Oh, some days, she must look deeply into that cup. Some days there is only a yellow drop, A smear of gold. Some days there is so much that it climbs out of the cup, Pushes the drawers wide open, Spreads over the kitchen walls, Bursts out through the windows, So that all who pass by are soon singing, Even the dogs. The world is the way that it is, though, So their song is a wail, A long keening lament. What can she do? She does not make the light. She does not make the dark. She only owns the cup. She only makes the choice to offer it. To call out your song.

Mirage 2014 LIVING IN THE U.S.A.

Jalia Wilson

Start the day with Hot Coffee, Mississippi Americans do What is Normal, Illinois So many have Questioned Why, Arizona We live the way That seems Odd, West Virginia Our culture a Disappointment, Kentucky To others that We claim Boring, Oregon The beauty of Our home, Looneyville, Texas Not one can say There’s one Plain City, Utah So full of dreams All Cando, North Dakota Nothing’s enough We’ll always Needmore, Texas What can stop us? Think . . . Nothing, Arizona Who says we can’t? There’s No Name, Colorado When it comes down To the Climax, Michigan Our home’s pretty Much Okay, Oklahoma

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Americans are So Cool, California You’re welcome to Paradise, Pennsylvania

We don’t ask why We ask why Not, Missouri Such freedom is So Lovely, California

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CREATIVE WRITING CELEBRATION WINNERS

Presented in this special section are the winning entries of the Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2013, in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.

Mirage 2014 TANTUN CUZAMIL Deseret Harris Flat Rock in the Place of the Swallows

First Place, Poetry Competition Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2013 A bright emerald-plumed hummingbird flits between red and pink flowering hibiscus.

It pauses to gaze at a watching iguana then hovers over a delicate, lilac orchid shaped like a tiny owl, but it does not stop to sip of the sweet nectar. Someone is coming. Eme notes its flight and scurries into the thick growth of trees, vanishing from sight, like the bird, as she hurries to tell her mother. Her bare feet make little noise, their sounds covered in the whine of the wind, and the chitter-chatter of coati. When she reaches her small village at the heart of this island of swallows, she reports: “They’ve come.” The large stones of the white road, the sacbe, hold back the rainforest’s growth and mark the pilgrims’ route from the coast as they journey to worship their goddess Ix Ch’el, the Goddess of the Moon, the White Lady. She guards childbirth, and grants fertility to those who fulfill their vows. She guides girls who have had their first month’s blood, brides, mothers, and others who come desiring knowledge of medicine and weaving. From across the great waters, over the sacbe, through the white arch, on tired feet but with hopeful hearts, bearing many offerings for Ix Ch’el, Mayan women come.

Mirage 2014 MELA

Shelby Gonzales

First Place, Fiction Competition Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2013 Mela stepped out of the stone doorway, placing one soft footstep after the next. She made her way along the castle wall, looking out across the garrisons, though she saw very little beyond that. The rain was coming down in sheets, concealing all but the closest objects from view, but Mela paid little mind to it, as she was shielded from the worst of the downpour by the castle itself. Mela heard a distant roar, unlike the roar of the water on the stones of the castle or the rumble of distant thunder. No, she thought in terror. It canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be. Can they fly in the rain? Mela froze, trying to listen over the sound of her heart pounding. She heard the cry again, much closer this time, unmistakable in spite of the stifling downpour. Mela glanced left and then right before she bolted in the direction she had come from. As she ran, she heard the pounding of great wings and froze, pressing herself against the wall. She looked up as a dark shadow passed overhead. Wham! She looked up to see the creature of nightmares. It was directly above her, its silver scales glinting despite the low light of the deep gray sky, while its curved claws dug into the stone of the wall. The masonry cracked and crumbled beneath its massive weight, but she remained still, frozen in place, her gaze directed upward. Water from the rain dripped off of the beastâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s long neck and jagged-toothed mouth, falling on her face. Its gaze was focused up and away, but it was only a matter of time before it looked down at her. It took a deep breath, filling its lungs before letting loose a cry, louder and fiercer than anything Mela could have imagined. She remained still. It took another breath, but this time launched itself forward, spreading its wings and taking off, flying beyond her sight.

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“Dragon!” one of the guards called out. His voice would not easily reach the next guard tower, much less any other guards posted beyond, but the dragon’s roar was unmistakable. Mela stood completely still for what felt like several minutes, expecting the creature to return, but only the distant cry of the dragon and a few stray calls from the castle guards could be heard. Mustering her courage, Mela took a single step forward, searching the area without turning her head. She inched toward the door, not moving any more than she needed to and trying not to draw any attention to herself. She made her way several feet before she froze in place again. Once more, she heard the beating of wings, and when she looked forward, she again saw the silver scales, the cruel claws, and gnashing teeth. The dragon landed on the side of the castle, alighting carefully rather than slamming into it. The beast stood right in front of her and folded its wings while lifting its head and breathing in deeply. It let out a snort, as if it was impossible to smell anything in such weather, before it began searching the area. It didn’t take long for the two evil, fiery disks to focus on Mela. She took a breath as the dragon arched its back and crouched forward, lowering its torso as it readied to pounce. All she could do was hope for a quick death. “Miss Mela!” a voice cried out. A figure bearing a sword and shield rushed forward and jumped between the two, his back to Mela and his eyes toward the dragon. She recognized the man as Altin, a lifelong friend of her father. “Mela!” he called out, not turning his head. “Run!” Mela broke free of her paralysis and dashed to her left. She half expected the dragon to follow her, anyway, but instead, it kept its eyes on Altin, swiping its claws at the man and causing him to duck. She looked back one last time as Altin turned and ran in the opposite direction, to a short tower, with the dragon close behind him. Mela continued running, knowing she had to find help. Her

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legs carried her as fast as she could make them as she searched for someone, anyone, who could help Altin. She couldn’t let him die, especially now that he had saved her. As she ran, she heard the dragon’s screech. Although she didn’t stop or slow, her thoughts raced. Was it already too late? Had the dragon already finished off Altin and left to find someone else to eat? Mela made her way outside the castle. The roof extended beyond the walls and kept her protected from above. From there she saw the dragon dive past her and down on some more garrisons below. For a moment the rain let up, allowing her to watch as the soldiers fired a volley of arrows at the dragon, aiming at its wings with hope of puncturing them and making it unable to fly. One thing stuck in Mela’s mind more than anything else: This dragon was larger than the one she had just seen. It was easily twice the size, and its wingspan alone was staggering. That couldn’t be the same dragon. Then Altin might still have time! she thought. Someone stepped out of a doorway in front of her. He was clad in full armor, carrying a sword, shield, and bow. “Wait! Wait!” she screamed. The man turned, and she realized that it was her father. “Altin—” she stammered, gasping for air. “He’s being attacked . . . by the dragon . . . the short tower—.” She pointed in the direction she had come from. “The dragon’s over there,” Mela’s father said, motioning to the silver-scaled behemoth as it smashed into the castle’s garrisons. “It’s a different dragon—a smaller—” “Another dragon?” he asked, his eyes widening with fear. “Yes!” Mela said, grabbing his hand. “Please come!” The two ran side by side until the dragon came in sight. Mela knew this couldn’t be the same dragon; it was far younger. It clawed at the roof of the short tower, ripping off the shingles and attempting to get past the beams. Its back claws grasped the lower window sills, since the dragon wasn’t the full height of the tower.

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Mela pressed herself against the wall again while her father came to a stop, drawing his bow and taking aim. Fwoop! He let fly an arrow, which despite the rain found its mark on the dragon’s neck, striking between the scales and burying itself deep in the beast’s flesh. The dragon let out an agonizing screech and grabbed at the roof, ripping off almost a full quarter of it and throwing the nowuseless timber and shingles over the side of the castle. Its eyes focused on Mela’s father. Fwoop! Another arrow was released from within the tower, also digging in between the scales on the creature’s neck. The dragon raised its snout to the sky and cried out. Fwoop! Fwoop! Two more arrows found their marks, both sinking into the soft tissue of the dragon’s throat, where its jaw connected with its neck. The dragon made a coughing, gagging sound as it swayed for a moment, its grip on the tower becoming weak. It fell to the ledge below, many yards away from where Mela and her father stood. Altin appeared from within the tower, running out of the doorway and toward them. “Belathin!” he said. “I have never been happier to see you in my life!” “And I, you!” Belathin said. But the two didn’t greet each other for long. Their eyes shifted back to the dragon as it thrashed about, its claws and tail swinging in any direction it could manage. The two drew their swords, preparing for a final blow they would never deliver. The creature attempted to call out one last time, but the only sound that came out was soft, akin to a dog’s whimper. The two men watched for a moment, their eyes focused on the now pitiful beast as it writhed and wrenched. Their gaze didn’t last for long. The thundering of massive wings passed above them, and the

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larger dragon let out a deafening screech. It slammed into the castle next to the smaller dragon and stooped low, nudging the smaller dragon, its offspring. The smaller dragon only let out the softest of whimpers. The massive beast’s eyes shifted up, looking at Belathin and Altin, its eyes holding wrath unspeakable. With one swing of its claws, it smashed the top half of the small tower to bits. Stones were sent flying far down below, and the two men flinched. The sun’s rays glinted off the dragon’s silver scales as it crouched over the body of the small dragon. It hissed at the two with a resonating threat that seemed to come from deep within its body. Mela attempted to hide in a corner. She knew that this was finally it. Soon, it would all be over. The two men stood, swords drawn, staring into the dragon’s eyes, ready to die—but not without a fight. Whoosh! Slam! As if from nowhere, a large boulder, nearly the size of the dragon’s head, slammed into its upper body with sickening force. The dragon roared in fury, surprise, and pain. It fixed its eyes on the source of that pain, a large trebuchet perched on the fortifications of the castle. Whoosh! Another rock was launched, from the same direction but a different trebuchet. This one hit the dragon on its lower neck. The large dragon turned to the body of its offspring, nudging it one last time and making a soft call, as if to comfort its young and make it rise. But its efforts were in vain, and another boulder was launched. The last projectile glanced off the dragon’s back, and with one last cry of anger and loss, the dragon took to the air. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the sun reflected off its silver scales as it disappeared. Mela held onto her knees in terror as Altin began laughing. Within seconds he was joined by Belathin. “Need a change of pants, Altin?” Belathin said, striking his

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friend on the back of his shoulder with a friendly hand. “No, but I have an extra if you need one,” said Altin. Mela struggled to her feet, her legs wobbling beneath her while she attempted to regain her balance on the wall. She stood for a moment, looking out at the landscape in the full light of the sun. While her father and Altin spoke, she took a step toward the dragon. At first she was afraid to look at it, but as the minutes passed, she managed to examine its claws, then its arms, then its body and, lastly, its face. She continued approaching it. The rain had left only puddles and soaked clothes. Mela picked up a piece of shattered lumber in her right hand, keeping her eyes fixed on the beast as she took one cautious step after the next. She stopped, admiring the strange beauty of the dragon. She found it odd that something so dangerous, feared, and dreaded by all other living creatures was, in its own way, beautiful; yet it was. She took a few more steps forward, coming within mere feet of the dragon. With a glance toward her father and Altin, Mela extended the stick toward the dragon, placing the point of it against the dragon’s snout. She drew her arm away and jumped back, expecting the dragon to turn and look at her with its dreadful yellow eyes. But it did nothing. She poked it again, drawing her arm away once more, but she didn’t take more than a half step back. She let the stick drop and stepped forward again. She now extended her left arm toward the creature until she touched the dragon’s nose, and only recoiled slightly when she felt the smooth scales on her fingertips. After another moment of hesitation, she placed her palm against the dragon’s face and allowed it to slide down the dragon’s scales. They were warm to the touch. She still didn’t look into the creature’s eyes. “Mela! Come away from that!” Belathin called out.

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Mela looked up for a split second when she felt the dragon surge beneath her hand. She cried out as a coughing, sputtering sound came from deep within the dragon’s throat. She backed away, but her left hand was extended toward the creature. The dragon’s eyes remained closed, but from deep within the mouth came an eruption of dark red blood and vomit. The liquid splattered on her left arm. “Get it off! Get it off!” she screamed. “It burns!” Mela grabbed her left arm with her right hand, but that did more harm than good, for now the blood burned her hand as well. But she only gripped harder, unable to think of anything but the searing agony. She fell to the ground, trying to crawl away from the pain. “Mela!” Belathin screamed, running toward his daughter. “Get it off!” Mela cried. “It burns!” Belathin grabbed his daughter. He attempted to wipe the blood off with his own gloved hand, but it burned even through the cloth and leather, and he was forced to tear off the glove. “It burns! It burns!” Belathin turned to Altin. “What can we do?” he asked. “Nothing,” Altin responded, his eyes wide but drained of hope. “Once the dragon’s blood has touched the skin, we can only watch and wait.” The last thing Mela saw was her father’s fearful face as he looked down on her.

Mirage 2014 MEMORIES OF GRANDMA

Elizabeth Haling

First Place, Nonfiction Competition Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2013

I can still picture her brushing strands of long, silver-grey hair over her shoulder, then lifting them up; and with a few deft twists and turns of her weathered hands, she would fashion a smooth figure 8 on top of her head. This fluffed her natural wave into an attractive frame for her friendly face. Using the U-shaped hair pins, which she had been holding between her lips (easier to find them), she would secure her bun and any stray hairs she could feel. Then she would put on her hearing aids. Across the top of her head went a metal band which was connected to two earmuff-like amplifiers. A wire, which was attached somewhere, curved down over her shoulder and disappeared beneath the neckline of her dress, where it connected to a battery, secured in a simple cotton pouch pinned to her “undergarment,” next to a listening device. In order to talk to Grandma, I would put my face close to her bosom and shout. When she used the telephone—the old “crank and talk to the operator” kind—she would place the ear-piece of the phone next to her chest instead of to her ear. How does one cope and adjust to being almost blind and almost deaf? As a child, I didn’t think much about that. It was just the way things were with my grandmother for as long as I could remember. Grandma and Grandpa, my father’s parents, lived a little over a mile from us, so I have many fond memories of Grandma. She was barely five feet tall and wore dresses that came to the top of her black, lace-up, comfortable shoes. Her long, narrow, starched apron was tied at the waist and had a square bodice which was pinned at the corners to complete her “at home” attire. With the help of a large magnifying glass, Grandma would read the headlines of a newspaper, trying to keep abreast of what was going on in the world. She and Grandpa played a card game with a deck of special cards, which were more than triple the size of ordinary cards. I remember how she would just smile and wink at me

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when Grandpa would throw his cards on the table and say, “I give up! She can beat me when she can hardly see the cards.” Because they lived only a block from the junior high school I attended, I would ride my bike to their house, leave it in their garage, go in to say hello, and then walk to school. I can still feel in my nose the crispy-clean smell that greeted me every Monday morning—homemade soap and bleach—and hear the chugging of the washing machine in the basement. How Grandma managed to use the old wringer-washer without getting her fingers caught was a miracle, but she could cope. On other days, I was greeted by the warbling of their canary, Dickie Bird, and the strong aroma of brewed coffee. Grandpa’s deep saucer was not used to hold his mustache cup. Instead, he filled it with torn crusts from homemade bread toast and poured in enough coffee from his cup to soften them before eating them with a spoon. Grandma enjoyed her cup of tea. As I recall, they ate a lot of oatmeal. On Wednesday mornings, there would be a large, square sign in the window of the back door. This was the day the iceman came. Along each edge of the sign was an indication of a different size block of ice. Whichever side was on top was what the customer was ordering. Part of my routine on school mornings was to dump the water out of the driptray under the icebox. We had an electric refrigerator at our house, so this was a fun thing to do. After school, I would go back to pick up my bike, but I didn’t leave for home until Grandma and I, sitting on the front porch swing, had a long visit. She always had a treat ready: the absolutely best chewy molasses ginger cookies in the world, or sugared popcorn, or some other culinary specialty of hers. She said she cooked with her nose. She could tell when the roast or homemade bread, cake, or cookies were done by the aroma from the oven. Hanging in an inconspicuous corner of their dining room was a framed, heavily padded, rectangular piece of fabric. I would check periodically to make sure all the needles stuck into the fabric had been threaded. The top row had smaller needles, and the bottom

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row had larger needles for heavier fabrics. I kept them threaded with various colored threads. Starting at the left would be a few white, then tan, yellow, and grey, continuing to the end of each row with progressively darker colors, ending with a few black ones. Grandma could come close to matching the item she was mending, although sometimes she used orange thread instead of red, or dark blue instead of black. It seemed that Grandma always had some mending to do. Usually, my dad would pick up Grandma and Grandpa (they didn’t have a car) and bring them to our house for Sunday dinner, but sometimes we would go to their house. She made the best German meals. Sour veal and homemade noodles was my brothers’ and my favorite. I have tried and come close but have never been able to make it taste the same as I remember. Grandma’s response one Sunday when I spilled gravy on the table cloth was a classic example of how caring she was: “Well, now we don’t have to be careful anymore, do we,” she said with her customary smile and wink. I find myself repeating another phrase I often heard Grandma say. It exemplifies the calm acceptance of her inability to change things she did not approve of or understand. “Let ’em go it,” she would say and dismiss any negative thought from her mind. Grandma died at age ninety-four. Although my children have no memory of their great-grandmother, they have pictures of her holding them as babies, and have heard many stories about her. She was an inspiration and perfect example of how to adjust and cope with adversity.

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Mirage 2014 BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION

David Altamirano was born in Douglas and works as an associate faculty art instructor at Cochise College. He is dedicated to bringing art and cultural empowerment to the people of Douglas and the surrounding area. He hopes to inspire other local artists to show their work. David truly believes that â&#x20AC;&#x153;art reflects and bonds humanity.â&#x20AC;? He cherishes art and never limits himself to any particular genre or subject matter. 63

T. D. Barr, born in St. Louis half a century ago, has lived all over the world. An honorably discharged veteran of military service, he has worked as an interpreter, engineer, and pharmacy technician. He has resided in Sierra Vista since 2010. When not writing, he can be found searching the American Southwest for the perfect cup of coffee with Mavis, his mid-life crisis. Pamela Blunt, LCSW, lives and works in Cochise County. She has been writing poetry since she learned to write. She could probably be blackmailed if anyone stole those early ones and the teen ones and, well, it's been a learning process. She enjoys all of the arts, is a member of Central School Project, and earns her keep as a psychotherapist and expressive-arts therapist. John Charley studied photography at Rochester Institute of Technology, Visual Studies Workshop, and graduated with a BFA from the University of Arizona. Madeleine Charron is a long-time resident of Bisbee, Arizona. She earned an MFA at the University of Arizona and taught elementary school in Bisbee for twenty-five years. She paints abstract colorfield oil paintings and does nature photography. She has traveled and taught in Latin America. Leslie Clark worked as English faculty at Cochise College for several years. After forty-one years of teaching English, she retired in May 2013 and is enjoying her reading, writing, and traveling time.

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Her poetry and short fiction have been widely published, and her poetry chapbook, Cardiac Alert, was published by Finishing Line Press. Leslie is editor/publisher of an online poetry journal, Voices on the Wind. Lynda Coole is originally from Chicago and is into her second year here on the high desert. She occasionally takes a break from photographing the vast musical community to walk the streets of Old Bisbee in search of shadows, colors, and otherwise pleasing graphics. Lavendra Copen grew up in Cochise County and attended the University of New Mexico. After teaching school in the Four Corners area, she lived in New York City, working as a waitress, bus-ticket agent, and drug-rehab receptionist. She finally settled in the foothills of the Huachuca Mountains, where she raises her granddaughters, grows organic produce, and works as a medical and legal transcriptionist. Maybe someday sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll get to retire and write more. Karen Corey, a retired teacher of thirty-two years, is enjoying the opportunity to learn a new field and realize her life-long dream of becoming an artist. She works in watercolor, charcoal, pen and ink, digital photography, and clay. An avid hiker, Karen finds inspiration in the open spaces and wilderness of beautiful Cochise County. Jennifer Gomez is a student at Cochise College on the Douglas Campus. She started her basic training as a nursing major. She took a class in film photography when she was in high school and now is taking classes in digital photography. She would like to take pictures professionally, as well as taking pictures of family members and creating invitations for parties. Elizabeth Haling was born in Chicago, Illinois, and raised in Dubuque, Iowa. A retired teacher, she and her husband have lived in Hayward, Wisconsin, for thirty-seven years, and for the past nine

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years, have lived six months a year in Sierra Vista, Arizona. Her book of poetry and random thoughts was published in 2003. She has been published in Wisconsin magazines and papers. In addition to writing, Elizabeth enjoys cooking, golf, painting, knitting, and bridge.

Mark Hanna was born in Pennsylvania; his family moved to Tucson in the early fifties. He worked at Kitt Peak National Observatory as a lab manager and retired after forty memorable years. Shortly after retiring, he moved to Sierra Vista in 2006. He enjoys digital photography because it gives the photographer the chance to adjust or control his or her images. Deseret Harris currently studies English at the University of Arizona, Sierra Vista. She began writing poetry at age five. She and her husband of nearly twenty years, David, have two children, Morgan and Liam. "Tantun Cuzamil" was inspired by a trip to Cozumel, Mexico, in 2010, and a prompt to write about a different time or landscape. Jeff Henley is interested in depicting two things in his art: the absurd/catawampus and the everyday. All his art starts with reality. Some of his art gets pulled through an off-kilter lens, distorting it into the realm of the absurd, and some does not. His work in this magazine has not been pulled through that lens. It depicts a location from the everyday world. Harry C. Hill was born in Douglas and has had a lifelong love affair with various cameras, beginning with a Kodak Brownie. When he discovered digital photography, his world expanded exponentially. Now that he is retired, he can devote more time to his beloved hobby. Lee Hopperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s photo was taken in Sierra Vista, using his cell phone.

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Julia Jones is retired, a student at Cochise College, and far too busy to work. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t write poetry very often but spends her time playing with clay, playing with fabric, playing with fiber, and playing the recorder. Katherine La Motte is a self-taught photographer who has been working in Cochise County and surrounding areas for six years under the business name Kitty B. Photography. Born and raised in Sierra Vista, she is a graduate of Northern Arizona University and is currently a Hereford resident with a passion for nature photography. Sergio Lalli says, "Run silent, run true," the motto of the zen bicyclist. Marcela C. Lubian is a self-taught acrylic painter. Her wildlife, floral, and landscape paintings represent a rich collection of vivid Mexican colors. Her connection to her heritage inspires her to represent her passion for it on canvas. R.J. (Bob) Luce was a Wyoming wildlife biologist before retiring to Arizona. He lives near the San Pedro River and photographs it in all seasons. He has traveled in Latin America, East Africa, and the U.S. Virgin Islands. He has authored technical wildlife publications and magazine articles; provided photos for books, magazines, and field guides; and written two novels and a photo essay book: River of Life, Four Seasons along Arizonaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Rio San Pedro. Carmen Megeath, a denizen of the Golden West for the last forty years, has made her home in the Mule Mountains, in the old mining camp of Bisbee. From southern Wyoming, her birthplace, to southern Utah, to southern Arizona, her journey south was stopped at the border, like a tumbleweed swept up against a barbed wire fence. She is a poet and a musician and publisher of Blue Mountain Review, an occasional literary publication.

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Moni Norng came from Cambodia in 1980—a survivor of the “Killing Fields.” He lived in California for many years until moving to Cochise County in 2005. After an accident that left him bound to a wheelchair, he started painting with acrylics on canvas and later taught himself digital art. Most of the work he has created in the past two years is surrealistic in nature, yet diverse in themes.

Ruby Odell has written poetry since the late 1980s. In 1991, she joined a poetry circle in Los Angeles, headed by Peter Levit. She was selected three times to attend Squaw Valley workshops led by Galway Kinnell, Sharon Olds, and Lucille Clifton. She has lived in Bisbee for two and a half years, with gratitude for the love and energy of its many artists, poets and musicians, who share their art with such commitment. Rick Rhodehamel has worked as a designer/builder for the past thirty years under the constraint of keeping everything level, plumb, and square. In Bisbee, that is quite an accomplishment. As an artist, however, Rick is free to go wherever his imagination and mistakes take him. Abstract painting frees him from plans, building codes, and inspections. He can go in any direction he chooses and arrives there when he wants. Lindsay Janet Roberts has a BFA from Columbus College of Art and Design and an MEd from the University of Arizona. Most of her work is made from recycled materials. She has taught eighthgrade art, and graphic design at the high-school level. She currently teaches high-school fine arts. In her spare time, she keeps several galleries stocked with her art. She lives, breathes, and teaches art. James Schrimpf is a Nogales photographer whose works have been featured in Chicago’s Artist’s Month and Chicanindio Gallery. One of his photographs appeared on the cover of Discover Southern Arizona, and Arizona Highways has also used his work. Schrimpf was the cover photographer for New York City musician Kevin

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Delaneyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s album, Pause for Effect. Nikon has also used his photos on their Internet site. Emmanuel Fernando Serrano is a twenty-year-old man from Bisbee, Arizona. He has a creative mind and has been interested in photography since he was a boy. He carries his camera with him everywhere. His photos bring out life, happiness, and peace. Kristie Sullivan is a retired Army veteran who served for twentyone years. Last year, she moved here from Maryland to be near her family. Photography has always intrigued her, and after a class with Cathy Murphy, she realized how much she enjoyed photography and photo editing. She enjoys capturing the beauty of everything she sees through the camera lens. Jalia Wilson has always loved to embrace all of her talents. She likes to challenge herself by entering many contests. She is a singer, dancer, actress, artist, and writer. Her personality is one that is hard to ignore. Jalia is very ambitious and is a leader in many clubs and activities in her school. Xymyl is _____________(please share your experience in the space provided).

Mirage 2014 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. 69

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 content of any literary work, including the biographies of writers and artists. In matters of mechanics and style, the Mirage staff defers to A Writer’s Reference by Diana Hacker and Nancy Sommers. The staff also reserves the right to crop, 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: A single cover sheet must accompany submissions with the following information: • • • • • •

submitter’s name address phone number email or fax number a list of the titles of all works a brief autobiographical statement of seventy-five words or less, written in the third person

To preserve anonymity during the selection process, no name should appear on the entry itself. The Mirage staff acknowledges receipt of literary and artistic works by email. If you do not receive an email acknowledgement within 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: 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 identified as “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. 71

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. Files of artwork need to be at a resolution of at least 300 dots per inch (DPI) and at 100% of its original size. Photos should be at least 6 x 9 inches. A minimum resolution of 2700 x 1800 pixels in JPEG format is best. Any attempt to resize or resample may cause problems because print resolution will depend on how the photo is ultimately sized for the magazine. The minimum size is important. If, for example, a photo is only 640 x 480 pixels, it is too small for the magazine. IMPORTANT: Unless digital photographs of art are submitted according to the guidelines above, the magazine cannot use them.

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Where to send submissions: Email:

mirage@cochise.edu

Mail:

Cochise College ATTN: Mirage 4190 West Highway 80 Douglas, AZ 85607

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