Ridgeline Review is ENMU-Ruidoso’s literary and fine arts publication, featuring work from students, faculty, staff, and community members. We define “community” to mean anyone who lives in or near the Ruidoso area, or who has been impacted by this area at some point in their lives. In recent years, we have expanded to dedicate a portion of our pages to artists and writers who’ve connected with us online or via social media.
Here at Ridgeline Review, we recognize the power of the creative arts, and we value their ability to connect our campus with the surrounding community and the larger world. Ridgeline Review is powered by student interns with guidance from college staff. As you experience the writing and artwork in these pages, we hope you feel as proud and inspired as we do!
Ridgeline Review serves as a creative space for this community, and the views and opinions expressed within don’t necessarily reflect those of ENMU-Ruidoso.
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• Poetry (up to 5 poems)
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Ridgeline review
Number 4, Spring 2024
Eastern New Mexico University - Ruidoso’s Literary and Fine Arts Journal
Helping ENMU-Ruidoso Students & the Ruidoso community (and beyond) reach new creative peaks!
Special thanks to the Community Foundation of Southern New Mexico and the Devasthali Family Foundation for their generous support.
I ask myself often, “Am I even alive right now?” This question became more common after my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor. That morning, I had decided to sleep in late since I had been up on the phone late the night before. It was a regular weekend of waking up, getting ready for work, leaving for work, getting back from work, getting ready for bed, and laying there until I fell asleep. Except, that is not what happened that day. During work, my brother and I had been arguing over some drama that had happened at school. “You’re fake!” he yelled at me. “Don’t ever talk to me again.” I replied with a smirk on my face knowing I was irritating him. “If anyone is fake it’s definitely you,” I said. It was all very childish as I look back at it now. I would have never guessed that I would be looking back at that argument as many times as I did, and blaming myself the first few weeks my mom stayed in the hospital thinking it all happened because I stressed her out too much.
Before the tragedy, we were having the same debate for a week straight. Finally, my mother had enough. She added, reaching for the keys to the truck, “You two had better stop fighting, I must see a friend up the street,” leaving only an irate shadow in her wake. My brother and I went to our rooms after choosing to avoid each other. I was sitting in bed, contemplating ways to irritate my brother, when I heard my door swing open. It was about ten o’clock at night, and I had no idea that after the moment that door opened my life would never be the same.
My second-oldest sister had to rush across my room to get to the front door. The entryway leading to the realm of events is something I could never have anticipated. Curiosity caused me to jump up from where I was laying. I thought several queries: Why did she run? Why did she come across as worried? Who was it that welcomed me? What was going on? I got to my feet and followed her. I wondered as I hurried through the halls of our home, wishing the walls could talk and tell me what was going on. I kept chasing after her and yelling, “What’s happening? Are you alright?”
My mom had come back from her friend’s house, and as she pulled into our driveway she had a seizure that caused her to crash into the back of our ice cream truck. She had managed to open the car door and fall out before becoming unconscious after hitting her head. Our dog at the time, Bear, was barking in the background, and in a way, it seemed as if he knew what was going on. My sister had heard him barking before looking out the window and seeing my mom unconscious on the floor. It was like in the movies where they only show clips of what goes on during an unpleasant situation. It is hard to recall exactly what happened other than the main points that occasionally play in my head. I do not like to remember or try to at all. The idea of seeing your mother’s head bleeding as she is unconscious on the floor is not anything I like to recall, mostly when she’s all I have.
You never think about what you would do in situations like this, and you never think you will be in one like that. In my mind it always seemed like these types of things only happened in the movies. Seeing my mom unconscious on the floor as
my older sister put pressure on her head where she had started bleeding after falling out of the car was something that replayed during my sleepless nights. All while my sister screamed “Help, someone please help!” plus a deep endless hole of whispers coming from the neighbors who had gathered around to help and see what was happening, ending with the echoing of two ambulance sirens followed by a firetruck. At that moment I recall my youngest brother crying on the phone with my oldest sister on the other end. He begged her to drive fast, his voice barely strong enough to make out a sentence.
As the paramedics were strapping my mom to take her to the hospital I remember standing there wondering, “Am I even alive?” I must have been in shock because I actually said it aloud. There standing next to me was my brother. “You are, but this doesn’t feel real,” he responded. I looked up at him. He had always been taller, but his eyes were filled with tears that would only be set free after he locked himself behind his bedroom door. He looked at me and asked, “Was it our fault? Did we stress her out so much that she had a seizure?” I watched the lights of the ambulance switch from red to blue to white, and the only thing I could wonder was if I was alive. It did not feel real. I just wanted to wake up and have my mom be completely fine like how she was a few hours ago.
Everyone eagerly awaited the outcome as soon as everything calmed down. My sister’s husband and my two older sisters chatted while they waited in our living room. While we waited for my mother to return, my two younger brothers watched a movie in my mother’s room. Me? In front of the warmth, I sat on the floor of my bedroom. The world offended me. I despised God. I despised the cosmos. I only desired my mother. I could not help but realize how foolish I had been not to appreciate my mother’s gifts and make the most of our time together. I might not ever see her again, for all I knew. I tend to be a cup-half-empty kind of person. I just waited for one phone call to see if she was awake or responsive, anything. It seemed to take forever. I felt like I was stuck in a time loop, in the same setting. I thought to myself, What if this is an impractical joke, time stopping, that the universe is playing on me to make me suffer?
I was mad at myself for all the fights, arguments, and times I chose to leave instead of staying in with my mom. It was all coming back to haunt me like a bad picture your friend found of you before you knew how to look presentable. I always feared time moving fast and growing up and my life flashing right before me, but never would I have guessed that I would wish on every star in the sky for it to move faster. I paced my room, checking my phone every few seconds like a smoker aching for another cigarette, looking to see how long it had been since I last checked. It was the worst torture I could imagine, something I wouldn’t even wish upon my worst enemy. My head was spinning with ideas, thoughts, and emotions.
“Angelica, come here,” my sister yelled from the living room. I ran not knowing why she called, but hoping it was because she had received news. My sister held her phone up to me. It was my mom. My hands were shaky as I reached for the phone. I was instructed by my sisters to take the call privately as they cried on our couch. My oldest sister was being cuddled by her husband all while my second oldest sister wiped her tears away with her sleeve as she sniffled and pointed back to my room. Grabbing that phone, I never could have imagined what I was
about to hear. Seeing both of my older sisters crying, I knew what was coming next was not good news.
I secretly hoped that my sisters were shedding happy tears as my mother reassured them that everything would be all right. When I entered my room, I asked on the phone, “Are you okay?” In response, her voice cracked with the discomfort you get after sobbing. The woman I believed to be the strongest in the world had been crying. “I’m going to tell you something important, but you have to be strong,” she said, “and you can’t tell your younger brothers. They won’t be able to understand what I’m about to tell you, they’re too young.”
I was not sure what she would say next and that was what scared me the most. “After running some tests, the doctors came back and said I had a brain tumor,” she said. After all the time I had waited, never would I have wanted to hear that. I wanted to be strong, I did not want to cry in front of her, but my younger self yelled inside of me. I needed my mom, and I still do, and I always will.
When returning my sister’s phone, I was emotionless. All during this I asked myself, “Am I even alive right now?”
BEAUTY OF LIFE Anaiah-Rae Trujillo
FLOWER IN THE SHELL
Anaiah-Rae Trujillo
supernova
Allie Payne
After I found out about his infidelity I collapsed in on myself like a dying star, hot, supernova. Mind on hyperdrive.
Was I not enough? Was I not beautiful? Was I not worthy?
Sand-colored carpet bit into my legs like tiny fire ants. Lemon-fresh Clorox stung my eyes, coaxing more salty tears from their oceanic depths. The journal sat in my lap, an image of our cat on the cover, staring at me with judgment in her topaz eyes. My stomach roiled, a milky way of explosions, sick with the thought.
I know what I did was wrong. Does it outweigh his crimes?
Am I not enough?
Am I not beautiful? Am I not worthy?
Her name ricochets through my skull, pounding each thought with its fists of hatred, an asteroid belt of violence. I am alone in my darkness.
MILKY WAY OVER SIERRA BLANCA
Jack McCaw
a tale told in smoke
RJ Gonzalez
The dark night was quite peaceful as a gentle breeze blew over the desert landscape. Cacti and dry straw bushes dotted the sandy terrain, along with groups of desert trees and a long set of wooden and steel tracks that stretched into the distance. The hoots of owls and the howls of wolves broke the silence momentarily, before all that was left was that gentle breeze. Two moons hung high in the sky, illuminating the desert in a gentle yellow glow. The way they were positioned, it almost looked like two large eyes were staring down, watching for something interesting.
In the distance, a repeating sound of metal thumping against metal could be heard, and it was quickly getting louder, louder, louder. Before long, the face of a metallic machine could be seen rolling over the sandy hills along the tracks, with a long steel guard poking forward and a round metallic plate, with two glowing orbs that looked like eyes. A loud horn blared from the machine as it sped forward, the rest of its body rolling over the hills like a long, large snake. Some sections of it’s body glowed with lights coming from inside, with a cacophony of different noises heard outside of the machine’s open windows. Sounds of laughter and joy, of loud shouting and burping. Where there weren’t lights, all that could be heard was the sound of its wheels clacking against the metal tracks as it zoomed by.
The large steam train continued on its way, kilometers away from it’s next destination but moving quickly. In some of cars, some passengers were dead asleep in the middle of the night, in their own comfortable bunks, with their adventuring gear beside them. From swords and armor to maps and treasures, from potions and spell books to wands and instruments. In other cars, the party was just getting started, as passengers rallied together to play games like poker and pool, and to sing common songs while drunk at the bar.
Among the passengers dancing and singing and playing, a group of three sits at a well furnished table in a closed off room, with drinks and foods of different kinds laid out in front of them. Two sit on one end, eating their meals and drinking their drinks, as the third smiles and casually strums a tune on his instrument, stopping at moments to readjust the strings.
“This is some damn good food!” one of them said, a short muscular woman with light brown skin, choppy brown hair, and a large axe still strapped to her backpack.
“I would expect so, Lorna,” the musician spoke, strumming the strings on his strange violin, listening to the notes coming out of the string instrument’s two brass horns. “The chef aboard this train is renowned in many cities!”
Lorna’s friend, a taller fellow with a lankier build, with tan skin and a black bun of hair, wearing a long bright robe, said, “It tastes even better when its free!” He took a long sip of his drink and set down the glass. “Thank you for the meal, though I do not believe we caught your name, stranger.” His eyes fixed on the musician across from the two of them.
They had only met the man half a day ago, and at first, he didn’t look like much. He was a much older man, likely late sixties or early seventies, with wrinkles and scars along his face and arms. His skin color was that of a dark blue or purple tone, contrasted by his light brown eyes that almost appeared to glow in the dimly lit stall. His hair was long, bundled up in a pony tail, and its coloring was graying out of its chestnut brown color. Resting atop his head was a bundle of branches with colorful leaves atop, which seemed to form a type of crown. At first, he appeared to be a poor man in need of help in that cave where the two adventures had found him in, with only a sewn-together sack, a musical instrument, and a dagger at his side. Upon closer analysis though, he seemed more well off than they had initially thought, with a well furnished, dark green buttoned up shirt and simple yet elegant blue pants. Some of the markings on his arms at first looked like wrinkles or scars, but upon a closer look could be seen as extensive tattoos that ran up the arm and under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. And if that didn’t show that the man was more than he seemed, then what he had done to those monsters that attacked him would. Clarice still couldn’t wrap his head around it, aside from the vague knowledge he had about music-based magic being a real form of magic.
The musician chuckled, taking his hand off the instrument to run it through his dark and gray hair. “Of course, Clarice, my apologies. The name is Khalin, and it is pleasure to meet you both!”
The young man nodded, before taking another bite out of his food. Khalin gave a faint nod, before turning his attention back to the violin-like instrument, strumming the string again to check if it was still off. While the noise that came out of the two horns on both ends sounded okay, one of them sounded strange and discordant. The musician tsked in annoyance, before he turned it around to look inside of the horn that was making that odd sound. “Ah, there’s my little problem,” he muttered to himself, reaching inside of the horn to pull out a piece of rock that was lodged inside the horn. He placed the stone on the table and flipped the violin back around, strumming it one last time, smiling his toothy grin as the tuned sound came out perfectly. “Now that is much better!”
The two adventurers glanced at each other before they wiped their faces with their soft cloth napkins, turning their attention to Khalin. “So, you’re finally gonna tell us about yourself, bard?” Lorna asked, an excited grin forming on her face.
“I certainly am, but first I must know, what kind of story would you like to hear?” Khalin asked, standing from his seat.
Lorna looked over at Clarice and said, “Well, I think we both are very interested in who you are and what your deal is, so how about we start there?”
Khalin looked at Clarice, who nodded, taking another sip of his drink, and he grinned. “Very well, my friends.”
The bard held up his instrument and picked up his bow, placed it against the strings, and began to play a gentle tune as he spoke some arcane words. A colorful mist began to bellow out of the top horn, swirling in the air around them, before spreading out into the sides of the room, all the way into the corners. As
the smoke enveloped the walls and ceiling, the wash of messy colors began to take shapes: the lighter blues rose to the upper portions of the walls and onto the ceiling, creating a brightly lit sky, complete with white and gray clouds. The dark grays, browns, and greens went to the lower half of the room before taking on the shape of graveled paths that broke apart a grassy and earthy hill. While it wasn’t nearly as realistic as some spells out there that accomplished a similar affect, it was an incredible display of illusionary magic, to the point that it even hid the existence of the table at which the adventurers were sitting and the chairs on which they had been sitting.
As Khalin played, he suddenly sped up the pace of his song and the scene around them evolved from a simple hill into a town, as smoke created the illusion of buildings in the background, and people walking by with carts and animals beside them. At the center of the illusion, between the musician and his audience, a figure made of blue, green, and black smoke appeared and began walking in place. As the figure took on a firmer shape, Lorna and Clarice could tell it was a much younger version of their new friend, even though the exact features were still blurry. But he had the same shade of skin, a little bit lighter in tone, with the same shade of brown hair, just a little shorter, and missing the colorful crown.
Khalin stepped to the side to be in view of the two adventures and began to speak in a sing-song voice: “Oh, there once was a boy named Khalin who hailed from a riverside town, with an elven ma and a water-born pa. The two raised him well, as both a compassionate friend and an excellent speaker.” As he sang, the figure seemed to pass by two others who were much taller, before the figure suddenly grew a little taller as the two figures vanished. “And as the years went on, the boy was happy, but he also felt that he could do so much more with himself, and took off in search of a new purpose, alongside an old friend!”
The scene suddenly shifted, as did the bard’s song. The buildings and figures in the background dissipated, leaving behind the hilly scene from before, and as the smoky figure continued stepping in place, another figure appeared beside them. The figure appeared to be a knight, based on how the smoke formed the sharp edges of metallic armor. The knight seemed to have light colored skin and long black hair, tied up in a ponytail, with a large pendent hanging around her neck. The two smoky figures looked at each other, nodded, and were suddenly sprinting in place as the hills started to move with them.
“A childhood friend, Brook was, as well as a strong swordsman,” Khalin continued, “she was the best of the best and took on the worst of the worst! And as her friend began to leave town, she caught up with him and joined him on a journey far from home!” The musician let out a chuckle, playing his instrument with beautiful intent. “And what a journey it was!”
He stopped playing momentarily and the smoke lost its color, before he began to play again. This time the tone was soft, melancholy, and haunting to the ears of the young adventures. The smoke regained its color, but where there were bright blues and greens, the scene took on a dark purple hue, with tall trees hanging overhead and blocking out the sky. The ground was colored in dark browns and blacks and seemed almost mushy, like a swamp. Behind Khalin, the two figures
were standing on the doorstep of a brown hut, with the colorful flowers hanging out of the window.
Khalin dropped the sing-song voice, though still gently playing that haunting tone as he spoke: “It all began in a small swamp, where it was dangerous to venture. Tales of disappearances and horrific monsters began in this swamp, though the two friends didn’t mind. After all, it was the danger they were truly looking for.”
With another change in the tune, the scene changed again, but this time to show the inside of the hut, as the two smoky figures took center stage once more. The colors felt brighter, as the flowers that were hanging on the outside were covering the floor on the inside. There was a simple table in the single room hut, with two chairs on both sides, and one chair at the far end. The one farthest from the two seemed nicer than the rest, as it had a bright green leather backing, while the others were simply made of wood. Otherwise, the room appeared to be empty.
As the two figures approached the table, Khalin continued: “In this hut, the boy and his friend expected much more. They expected a dastardly witch to be waiting to cook them into her soup, or for a family of crocs to find them a tasty treat. At first, they were disappointed, but not all is as it seems.”
As the two figures approached the table, Khalin adjusted his bow to change the tone again, and another plume of smoke escaped from the horn before it found its spot in the bright green chair on the far end of the table. Then, it created an explosion of color on the dark background, before settling on a form that resembled a woman with pale facial features, long bright green hair, and a green and pink dress. The smoky woman appeared in middle of the air, before sinking down and into the green seat.
As the figure’s hand waved in front of her, Khalin said, “The woman who appeared offered us a seat and something to eat. While the friends refused the second offer, they hesitantly took her up on her first.” As he said that, the forms of Khalin and Brook stood for a moment, before they sat across from each other at the far end of the table. The woman’s arms then moved around silently as Khalin continued. “She told us that her name was Kosiga, and that she was an old fairy from another realm. She explained that the hut was a place she liked to visit, away from the people of towns and cities, and that normally no one would be able to find this place. Brook then asked how she and her friend found it.”
The form of Kosiga suddenly seemed to dim in color, before she placed her hands on the table and stood. “She bitterly talked about a roaming magician that had walked into the hut and stolen something while she was away.” She walked away from the table and towards another end of the hut, where there was now a display case that seemed empty. The stolen item, she explained, was a magical staff that had the ability to magically conceal the land. The woman turned back towards the two friends and clasped her hands. She then told the young adventurers that if they helped her get the staff back, she would help them in return.” The smoky figures of Khalin and Brook looked at each other, before they both looked to the fairy woman and nodded. “They had agreed.”
Kosiga’s form stepped back to the table, and as she did, she plucked two bright green flowers from the vines that crawled on the window seal. She seemed to look at them closely, before glancing at Brook, then at the younger Khalin. “To Brook, she said that she saw a strong fighter in the young woman. To Khalin, she said she saw a lot of untapped potential worth exploring.” The smoke form then handed both of them the flowers. “She said that, if things were to go wrong, to crush the flower and accept its power, before she vanished.” And as he said that, the plume of colorful smoke dispersed, leaving Brook and Khalin at the table with the flowers in front of them.
Khalin slowed his music to a stop, letting the colors of the smoke dim back into solid gray, before he began playing a slow, rhythmic thumping tune as best he could on the string instrument. As the colors returned, the smoky figures could be seen scaling a steep and rock-covered path on the side of a mountain. While Lorna and Clarice watched the scene unfold, they felt like they got hit with a type of vertigo as they glanced down to see nothing but the sky of the scene below them. Khalin glanced at the two of them and said, “Ah, apologies. You may wanna close your eyes for this part,” before shifting the position of his bow on the strings and gently pulling it down along them. As he did so, the position from which they were viewing began to shift towards the mountain, before eventually stopping on the face, placing young Khalin and Brook at the center. The real Khalin watched Lorna and Clarice, and once the momentary motion sickness subsided, they nodded for him to continue.
“Very well,” he stated. Khalin forced out a cough before continuing on, back to his sing-song tone. “And once more, the two friends set out, now in search of a magic staff and a slippery fingered bard! Unfortunate that they couldn’t truly prepare for what was to come,” he sang, slightly adjusting the tone being played.
The scene shifted once more, and this time it seemed like the two adventurers were in the mouth of a dimly lit cave, Khalin carrying a lit torch and Brook wielding a two handed broadsword. The cave’s structure moved on as they walked forward, the light at the end of the tunnel vanishing behind them, before a new one appeared in front of them. As they moved closer, shapes began to form beyond the opening.
Then, as they neared the opening, a sharp note suddenly escaped from the instrument, and in the same moment a bright light exploded in the center before the scene went dark.
The real Khalin stopped momentarily, as he stepped back towards the table in the train car room to get a drink of water. After having his drink, he stepped back to the wall of the room and began playing once more. This time, his music sounded tense, with short pauses between notes. As the scene returned, it moved from the tunnel and into the chamber. While Khalin and Brook took center stage once more, there were many more smoky forms that surrounded them now. Most were people wearing simple gray cloaks with hoods up, and when Lorna tried to look inside the hood, all she could see was a dark fog inside of them. One of these figures held an open book in their hand, and as they moved their hand along the book’s page, they rose up and threw something at Khalin and Brook, who dodged to the sides
before an explosion caught the wall behind them.
“The two realized that they had gotten themselves into something far more dangerous than they could’ve realized. And something far closer to home than they ever knew. But they didn’t have the time to think on it if they wanted to survive.”
Once Khalin finished speaking, Brook leaped up and began attacking the folks in the gray robes. Some brandished common weaponry such as daggers and short swords, while others seemed more skilled with magic as they held onto their own spell books and began casting spells. While Brook was putting up a good fight, she seemed to be struggling, and the younger Khalin didn’t seem like he could do much but watch as his friend fought. As a few of the gray cloaked folk began to target him with spells and daggers at the ready, he looked into the palm of his hand, and Lorna and Clarice could see the flower he had been given.
“Young Khalin thought to himself about what his options were. He was wary of the fairy’s offer, unsure about what would happen to him, but as he watched Brook continue fighting, he decided that the consequences of this action were a price worth paying if he could help his friend.”
Khalin’s smoky hand then closed around the flower, and as his enemies launched their attack, time seemed to slow to a stop. He looked around, before he opened his hand. The brightly colored smoke began to stream into his chest, and Kosiga’s familiar form appeared before him, holding something in her hands. It looked like a circlet of branches and vines.
“As the flower’s magic flowed throughout Khalin’s body, he then understood who the fairy really was,” the bard spoke, slowing his music. “He realized that she wasn’t just an old fairy woman, but one of the oldest and most powerful witches of the fairy world, and that he didn’t just accept her power, but accepted a deal from her. When she appeared to him in this stopped moment of time, she said, ‘Thank you for taking me up on my offer. I believe you will serve me well in the years to come. All that I ask in return is that you serve me well, and that you make sure that everyone knows to never cross me again.’” Kosiga’s form approached him, before placing the circlet atop his head.
And with that, her form dissipated, and time suddenly resumed as a magical blast of fire and a dagger was thrown at Khalin. The young man dodged to the side again and threw his arms forward. As he did so, the bard raised the tone of the music to sound triumphant, and his smoky self unleashed a bright green and pink attack towards the two who had just attacked him. They were promptly knocked onto their backs and slid backwards a few feet. The others who were about to attack froze and stared at Khalin, who stared at his own hands in disbelief. But he lifted his head and ran at the cloaked figures, before the scene suddenly began to change rapidly. The scene showed Khalin and Brook fighting the cloaked figure back to back, and then it showed Khalin getting overwhelmed, before Brook knocked them away and helped him up.
“As the battle went on, the two overwhelmed the forces that they were up against, and before long, the remaining figures fled, whether through the tunnel or through
teleportation.” As Khalin spoke, the figures began to disappear one by one, until there was only one left. “The final figure, the wizard that attacked us, said that this wasn’t the end, before following his comrades in their escape.” The wizard then seemed to snap his finger and disappear, in the same manner as those who teleported away.
As the smoke of the scene settled, the two adventurers were leaning against the cave’s wall, looking exhausted yet talkative. “After the fight, Khalin and Brook rested and recovered, and Brook had a lot of questions to ask, which Khalin did his best to answer. While the two tried their best to understand what had happened to him, they decided to find their objective and get out before anyone else came looking. Before long, they had.”
Then the smoke’s color changed. It turned from the dark grays and blacks of the cave and into the bright greens and pinks and browns of Kosiga’s old hut. As the music slowed, Khalin, Brook, and Kosiga appeared at the center of the room. Brook was holding a long staff in her hands, holding it out for Kosiga to take. The fairy’s smoky hand gripped it and pulled it close.
As Kosiga’s form silently spoke, Khalin continued. “Kosiga said that she was incredibly grateful to us for our help, and that she would reward us well.” The fairy women turned and stepped to the staff’s display case, locking it inside, before she turned and waved her arms outward. In front of Brook and Khalin, a small treasure chest appeared. “Her first reward was a chest, which carried in it a lot of gold and many gems and jewels.” As Khalin said that, his younger self leaned down and opened the chest to reveal many gold coins with rubies and sapphires and other gem types on top. “But that wasn’t her only gift.”
As Kosiga stepped back toward them, she now carried two items in her hands. In her left hand was a golden sword, encrusted with gems and marked with what looked like arcane symbols. In her right hand was an instrument, the same stroh violin that the smoke had been pouring out of all night. She gave the sword to Brook, and Khalin said, “To Brook, she gifted a powerful weapon from her realm that had the power to find evil and corruption and end it.” Then, she turned to the younger Khalin, giving him the musical instrument. “And to me, she provided him with a powerful instrument. One that would allow me to control my new abilities, and to greatly enhance them, if I was patient enough to learn.”
The bard smiled, before changing the music again to sound jumpy and excited. The scene once again changed, showing Brook and Khalin walking on a road. “And from there, our journey began. Before we knew it, our little adventuring duo grew into an entire team!” As he said that, three new figures appeared, walking alongside or behind the two friends. One figure was dressed in simplistic leather clothing, with a straw hat on their head and a traditional violin in their hands. The second was wearing a full set of armor with an ocean tide symbol painted on the front of the chest plate, and a large mace strapped to their side. The third and last figure was dressed in fancy gray and red robes and wearing a traditional wizard’s hat with similar coloring.
Picking back up the sing-song tone, Khalin sang, “First came my new musical
teacher, by the name of Quinn! Powerful were her songs, as well as her spells, and her tongue was as sharp as her blade! Then came Siya, sent on a holy mission from the ocean to fight the troubles of the land! And last came Nyx, a foe turned friend, whose magic reshaped the world with spells in their hand! And together, our little adventuring party took on the world!”
Multiple different scenes began to form in the smoke around the room. One scene seemed to be the group fighting a large creature made of stone and rock, while another showed them sailing out to sea in a large ship, and another showed them battling against the gray cloaked figures from before. There were many battles and moments of adventure that appeared in the smoke, before it finally settled on a simple smoky backdrop with all five of them standing side by side to each other.
“But unfortunately, the adventuring life is not very sustainable,” Khalin said as the music slowed. Then, one by one, they began to disappear. First was Siya, then Quinn, then Brook, and finally Nyx, before all that was left was Khalin, who seemed to grow older with each missing member of his group. “It’s not a life you can live forever, and while my friends are still out there, wherever they may be, I’m the one left to carry on our stories…”
Khalin took a deep breath, bringing the music to a stop, before he snapped his fingers. Suddenly, the window in their room opened, and all of the smoke that had been sitting in the room flew out faster than Lorna and Clarice could react. And now, the room was back to how it was as the nighttime desert landscape flew by them.
With another snap of his fingers, the window closed. Khalin wiped some sweat from the top of his head, before laying his instrument down and taking his seat. He picked up his glass of water and took a long sip. With a loud sigh he said, “Well, I told you my story. Now tell me, what’s yours?”
ANGELIC DEVOURÉ Alyson Clark
I’m TIRED
Alyson Clark
I’m tired. Tired of the constant cycle. My life of apples and coffee wears me down. My feet ache and I am just too tired to be here today. Or the next. Or the next. Every day resembles the last. Every day in this bleak, gray, and smelly apple. An apple infested with corrupt worms and geese. First, I wake up. It is routine to contemplate skipping “Zero Hour”. I’m not a morning person. My grumpy morning self always convinces me to call into work or skip the first period. My morning self is the devil on my shoulder. I always wake up about five minutes before I need to leave. Just the necessities get done. Clothes, shoes, and if I’m lucky I brush my teeth. Then in a hurry leave. With just enough time to spare, I make it to band class. I’m tired. So tired that my day is a blur. It resembles the days that came before: second period and third period. There is no longer much of a difference between the two. I sit. I work. I get an occasional nap. Because. I. Am. Tired. Fourth period I begin to feel like I am waking up. Am I? I don’t know. I’m too tired. I work and I go to lunch. The outside heat feels nice. The bright, warming, glowing sun. It makes me feel awake. But back to my prison I return. Inside the concrete walls of this abnormally large cell, which we call a school. Back into my daze I fall. Until. I remember what was to come. The dreaded seventh period. The class is filled with nothing but essay practice. My brain. It is too foggy to come up with an essay. I lose my train of thought. I stop. I re-read. I contemplate re-doing my horrendous work. Then turn it in. It is almost over. Or at least school. Until tomorrow of course. God, I am so tired. What day is it now? They all feel the same. Ah yes, eighth period. The dim, stale room filled with nothing but the constant clamoring of other geese. So loud, their honking keeps me awake. I’m tired. It is the perfect room for a nap besides the elephant in the room. But first. I must work. This class feels like an eternity. I can’t even sleep because of the nuisances behind me. But. There. It. Is. The bell! Yes, yes, yes! It’s over. I am free. For about ten minutes… Then I am off to my next prison. A small, confined coffee cup. When will it overflow? It is like I am trapped in a fishbowl. Eyes on me. That once warm comforting sun turns into a laser beam when going through my little bowl. I’m so hot. I’m so tired. I don’t know if I’ll make it through. I like to think the four espresso shots to start the shift help. But I don’t think so. We push. We push. Then I trudge. Through the rest. It feels as though I am sleepwalking. Trapped inside a constant dream. I wish to be freed. Freed from this tired spell. But I do not have the energy. I am too tired.
Prairie
Old windmill obelisk
OKLAHOMA
Austin Hursh
salt licks, pasture grass and cactus
Pesticidal mesquite claws the sky like dying driftwood tarantulas
Wind and rain expose the pale lime skeletons of red mesas
Crouched on coolers of Coors in salt sweat cowboy hats the men bring a new language to horned toads and jackrabbits
The stars crowd the prairie Parthenon and faerie rides circle ‘round the fire bound spacefarers
Coyotes run through the long canyons of silence.
Oil Boom
Boneyard of oil field pipes tarred and rusting
A burned carnival of fallen black towers
Tumbleweeds run from wind moans
Muddy roads in the middle of wheat fields lead to empty tanks.
The wheat in winter seed in summer green
It moves like the ocean
Tractor treads slow and farmhouse floats
Clouds take their time and the sound of cicadas
Catch a crawdad with bacon on a string
Jupiter’s eye set for a moonrise
Hear kai-o-tees so come running home with lightning bugs in a jar
Take off those muddy boots
Look at the wheat
Listen to the wind
They move like the ocean. White tornadic tendrils
dip into cookie jar earth and rise to shake off debris breaking alchemical unions
Heartbeat cracks in Old 66 thump thump thump thump
It’s concrete shoulders crumbling from piercing scouts of grass
Two green seas pressing in What scars will remain?
The cafe
Old farmers in overalls and caps cigarette smoke and coffee steam
sunlit vapors slowly stirred by a stranger’s intrusion
Harvest talk between sips of coffee drags of cigarettes sizzling grill.
The old barn
Jumping from the loft into the hay
The railroad bridge Pennies on the rails
These tests of bravery they fell down
Faces in old pictures never ask their names
My Grandmother in her kitchen walking in her wheat field holding a sheet to catch the mulberries
I’m shaking from the tree
I should have listened to her stories
VENICE
Austin Hursh
THE STORYTELLER
Raven Twobirds Arbuckle
RECLAMATION
Nicholas Giusti
desert rescue
Joseph Montoya
My first search and rescue as a park ranger helped make a difference in someone’s world. Death is common in national parks. Visiting recreational sites carries inherent danger for people. A national park provides the infrastructure in which a response can be mounted to rescue a person or recover remains. My park, White Sands National Park, has many dangers. The most common cause of death is illness connected to the heat. So, of course, our park provides the needed infrastructure and staff to respond to such illnesses. One summer I was able to participate in a search and rescue that was heat-related.
On the day of the rescue, we arrived early at the park. We were going into the field that day, so we wanted to make sure we spent as little time in the hotter parts of the day. Any hour past two in the afternoon was unsafe. The summer daylight sun can create temperatures as high as 112 degrees. The sand is made of gypsum which can reflect the sun’s heat and amplify its intensity. When we arrived at the park, we needed to prepare our transportation. We used a truck to pull a trailer with a utility terrain vehicle or UTV for short. This was needed because traveling through the dunes on foot was extremely difficult. Most of the dune field is filled with piles of sand that reach a height as tall as a two-story building. On a hot day, trekking through the desert dunes was impossible to attempt and may lead to death. Using a UTV only required the effort of a person pressing a pedal with their foot. Our UTVs had storage to carry extra water, food, and tools needed for our task. We had two UTV styles; our choice for that day was a four-seat version. The doors were removed, and no windshield existed. The sides of the vehicle were rough with all the different mesquite thorns scraping the paint. The tires were airless because the same mesquite bush’s thorns would poke into the tires and create a flat tire. Flats in the middle of the desert are not a good situation, especially if the heat is intense. Finally, a little cell phone repeater was installed on the top of the roof. This allowed us to communicate with cell phones in places with little cell coverage. Our UTV was also special. When a person pressed the pedal to accelerate nothing would happen. Sometimes it would creep forward like a turtle. Other times it would creep forward then a sudden boost of speed would be felt.
I was with the Chief of Resources that day. A tall man who was always unsure of his height, so he slouched. A soft-spoken person who was sometimes hard to understand. He spoke with a muffled tone and would mumble when he was nervous. A biologist by education and now the main resource for all things at White Sands. When talking about a subject he liked, the chief would become super excited and would suddenly speak clearly. This was a trait I shared with him. Every day he wore green colored jeans and a uniform t-shirt with the green version of the National Park Service arrowhead. The back of the shirt had the letters NPS. Completing the look, the Chief wore slip-on boots that were size 13. We could recognize Chief’s footprints because they were the only footprints that looked like a giant’s foot. Chief is also medically trained and has experience doing search and recuses. His biological technician calls him a camel because he only brings a small bottle of water into the field. Ironically, he also walked like a camel, moving from side to side.
The UTV, Chief, and I were in the backcountry on the day of the rescue. The temperature was around 99.9 degrees. I was already tired but excited. We were digging through our site when we heard a voice on the radio.
” Dispatch to Chief,” said a screeching voice.
The chief grabbed his radio from his belt.
“Go ahead,” he responded with a muffled tone.
The deep voice responded: “We have a report of distressed hikers in your area. Located on the Alkali Flat trail. Two older females wearing blue shorts and pink shirts that have breast cancer awareness written on the back. Break. One female is unconscious. The other female is fine but is exhausted.”
Chief looked at me with a concerned face while also looking like his brain was rushing with thoughts of what needed to be done.
“Uh...copy, dispatch. Joseph and I will go locate the hikers.”
Chief grabbed his bag, and we ran to our trusted UTV. I quickly sat in the passenger seat and buckled the safety belt. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t want to look nervous, so I had a stoic face. No emotion. Both the Chief and I placed our helmets on our heads. He turned the ignition on to start the UTV. Pressing the pedal, we accelerated nowhere. Chief looked around at his gear shift and his dials. He turned the vehicle’s engine off and on. Nothing changed. I became a little frustrated, suggesting he try putting his seat belt on. Chief again pressed the pedal and a huge boost of forward motion happened. We traveled quickly through the dunes going up and down the different slopes. This fast motion made me dizzy and a little nauseous. We were cautious when we were close to the top of the dunes. Sometimes there are steep drops that can end in a sudden stop at the bottom. This limitation slowed us down. After a couple of minutes, we spotted a speck in front of us. One was standing straight up the other parallel to the ground. It was bright from the sun, so it was difficult to see. We aimed for the color dot. The specks became bigger and bigger until we finally could tell that they were people. The situation did not look good from our vantage point. I felt a pain in my stomach. When we finally got to the hikers, the two women were in bad shape. One was on the ground and not responding. She was our priority. The woman’s face was in the sand and red like an apple. Her companion was trying to lift her or roll her, but she was weak from the heat.
Chief grabbed his radio. “Chief to Dispatch.”
A high-pitched female voice responded, “Go ahead.”
“We found our hikers and one patient needs medical attention,”
A new voice responded, “This is Medic A. We are in the park, and we will be arriving at the trailhead in a few minutes.”
Chief rolled the woman over onto her back, he opened the single water bottle that he carried in the field. He slowly poured the water onto her face and some into her mouth. Nothing happened. But then her hand moved slightly. I was relieved.
“Joseph, I need you to help me sit her up a little,” said Chief.
Chief grabbed the heatstroked lady’s hands.
“Ok, Joseph, I want you to help me by pushing on her back as I pull forward. I’m going to place her in the UTV’s back seat. But I can’t lift her in this position.”
I positioned myself and waited. Chief pulled her arms.
“Ok, push.”
I pressed on her back slowly, and at the same time, Chief lifted her by rolling her onto his shoulders. Chief, tall and slouched, carried her to the UTV just like a camel. The shade from the UTV roof provided some relief to the hiker because she started to become aware. She started moving her hands and she opened her eyes. Chief, with a smile on his face, looked at her.
“Are you okay?”
She looked back and grabbed his hands. He held her hand and started to lift her.
“Let’s get you sitting up. Joseph, please grab me some water, I need the warm bottle, please. There should be some covered in the back. I think it might be under the pads.”
I quickly rummaged through the stuff and found the warm water bottle. The bottle was beaten and rough. I handed it to the Chief. He opened the bottle and handed it to the woman. The Chief grabbed the seat belt and buckled in the distressed lady.
“Okay, ma’am, we are gonna take you to the doctor to get you checked.”
The Chief looked at the other hiker.
“You too, ma’am, you can sit down in the back. Just please put on your seat belt. I will grab you two helmets.”
Chief walked to the back of the UTV and found two helmets. He bent forward and handed the ladies their helmets.
“Okay, Joseph, let’s go.”
I grabbed my helmet and sat in the front passenger seat. Chief pressed the pedal and it just crept forward. I pointed to his seat belt. He buckled his seat belt and we lurched forward.
The day of my first search and rescue had a happy ending. Death is a normal part of the national parks. One of the hardest truths a ranger will learn is that people have the right to die in the parks. Even though my first ended in a happy ending, many searches and rescues ended up being recoveries. This notion will probably be something I will have a hard time accepting. But I will always be grateful that we were there to save those ladies.
YUCCA
Jocelyn Rose
HEADED WEST
Bud Goodson as told to Twila Lemons
I met all kinds of people when I headed west. Most of them were good to me. Some would invite me to their homes and feed me with no charge at all. One night I stayed with an old bachelor. He fed my horse good and cooked me good meals. I had little money and asked him what I owed him. He said, “Well, I hate to charge you but you are just a kid, so I must charge you so in life you learn to pay your way.” He asked just 50 cents so I paid him and saddled my horse. He asked if I could put shoes on the back feet of his horse. He said he might kick a little. He had shod the front feet. I got my rope and tied up his hind foot with no trouble at all. He asked what charge and I told him 50 cents and he blew a top. He said, “I furnished the nails and shoes!” I said, “But you were afraid to shoe the back ones.” I would have done it without pay if he hadn’t charged me for the night lodging. People are different. That was the way it was out on the western trail.
the road
Twila Lemons
The Road
can be covered with sand, hard dirt, grass, concrete, or pine needle. You still walk the Road from birth to death sometimes weak, sometimes strong, sometimes powerful, later feeble.
You may walk nude you may walk with no shoes you may walk in the dark but there is help on the way, so you get there. Mortal way—it’s the end of the trail Spiritually, the Road continues—living forever you did not fail.
If you are privileged enough to see the sun of a new day walk the Road without fear
At this time in life, toss the heavy load, welcome the Road look for the way—it’s now here.
THE MOTHER STAR TENDER
Caitlin Daugherty
protection in the mesilla valley
Desiree Bustamantes
I stepped outside into the bright New Mexico sun of the Mesilla Valley and peered around the corner of the family home. I found my grandfather wearing a longsleeve denim shirt missing several buttons, adorned with a beige bucket-style hat, and armed with a flat trowel tool used for restoring pieces of adobe. He stood there, ever so cautiously standing on makeshift scaffolding materials, slathering on mud plaster to the side of our home for additional protection against the archenemies of adobe: wind and rain. I instantaneously felt beads of sweat line my forehead, and wondered why in the world he would be wearing long sleeves in this heat. Before I could relay my typical introduction, he must have felt my presence and shouted, “Hey, mija, grab that spray bottle with water and bring it here.” I did a slight nod by lifting my chin to the sky for a quick second as a signal for understanding his request and raced toward the lime green bottle on the floor he had pointed to. Thinking I knew it all, I eagerly began to spray both of us in the face to generate a cool mist to combat the desert sun. He used no words but rather chuckled and made a look that only grandpas can make, indicating the error of my ways. “What? Okay, what is it for then?” I asked. He began to spray a few mists of water in the hole where the old brick was being replaced and said, “The water helps the new brick stick better.” I rolled my eyes, pursed my lips, and thought to myself, “Well isn’t that stupid. Water is what ruined it in the first place, and now water is what we are using to repair it. Whatever, what do I know?” I shrugged my shoulders and despite my inner thoughts said aloud, “Oh wow, Gramp, pretty neat.” I could see all over his face that he knew I didn’t think it was neat at all, but he smiled, lifting the right corner of his mouth, and graciously accepted my response. Despite already feeling foolish, I followed up with one more question, “Okay, and why are you wearing long sleeves?” He kept his eyes focused on his work, but shared, “Para proteger del sol.” I kept the Spanish word I didn’t know in my head, “proteger,” and scooted inside the kitchen, partly to get some answers for that expression and partly to see if anything more interesting was happening in there. Trust me, coming from a Hispanic family, there is ALWAYS something interesting happening in the kitchen.
The smell of tortillas on the comal engulfed the entrance to the little kitchen with blue and white swirled tiled floor. It was radiant and freshly hand-waxed, as Grandma always had it, which made it a prime atmosphere for the fierce sock sliding contests that frequently took place between me and all of my cousins. I lifted the lid on the maroon terracotta tortilla warmer and grabbed one with a few dark spots, but not quite crunchy, which was perfectly cooked to my liking. I dunked it into the brown plastic Country Crock container, let the butter melt for a few seconds, and stuffed it in my mouth. Pretty sure it was the tantalizing tortilla that caused me to forget my question about the meaning of that Spanish word Gramp had used earlier. Within seconds of my last bite, and before I could hear any of the juicy neighborhood gossip, my grandfather entered the room. “Desi, let’s go clear out the ditch banks, the water is almost ready to be let loose,” he said. Before I could even agree, he shouted, “Vamanos!” He sure seemed awfully excited to have so much work to do. He had already tossed all the necessary tools into the back of his 1980 forest green Ford truck, jumped in, and waved me over to the passenger side from the back window. By this time in his life, my grandfather
had to physically lift his leg with both hands placed firmly on his kneecap to switch the gearshift. Once I hopped in the truck, I looked at him with strong apprehension due to this challenge, but was thankful we were just headed up and down the road. I looked down at his hands as he lifted his leg, which told the story of his life, laden with blisters and imperfections.
The Mesilla Valley sits on both sides of the Rio Grande River which is almost 2,000 feet long and varies from six to sixty feet deep depending on where you are and the time of year. Gramp described how irrigation is essentially a method of transportation and distribution of this precious water source to help farmers care for their soil. As we stood there working side-by-side for about an hour and a half, I didn’t realize at the time, the priceless stories and advice he was sharing with me that I would take on my journey into adulthood. “When you see a farmer, thank a farmer. Their job isn’t easy,” he said. I didn’t need to ask any follow-up questions this time, because in just that amount of time we participated in, “la limpia,” I was exhausted and overheated. I rewarded myself by jumping into the ditch water further down the road, which had already been released to flow in other directions before heading to us. Although it certainly succeeded in cooling me off, I quickly realized that I had forgotten to take off my shoes. As we drove home, Gramp let me sit in the back bed of the truck, on top of the arched wheel well. He flipped the latch in the middle of the back window and slid both sides open to shout to me more effectively as we traveled. While adjusting the rearview mirror, peering back at me to make sure I was listening, he said, “Don’t play in the acequia alone. It is dangerous because you never know when the farmers will let the water go.” I took heed of his advice but was mostly preoccupied with thinking about how my grandmother would greet my soaking wet introduction back at home. Once we arrived, I leapt out of the truck and squelched in my drenched shoes to the front door, which was already being opened by my grandmother. “Leave your clothes in the porch, I set out some new clothes for you,” Gram said in an even tone. I started to say, “How did you know. . . Actually, never mind. Thank you!” The three of us finished that afternoon off on the same screened in porch, playing cards at an aged wooden table.
A few dog days of summer later, I found myself trying to fill up the hours of the day keeping myself occupied by doing things I probably shouldn’t have. I ran outside, with the back metal porch door slamming behind me. I picked up the black T-shaped air pump sitting underneath the mulberry tree in the corner of the yard. I sure loathed that mulberry tree . . . mostly due to its annual gift of allergies and debris clean up duty. I pumped a few rounds of air into my bicycle tires and ensured my wire clothes hanger was still tightly bound to the radio affixed to my handlebars. I yanked open the side fence and walked my bike to the front of the road. I gave a swift kick to the kickstand and allowed it to rest on its side, before pulling out the long radio antenna from the rectangular brown box. I twisted the knob trying to find any sound that was not entirely static and landed on a golden oldies station. As I sang along with various tunes courtesy of my grandmother’s taste, I ended up at the far end of the road where the massive acequia mouth of the ditch was. It was home to a large metal plate that controlled the water gateway and looked and worked like a guillotine. This was considered the “headgate,” which is at the upper end of the acequia responsible for releasing the water to the smaller adjacent ditches. I let my bike fall to the floor and jumped with both feet into the center of the ditch. Underneath the roadway was a tunnel made of circular tin that
lined a pathway from one side of the acequia to the other. I yelled inside, “Hello there!” Thankfully, when I received no reply, I found it safe to take a closer look inside. I ducked my head, crouched my body, and slowly made my way to the center. Despite how cramped the space was, I initiated my rockhounding skills and began to explore. Although it was a dry day in the Mesilla Valley, it could have been raining in the mountains. That being said, I can’t be sure whether it was New Mexico’s most common natural disaster of a flash flood, or a chain reaction of opened ditch gates . . . but within only sixty seconds, the water swept through the ditch, wiped me out of the tunnel, and kicked my legs out from under me. I began to panic as I was being pulled beneath the undertow gasping for air. I repeatedly tried to regain my composure, trying to firmly plant my feet on the ground in an effort to stand up. The ditch bank was lined with mud and algae, causing my feet to slip frantically. My body continued to jolt down the ditch bank, when I felt a calloused hand grab my right arm and yank me out of the water. I fell to the side of the bank and gulped mouthfuls of air. In his general style, Gramp muttered only a few words saying, “Thank God, and thank the acequia for letting you go. You scared me.” That was the one and only time I heard my grandfather say he was scared. For a few minutes, I said nothing and rested in the motionless shell of my body.
As we drove back home in continued silence, my stomach writhed in pain knowing I would face some type of consequences for my senseless choice in activity. We pulled into the driveway, and I sat there for a few seconds without moving. I had my head downward and without moving my head, shifted my eyes to look at my grandfather. When he didn’t say anything, I figured it was best to get it over with. It could have been the guilt or the 95-degree weather that made me feel as though I would faint at any moment. I took slow steps towards the front wooden door that often stuck and required a swift push to swing it open. Gram greeted me with such excitement that I immediately changed my mind on divulging my story and opted to respond with a fake smile. Gramp was not far behind me when Gram asked, “Well how did it go you two?” I felt my mouth open and my tongue shift back and forth, but no words came out, only hot shallow breaths. Gramp immediately chimed in, “Oh todo bien, how about here?” I quickly jerked my neck in his direction and looked at him with wide-eyed confusion. He gave me his signature hand signal of putting up his thumb, index finger and pinkie finger, while keeping his other fingers down, followed by a mischievous wink. Anyone watching could have seen the lump move down my throat, I finished my swallow and walked away pondering what had just transpired.
Until today, only me, Gramp, and the acequia knew about that story. Partially because after such a close encounter with death, I wanted to live and telling my Gram how careless I had been would have surely resulted in my demise. Instead, I walked away from the incident with an internal understanding of what the Spanish word “proteger” meant, which I didn’t understand at the onset of that summer. I also found out later in life that his distinctive hand signal was actually sign language for, “I love you.” From that day on, I felt a strong sense of protection from my grandfather as well as the land of the Mesilla Valley.
P.S. “I miss you and love you too, Gramp.”
clinging to life in this body
Andrea Martinez
Scared legs mixed with dark brown knees are my favorite.
Blood fueling the squishy leg muscles and giving them life.
Fingers thin and too fragile to cling to life’s hardships.
Hands using pens to take notes, blinking to suddenly cashiering giving change.
Following the green veins on my pale skin to my broad shoulders. Shoulders unfit for a small frame girl, still unable to hold up the stresses of being the “man of the house.”
Leading up to my dark brown eyes like a sky at night.
Eyes closing after a long day of class and waking early to the alarm of work.
Lips with no shape, only the color of baby’s breath.
Dark black hair like cigarette smoke in the air.
A body built to light to withstand heavy winds.
A spine attempting to connect the soul to the ground. Small rough feet forcefully, anchoring a petite girl.
SUNRISE OVER CARRIZOZO
Douglas Stanton
of returning Tar Banks
Harvey went missing in September. He was thirty-six and completely empty inside. He was never found because nobody went looking for him, and the only thing that remains of Harvey is a notebook under one stained mattress.
Tobias got married three weeks after he received his bachelor’s in marine biology. He asked Harvey to be his best man, to which he received a very blunt “No thank you.” He did not receive an explanation as to why, and Harvey didn’t tell him afterward that he had spent his dear friend’s wedding night curled up in a ball on his kitchen floor. Angels did not fall in love and get married, and Harvey knew the end was beginning.
He had paced for one hour and twenty-nine minutes on that same tiled floor after Tobias called him, explaining that he was now the father of a healthy daughter named Molly and that if Harvey wanted to meet her, they’d be in town. He knew that Tobias was making a joke because neither of them had ever left their hometown and his new research or something like that type of job was a short bus ride away. “Molly” was also the name of a former professor, he noted. Harvey didn’t like jokes and told him as such, but just received a strained-sounding chuckle from the other end. After nineteen seconds of silence, Tobias told him he’d stop by for a visit. Harvey tore a small chunk of his hair out after he hung up.
He almost didn’t answer the door when his friend knocked. He always knocked twice and never more, even if he didn’t get an answer the first time. “Their loss,” he’d say to the door, “I’m a wonderful conversationalist.” He was not. The divine shouldn’t worry about small talk in the first place.
“What are we supposed to talk about?” Harvey inquired, staring down at his fingernails, wishing he hadn’t looked Tobias in the eyes when he walked in. He needed to file his pointer finger’s nail down, but he didn’t have an emery board at home to do so. The room he was in smelled like Tang and cigarette smoke. His farm-animal-themed calendar displayed a spotted pig with “July” neatly printed above it.
“Well, Harv, you could start by congratulating me. The rest of the family has.”
Tobias didn’t sound like he wanted another congratulation. Harvey noticed that he kept glancing over at the poorly mixed orange powder settling in the bottom of his glass. He’d looked over at it seven times, he noted, which was more than he had looked at his “conversation” partner. Harvey felt like screaming.
“Why do I have to? Your wife did all the work. I ought to be shaking her hand after seventeen hours of labor. And with that horribly loud nurse in there, too. She’s a trooper.” Harvey tried to sound funny at times. It didn’t always work out, which always resulted in a rather heavy tongue bite. At one time, whatever poor soul that was conversing with him had to get a napkin from another room for him to dab the blood off his chin from doing so.
“You’re right. Forget about that, then. You can do that when you see her next. Could you get me another glass of this stuff?” Tobias held up his highball glass and tipped it towards Harvey. It was still half full, so all he got was a blank stare. Tobias set his glass back down, completely missing the coaster and continuing to create a tacky-looking ring on the end table. The room was silent for exactly forty-three seconds.
“Can we talk?” Harvey asked, silently.
“We’ve been talking, Harv,” Tobias responded, ashing his cigarette.
“Can we talk about you?”
“Are you still taking those pills your doctor prescribed? You seem a little more scattered than usual.” Tobias exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nose.
“You stopped drinking, but you’re still smoking. What’s your logic there? Shouldn’t you be trying to cut both out instead of just one?”
“I like my liver more than my lungs.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Harvey started rubbing the underside of his wrists together when he didn’t understand something. He was doing that now.
“Does anything make sense, Harv? Is anything supposed to make sense? By the way, what happened to your hair? It’s so long, and it looks like it’s falling out.”
“If we were meant to understand everything, we’d have flying cars by now. I’ll cut my hair when I feel like it. I don’t like having conversations like this, I feel like my head is shrinking.”
“Okay, I’ll stop. I’m sorry. You’d be far less fun to talk to if you had a shrunken head.”
Harvey didn’t like that, either. He stopped kneading his wrists.
Tobias left after another hour and twenty-one minutes, once he had finished his drink. They didn’t say goodbye to each other, and Harvey tried not to look at him as he departed. He knew Tobias wouldn’t miss him nearly as much as he would miss Tobias. For so many years, Harvey was alone, and then he met this unsmiling boy who introduced himself by telling him he looked like he’d never used a comb in his life. The very first conversation they had was about how he had, indeed, used a comb just that morning, and that his comment was completely unnecessary even though his head full of cowlicks was unruly in a sense. He later spent all his lunch break getting water splashed on his scalp while Tobias tried (and failed) to wrestle his fly-away locks back down to Earth. He walked back to class afterward, ending his battle with Harvey’s blonde tangle with, “Nobody should come to school looking like they stuck their head in a tumbleweed, not even weird kids like you.”
Harvey took home a button that had fallen off Tobias’s sweater that day, pressing a round dent into the palm of his hand with how hard he had gripped it. He shoved
it into an old pencil box and pushed it under his bed. By the time his friend had visited last, he had acquired a small clump of his hair and a slip of paper stained with blood to join that button ten years later. He would often fall asleep hugging the box to his chest, making his sternum hurt and leaving tiny bruises where the corners dug into his skin. Tobias was all he had, and it would stay that way for as long as Harvey had anything to do about it. It isn’t often that you’re gifted an angel of your own.
Tobias’s wife died four months later of a blood infection. Harvey later spent two days gluing pictures of Tobias and himself into an empty notebook, which he then tied shut with butcher twine before burying it under his mattress. He left Tobias a voicemail once to give him his condolences about his wife and waited somewhat patiently for a reply, until the end of August rolled around, and he received a call from an old study group partner.
“Is this Harvey, from Mrs. Porres’s class? It’s Matt,” the voice on the other end said.
“Hello.” Harvey didn’t remember him.
“Were you friends with Tobias? For any amount of time?”
“We’re still friends.”
“Oh. Well, I didn’t exactly think I’d be the one to tell you I mean, I was just going to ask how you were holding up, but ”
“What’s wrong?”
“He died. He hung himself a week ago, I guess he was just ”
Harvey hung up. He stared down at his boots as the number rang again, presumably trying to figure out what happened. He said Tobias’s name out loud a few times like he was trying to remember it and grit his teeth hard, tasting blood in his mouth afterward. He felt sweat pool in the divot between his collarbones and drip down his sides, running aimlessly over every stuck-out rib. When was the last time he ate? How long has he been standing there? It wasn’t like him to lose track of time. He blinked away tears and started clawing at the skin on his wrists, watching the undersides of his unfiled nails turn red with the blood he was actively drawing. He balled his torso-length hair up into his fists, staining it red.
He woke up outside. It was September and only now it was beginning to cool off slightly. Harvey was freezing. The glass on his patio door was broken, which led him to notice the cuts on his hands and upper arms, long clotted but still very sore. He stumbled back in through the actual door this time, struggling to grip the handle but succeeding after a couple of shaky tries. A voice, from somewhere in his living room, sounding an awful lot like Tobias, tells him what he must do. When the only thing that gives you life is gone in an instant, what are you but an empty vessel?
He put on his nice jacket, squinting hard to see the buttonholes against the black
fabric. His vision was never very good, and he swore there were eyes on him even though he stood alone, which made him more nervous. He walked back outside, flinching upon hearing some dead leaves crunch under his soles. His gaze was fixed straightforward, looking for something to complete his one mission in life.
She stared up at him, eyes glazed over and unblinking. Harvey had liked looking at the deer traipse carefully around his backyard in the past, but he now firmly believed they were just as ugly as people when they were dead. The doe he had locked eyes with had been partially eaten already, innards exposed and buzzing with flies. He felt that her fur was soft as he began digging around in the cavern of her belly, gripping at leftover chunks of larvae-infested meat that whatever predator that killed her had missed. He stuffed his mouth with the foul-smelling muscle, barely chewing and swallowing hard to get it all down his throat. He laid down next to her, gazing teary-eyed at the curve of her pale brown jaw and moving his tongue around the inside of his mouth, noticing a maggot writhing behind his molars.
This is the food of the angels, he thought, now staring up at the sky. This is what he wanted.
He thought about Tobias as he walked lazily back to his home, tripping over his own feet and swallowing the vomit that tried fighting its way out of his stomach. Crouching, he dug the pencil box out from under his bed, hands shaking violently as he searched for the button. Upon finding it, he placed it under his tongue like a pill and stretched out on top of his mattress. He rubbed his wounded wrists together slowly, feeling the sting from where his nails dug in. He never moved again and spent the rest of his short-lived life staring up at the ceiling, wondering if Tobias was waiting for him somewhere more beautiful than here.
FIRE
Pam Bonner MALLARD
Pam Bonner
MOON
Caitlin Daugherty
a TIME TO GRIEVE
Daija Martinez
After uncle’s passing
Grief was visible in every bone of my body
Spawned throughout the family, Anguished and crushed.
When dad’s face took on that melancholy expression, Not being able to do anything about it, bawling uncontrollably. Never been seen from him before All of us felt the weight of death.
The pure agony and misery swept us in the matter of those three words: “He is gone.”
The lights grew dim in that moment in the hospital, standing in front of the busy front desk, upset.
Throbbing and spawning in the head from all the crying
Hearing the doctor’s low toned voice repeating sometimes Anguished in fear of what to do next.
Great fear beyond reality
Just in order to accept it once and for all. With all remembrance feeling lost I cling on to some, so I never forget. That feeling when your gut drops, Heavy sense of uneasiness
Trembling and shattering.
Leaving the hospital with all thoughts still attached
Afraid to see the light of day, Where, on a clear day, recollections of him materialize.
Repeated saddened, gray days
Sporadic weeping leaving our nose and eyes red as fields of fire.
But it was a time to grieve once and for all.
Finally rising above the abyss of hopelessness
Discovering coping and healing.
In the sense of freedom at last
Learning to live with the hurt of the past.
sloth juice
Charlotte Hargis
I’ve eaten things that you might think are strange
Like spicy hot sauce with pickled pig brains
I’ve tasted dishes that are hard to believe
Like chicken-flavored ice cream and moldy chocolate cheese
But there still are some foods that I’ve never tried
That sound so weird, when the two words collide
Like Sloth Juice, made from the spit of a sloth
Or Gorilla Goulash, served with a petrified moth
Unicorn Steak, the finest of fares
Mermaid Muffins, with a hint of fresh ocean air
There’s even a dessert called Bed Bug Brittle
I’ve heard it’s divine but you may itch a little
I don’t know if you’ll ever try these peculiar foods
But one thing is certain, your taste buds should choose
To try new things and discover new flavors
Even if they’re strange, there are new tastes to savor.
an unfinished ship
Cheyenne Stevenson
Rough exterior, guarded by skin and metal.
An unfinished creation branded By love and good intentions.
Smooth on the inside.
Made for one to converse with the dead; Its outer shell remains, while it sheds its guts.
Replacing the old with signs of growth.
Guts meant for words; for endless conversations. Only one participant will physically show. In another realm a father and daughter exchange words. She waits for an impossible voice; One that has ceased breathing.
For invisible ink, to permeate the Wood Nymph’s flesh, That is not her own.
She knows it’s not possible;
Indefinitely, she waits for his guidance. Her father, a star, lights her way.
He wards off evil, in ways she’ll remember. To pass his torch in blood and bloom. This partial ship becomes her guide With the cease of a beating heart.
Unshared knowledge lost to time and space; A journey embarks until the end of her days. With a ship in hand, a pen in the other.
She works to be like her predecessor.
Extending love, memories, and knowledge to her child. Tales of this man become bedtime stories.
Hero in one, an inventor in another.
Learning more of her grandfather, Seeing his light in her mother’s eyes. A ship, started by her grandfather, Finished by her mother, she will inherit. To be her guide and hone her skills. One day she’ll be like her mother, Holding onto a piece of her to love, And to share, inspiring generations.
placenta
Rita Williams
The time has come to push, push, push Sweat and tears stream down the face
A beautiful baby is born
Push again they say
Exhausted from intense pushing that brought life into the world
The placenta has arrived
I could not see this organ, but my husband sure did He says he nearly threw up as it gushed out with water and blood
The placenta that had carried food and oxygen completed its purpose and what could be served as food has now been delivered Poverty so low and food in demand here lies the placenta
Bloody and rare as steak
To hell with well done and filet mignon take a stab at it
Juices and blood flow
Served as a blob of meat the placenta can be served even as a smoothie
Watch that blender spin providing more nutrients for the body to gain
Serve it as a souvenir or even trash
What had served for a life so delicate and loved is now the dead placenta
MCBRIDE FIRE
Dorothy Roberts
McBride Fire lights the dark horizon as it glows glaringly, The embers flickering high like fireflies in a tormented sky. Fire glow is captivating, mesmerizing and unsparingly, It conceals hidden dangers in it a threat arising lies.
The sky’s aglow red-orange hot and glowing a sign of danger wallows. A fire burns in the mountains leaving black smoldering ash, Plumes of smoke bellows high above the trees it follows, Strong brutal charging winds swiftly move the fire’s wrath.
The deer stand in the flowing stream for protection, Their eyes fixed upon the burning forest floor.
No where to run, the flames are dancing all around, The trees hissing and sizzling as the flames lick at their very core. The fire’s destructive force; is it friend or foe, who knows. Only the strong will survive the fire’s wrath
No mercy, no remorse, the fire’s motto is set in stone. Its only purpose is to remove the dead and old that lie within its path.
The forest floor is clean, a new canvas is revealed In the rich nutrient soil, the fallen seeds will grow.
The animals and birds have now begun to call it home. The forest now is thriving as new life begins to show.
memories fossilized in sand
Ezra Rabourn
An old minivan, peeling blue paint and covered in dirt, descended the forested mountain of Sierra Blanca and passed through the sleepy desert town of Alamogordo. Four hyper kids stare at a huge deposit of glistening gypsum crystals through the windows. The fine off-white crystals create dunes of sand which are incredibly unique in the state of New Mexico. The dunes are home to a variety of creatures, many of which would probably scare those children away from the place if they were informed beforehand. Spiders, snakes, salamanders, frogs, and scorpions all call the dunes home. After entering the dunes, the van passes a repetitive selection of plants and natural debris within the sand, but the farther it drives down the gypsum roads, the more the landscape shifts into nothing but white “sand.” The magical dunes glow against the pink and purple Organ Mountains when the sun sets. The Organ Mountains are jagged, and contrast the sweeping elegance of the sand dunes. Despite their proximity, the mountains hide the city of Las Cruces from the view of White Sands.
The van drives past the popular visitor spots, passing tourists from all over the world. Countless signs remind visitors to bring plenty of water and stay on designated paths. Eventually the old couple driving the van find the perfect spot, which has yet to be claimed by a young family or group of college kids. The children sink their feet into the cold, refreshing sand. The otherworldly hills of sand are perfect for sliding down or jumping off of. The wind combs through the sand, creating parallel lines for as far as the eye can see. Small footprints show the presence of insects and birds. The smell of cheap hot dogs and ham-and-cheese sandwiches being assembled floats all around. When lunch time strikes they dine on the grilled masterpiece, ketchup and relish fall onto the ground under them. They wash down the meal with a cold soda or sweet tea. When the ground gets too hot, they find a shady area of sand to lay down in, which instantly cools your skin in an almost therapeutic way. Heat waves shimmer off of the distant parked cars. Faint screams of children and the laughter of their parents are carried by the breeze. The sounds of Alamogordo and the nearby highway are silent after traveling this far into the desert. It would be impossible to know that there is a missile range not far from you.
Loving couples taking wedding photos, teenagers taking graduation photos, and old folks preparing to send a picture to their loved ones. Mothers lather their children up with sunscreen and frat boys shotgunning beers. It is fascinating how many different types of people come to this small area in Southern New Mexico, yet they all share a similar purpose: to explore a completely unique place.
If you can get lucky enough to find a spot without any other people, you can truly feel the connection to the desert as you feel alone in the expanse of sand. The stars come out and you can clearly see the milky way and maybe even a planet. The entire sky is visible, with satellites and shooting stars flying across your vision. The moonlight casts blue and black shadows behind the dunes. This magical feeling is nearly impossible to replicate.
I reminisce about the days that I would spend out there with my grandparents. I miss riding in the old van, playing in the sand, and eating cheap hot dogs. One day in particular, during the summer before fifth grade. I was being chased by my grandma, who was pretending to be an evil monster. Grandma was far from an evil monster though. She was a retired teacher, who lived out her hippie years during the 60’s. Grandma was raised in a post-war family where she was taught to eat salad with her salad fork and to never speak out of turn. As she entered high school, she decided that a different lifestyle was more appealing to her, so she ran away. Grandma fell in love with Grandpa, and lived modestly as she created art and taught kids how to do so.
I remember Grandpa plucking away at his guitar at the picnic table. Grandpa would play John Prine and Elizabeth Cotten quietly to himself, not looking for an audience or attention. Grandpa taught high school science, and always had stories about growing up in a household with eight siblings, six of whom were sisters. He always grilled the best hot dogs and assembled them onto sliced bread, because it was cheaper than the regular buns.
Bay, my brother, and I would engage in intense games of “tag” in the dunes. When he inevitably decided that he was too mature for tag, I would wander off with my younger cousins Lily and Ben. We would jump into the cold sand and bury one another. As we conquered a particularly challenging dune, Ben saw a shiny piece of metal glimmering through the sand.
“What is it Benny?” I asked.
“It looks like some sort of weapon.”
“Well, let me see it then,” I demanded as I gazed at the smooth white handle, confused as to where the sharp part of this weapon actually hid.
“No way! What do you know about weapons anyway?” Ben responded in his typical smart-ass tone.
“I will tell Grandpa if you don’t give it to me,” I said.
It was at this point when Bay stumbled upon us and told Grandpa that we found something dangerous. Grandpa took the item and pressed a small silver button. A long knife blade shot out of the handle. Grandpa laughed in amazement and declared that this weapon didn’t seem to be legal, and promptly kept it far from our reach for the rest of the day. I wonder if he still has the old knife that Ben found.
The drive home is always restful, as the sand drains you of all of your energy. Every day we spent at White Sands would end in tears of exhaustion and Grandma’s old beat up minivan in dire need of a vacuuming. Ben and Lily have a wrestling match in the backseat, Bay is fast asleep, and I stare out the window. The passing landscape puts me into a trance, almost in a meditative way.
As the years go by, days like these become less and less common. High school has taken over the lives of Lily, Ben, and myself. The weekends are chock-full of soccer games, cheerleading competitions, and band performances. Bay lives over two hours away. Grandma and Grandpa have grown older, and their old minivan stopped running years ago. I know deep down that all of us miss the times when lazy Saturdays would be turned into White Sands adventures. Our footprints from those days are fossilized in the dunes. But I know for a fact that everyone has a White Sands in their life. Everyone has that one place where they really experienced childhood in its purest form. Maybe it was a public pool, or a daycare, or even just a swingset in your front yard. It is important that we remember these places, but recognize that one day we’ll look back on our place of work, best friend’s house, or current town, and have the same feeling again. One day, the cycle will continue when we have kids of our own. We will be the ones playing guitar at the picnic table and pretending to be evil monsters. But for now, all we can do is remember those times that we shared and smile.
RABBIT RUNNING Raven Twobirds Arbuckle
GHOST
a moment of grief
Jayli Lueras
After losing a grandmother,
After losing the person who did the other half of your raising, After having your biggest fan by your side for twenty-four years,
After seven years since receiving the world shattering, Dream crushing, Heart wrenching, Soul crushing of a gut punch, You would think I had all but forgotten.
I cannot remember breakfast today.
I cannot remember the name of a song from 2006.
I cannot remember a movie quote from 2012.
I cannot even remember half of our family members.
The piece of inflamed coal in my hand,
Waiting for me to accept the call,
The serpent, hissing and biting in my grasp,
Waiting for me to call you that morning like I had promised.
The dagger aimed right at my throat,
Waiting to share words from a beyond time and space who had already told me what I knew.
The arrow knocked and looked for a home in between my eyes,
Waiting to share words I needed to hear anyway.
I heard a distant disembodied screaming.
I heard a mud sucking, slug-like oozing forming from the room.
I heard the flock of feathers made of snow and sunlight from the hall.
I heard the screeching of a banshee telling me I needed to focus.
Telling me I needed to tell them what only I knew,
Telling me how I needed to feel,
Telling me how I needed to react,
Telling me to share what only you told me,
But you had not told me a damn thing.
I had not wanted to listen.
I had not wanted to make it real.
I had not wanted to admit you were mortal. I had not wanted to accept you were dying. You were dead. You were gone. You were no longer here. You were no longer a phone call away. A moment of grief is all it takes to bring everything back, after all.
STAND TALL Jade Artiaga
WHEAT FIELD AFTER VAN GOGH
SWEET PLANT
MaKayla Rocha
MaKayla Rocha
this is how they live
Isaac Gleitz
Thin people peer out of thin openings. This is how they live.
They watch as the all-powerful stranger meanders the stubby streets that divide them. He gawks at the signs.
Green Acres Drive … Sunset Boulevard…Gentle Lakes Court.
“Hogwash.” He snaps his denim straps against his chest.
A kid asks his mother what to think. She tells them that long ago farmers overthrew their capitalistic lords with the goal of “preserving the integrity of the human genome.” Her great grandfather phrased the matter this way during his pre-slumber incantations.
“When I was a little girl, you could go to a supermarket and buy imported fruits and vegetables. They weren’t fresh, but they were always there. After the insurrection, we were blessed with a far greater treasure: farmers markets. When you bought the produce, you always gave the grower a firm handshake. Sometimes you’d buy a radish that still had soil on it or a peach with fine, untouched hairs…
We lived then. It wasn’t like this. Every day wasn’t a fight. What a shame that this is all you’ve ever known.”
The wanderer outside grabs a large rock from the foot of a cedar tree and hurls it through the driver window of the neighbor’s SUV. The alarm blares, and he responds by pulling a carrot out of his pocket and chomping it. He inspects the next yard with disinterest, instead fixing his sight on a nearby lawnmower. After borrowing some gasoline from Doug’s garage, he lights the contraption ablaze.
The mom sighs. “What’s it to him? Just another silly toy.” A glance to nowhere. “We are so fucked.”
He sees her in the window. She aborts. Too late. He knocks, he opens. He sniffs the kitchen, he opens. He grabs a corn can, which he opens. She sniffles. He scowls. He pockets. He leaves.
He dumps the corn on the road and dances on it. She cries.
He leaves.
“That was our only chance to chew this week. Jeremy won’t come again—especially not if they’ve gotten to him.”
They cry. They hug.
The only thing left to do is sleep.
The boy dreams of a cold, soupy bowl of corn. He eats one kernel at a time, grating every fiber with his bitter, yellowed teeth. He chews on a piece, extracts it from his mouth, and reinserts it. He does this until dawn, awakening to a wet bed.
Meanwhile, the mother is accosted by faces: the mustached deli attendant, the saddened cashier, and a teenager with muscles.
She writhes.
She pushes her cart methodically across the sleek bacterial tiles.
It squeaks.
It’s a slow murmur at first, like fingers rubbing on a window. Then it grows. She darts nervous looks at the others, who merely tip their hats at her. She jogs and the squeak becomes a roar. She pants. She sprints. One thousand knives dig
themselves into her temple.
Self-checkout. Guy in the way. Fuckim. Card NOW. Fish, berries, pie, yogurt, ham, jelly, beans, cake-cake-caaake, ba…
Oh shit, here they come.
Rick is first, and his neck is red. Dick follows him with a wrench. Mick erupts from an island of cereal, and Honeycombs scatter. Donald vaults over lane 3. Ronald repels from the ceiling vent. They’re closing in.
Come on. Come on. Search by name > fruit > bananas. Weighs 2.3 lbs.
Pay, pay, pay, pay, paAAY—put your bananas in the bag. no receipt, no backcash, no loans, no IDs. NO NOTHING. put your bananas in the bAg. I didIdidIdidIdidIdidIdid. Get ‘em off me.
put your honey in the— put your bunny in the—
BAG. put your pills in the—
“Chompin’ on bone marrow of all things. You’ve got one heckofa…”
There’s no place like, no place like, place like, like, home. She’s sweating and still. Nothing has changed.
CREOSOTE
Jocelyn Rose
YEAR OF THE DRAGON
Madalyn Heidbreder
STAY TUNED
Melanie Martinez
TIME IS DEAR
Melanie Martinez
LIZARD MIND
Austin Hursh
Lizard mind napping on a rock a beetle comes I eat it
Cat mind I am home ever ywhere everything belongs to me
Spider mind I sit I sit unmoving for a day
My mind an actor lost in changing roles schizophrenic
No mind No mirror No breathing No mind Mind Mirror
Breathing Mind
THE BEACH
Austin Hursh
Desert Crossing
Austin Hursh
Light falls a million miles to burn the tops of your ears make rapids in the asphalt rivers blow up radiators and call the snakes out
A liquid mercury creek cuts through the desert
Crucifix cactus caballero’s grave
Roadside gallery of cheap Mexican concrete castings
Virgins and birdbaths
That flowering is only a weed catching trash
Aerial seeds of the city
Roadside sunset flowers burst in headlight flame
Black bits of blown tires from burnt-out cars turn into ravens an snakes
A dead dog eating trash
Alien ships from secret bases
trail braided cotton candy vapor trails towards a midnight sun
nighttime atomic test distant forest fire
The sun is dying in my mirrors
The wind is on my face
A halo of stars surrounds my head in the reflection of my motorcycle tank
I’m riding towards the night and the headlamp barely illuminates barely illuminates the ghosts on the side of the road
A horse
An angel
A demon
A horse
An angel
The kingdom
The grail lies ahead in a dusty Mexican adobe
Look for a little shrine to the Virgin on some side road
That’s the promise
The West
The abstract language of my
American Unconscious
Stark
Cruel
Bloodthirsty
There is and invisible city on the coast
of people transformed by the desert trails
Who upon reaching the ocean
baptized themselves
Who in the midst of hell can still smell the sea
Alter Stress: from Harmful to Helpful!
Mary S. Lemmond, Ed.D.
It’s all around us.
We cannot avoid it.
But it CAN help us change and grow.
Stress!
When people speak about being stressed or feeling stressed, it’s usually with a “bad” connotation: sadness, suspense, terror, grief, or other similar emotions.
In today’s world there are stresses that might not be life and death situations, but can take a toll on us: deadlines, loved ones to care for, long work hours, money complications, “too much to do”, perfectionism, loss of job or relationship and on and on. Some issues are temporary, but others can be on-going, for which we seem to get no relief.
It’s there. How do we deal with it?
Look at our reaction(s) to stress.
The question becomes: Does stress incapacitate you and make you just want to crawl under the covers and not face life? The thought “EVERYTHING is going wrong” is a debilitating response to stress. Or can you see stress as a catapult to change?
Avoiding a “hiding” response to stress won’t help for very long, especially as school and work and family go on. So, through off those covers and let’s examine how we can manage stress better.
Strategy: See it, Own it, Use it
See It – instead of denying it, label the stress for what it is. For example: “my classes are overwhelming” or “I need to get a job but that will interfere with my classes”, or “I have way too much to do because of so many responsibilities”. Part of “seeing it” also means identifying your physical reaction(s) to stress: Racing heart? Clenched jaw or muscles? Blame others? Rush to the fridge? By labeling and really looking at what stresses you, you start making your reaction something that can help instead of debilitating you.
With some thought and practice, reactions are something you CAN control. Noticing them helps release their grip on us. How do we “notice”? Non-judgmental Mindfulness. Paying attention to clenched teeth, snapped reactions, feeling overwhelmed, helps us “notice”. Paying attention to what we are doing, saying, feeling. Looking for patterns of reactions to your stress. Looking for triggers that set off stress reactions – what might be something that happens prior to the stressful situation. Knowing prior events is sometimes helpful when owning and using stress.
Cultivating reactions that are beneficial are what we’ll look at in the next two parts of this strategy.
“Your life isn’t about the BIG break, it’s about one significant life-transforming step at a time.”
—Tim Storey
Own It. Take responsibility for whatever is causing your stress. It might be that you run late all the time and feel rushed and out of control. Easy solutions might
be to set timers on your phone or Alexa. Give yourself extra time to get where you are going, and don’t cheat (oh, I have an extra ten minutes…….) Color code things on your to-do list that are time-sensitive like assignments, appointments, projects with due dates then block out time to do them. There are many tools and tips for time management, but if you don’t own your tendency to run late, all the tools in the world won’t relieve the stress running late gives you.
Sometimes the things that we must “own” are more complex: bad relationships, poor health choices, unwise decisions. Seeing or acknowledging the situation or choice is the first step; accepting responsibility is next. “I know I drink too much (eat too much, smoke too much)”, or “I procrastinate on assignments”, or “I need to find friends who are not toxic”. After recognition and taking responsibility comes doing something about it.
Use it: Use your knowledge to begin to alter your response to stress. Here are a few ideas:
One simple but powerful technique for combating stress is to breathe deeply. Take three deep breaths from your diaphragm. This action can start the parasympathetic nervous system helping to center and calm you, giving you space to change your reactions, observing the stress causes, and planning what to do about it.
Another way to use stress to change and grow is to find support from others. What did they do to change their stressful circumstances or habits? Plan small steps to make changes. James Clear, author of Atomic Habits: Tiny Changes, Remarkable Results, suggests that even very tiny alterations can make a difference in our lives. Create a plan for anticipating and relieving stress, for gaining control.
One simple and quick stress reliever is to ditch social media for a while – a day, a week! Getting caught up on screens is a timewaster and can produce negative feelings about ourselves.
This leads us to another powerful strategy: Positive self-talk which is more than saying “you can do this.” Positive self-talk is a mix of conscious and unconscious beliefs and biases. It’s how we view ourselves and the world. It might take some work to reframe thoughts about yourself, but it is a powerful tool to help overcome stress caused by negative thinking.
Another technique is to consider the outcomes you desire: who is person you want to become? What work do you want to do? Where do you want to live? How do you want to be treated by others? Don’t worry about “reality” right now – how you will accomplish these things. For now, dream of possibilities. Think and write out what results you want. If writing doesn’t appeal, create a vision board, or take pictures of relevant things. The medium doesn’t matter, but making a dream turn into reality begins with a concrete representation of your goals. Stephen Covey, author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People says to “Begin with the end in mind”. Then, keep that picture in your mind as you proceed from day to day. It will help you clarify goals and even help you say “no” to things that are not important to you.
“All meaningful and lasting change starts first on the inside, then works its way out.”
Lou Tice
It’s true that making alterations requires time and you may already feel a lack of it. The thing is, if you don’t take time to make some changes, you will be stuck in the cycle of stress and will continue to have a rapid heart rate, clenched teeth and/or headaches. Take a little time to “see it”, “own it” and “use it” will help. Learn and practice skills to anticipate, take responsibility for and change your reaction(s) to stress. See how your life will benefit.
JELLIDIOUS AND THE SPACEAFTER
Fiona Roberts
Jellidious woke up with a start. He sprang up in bed nervous and slick with sweat. He looked around. He was safely tucked in his bed. He didn’t know what was going on. Last thing he remembered was… Jellidious realized that he didn’t remember what he was doing or where he was. He sprang out of bed and ran into the kitchen. He searched the fridge for any clues. None. He searched the cupboards. Only the sweet smell of Oognamaty fruit and diced Digity peppers. He searched and searched. Nothing. He finally gathered up the most courage he could and went outside to investigate his surroundings. Outside was quiet and the air was fresh. He noticed that the suns were only beginning to wake themselves and the moon was finally going to sleep. He noticed that he was at his house. Slightly hovering above the ground he realized where he was. He was in the space port. He looked around and heard the familiar sound of spaceship engines starting as the passengers loaded on their transportation vessels to be taken across the galaxy. Here on Giditomous the air hung with an early morning cling. He then remembered that he had a large job to do. He sprinted back inside and got on his many belts. He then ran as fast as he could without tripping to the shed and grabbed his tools. He tried to look casual as he was rushing to Hanger 985. That was the repair port. As he rounded the corner he ran into a hedgehog looking person. “Sorry!” he yelled as he continued to sprint to the hanger. When he got there he was greeted by Zimboudious. “You’re late,” he said in a deep grumpy voice that only meant he hadn’t had his coffee yet. “I know. I’m sorry. I ran into a hedgehog and almost ran into a wall this morning on my way to my shed to get my tools. I also…” He tried to explain to his angry boss but was cut off when he saw the most interesting ship he had ever seen. It was big but had the appearance of a little bug that he never saw before. Zimboudious sighed and said, “ I know. Isn’t she beautiful? That’s who you will work on today, Jellidious. Broken motor and a busted Youmki…” He wasn’t paying any attention to his once angry boss. Jellidious would be working on an actual ship? He had only worked on disembodied motors and spark plugs. Never an actual ship. “Oh yeah.” Zimboudious finished. “It belongs to a space rafter looking for a team.” Everything froze. Jellidious never thought that he might have heard the word at work. A space rafter! That was like building a castle for a king or queen. A space rafter was like the most amazing thing you could ever be. Jellidious began working on the complicated ship. He knew his way in and out of every motor and spark plug anyone’s ever seen. He knew what he was doing. Late into the afternoon the hedgehog popped it’s head into the shop and her cheeks turned bright red when she saw Jellidious working on the space craft. She had waved and briefly froze. Then she walked swiftly into it. Jellidious gasped and leapt down from the ladder on which he was standing. He followed the hedgehog into to the amazing space craft. He then paused when she stared directly into his eyes. He blushed harder than anyone had ever blushed. He turned to walk off when a quiet, squeaky voice said, “It’s okay. I would love some company! Not many people talk to me because I’m a space rafter. They think I’m special.” Jellidious nodded and sat down at a small round table in the center of the space. “I’m Jellidious,” he said nervously. “Nice to meet you Jellidious! I’m Pip! I think we’ll make amazing friends!” Pip squeaked happily. At that moment everything changed. They locked eyes. Jellidious had a nervous smile and Pip an incredible smile that reached from ear to ear. They shook hands and Jellidious realized what was happening. He was being initiated into the space rafters team.
two souls far apart
Melanie Martinez
Two souls, but one at heart
How so different ways of life come together ending strife
Within the mind, so hard to tell released with freedom from its jail
Combined the lines of two smiles
So crazy, it’s volatile
To think of life, to think of now
Then think back then of where’s and how’s
But present day is not crazy
For the mind presents itself daily
Some sad, some amazing The fight is not alone
For it found its other soul
To laugh or cry or become angry is the way of life
And although time did not sit still I’m just glad that love is real.
Jack McCaw
YOSEMITE VALLEY
WINTER
Melanie Martinez
the longest 30 minutes of my life
Jacob McCaw
After Ma died, we welcomed rigor mortis into her hospital bed, her forever companion intensely gentle in its business with her body.
The oxygen mask lying next to her, forced into irrelevance in her rejection of it, breathed, groping for hope, for her empty lungs. I sat on that vile hospital tile, hit by reality, left to stay in the silence of suspense, waiting for her phone calls, waiting for her to sit up and scare some blood back into my veins.
I held an innocence until then, I crushed it under the cracking weight of the few pounds she could keep. I was a guest, provided the privilege of witnessing the loss Of this life and the gaining of the next.
The morning sun had been evicted, harsh beams of afternoon light glided through the window like a stroke from her abandoned paintbrushes, washing us with a cold blue warmth and a white-hot stillness.
I was not as alone as I felt. Dad and his wife stood there, I and my wife sat here, my brother and aunt between. And Ma was there too, still sleeping with her mouth hanging open, rid of its rattling.
Relief wrestled its way within me, Confusion fused with adrenaline draining away until, exhausted with empathy, we left Ma with the sound of our laughter, as a kiss on her forehead, to follow the Angel awaiting her in the doorway.
I floated over the pavement, a ghost of a living soul, more an apparition than she will ever be, with all the time in the world sweeping swiftly by me. How have I handled my time?
My tanks are fairly full, now how to spend them? I quelled the question and drove to deliver the news Of her departure to my grandpa, his journey to her side wouldn’t wait much longer, he held his ticket in his unsuspecting hand.
PULSE
Isaac Gleitz
GLOW
GAZE
Isaac Gleitz
Isaac Gleitz
BOSQUE
Jocelyn Rose
DIOSA
Liane Pérez-Pantoja
yo pedía y pedía hincada en un altar y mi abuela a mi lado con quien hablaré cuando ella no sea mi diosa
noche tras noche doblada por la cama me encuentro en posiciones que no elegí me dormí en una y en otra amanecí quisiera saber quien me puso aquí
yo pedía y pedía pero el azul marino vive solo en un país no mío azul de rey azul del cielo siento el mudo lamento que tú dios no es el mío
por que no se con quien con quien hablaré cuando esta ausencia sea mi única vida cuando mi abuela no esté y mi diosa no sea mía
quien me enviará ángeles comunicarse con un dios que no cree en mi por que no se dio mi vida
BLACK CLOAKED MESSENGER
Izzy Richardson
When the clouds form above and the world turns gray. A shadow formed creature lurks and lies in the cross, Waiting for the first growl and crack to fly away. For they are the omen, the sign before chaos. Their cries of warning are a gift to you. Heed as you may and if you should trust That the black cloaked messenger wants to help us. Follow their instructions with care and no distraction, Giving you time to prepare before the action.
Do not take this tale as a trick or a jest.
If a crow should cross your path expect something’s brewing. Whatever it may be, you will surely be put to the test.
So face it with courage and see what God is construing. And don’t forget to thank your messenger like a crow.
Jocelyn Rose
POLAROID OF A GONE WORLD
Nicholas Giusti
tenebrous
Jaron Knighten
Luna Blair and Bright Hiddentree were hiking for what seemed like hours on the twisted path, and in Bright’s mind, it somehow seemed even longer than that. They took this trip to spend time together before their wedding in a couple of days. After four years of living, fighting, and growing together, they were very much looking forward to exchanging vows after all this time. They had found this trail from a server back in town while having a quick bite to eat at the diner.
“Are we there yet?” Bright asked, like a child, for the fifth time as he climbed over a fallen tree. Watching his step as the tree crumbled beneath his foot as he applied his weight. His tall frame came crashing down on the dead tree; luckily, he was wearing the hiking boots that Luna bought him specifically for this trip. They needed some breaking in, and this trip was the perfect way to get it done. He was thankful for the comfort and protection. He tried to mask how out of shape he was, but it was clear to her and him that he was tired and out of breath. The ground was wet from the morning dew, and he nearly fell off the log due to his poor balance. The occasional sighting of elk, the sounds of birds in the trees, and the smell of rain. This is what they were looking for when planning this trip. The sight of a lone wolf off in the far distance was picturesque. He would take a couple of photos every now and then for the scrapbook.
Watching his amusing situation on this hike and the effort he made in front of her, she laughed. She had always known that he was the one, and he never failed to step out of his comfort zone for her. She noticed that with each half-mile, his energy was depleted. “It is only a couple of more miles till we reach the waterfall, and that is where we are going. I promise you, once we get there, you will see that all this effort was worth it,” Luna replied to him as she jumped over the same log that he had trouble with. They had come to a couple of stops and got some rest while chowing down on an energy bar and some water. The views at each of these places were beautiful and breathtaking, so they decided to take plenty of pictures. From the beautiful sky and the vast valleys, they both thought that this could be the best day they had in a long time.
While resting, Bright felt defeated in his mind and thought he would not admit defeat to this hike in front of her. How could he think of ruining this chance to spend time with her? It was the first time in months that they had the opportunity to drop all the work that was keeping them apart before the big day. He knew that they needed to spend quality time together before then. As tired as he was, he pushed himself to go on further. On their way to the falls, he noticed how she was so excited to show him this spot that she forgot to mention to him that to get there, it takes about a four-hour hike. “It had better be worth it,” he thought to himself as he climbed over what seemed like the hundredth log. Then he started to notice that the trail that they had been walking on had disappeared into the brush, and the surrounding woods seemed a bit wilder. A wave of uneasiness came over him. This unease came from the missing trail and then from a hidden presence that seemed like it was calling out to him. He tried his best to look in the direction where that sensation occurred without causing any alarm. Just as he was about to
ask Luna if she was okay or if she felt that same uneasiness as well, Bright saw it.
A door—an ancient-looking door without a foundation. Without a house attached to it to be seen. This structure looked just like any regular door. Other than the passage of time and exposure to the elements wearing it down, it seemed like it was made of a simple common wood. The handle was nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing that was off about this door was that it was in the middle of the woods.
They stopped to inspect it, and while walking around it, they were perplexed that it was just a regular door.
She asked him, “Where did this door come from? There was nothing mentioned about it from the townspeople.”
“I do not know. It is just a stupid creepy door to mess with hikers out here. Just like those keep out signs, there are no trespassing signs that crazy people put up to keep people away from things they want to keep hidden.”
“We should just keep walking towards the falls; I’d rather have this weird door behind us right now,” she said. “I feel like it’s looking at me as if it has eyes.” She shook off the uncomfortable feeling and tugged at his jacket sleeve. “Come on,” she said, and she started walking away from the creepy sight, looking for the trail. Then, without warning, Luna was pulled in the opposite direction, and when she turned, she saw Bright grab the door handle and twist the brass knob. Before they knew it, they had passed through the strange door.
He stepped through the opening and immediately felt a surge of vertigo, lost his balance, and then dropped down to his knees. Luna felt the same sensation, albeit a touch of anger, for his dismissal of her apprehension. Standing on their feet, they found that the woods they were now in were different; these woods felt even more wild and creepy than the forest they were just in. There was no light in this strange place, no sign of the sun or its comforting warmth. It was as if the sun were suddenly turned off and everywhere in sight was engulfed in a sick and strange darkness. Equipped with only their packs and nothing but the flashlight they brought and the camera with its flash as the sole light sources. The woods cracked and creaked with the swaying wind and the sounds of branches breaking and trees falling off in the distance. They looked at the time on their smart watches and audibly gasped. The time said it was only 2:40 in the afternoon.
“That cannot be right,” she said.
Beyond their sight, there was a dense fog engulfing the surrounding forest. A sudden chill came down their spines. As well as the feeling of fear and dread that made them sick to their stomachs. Feeling done with this place, they turned to go back through the mysterious door that had taken them to this cursed place, only to find that it had vanished.
The panic had now set in, and Bright knew that he had to be strong to comfort both their tired and worn souls. He then realized she had been actively steering
him away from the fear he felt here. She had always been the strong one, he thought. He then took her by the hand and felt that his trembling had stopped. With this newfound confidence, he began to lead the way in a direction, as if he knew where he was headed. Luna stayed by his side with her hand tightly wrapped around his.
They began to see shadows off in the distance, with one shaped like a man just beyond the fog. After being exhausted from walking around in the darkness for what seemed like hours, he waved his arm up and shouted, “Hey! We are lost and need help getting out of here and back to town. Can you help us?” The shadow figure looked like it was waving its arm back at him, and from the distant darkness they heard, “Over here.”
Wanting to just be back on the trail they were originally on, he looked at Luna, and they took off in the direction the humanoid figure was calling from and disappeared into the fog.
As he ran off, she gripped tightly on his jacket and lost the grip she had on him as he strode off towards help.
Freaking out, she began calling out to him. Not wanting to make their situation worse, she waited for him to come back. After some time had passed, he had still not shown up. She was completely alone and exhausted, but she summoned up the strength to call out to him. “Bright, where are you?” she yelled out. But there was no answer. She began thinking about the predicament they were in and thought that the change in the time of day was impossible. This place was impossible. Looking at her watch, she saw that no time had passed. “It must be broken,” she thought. She knew they still had about four hours of daylight left, which gave them plenty of time to make it back to the car. Looking around, she decided that she could wait no longer and started to look for her lost love. He was very brave or stupid, she thought, for leading them around without the flashlight. She explored her surroundings, starting with an uneasy step.
On her adventure, she also noticed that the birds, bugs, and usual sounds of life were vacant in these woods. The forest felt empty and dead. Walking in the direction he had gone in, the fog seemed to open as she walked as if the fog was guiding her somewhere or nowhere. She could make out shadows that seemed to keep their distance but disappeared when she got close. This forest was eerily quiet and cold, and as time passed, she became more concerned about where Bright could be. The shadow figure they were walking towards seemed like it was just over this hill, she thought.
Distracted, she then tripped and fell onto her hands and knees, dropping the light source. Reaching out for it, her hand became tangled in what seemed like fine string, like fishing line. Grabbing the light and shining it on the ground, she saw that her hand was tangled in black, wet hair. Startled, she jumped up and looked around. Franticly, she moved the flashlight around. She then saw something reflecting light a couple of feet in front of her under the dead leaves. Reaching out and pulling it up from the ground, she recognized it as a search-and-rescue reflective vest. Moving the torch back and forth, she began to see many items, like hats, shoes, and different pieces of clothing, as if she were right in a den. With the fear now welling up inside her, she tried to convince herself that she was imagining
things.
Then, out of nowhere, she heard it.
“Hey!” a voice coming from the darkness cried out. That was the only thing she could hear in this damned darkness. Thinking that he had found the way out, she expected to see her fiancée waiting for her in the distance. She began walking toward his voice. “Help!” the voice cried out. Now worried, she yelled out his name repeatedly, and each time she did, the reply from the voice got louder and clearer the closer she walked towards it. She continually yelled out Bright’s name repeatedly, and just as she was about to give up due to her voice growing hoarse in the frosty night air, a sudden chill rode down her spine. She stopped to realize that the voice calling out to her, the same voice she was heading towards this minute, never mentioned her name or anything else. It just keeps calling out for help. Hearing that ominous voice again brought her footsteps to a sudden stop. Fear crept into her body and soul. The part that stuck to her the most in her mind was that it sounded just like Bright, and for a while, she honestly believed the voice calling out to her was him. She waited for what seemed like an eternity and thought to herself that if we got separated, we would call out to each other by name. And as if the mysterious voice noticed her hesitation, it changed from the complete silence she was now comfortable with in the woods to the crashing sound of what sounded like trees cracking, smashing, and breaking, and it was heading her way. She took a quick look at her surroundings, and as if some cruel trick was being played on her, she saw that cursed door off in the distance.
She took off in a sprint while hearing the entire forest come down on her. The voice grew louder and more desperate. As she felt the hot breath of death on her back, she had no courage to look and see her pursuer. She was hoping and praying that Bright had already made it to the door. Zig, zagging through the brush and trees as the entity that was chasing her down found herself at the threshold of the door, Bright nowhere to be seen or heard, and with regret, twisted the knob, hoping that it would bring her home. I am hoping that Bright will be there to comfort me and embrace me, she thought.
Pushing herself through the door as the entire forest and darkness behind her rushes to catch her, she finds herself off balance from the vertigo and stumbling. Looking through the open door, she sees hell rushing towards her, and before any other horror can happen, she slams the door shut.
Not seeing Bright waiting for her as she had hoped, she then waited for the darkness to crash through the door. Closing her eyes and waiting for the same end that must have happened to her, Bright, her love. When her eyes opened and she inspected her surroundings, she noticed that the door that was once there had now disappeared from existence, and all she saw were the familiar woods they were hiking before; only it was daytime again.
She caught her breath and then broke down from the terrible ordeal she had just gone through. Tears started running down her cheeks. She was now damning herself for losing her boyfriend and for leaving him, she thought. As the loneliness crept in, she heard a voice out of nowhere; it was a familiar voice. It was his voice. She began looking around, searching for the source, and she saw nothing—no door, no Bright, just her and the forest around her.
I was there
BAPTISM BY BLOOD
Jaxon Draper
In the dying heart. The stone permanence of the moment when The flesh had gone still,
When the beating of the red walls went still.
The crimson blood flowing over my face, Through my nostrils
Clotting in my ears
As my thoughts went solid, Like a scab, as I watched The yellow lips turn a phantom blue.
I felt the black rot creep Before it was purged. Saw it in the system
From the inside,
As I watched his soul fade.
To the day it was over
From the day I heard
Of the malaise which grew inside, Like the roots and spores of black mold, From intestines to liver to lung to heart
To black and red tissue.
Baptism by blood, An inquisition
Which, door to door, burned Fear, Uncertainty, Panic, And finally purged the anger, Which burned me for a year, Left only the dark gray ashes of grief, When the walls of red went still.
Trial by fire.
Never before had I swam through
The cement of the hot clotting red liquid
As it choked me, so angry, Turing my skin the same red as the walls.
Quickly though I swam and now I’m back out walls of red, Not a tear shed, Surrounded by my family.
Pulled out by the now Cold and still hand which I hold, Filled with roots of black, Walls of his once red, beating core now still, For the coming eternity.
the human migration
Ayla Yarbrough
After grandpa died, The house went deadly quiet; much like a stream. You could feel the dread coming through the phone line. That was until the questions flooded in:
“What poem should we read at his funeral?” “Where should we hold his funeral?” “Should he be cremated?”
As these discussions were held My sister and I watched the birds Dip and dive outside our window. We entertained the fact that it’s What he would have wanted.
When winter hit that year, So did the funeral. Everyone migrated one more Time and mourned in the snow together; Not giving a thought to what he would have wanted.
When animals migrate, It seems like they just know where they are going. We, the children of the family, Had no idea where we were going.
the restaurant
Lisa Urban
In the restaurant where I punched in my shifts, oh boy, I felt like the last lonely pickle in a jar…. mistreated by my managers. The head chef and the act of her fake talent for making me feel like a wilted sprout in a garden of veggies. Their words were like hot sauce on a paper cut. But I was determined not to turn into a soggy crouton.
I clung to my multitasking like a stubborn tamale, meat on a fork refusing to be slurped down by their posole of negativity.
I strut through the chaos with a grand smile and a tray, champion of the underappreciated defender of the dinner rush. I found solace in the sizzle of the skillets and the clatter of plates, whistling a tune to drown out the noise of their mumbling, Their banter cut through the air like a dull butter knife.
I discovered the secret power of the invisible apron, a cape of invincibility against the slings and spills of kitchen warfare. With a swoosh of my tray, I was navigating the minefield of spilled drinks and demanding patrons. I refused to let their sour attitudes marinate my spirit, because, hey, I had a reputation to uphold as the nerdy server.
With each wobbly flan shot and each wobblier customer. I stood tall, my spirit uncrushable like a stale tortilla. I became the dancing hero of table T-seven and the unsung comedy act of table T-nine, turning their frowns into tips and their complaints into anecdotes.
In the restaurant where I worked as a salty superpower, the ability to turn their sour lemons into a zest for life. So here’s to the misfit servers and the kitchen misadventures, because in the end we were the ones salting up the margaritas of it all. Cheers to the misfits who turned every shift into a culinary carnival.
HARMONIZED SELF IMAGE
Melanie Martinez
MONJEAU MOON
Jack McCaw
When sky was blue
We inhabited a world Lost
blue(ish)
Jean Templeton Morris
To dreamers and impervious phrases. Slender infinitives, Flaunted participles, Parenthetical expressions, Asses hanging and Left
To dry.
There was no hiding My love For you.
Sweet conjugation! Adverbial agreement! Slight matters of form Against rogue Windless Days
That swept you on.
Find me a sonnet, Meter
Or rhyme— So, I might Know
Where is that sky?
When sky was blue It fell—
Onto desert plains where I live now.
a brave patient
Ramie Kinney
April 13, 2021. The alarm sitting right next to my head started to scream. It was 6:00 a.m., and my surgery was two and a half hours away. I reached over my head and over the armrest of my grandma’s worn-out tan couch, slapping my hand down on the screeching alarm.
I had stayed at my grandma’s house as it was only an hour away from the hospital where my surgery would happen, rather than my house being three hours away. But, despite the home being a place of comfort and happy memories, the night before it had turned into my cave of anxiety. Wide-eyed, I laid on the couch for hours, thinking of everything the surgeon had explained and walked me through a week earlier. I thought of the anesthesiologist putting me to sleep, and the nightmarish thought of if it did not work.
What if I was one of those people who cannot move, but who are still awake and can feel everything under anesthesia? I’d asked myself the night before.
The thought of feeling every poke and cut and burn haunted me and pushed the hour of when I finally fell asleep back and back. But eventually, I exhausted myself with my thoughts and was able to fall asleep.
I got up and changed into the outfit my mom and I had picked out the day before. It was a pair of gray sweatpants and a dark blue shirt that had a couple of small holes in it from its constant use over the years. Next to the clothes sat my new sports bra my mom had bought the day before. Now it would fit me, but in a couple of hours, it would be too big, yet big enough to give me a comfortable room to breathe.
I picked the bra up, staring at the size of the tag. XL, it read. Memories of all the years of trying on clothes in dressing rooms, crying to my mom about how nothing fit, and feeling horrible about the way I looked flushed into my mind.
I spent years and years with kids my age prodding at my life, asking me personal questions, shaming me for having my body something I could not control. But that was going to change.
My mom walked into the living room. I looked over at the clock, 6:05.
“Are you almost ready?” she asked. “I want to leave a bit early. You never know what might happen.”
“Almost,” I responded, slipping my shoes on over my fluffy socks. My mom spent months planning for this, making a binder full of all my information and details. She was not going to let any minor detail slip beyond her control. I could tell she was as nervous as me, but she was prepared.
She slung her black tote bag over her shoulder. It was filled with all the things I
would need after my surgery. A pair of socks, underwear, snacks, another bra just in case, and my full chunky binder.
“Ready?” she asked, although it was more of a signal to go than a question. We loaded up into the car and headed to the El Paso Children’s Hospital.
It was around 7:30 after arriving at the hospital. Now, in the colorful lobby, we waited behind a man, who was holding his toddler, and was talking to the woman in the check-in booth.
Oddly enough, there was a play area right next to the check-in booth. I remember looking at it and joking with my mom about how it looked creepy when it was so dark in the lobby. I remember noting how bittersweet it was to see a play area and a jungle gym in a children’s hospital. When the lady called us up, I was too nervous to fully understand what she was saying to us. My mom kept talking to me, handing over countless papers and registration forms. She even motioned for me to hand my wrist over to the lady at the check-in.
I slid my hand through the small opening in the glass pane in between us, watching the lady clip on my wristband. It was itchy at first, as the sides of the plastic band would catch on the peach fuzz on my arms, scratching me when it moved. She said something to me, but I never caught what she said.
My mom asked her where to go to meet my surgeon, and the lady directed us toward the elevator. At first, we were both so nervous we got lost in the hospital, ending up in the labor and delivery surgery ward. But soon enough we turned around and made it to my floor. We only sat in the waiting room for a couple of minutes before being taken back into my own room.
It was quiet, eerily quiet, but occasionally there would be a murmur of a nurse walking by. I was anxious, playing with my itchy wristband, waiting for anyone to come talk to me. Finally, when the first nurse came in, she gave me a bag that contained my gown and socks. My mom made a joke about how the gowns were backless and barely covered my bottom on the way back to my room.
After I changed, the nurse came back, this time with a tray. She greeted me, setting the tray down on the desk to my right.
“The surgeon is prepping the last few things in the operating room, so we’re going to get you started on some IV fluids,” she said as she washed her hands.
“It’s just saline. I’ll start giving you stuff that’ll just calm your nerves before surgery.” She pulled on the edge of her blue glove, letting go and snapping it into place on her hand.
She then rubbed a cold alcohol wipe on my arm. The liquid quickly dried against my hand. I looked away. I hated needles. She asked if I was ready, and then started to count down.
It stung momentarily, and the bar of the IV going into my hand felt odd, like it
didn’t belong. The nurse clipped my IV line to a bag, which was connected to a moving bar. I instantly felt the liquids entering my hand. It was cold, extremely cold, and even hurt. I winced a little.
“You have some strong veins there!” she said, marking things on the clipboard attached to my bed, and looking down at my hand. The IV looked like an alien under my skin.
“Dr. Nemir will be here momentarily to make some surgical marks,” she said, looking over at the clock. She smiled down at me, and then she left.
I waited for what felt like forever, feeling the coolness of the liquids pulsing through my veins. My mom asked what it felt like. All I could describe it as, was drinking ice-cold water after chewing mint gum.
“Are you ready?” my mom asked, with a concerned smile on her face. Was I ready? Did I feel prepared?
The memories rushed back into my brain once again.
I was eleven, in fifth grade, and someone had stuck me with a tack, thinking I had stuffed balloons under my shirt. I was twelve, in sixth grade, and fingers were pointed at me, followed by giggles and shaming. She is such a slut. She is so easy. I heard she let him do this to her on the bus. I was thirteen, in seventh grade, and rumors started developing. She had a boob job when she turned ten. She stuffs her bra. She lets any guy touch them if they want. People bumped into me on purpose, shoving their arms in front of me, trying to unmask what they thought was fake. I was fourteen, in eighth grade, and I tried to sit up straight in my chair during band, but a searing pain went down my spine and I started crying. I went to lie down at night, and I would have trouble breathing. I was fourteen, about to turn fifteen, and my doctor told me I had early signs of scoliosis. My spine was dying under the constant weight of my chest. She recommended me to Dr. Nemir, a surgeon in El Paso.
I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be able to try on clothes without crying. I wanted to be a normal young teenage girl whose worries were normal, not about how their spine was curving overnight. I didn’t want to be in pain anymore.
“Yes,” I said, smiling confidently back at her. “I’m ready.”
When Dr. Nemir finally entered the room, she had her gear on, with a marker in her hand. She had to draw on me. She brought a stool over to me, helping me sit up in my bed. It was uncomfortable, being fifteen and being almost naked in front of an adult. But I trusted her, she had been the only surgeon who would accept a patient like me—so young—for the surgery I needed.
“You’re the youngest patient I’ve ever had,” she remarked. “But that makes you brave.”
I took a deep breath, murmuring something in response. I was young. A first-year student in high school, and barely grown up at all. But I was ready. I was ready to take this step for myself.
When it was time to go, I said goodbye to my mom, and she squeezed my left hand. The nurses wheeled me into the operating room. I started to feel a sort of calmness and confusion sweeping over my body. I knew that they had injected the “good stuff,” into my IV.
I saw lights passing overhead, but I couldn’t quite make out what they were. I felt a light lift of my body onto a cold metallic surface, followed by lots of blankets placed on top of me. The operating room was freezing, bright, and overwhelmingly loud. I started to freak out, breathing heavily, and asking where my mom was. I was scared.
A lady, who I couldn’t see because I couldn’t move my head, was squeezing my hand. She moved her other free hand up to my head and rubbed my hair as she calmed me.
“It’ll be okay. You are so brave,” she whispered to me. The rustle of commotion got quieter.
I closed my eyes slowly, and the sounds started to fade out. Memories and worries flashed in my mind. But I was ready. I felt a squeeze in my hand, and then everything went silent.
I can’t remember waking up, but my mom told me I couldn’t keep my head up, and my throat burnt, as I kept asking for water. A few hours later, when I finally could remember things, I remembered looking down at my chest. It looked flat, entirely different than before. My mom assured me in two weeks it would look a lot different, but right now it was bandaged up. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t worried. I had faced the hardest parts already, and now I was on a journey of healing.
After a couple of months, my healing progressed. I grew more confident, and my mom took me shopping to celebrate. I got a new sports bra, a cute one that was purple with a marbling effect. I remember picking it up and looking at the tag. It was a medium, and I didn’t think it would fit. But, after putting it on, I realized it fit perfectly. I cried still, but this time it was with joy. I was finally myself. I was who I was always meant to be.
MAGIC NEW MEXICO LIGHT
Ray Dean
SAFE PLACE
Tianna Lyons
whoa!
TN Kerr
The day was just like any other day in those days. It was the autumn of 1969. We were just coming off the heels of The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, The Vietnam War was in full swing, and although we didn’t know it, yet the internet had just been born.
I got home from school to see my mother’s car in the driveway. Jimmy, Donna, and I had torched a J while walking home and I was a little bit buzzed. I was not expecting Mom to be home, so I looked at my watch. I thought I might have been running late; but my watch confirmed that indeed she was home early. I headed up the walk and opened the front door. Laughter and conversation could be heard from the back of the house. It seemed to be a mix of English and Spanish. I headed back. I wanted to see what was going on.
We had a Formica table with chrome legs and matching chairs in the kitchen. That was where I found my mom. She was engaged in animated conversation with a man I did not know. He seemed to be small in stature. He was slim with salt and pepper hair, worn long for a man of his age in those days, although it was a good bit shorter than mine. His most striking feature was his moustache, a long waxed and twisted handlebar that curled upwards from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wide, and mirthful. They appeared inquisitive and knowing at the same time. A walking stick with a silver handle leaned against the table, next to him. The table was decorated with an overflowing ashtray and a half empty bottle of whiskey; I think it might have been Cutty Sark. A couple of highball glasses sat next to a Danish wooden horse and a stick of driftwood. It looked like these two had been there for a while. The stranger went quiet and looked at me when I entered the room and my mother erupted in uncontrollable giggles when she turned and saw me.
“Sun,” she said to me.
I should explain that my mother always called me Sun. She said it was because I was so bright, but I think it was because she couldn’t spell. She was an artist—a sculptor and a painter, not a writer. Anyway…
“Sun,” she said, “This is my old friend Sal. He’s in town for a couple of days and popped by for a visit.” She seemed to be a bit more buzzed than I was. My mother’s friend Sal stood and, when he did, I noted that he was not as small as I had originally thought, although he wasn’t exceptionally tall either. He appeared to be of average height, maybe eight inches taller than my mother who stood an even five feet. He walked around the table, and his hands could not be still. He constantly flourished long thin fingers around his mouth unconsciously following the sweep of his flamboyant mustache. Finally, he stilled and bent slightly at the waist extending his hand to me.
“Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí I Domènech,” he said as he shook my hand.
He continued, in heavily accented English, “I am a friend of your mother’s. We met in Paris. I believe it was 1934.” He looked at my mom for confirmation of the date and she nodded her head in assent.
Reaching into his waistcoat pocket he removed a small square of cloth. I believed it to be a handkerchief. When he unfolded it, I saw that there was a clock face painted thereon. He stared at this clock for a moment and then folded it back up and put it in his pocket.
“Llego tarde, tengo que ir,” he said in Spanish. “I’m late, I must go.” He shook my hand again, kissed my mother on the cheek and breezed past me, out the front door. My mom was smiling and had a faraway look in her eyes.
“Well, shit,” she said after he had gone. “I gotta sleep this off. You’re on your own for dinner.” She headed down the hall back to her room. I heard her bedroom door squeak on its hinges as she closed it softly, then I went to the cupboard and got a glass of my own. I poured two fingers of Cutty and sat down to drink in the chair that my mother had recently vacated. That was when I saw the painting. It sat on the floor leaning against the wall.
I remember it well although I never saw it again after that night.
CATTERWALLERING
Michael Potts
“Stop that catterwallering right now! You ain’t hurt enough to be carrying on so. Keep it up and I’ll give you something to really be catterwallering about.” That is what my old pap always used to tell my brother and I when we got hurt. Usually, it was a skinned knee or a cut we got from playing with knives. It might even be because we got our noses bloodied fighting with the next-door neighbor. Whatever it was, pap would get a wet washcloth, and clean it up. Then, depending on whether it was a cut or scape, he’d either get the Mecuricome or Merthiolate out. That stuff stung as much as iodine did. My brother, and I, would screech more when it was applied. “STOP that catterwallering!” Then out the door he’d send us with “Guess that’ll teach you to be more careful and use your head other than for a hat rack.”
Momma had up and died on us five or six year back; I can’t exactly remember when. It grieved pap right terrible. He and momma had been sweethearts way back to when they was in junior high. Just had never been anybody else for either of them. And here he was, stuck with two boys who he really didn’t know how to raise. It had been hard on him, but he asked his sister to come stay a while. She taught him an awful lot about how to raise two unruly boys. Got so, that we never came to the table without our hair being combed, and all washed up. Yep, Aunt Hattie was a terror to us boys, and a good sister to our pap. She learned him all the proper ways to raise up my brother and I, and even taught him some things about himself that I guess he never knew. Couldn’t have been easy on her, me being twelve, Henry being ten, and she being without kids herself. Oh yeah, my name’s Cass: Cass Stephens.
I can still remember the day Aunt Hattie arrived in Logan, Iowa. It was April 6, 1916. Aunt Hattie was twenty-three years old that year. She arrived by train, the Chicago and Northwester that ran through Logan. Little did we know it then, but a year later President Woodrow Wilson would get Congress to declare war on Germany. Pap would leave us to go off to fight in that war, and we would get Aunt Hattie back to watch over us till he returned. It was a good year as far as years go.
Like I mentioned earlier, our Aunt Hattie was a terror to us, but she was also a terror to anybody that looked crosswise at us. I was just beginning junior high, or seventh grade, when she arrived, Henry was in fifth grade. We weren’t much into learning, and stepping into a new school like I done, and having to learn everything anew wasn’t much fun. We had to learn to use the lockers they had lining the walls, to store our school books in when we weren’t using them. We also had to learn to go to different classrooms for different classes. And gym! Why, we had to go to gym class where we was with a whole new set of guys that we didn’t even know. Some of them were awful durn mean, and it got to where I didn’t want to go to gym class.
A couple of them boys lived next block over from us, and they took to wanting to fight each and every day. They’d chase me home most days, calling names an flinging rocks. Aunt Hattie saw that one day, and when I got inside, she asked me what was going on. I told her straight up about them boys. She said she’d sure fix that up. Well, the next day after school was out them boys up, started chasing me home again. We were half way to home when Aunt Hattie stepped out from behind a tree placing herself in between me ‘n them. She started giving those boys heck, telling them that nobody reckoned with her family where she came from. She told them boys she was a witch come from Salem Massachusetts to watch over us. Told them she knew how to take care of boys like them, she’d turn ‘em into frogs after she fried their feet.
Well, I was watching her when she began to chant “With the Powers granted to me by the Great wizard of Oz, heckabaum, heckabaum, razamataz, chanted fire balls make these boys dance.” She was waving her left hand around in the air, when I saw her reach into her apron pocket with her right hand to get something hidden there. With her left hand she kept those boys mesmerized, and with her right she flicked a small ball onto the sidewalk at their feet. It exploded with a bang sending up a smoke went it went off. “Timbuktu, and Coral Gables help me Oz to turn the tables,” then bam, another ball exploded at their feet with a puff of smoke.
Now those boys were getting pretty nervous there, and were dancing around when she said, “Mighty Oz now help me do, burn these boys’ feet like they were in a stew.” She flicked two more balls at their feet which exploded with a bang, smoke rising up. Well, you could see the fear in those boys’ eyes as they turned, and falling all over each other started running back to home. I never did see anybody run so fast. As they departed, Aunt Hattie called out to them. “I just hexed you; you ever bother my nephew again, and your feet will swell until they burst.” I could hear them catterwallering all the way down the block, and over to the next street.
I walked over to Aunt Hattie and, with the biggest smile I have ever managed, I told
her she was sure enough the swellest Aunt any boy ever could have. I grabbed her hand, and we walked home together. I never had to run home from school again.
Now that was only one incident where she saved me from hateful people. There were to be times when she would get Henry, and me, out of the messes we created for ourselves. Some of those times ended with a sure-enough switching when we got home.
All in all though, our Aunt Hattie was a loving aunt, and a woman to be reckoned with when she got her dander up. Even the local busybody got a taste of what Aunt Hattie was like, but that’s for another time and day.
MONSTRUM WRAITH
Sebastian Segars Lopez
A chance meeting
Shane Allison
Walking home from a poetry reading one night
It began to rain. I popped the collar Of my leather jacket up around my neck As if it would be enough to keep me dry. I lived in a beat up apartment On Grove Street. It wasn’t five stars, But was in the village, Blocks away from the bars And boyfriend material. I slept in my room with a butcher knife Due to the mouse under the stove. As I walked to dodge pellets of wet, A man in a chef coat Sauntered up next to me, Sheltering us under his umbrella. These things don’t happen In my town of Tallahassee. He had to be heaven sent. We exchanged names as if they Were phone numbers Written on receipt slips. He worked at a restaurant Whose food I couldn’t afford On a work study salary. I told him I was a poet Who exchanged freshly squeezed Sunshine for Lady Liberty. Our walk stopped in front of Andy’s Deli Where I would go for Chicken sandwiches And Coconut crunch donut delights. When he pulled the umbrella away, I could taste the rain on my lips again, Beads of it sticking to the frames of my glasses. The face of this angel no longer in focus. He had a train to Brooklyn to catch, And I had a kitchen mouse to kill.
war memories
Marcos Medina
On the march up to Baghdad, I reached loneliness at its peak during moments when fellow Marines surrounded me. It was a profound solitude accompanied by the overwhelming fear of the unknown, a loneliness that sought solace in the embrace of a mother. Each night, it ebbed and flowed, a cycle interrupted by the haunting echoes of Islamic prayers emanating from a nearby minaret, a stark reminder of being in a foreign land. The sensory landscape was poignant: the air thick with the acrid scent of burning trash, petrol, and at times, the grim aftermath of battles, marked by the scent of human bodies consumed by fire. In the sanctuary of my sleeping bag, prayers were whispered, only to be intertwined with the disconcerting sounds of Iraqi women and children sobbing throughout the night. The symphony of aircraft and explosions occasionally lulled me into brief moments of sleep. There was no escape from the cacophony of war, and even in those fleeting naps, dreams unfurled vividly. In the realm of sleep, I found myself floating through galaxies or tracing the silhouettes of camels against the horizon, the sun casting its immense glow at dusk. Some nights were enveloped in an impenetrable darkness, rendering one unable to see their own hands. Amidst such obscurity, the flickering of a distant candle provided the only visible beacon, a solitary light against the backdrop of the war-torn landscape.
I lost friends during Operation Iraqi Freedom II in Husaybah, Iraq. A rock through away from the Syrian border. What I did not know about enlisting as a Marine Food Service Specialist, is that you would feed Marines their last meal. Every six months of six years at war. Four deployments to Iraq and two in Afghanistan. Most of my adult life. We had a running joke that Brittney Spears had died due to our news being delayed because of River City, the code word for all communication to cease, pending the notification of next of kin. On my first day in Forward Operating Base Tiger, we received indirect fire from enemy mortars. The concussion was felt on your body and the smell was that of a somber Fourth of July. The exhaust of a school bus will take me back at every red light. Nothing will replace how close you are to death and you believe at times that you are invincible. Nothing prepares you for your friends to disappear overnight, they just vanish, and their bodies leave as carrion in a black bag. A last memory of our Company Commander (Lima Co, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines), Major Richard Gannon came up to me and asked for a cup of hot water. Two days later, during the Battle of Husaybah, he sacrificed his life to retrieve fellow Marines who were wounded in the vicinity of an insurgent holdout. The next day, we stand in formation for roll call out loud and listen to each Marine response, until the silence of those departed is called out three times, silence. We all try to swallow that knot in our throats and maintain our bearing as Marines.
WITHOUT CHARLIE
Kristine Neuman
Andy walked into the single-bedroom apartment he shared with his best friend Charlie. It was a simple place, not much by most people’s standards, but it was enough for them. The walls were painted variations of beige, gray, and sometimes a dull green, while the floors were made of cheap vinyl. It was stained from years of spills and scuffs, worn from use, and had even begun to peel off in certain spots, so though the floor creaked loudly as one walked and the hinges on the doors squealed with the slightest movement, these things were only proof of the years of stories the building had yet to tell.
When Andy opened the door to their apartment that day, turning on the light as he entered, he noticed something was different. Charlie wasn’t there and the house was quiet. The small little creaks and noises he was used to, the ones that gave that old rickety apartment character were all gone. The only sound he was left with was the jingling of his keys as he placed them down on the kitchen counter just past the front foyer and the noise from the bustling city streets outside as a car horn honked.
“Hello!” he called hoping Charlie was just hiding in his room. “Charlie, hey I’m back,” Andy called again but it felt as if he was speaking to the wind. Andy peeked into his room, but it was exactly the same as he left it, with no sign of Charlie in sight. Panic welled up inside his gut, twisting and turning like a knot that only got worse as one attempted to untangle it. Not again. This can’t happen again. I can’t lose another person just because they got close to me. He repeated over and over in his mind as he began to search.
Andy looked up and down the halls outside the apartment and all around the inside of it until he began to tear things apart in a frantic attempt to find Charlie. With each passing minute, he became more panicked, until he had turned their apartment inside out looking for his friend. His closet was sprawled haphazardly across the floor of his bedroom, anything under his bed was now trickling out onto the kitchen floor, and every cabinet door in the entire apartment was open. By now he should have been used to this, he should have expected this to happen. After all, this wasn’t the first time someone who got close to him disappeared; but this time was supposed to be different.
Andy had warned Charlie of the strange disappearances that always seemed to follow him before they became roommates last year. Charlie was the first to believe him and the first to accept him in full for all of his differences. Charlie promised Andy he would never leave; he promised, and he lied I made him a liar, he thought while gripping his blonde curly hair, attempting to ground himself to something tangible, something real as the walls of his world closed in around him. He stood in the middle of his room panicking as he grappled at any idea of where Charlie might be.
Soon he became quite lightheaded, so he slowly walked backward till he brushed against the edge of his bed. The rough fabric of the bedspread crinkled under-
neath his weight as he sat down staring at the wall in front of him, allowing his mind to wander as he did. It wasn’t quite 6:00 he noticed because his alarm hadn’t gone off to remind him of the poison in his pocket yet. He stared at the wall before him focusing on the color as his mind swirled with possibilities possibilities, and the anxiety that accompanied them chaining him to the bed in their wake.
The wall was a hideous color of washed olive green if he recalled the name correctly. The pigment in the dim room made it look especially miserable. It reminded him of a feeling, the feeling of fear perhaps. Like the kind a child feels when they believe there are monsters in their closet. It’s irrational but it’s there, and there’s no shaking it. Even now he feels it, the dread that looms over him, lurking over his shoulders as the shadows dance around it, it’s so close he could touch it, that’s if he could move. But he’s stuck, frozen with the terror he can’t yet face, but it faces him, and it whispers in his ear the truth.
Andy stared at that wall for a while, until his 6 o’clock alarm did go off on his phone, yanking him back to reality. Mechanically, Andy rose from the bed before making his way out of the apartment grabbing his keys off the counter as he left. From there he went door to door asking each of his neighbors if any of them knew of Charlie’s whereabouts, just on the off chance one of them was with him. Finally, after he was absolutely sure there was not a single trace of Charlie anywhere, he decided to call the police and file a missing person’s report.
After calling the police the hollow feeling in Andy’s gut increased tenfold. He thought back to any clues as to where Charlie could be since the police were no help. They informed him that they had no one under the name of Charlie Jackson in their system, and then they wanted him to come down to the station to ask him a few more questions. They were trying to lock me up again. They were lying and he knew it, he had known Charlie for almost two years now. They just wanted to make him disappear like they had done to Charlie like they had done to everyone else before Charlie.
So, he ran. He ran out of his apartment, down the stairs, and out of the building. He ran down the sidewalk and through the city, calling out for Charlie. As he sprinted, he didn’t pay any mind to the suspicious and questioning looks he got from people as he shoved past them. The only thing Andy thought about besides his best friend’s disappearance was something Charlie had told him in passing a few days before.
“You know they’re scared of you?” Charlie had explained as they sat on the couch in their living room one evening. “That’s why they tell you you’re crazy and lock you up every time you try to get help. They don’t want you to spill your secrets, that’s why everyone disappears because they don’t want you to tell people what you know. That’s why you can only trust me because now that I know why this keeps happening, I can be one step ahead of them that way they’ll never take me.”
He was right, he was right all along.
Andy’s feet moved one after the other, patting against the sidewalk in a melodic
rhythm running through the city, as memories flashed in his mind over and over again from the past few weeks. He ran until his legs could no longer carry him, the burning in his lungs became too much to bear, along with the sharp pains shooting through his calves and thighs to the point that if he didn’t stop, he would surely collapse. He slowed to a halt taking in his surroundings as he did.
The sun was almost set, the sky had turned a dark shade of teal, and the first stars were peeking out from behind the blanket of light the sun cast upon the sky each morning. Andy walked into a park that he recognized was about a mile or so from his home. The lamp posts were lit with bright white luminescent lights that attracted bugs, placed along the side of the cracked pathway in front of him. Between two of these lamps was a metal bench where he decided to sit and catch his breath for a moment. Once he finally sat down on the cool steel, things started to come back into focus, his vision cleared fully, and his mind seemed less like a whirlpool of thoughts and more like a coherent stream of worries.
This hyper-awareness reminded him of the heaviness that weighed him down like lead; his eyes following his mind’s focus as they flicked to his pocket where the bottle was kept. Andy slowly and steadily reached inside it with trepidation as he prepared himself until his fingers suddenly brushed against something else entirely. He pulled the square object out slowly to reveal his phone.
Andy sighed, then blinked, before he slid the phone upwards to reveal his home screen, going straight to his contacts and clicking the only one besides his boss’s, knowing that at the very least she wouldn’t treat him like a criminal for what had happened. Unlike some people. He thought as he clicked the green call button.
Hello?” a confused voice sounded from the other end of the phone. “Hello? Andy is that you?”
He took a moment to reply, swallowing slowly in an attempt to relieve some of the scratchiness in the back of his throat while assuring himself that he still had someone. At least she hadn’t left, she never did, but there was always the chance that one day he would call, and she wouldn’t answer.
“You’re okay; you didn’t disappear,” he said more to himself than anyone else, breathing out the words in quiet reassurance that something was real.
“Andy, what do you mean I didn’t disappear? Are you okay? What’s going on?” she asked quickly. Andy’s sister was the only one from his family who didn’t consider him an outcast. Who hadn’t blamed him or treated him like a burden for what he couldn’t control.
“Lindsey,” he said in a shaken voice. “H-he’s gone, Charlie’s gone,” he clarified.
“Wait, who’s gone?” she responded.
“Charlie. My roommate, I can’t find him anywhere,” he said.
“Andy,” she spoke softly. “Have you been taking your medicine?”
“Of course I have, but not everything is about that. This is serious, Charlie’s missing.”
There was an exacerbated sigh on the other end of the phone before she continued.
“Andy, what makes you think this Charlie person just...disappeared?”
“Because when I came home today, he wasn’t at our apartment, and he wouldn’t just leave without saying anything for this long. I didn’t do it I swear, I swear.” Andy choked out as he whispered the last part to himself.
“I know, but Andy, I’ve been to your apartment. Are you sure Charlie... well, are you sure he’s real?”
Andy paused and thought about her words, they sounded familiar, like it was something he had been asked by her before. “I have to go,” he said abruptly after a few more breaths settled between them.
“Wait Andy I didn’t mean ” Then the phone clicked.
He sat on the bench staring at the stars, as the night sky grew darker and darker until it was a pitch-black sea of twinkling lights, centered around a big bold crescent moon. He thought back again to that morning when he had last seen Charlie. His best friend, the one person who understood him, who took him seriously, and he would have believed him if he had been here. He thought about how he had left Charlie in favor of going to the pharmacist for his medicine. The medicine he had been hiding from Charlie since he would always try to convince him not to take it because it was a lie after all; Charlie knew he didn’t need it. All this time Charlie had been right and if Andy had just been a good friend, he would have believed him from the start.
Andy sat there till evening turned into late night. He pulled out an orange plastic prescription bottle sealed with a white cap from his hoodie pocket, and he held it out in front of him as he read the contents.
“Clozapine,” he whispered to himself. After a few more minutes Andy exited the park. As he did so, Andy tossed the bottle in a nearby trash bin the bottle that had taken so much from him, the bottle that would take no more.
Andy walked back into the bleak, cold, empty apartment he lived in, throwing his hand up to turn on the light as he walked through the door, flicking his gaze toward the ground as the shift from dark to bright stung his eyes. He practically dragged himself across the floor as he moved mechanically looking for a surface to lie down on, looking for a place to just...sleep. He didn’t check the messages he had surely received from his frantic sister. He should probably feel bad for not replying, especially when he knew how much of a worrywart Lindsey was, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.
He’s been through this before, and so has she, and nothing changes. He starts
taking the meds and some things get better. Things start to clear up like the voices, random noises, and things in the corner of his eye he can’t quite make out but knows he saw. But Charlie, well he always told him not to continue taking them, especially when symptoms or as the so-called doctors called them, “side effects” set in. Andy didn’t like taking them, but it made his sister happy when he did, and she would visit him more often as he continued to, as she claimed, “make great progress.” However, after a while of taking the meds, keeping them clear of Charlie’s just a bit overcritical eye, he would be caught. Even so, if that didn’t happen, then everything that had seemingly been wrong would suddenly be gone, and this meant those issues everyone claimed he had, hadn’t really been there in the first place.
The monsters in the closet never really existed.
When Andy finally made it to the couch he plopped down unceremoniously right in the spot where Charlie once slept. As he lay there his mind wandered to his lost friend and the good times they had together. As Andy reminisced over the past, the pair’s long late-night discussions, the laughs they shared, and the stories both told of themselves before they met, Andy also remembered a time when Lindsey came to visit. Charlie hid in Andy’s room the whole time where she couldn’t meet him. But he was still there. He reminded himself as his brain replayed his sister’s words from earlier in his head. “Are you sure Charlie’s real?”
He was sure he was real; he had never been so sure of something, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t think about the oddities that came with Charlie. Like the time Charlie claimed his sister was a government spy, or how in the whole time he’s known Charlie he’s never had a job, yet he never seems to need food while still leaving Andy’s food alone. Nevertheless, he can ask him about it when he gets back. He will be back. He assures himself one last time before his eyes lull shut as his body finally gives out.
A few days later, which Andy only noticed passed him by after a knock sounded at the door followed by an oh-so-familiar voice. “Andy?” Lindsey’s voice bounced off the thin walls of the apartment. He was still lying in the same spot on the couch he had placed himself on a few days ago. Andy noticed at that moment how glued he felt to the brick-like cushions and scruffy old fabric of the couch.
From the moment he sat down it was as if he was a fly, a fly caught in a trap. A pest destined to slowly suffer with its thoughts till death, as it’s stuck to the one thing that was meant to provide a sense of comfort in order to gain to some. It’s an inhuman practice now that he thought about it. Who would make something starve or die of dehydration just because it had the misfortune of being born as something that was deemed to be unwanted by others? It was funny how similar Andy felt to a fly, not just then but his whole life. From the moment he was diagnosed and even before that, no one understood, even Lindsey didn’t always get it, but at least she didn’t ostracize him like the others though that didn’t mean it still wasn’t hard.
“Andy? It’s Lindsey, can I come in?” she asked cautiously.
Andy stopped and thought for a moment. Time ticked by, but he could hardly notice it. Everything the last few days went by in a blur, some moments didn’t even feel real, he didn’t even feel real, and he wasn’t totally sure if that all happened looking back now. That’s what occurred after he got up from the bench the other night. He couldn’t remember coming home or how he got back, he just remembers lying down and then the fragments of “memories” that occupied the time and space between then and now. Andy remembers back to a session with an old psychiatrist of his where he told her about these moments. She called them something like...de-realization...but the concept always seemed foreign to him.
“Andy, are you in there? Please I just want to talk, I promise I’ll listen this time. I’m sorry for how I reacted the other day on the phone, but please can you just come out so we can talk.” The silence between them as Andy lay on the couch inside the apartment while Lindsey awaited his response outside was loud, it filled his ears with static and a slight ringing noise the longer it took him to respond, but it wasn’t enticing enough to speak just yet.
After another hesitant knock sounded at the door without his sister’s voice to follow, he stood up and made his way towards the door. The world around him spun and the ground seemed too far away, the colors of the walls blurred together, and the dank smell of his apartment seemed to finally register in his nose. The floor creaked as he moved methodically past the kitchen and towards the door, the handle and lock clicked as he prepared to open it and Lindsey’s surprised intake of breath was audible as the hinges squealed when he slowly swung open the only barrier between them. Andy’s disheveled form was finally revealed as he stood just before the threshold, neither dared to speak but both were unable to look away from one another.
Andy chanced a look down at himself finally able to see part of what he looked like. He saw that he was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants with holes caused by wear, and a stained faded green sweatshirt to match the ensemble, something he must have changed into at some point, though he wasn’t entirely sure when. Lindsey just gave him a kind smile as he returned his gaze to her. It took a moment longer before she looked as if she was going to speak, as her lips parted slightly but Andy beat her to it.
“Charlie’s not real,” he said. It came in waves, the realization that is, but saying what he knew out loud was harder than he had ever imagined it could be.
There it was, the confirmation he dreaded and the reason she was here. The words hung between them like a sad tune, like the pianist’s last show, or the dancer’s last dance. A sending off of the life they had once known, the life they had centered everything they knew around, only to crumble away before them in the wind. His sister just stood there and said nothing as a swarm of emotions passed over her face. She pities me, he noted. He didn’t like to be pitied especially by the person who turned his reality to ash in the first place.
“Andy, do you want to come home?” she asked. “I know you wanted to get away, to be independent but I can help you. I’ve arranged for a wonderful psychiatrist you can see, she’s really good and I think she can finally give you the help you
deserve. John also agreed for you to stay with us and I’ve already set up the guest room for you to live in.” Her eyes were brimming with tears; it was another one of her tactics. She always tried to manipulate him, using her devious ploys to keep him close. At least no one else from their family wanted him near just to play stupid mind games with him, but he guesses that’s only because they didn’t want him near at all.
“But I live with Charlie,” he responded. Her eyes grew wide, and it was as if something had cracked slightly in her face, it hurt to see her like this.
“Andy ” She tried to speak again but her voice cracked with the sobs that were attempting to accompany her silent tears.
“I know. I forgot he’s not real but that doesn’t seem right.”
“I know it doesn’t but trust me it will get better, you don’t have to do it alone,” she said reassuringly.
“Why not?” Andy asked curiosity brimming in his voice.
“Because I’m your big sis, and I love you. So, please let’s just go home.”
“Home?” Andy looked back behind him into the apartment where dishes were placed across every flat surface, blankets were thrown throughout the living room, crumbs were scattered across the floor and counter, and the mess from looking for Charlie was still there. It felt like he was seeing it all for the first time even though he had been living in it for the last few days.
Lindsey could surely see it too from where she was standing, but she didn’t seem nearly as surprised as Andy was at the sight of it. He turned back towards her again and stared at her for a moment. She looked different somehow, but she hadn’t changed, she never did just like everything else stays the same, even as it changes it doesn’t really.
But as the blue-flowered pattern from her blouse seemed to melt and dull from the hopeful look that was slowly fading in her eyes he couldn’t bring himself to be the source of her pain, even though he knew he probably couldn’t change, he could try. He was without Charlie now, that had changed, but she never did. Lindsey always stayed so understanding for him and he didn’t want to be the source or reason for her pain even if he couldn’t fix his own.
Andy swallowed dryly noting his painfully cracked lips, as well as the dry feeling on his tongue and in the back of his throat. He slowly breathed in and then out as he said his next words carefully. Realizing in that moment that maybe, just maybe things were changing.
“Okay, I’ll go with you.”
ANNULAR ECLIPSE
Jack McCaw
flower
Lyric Martinez
I saw a flower in a garden. It flew away but I still tried to get it. It flew into somebody’s hands. I saw it was someone I liked. I easily get nervous so it was hard and I wish I can be more perfect like the flower that I saw in the garden. It had beautiful petals and it was my favorite color. I get butterflies in my stomach every single time I see him. And I wish he would like me too. Ohh, the flower is the reason I talked to him today and the flower is really special to me now.
GRANDMOTHER LORE
Tianna Lyons
I remember my grandmother telling me about how things were so different back in her day which I believe is one hundred percent true. She once told me that when her family got electricity, she and her sister would flick the lights on and off. They were utterly fascinated by the way it worked. Simple things like water and electricity are scarce on the Navajo Reservation, though it looks as if nothing is wrong. Being a woman on the Reservation is like being the black sheep in a crowd of white sheep, you’re spotted and you’re immediately targeted to get rid of.
My grandmother would tell me how her mom would be covered in bruises or how her parents were constantly yelling at one another. She said that one day things turned from bad to worse, they had built a cave in the ditch to hide from her dad. Many stories told by my grandmother would be considered things you’d only see in a movie, and it wasn’t always the good kind. There were ups and downs to her stories that were told when it was cold, and we all had hot cocoa in our small hands. For example: her older brother would put her and her sister up to no good. One time, they built their own bikes which they would then crash, but they would laugh and try again. I guess that’s where she got her strong personality.
When you heat the word “Grandma” you think of a fragile old woman with a cane, but my grandmother is nothing like that. She’s strong-willed, works for herself, and always has time for her grandkids But she definitely does have a favorite even if she denies it. My grandma is the strongest person I know and I love her so much.
Searching for
Michelle Soria
I dive in so deep into my mind it’s like I’m swimming through the bottom of the ocean.
I lose control and let my logic go for the thrill of my emotions. I let my logic fade away, rip away; I’m the water causing an erosion while rage fills up my tank, I’m just a ticking bomb waiting on explosion.
But how can I be love while holding hate in my deepest regrets? I been looking for warmth even after the sun sets.
I feel so aligned and yet I still fin myself looking for peace of mind. The sound of the alarm clock ringing reminding me of all the wasted time. I’ve been so caught up in the time ahead, I forgot to take a look behind.
ARTIST & WRITER BIOGRAPHIES
Ridgeline review issue 4 spring 2024
ALYSON CLARK
Alyson Clark is an eighteen-year-old senior at Ruidoso High School as well as a student at ENMU-Ruidoso. Since she was little she has always loved to do art in her free time but stopped enjoying it like she used to in recent years until just a couple months ago. She loves to do all things related with creativity such as music, decor, drawing, and creating jewelry. It makes her so happy having a place where she can share her art with others who might enjoy it like she does.
shane allison
Shane Allison is the author of four chapter books of poetry as well as four full-length poetry collections including I Remember (Future Tense Books), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori Press), Sweet Sweat (Hysterical Books), and most recently I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire Press). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica, and has written two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon and Schuster Publishing). His collage work has appeared in many publications, including Shampoo, Unlikely Stories, Pnpplzine.com, Palavar Arts Magazine, the Southeast Review, South Broadway Review, Postscript Magazine. Allison is at work on a new novel and is always making new collages.
Jade Artiaga
Jade Artiaga is currently a student at Mescalero Apache High school. She produced her work in this issue in Ms. Marty Lane’s art class at MHS.
TAR BANKS
Tar Banks is currently a student at ENMU-Ruidoso, where they produced their story in this issue for Introduction to Creative Writing.
pam bonner
Pamela Bonner was born and raised in San Diego, California. After moving to Lodi, California, she was the first in her family to attend college enrolling at San Joaquin Delta College and continuing at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California. She earned multiple degrees, continuously made the Honor Roll and was on the Dean’s List. She is a mother to one daughter, grandmother of one grandson, whom she just adores, and two step-granddaughters. After working as a Journalist and Photographer for decades, she made the difficult decision to change careers and enrolled at ENMU-Ruidoso in the spring of 2024 seeking a degree in the Culinary Arts. Her newfound passion is elevated and fine dining cooking, soon to seek a position as a Sous Chef. Her love for photography continues: more of a hobby these days. She has lived in multiple states in the upper 48 and in Okinawa, Japan. Her passions extend to a great read, movies, cooking, music, and her family and friends.
Desiree Bustamantes
Desiree Bustamantes is a Nationally Certified School Psychologist who has been privileged to directly serve students across grades Pre-K-12, as well as work in close collaboration with colleagues and student families. She grew up in Mesilla, New Mexico, and her passion for words has transcended from reading to now writing as both a freelance writer and children’s book author. Her debut publication follows a charming little girl named Rosie along her journey of emotion recognition and identifying the root cause associated with the feeling she is experiencing. Tell Me All About You!” is available on Amazon in both paperback and eBook formats.
CAITLIN DAUGHERTY
Caitlin Daugherty is a twenty-year-old artist and poet from Nogal, New Mexico. She has many interests, including writing, drawing, sculpting, painting, and video games. She lives to make the world weirder with each art piece she creates.
RAY DEAN
Photography has been an intermittent hobby for Ray his entire adult life. In 1963, as a junior in Pharmacy School, he was able to get off work and drive from Toledo, OH to Washington, DC to attend JFK’s funeral. On the way he picked up his dad’s Argus C3 camera. He got an amazing location on the street between the White House and St Matthew’s Cathedral, shot 3-36 exposure rolls of film and was hooked. Later he was lucky to spend two years, military time, in Berlin, Germany, and able to purchase good photo equipment and have the time to travel and use it. Returning to the US, he spent most of the next thirty years making a living as a pharmacist and raising a family. In the early 90’s, Ray discovered New Mexico and made the big move from Ohio to the Land of Enchantment. About the same time, he made the move from film to digital; both moves have opened up whole new worlds. Today, photography for Ray is still a hobby. Much of his work is shot outdoors, mostly landscapes.
JAXON DRAPER
Jaxon Draper is a recent Ruidoso High School and ENMU-Ruidoso graduate. He worked as a student editor on Ridgeline Review during the Spring 2024 semester.
NICHOLAS GIUSTI
Nicholas Giusti is a photographer, collage artist, and sometimes zinester. Find him on Instagram: @nicholas_giusti
ISAAC GLEITZ
Although he is a native Hoosier, Isaac Gleitz recently became a new New Mexican. As a writer and musician, he values creative expression as a means of community building. He draws poetic inspiration from Jack Kerouac and imbues it with a southwestern flavor. He also believes in the power of cultural fusion to disassemble the social barriers that restrict us.
RJ GONZALEZ
RJ Gonzalez is an aspiring writer working as an editor for Ridgeline Review. He specializes in writing fantasy adventures and hopes to publish his own stories for others to read.
bud goodson
Bud Goodson (1909-1982) was born in Oklahoma, land of the Choctaw, and now rests in New Mexico. A boarding school runaway, he headed west from Oklahoma and eventually found himself in Pie Town, New Mexico. He was a rancher but most of all a storyteller and writer with several stories published in True West Magazine. Bud wrote his own biography, from which Headed West” is taken.
charlotte hargis
Charlotte Hargis is a third grader at White Mountain Elementary in Ruidoso. She has a passion for reading and drawing, and she enjoys writing poems and stories. An avid baseball player, Charlotte also dedicates time to caring for her two standard poodles, Ramen and Grimm, and her sphynx cat, Eleven.
MADALYN heidbreder
Madalyn Heidbreder has been drawing since she was in second grade and has been passionate about art since then. She wants to become an animator and work for Dreamworks after getting her degrees at ENMU and ASU. In her free time, she likes to sew and do arts and crafts and various other projects.
austin hursh
Austin Hursh was a kind, giving, and intelligent person. He served two years with the National Guard. He always did everything he could to help those around him. Whether it be to his family or those in need, he was always there to help. He worked at COPE, a non-profit organization that helps domestic violence victims, as an advocate and a counselor for victims in Alamogordo, NM for eleven years. He also had a bachelor’s degree in psychology. He was an incredible painter, poet, and sketch artist. He passed on January 7th, 2023, and will forever be missed.
tn kerr
TN Kerr lives in Carrizozo, New Mexico.
ramie kinney
Ramie Kinney is a high school student who has always loved literature, whether reading or writing it. She stays busy in activities like student council, cheer-leading, and band, yet she still finds time to keep up on the books she’s reading. In the fall, she will move to Las Cruces, NM, to study conservation ecology at NMSU. Hopefully what she learns will inspire her future works.
jaron knighten
Jaron Knighten wrote his short story in Introduction to Creative Writing during the Fall 2023 semester at ENMU-Ruidoso.
mary lemmond
Dr. Mary Lemmond, a long-time educator, taught students from preschool through graduate school in Tulsa, OK. Moving to Ruidoso in March 2019, she attended her first Creative Aging meeting at ENMU-Ruidoso. Immediately intrigued with aging as it relates to Positive Psychology, she continues to immerse herself in the topics and leads a monthly on-line group which explores character strengths and wellness. Dr. Lemmond is completing Imagine the Possibilities: Activities for Older Adults. The book concentrates on physical health, mental acuity, and relationships with an accompanying journal to record thoughts, plans, and actions. Completion of topics will earn certificates for participants.
twila lemons
Twila Lemons, a native New Mexican born in Socorro, spent the first years of her life on a ranch outside of Pietown , New Mexico. She has two sons and three grandsons. Twila worked as a nurse for thirty-six years before retiring. Her dad, Bud Goodson, wrote several stories for True West Magazine before his passing in 1982. His spirit and love for the land and horses inspired Twila to write. She always loves a good story and story telling.
jayli lueras
Jayli Lueras, or Jay as she is known to her friends, has grown up in Ruidoso with her family since she was a young teenager. She spends as much time as she can with her six children and husband as often as possible. Jayli’s name may be familiar as her works have been presented in previous issues of Ridgeline Review and she has worked as an editor for the magazine. When Jayli is not spending time with family and studies, she can be found with either her nose in a book, or working on her next novel. At this time, Jayli has one published work online and is currently working on the sequel to that novel.
tianna lyons
Tianna Lyons is sixteen years old. She attends Mescalero Apache High School and resides in Mescalero, NM. Her hometown is in Gallup, NM: she is from the Navajo Nation. Her parents are Danielle Dawes and Matthew Kaydahzinne. She loves reading books and writing poems when she finds the time to. Tianna is described to be creative and outgoing when she’s with the right people. She would like to give a huge thanks to her art teacher Marty Lane for offering her this opportunity. She also wants to thank her friends because they have always been there for her and never failed to make her smile. Lastly, she thanks her mom and dad for being her inspiration to do her best every day.
andrea martinez
Andrea Martinez is a student at Eastern New Mexico University-Ruidoso; she’s striving to obtain her associates degree in general studies. She’s a dual rate supervisor at the Inn of the Mountain Gods. Some of her hobbies include painting, creative writing, and reading poetry. Her piece “Clinging to Life in This Body” is describing her appearance while also describing her daily life. She felt stress trying to balance home, social, school, and work life. Stress caused Andrea to feel disassociation with who she was. She’s learning to balance all aspects of life and maintain a more positive outlook on life.
lyric Martinez
Lyric Martinez is a vibrant nine-year-old who radiates creativity and joy. She loves cartoons, playing video games, and spending time with her family and pets. Recently, she has been drawn to digital art although she partakes in many art mediums. She displays her boundless imagination into meaningful creations. With her heart of gold and infectious humor Lyric spreads joy wherever she goes. Lyric is the beacon of positivity, effortlessly warming the hearts of all fortunate enough to know her.
daija martinez
Daija Martinez attends Ruidoso High School and is also enrolled in ENMU-Ruidoso’s dual-credit program. She wrote her poem in Introduction to Creative Writing at ENMU-Ruidoso during the Fall 2023 semester.
melanie martinez
Born and raised in Roswell, New Mexico, Melanie is a graphic designer with a passion for art. Growing up in a household of ten, she was surrounded by love and creativity. Influenced by her dad who owns a paint and body shop and her mom who is involved in local artistry, Melanie developed an appreciation for art. Inspired by the diverse experiences in her life, she found solace in writing and designing. Her work reflects the beauty in human connections, most often illustrating personal experiences. Outside of her professional pursuits, Melanie finds joy in spending time with her family hiking, traveling, and listening to music.
angelica mata
Angelica Mata wrote her essay while taking Introduction to Creative Writing at ENMU-Ruidoso.
jack mCcaw
Jack McCaw is a semi-retired Professor at ENMU-Ruidoso, where he has taught many science courses over the past 16 years. Professor McCaw began his photographic interests early in life, taking family and vacation snapshots and quickly progressed into 35mm photography by junior high. His interests in nature and photography grew steadily, and eventually he attended New Mexico State University where he received a B.S. in Wildlife Science and a M.S. in Wildlife Biology. McCaw worked his way through college using photography as his main financial means, working at three camera shops along the way, as well as working as a darkroom technician for several studio photographers. Professor McCaw is in the 27th year of his teaching career, where he continues to teach as a resource faculty at ENMU-Ruidoso. After retirement, he hopes to travel, photograph, and delve into film-making. You can find his photographic work on Instagram at: @jackmccawphotography.
jacob
mccaw
Jacob McCaw is a former ENMU-Ruidoso student who wrote his poem in Introduction to Creative Writing at ENMU-Ruidoso.
marcos medina
Marcos Medina grew up in El Paso before moving to Chaparral, NM, and graduated from Gadsden High School in 2001. He is currently a cybersecurity student at ENMU and a Marine Corps veteran with 21 years of service. He served as a food service specialist and was deployed four times to Iraq and two times to Afghanistan. He also served on the Black Sea Rotation, in Romania. At the height of his career, served as a Food Service Inspector-Instructor for Headquarters Marine Corps. In his leisure time, he enjoys drawing art and running the Ruidoso trails.
joseph montoya
Joseph Montoya has worked as a Park Ranger at White Sands National Park since 2017. He has written and published interpretive work for the National Park Service, including topics on natural sciences and history. He hopes to write more and show people the wonders of the world with storytelling.
kristine neuman
Kristine Neuman is a student who attends ENMU-Ruidoso. She has been enrolled for two years now, through the dual credit system. She loves writing and reading, as she becomes enthralled in every story she encounters, whether it be one of her own or someone else’s. One day she hopes to become an author just like those she reads from in the books she consumes.
allie payne
Allie Payne is deeply passionate about the arts. Whether she’s engrossed in captivating novels or penning her own tales, her love for storytelling knows no bounds. When she’s not lost in the literary world, she channels her creativity into graphic design, crafting visually stunning works. Supported by her three feline friends and her adoring fiancé, Vawn, Allie finds strength in their unwavering encouragement. And when she’s not flexing her artistic muscles, she enjoys the immersive worlds of Dungeons and Dragons and the tranquil landscapes of Animal Crossing. Allie’s dedication to her craft inspires those around her, making creativity a cornerstone of her life.
liane pÉrez-pantoja
Liane Pérez-Pantoja is a senior at Ruidoso High School and a student at ENMU-Ruidoso. Since sixth grade she has been in band, National Honors Society for two years, and student council as a senior representative. Outside of academics, she enjoys spending her time journaling and reading. Exploring interests is also one of her biggest hobbies as she is always excited to learn about the world and become as knowledgeable as possible on many different subjects. Some of these interests include the Titanic, the Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, learning Korean (in addition to already being bilingual in English and Spanish), and personality psychology.
michael potts
Michael Potts is an award-winning poet, song writer, and published author. Born in Artesia, New Mexico, he grew up in the desert town of Las Cruces, NM. He and Kathy, his wife of fifty-two years, currently reside there. Both are retired, and Michael is an avid gardener and writer. Michael’s books include Highgrove, a western book of short stories, Red Horse Saloon, which will be one of many Highgrove novels, and Robert Stright, first of the Strights of Thistlekirk series, and Allie Stright, both historical fiction stories that take place in 1787 in and around Baltimore and Paris, France.
ezra rabourn
Ezra Rabourn is a senior in high school. He was born and raised in Ruidoso, New Mexico. Ezra loves to play soccer, snowboard, and go swimming. He feels very lucky to have lots of family in Ruidoso as well, and he loves to spend time with them. He wrote his essay for his Creative Writing course at ENMU-Ruidoso.
izzy richardson
Isabel is a proud member of the Ski Apache Mountain Rescue and an aspiring author, and she also spends her free time reading, writing, and being outdoors. Literature is Isabel’s escape from the real world’s troubles and she loves giving others the chance to come with her, whether that’s poetry, novels, or short stories.
dorothy roberts
Even as a small child, Dorothy Brace Roberts had a vivid imagination. As she grew up, she enjoyed writing short stories and poems. There were times when her poems would come to her in her imagination or via dreams. She would wake up and write them down on paper. Her use of descriptive words has always come naturally to her. She writes what she feels in her soul. As of now, she lives in Ruidoso, New Mexico, living by the words: “An artist paints a masterpiece with his paints, but a writer can also write a masterpiece with his words!!!!”
fiona roberts
Fiona Roberts is a fifth grader at Capitan Elementary School. She enjoys drawing, reading, writing, and spending time with her siblings and animals. She loves the adventures and challenges presented in fantasy and sci-fi stories and looks forward to adding to her piece in this issue over time.
makayla rocha
MaKayla Rocha is a tribal affiliate of Mescalero, Chiricahua, and Lipan. She is seventeen years old and a junior at Mescalero Apache High School. She loves doing printmaking. Some of her interests involve playing volleyball. She plans on going to college at the University of New Mexico to pursue a bachelor’s degree in the medical field.
jocelyn rose
Jocelyn Rose (she/her) is a multi-skilled, self-taught Latina artist living in the high desert mountains of New Mexico. Her work is inspired by the nature and wildlife around her, her Mexican-American heritage, and vintage illustrations. Jocelyn has been creating since she can remember. Jocelyn’s areas of expertise include but are not limited to ceramics, illustration, drawing, painting, photography, digital artwork, and silversmithing. She currently lives and grows in Ruidoso, New Mexico. She can be found on Instagram: @mothmother
faithe samora
My name is Faithe Samora, I love taking pictures of sunsets and, when I can catch them, sunrises. I live in Carrizozo and the view from my front porch is amazing! I have three children and currently work for the County of Lincoln.
sebastian segars lopez
Sebastian Segars Lopez is an aspiring transgender artist who merges traditional horror into comfort. Both as a way to explore his identity and connect with others who feel alienated in their experiences of being seen as an “other.” His piece in this issue was one of a series of original digital art that he wishes to make a living out of. Inspired by his friends and chosen family in creative avenues, he picks up more skills on his way to self exploration, and recognition in the uncanny and the loving.
B. Little raven (twobirds) scott-arbuckle
B. Little Raven (Twobirds) Scott-Arbuckle says: “I am primarily an artist who works with traditional mediums, not that I don’t have an Ipad and don’t use it, but it’s a tool that streamlines production, not a primary mode of expression and creation for me. Organic mediums and corporeal materials have soul, whereas tech feels empty and dissociative to me. As far as content and subject matter, I make this type of art because this is what speaks to me, these are the images that keep me up at night, they tug at my flesh and entrance me. I am thoroughly seduced by my muses and happy about it. I’m inspired by almost everything, but primarily nature and magic. Blooming is always beautiful, it’s that other stuff that interests me.” Check out more on Instagram @midnite.harpy
michelle soria
Michelle Soria is a creative and active individual who enjoys going out for a jog, spending time with her cat, and exercising. She started writing poetry at age eleven (she is now twenty-two). She’s an introvert and a deep thinker, so she decided to express herself through poetry. Michelle has also always loved to learn and is now attending college for a degree in behavioral science. When she is not busy doing homework, she spends her time displaying jewelry at work, writing, coloring, and hanging out with family.
douglas stanton
Douglas Stanton sent in his photograph appearing in this issue from Carrizozo, New Mexico.
cheyenne stevenson
Cheyenne Autumn Stevenson graduated from ENMU-Ruidoso with an AA in Psychology. Writing to her is a hobby that brings peace and joy.
jean templeton morris
Jean Templeton Morris began writing poetry as a teenager, finding it provided a positive outlet for her self-reflections. She penned her first prose at age fifty and continues to write both. Jean grew up in Oklahoma and New Mexico, spent years in Montana and Seattle. She now resides in Carrizozo, New Mexico.
anaiah-rae trujillo
Anaiah-Rae Trujillo lives in Ruidoso, NM and is a sophomore at Mescalero Apache High School. She is fifteen years old, Navajo, and Chiricahua. She plans on going to college at IAIA. Some of her interests are reading, writing, drawing, photography, making music, painting, and sports.
lisa urban
Lisa Urban is a recent graduate of ENMU-Ruidoso, where she wrote her prose poem for Introduction to Creative Writing.
donte vicenti
Donte Vicenti is currently a student at Mescalero Apache High school. He produced his work in this issue in Ms. Marty Lane’s art class at MHS.
rita williams
Rita Williams is an ENMU-Ruidoso student who wrote her poem in Introduction to Creative Writing.
ayla yarbrough
Ayla Yarbrough’s poem is based on the death of her grandfather, explaining how she and his other grandchildren felt as the adults planned his funeral. As a child, she always sat and watched National Geographic documentaries with him, up until the last time she saw him. Doing this sparked her love and passion for nature and led her to want to become a wildlife artist and conservationist.
the 2024 ridgeline review team
Back Row (Left to Right): Jaxon Draper, Kristine Neuman, Jocelyn Rose, Liane Pérez-Pantoja.
Front Row (Left to Right): Jeff Frawley, RJ Gonzalez, Faith Maske, Caitlin Daugherty, Ramie Kinney, Gloria Jeremias.
ENMU - Ruidoso students interested in working for the Ridgeline Review? Contact Professor Jeff Frawley @ jeff.frawley@enmu.edu. We need creative people, writers, artists, computer whizzes, graphic designers, social media gurus, and anyone else interested in fun and weird stuff!
This year’s issue is possible thanks to a Devasthali Family Foundation Grant from the Community Foundation of Southern New Mexico.
SUBMISSIONS
We welcome your creative submissions all year long! Whether you’re a writer or an artist, we want to showcase your work in our ENMU-Ruidoso literary and fine arts magazine. Share your stories, poems, essays, artwork, and photography with us. Feel free to submit anytime, and let your creativity shine!
GUIDELINES
- Fiction & Nonfiction (up to 10 pp.)
- Poetry (up to 5 poems)
- Art & Photography (300 dpi JPEG)
- Please submit written work as a Word document
- Include a 50-100 word biography when submitting
QUESTIONS & SUBMISSIONS
email ruidoso.ridgelinereview@enmu.edu
check us out online
ruidoso.enmu.edu/ridgeline-review
Instagram & Facebook: @ridgelinereview
ALYSON CLARK | SHANE ALLISON | JADE ARTIAGA | TAR BANKS
