Tiger PAWS Fall 2020 by Tiger PAWS

Tiger PAWS (Personal Academic Writing Space) St. Philip’s College Volume 9, Issue 1 Fall 2020

Cover Art: Garden of Pages by Jenevie A. Montez Book Pages and Watercolor

Cover Design: Morgan Hennesey

Tiger PAWS is a student publication consisting of literary analysis essays, prose nonfiction/fiction, poetry, art, and photography created by currently enrolled St. Philip’s College students. The student editorial staff reviews dozens of submissions, selects works to be published, and creates the journal layout each Fall and Spring semester. The selected works may not reflect the attitudes or opinions of St. Philip’s College or the Department of Communications and Learning. 3

Acknowledgments The Tiger PAWS staff wishes to thank the following: Dr. Adena Williams Loston—President, St. Philip’s College Randall Dawson—Vice President for Academic Success George Johnson, III—Dean for Academic Success, Creative & Communication Arts, Science & Technology

Diane Hester—Interim Chair, Communications & Learning Dr. Jeanette Passty—Faculty, Communications & Learning Lauri Humberson—Faculty, Communications & Learning Dr. David Torres—Faculty, Fine Arts Dr. Audrey Mosley—Retired Faculty, Communications & Learning

Adrian Jackson—College Director of Public Relations St. Philip’s College Marketing & Strategic Communications Department Diana Dimas—Interim Director/Academic Program Coordinator

Michelle Baland—Center for Distance Learning Coordinator Jerryl Lowe—Instructional Designer Velia De La Rosa—Administrative Services Specialist, Communications & Learning

Department of Communications & Learning James Klutz and SPC Staff at The UPS Store

Editorial Staff Student Staff:

Faculty Staff:

Alexandria Guzman

Dr. Karen Cunningham

Alyssa Guzman

Spencer L. Galvan

Morgan Hennesey

Stephanie Gibson

Ray McIntosh

Jamie Miranda

Jenevie A. Montez

Edward Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Casey

Mathew Ramos

San Juan San Miguel

Adrian Rojas

Submissions for the next edition of Tiger PAWS in Spring 2021 will be accepted through March 5, 2021. Enrolled SPC students are encouraged to submit essays, short stories, and poetry in English or Spanish, as well as fine art, digital art, and/or photography. 5

Table of Contents Our Judges………………………………………………………….…. 9 “One Night Out” by Oswaldo Guevara………………...………….. 10 Flower Boy by Sofiah Rose Griffey…..………..……………………… 12 “Mandatory College Introduction Poem” by Jordyn Urban.…….. 13 “The First in the Family Tree” by Stacey Burgoon..……..….……... 14 Baby Feet by Ashley Harpel.……………………………………..…… 16 “Poesía” by Silvia Cassias…………………………………………..... 17 The Dust of Snow by Crystilyn Kane………....………........................ 18 Embrace the Cold, To Embrace the Beauty by Crystilyn Kane…...…... 19 “Overcoming My Life Struggles” by Amber Esparza….…………. 20 “The Child of a Mistress” by Abigail Perez..….….………………... 24 In the Distance by Esther Cole………………………………………... 27 “The Creek” by Kelly Helms……….....………….………………….. 28 “The Weathered Leather of a Pair of Cowboy Boots” by Olivia Brummett ………………………………………………………….. 29 “Once Upon A Texas Day” by Jill Bynum………...…………..…… 30 “Boy” by Daniel Cole………………......………..…………….……... 32 “Girl” by Amanda Wall………………………...……………………..34 I Am an Ocean I Am the Sea There Is a World inside of Me by Vanessa Perez..…………………………………….………………. 36 A Turtle’s Journey by Vanessa Perez…..……….……….……..…….. 37 “The Power of Me” by Tikisha Franklin...………………………...... 38 no name by Candice Parker…………………..……….………..……. 39 “Wake Up Call” by Josie Crawford...…………..………………….... 40 Plunge by Bruce Panagopoulos…….……..………….…………….... 42 “So young, so scarred” by Neyma Cerna………..…..…………….. 43 “Superpowered Love” by Ray McIntosh..………..….……………...44 “Partner Day” by Anastasia Rakovalis……. ..……….……….……. 47 Elton John 4 by Daniel Davalos….………………....……...…………. 50 “The Keys and Pedals” by Esther Cole .……..…….……………….. 51 “Domino Theory” by Michelle Allen ……...……………………….. 53 Erosion by Sofiah Rose Griffey.………...……………....……………. 57 “The Sweet Lady's Barbeque” by Ray McIntosh…………..………. 58 “Ohio Terror” by Kimberly Alcorta…………....………………….... 60 “Thorns” by Anna Simpson……….…………..…………………….. 62 6

Table of Contents “Evening Walk” by Ashley Cole.………..………...………………... 63 “What It Means to Be a Woman” by Dannette Gonzalez……..….. 64 “A Beautiful Thing” by Daniel Cole………...………………………. 66 “Changes” by Erika Barrera ………………………………………… 67 Eclipsed by Scott Gathright …………………………..…………...….. 68 “The Beginning” by Hanna Hodges….………………………….….. 69 “Beauty in the Ordinary” by Joshua Gould………..………….…… 71 “The Beauty of Pregnancy” by Leticia Ramos …………….…..…... 72 Miracle Touch by Rebeca M. Alvarez……………...………….…….. 73 Deception Pass by Evan Perez…………..……………………....…….. 74 “A Brilliant yet Ominous Setting” by Isaac Pena………………….. 75 “A Self-Taught Swimmer” by Sergio Velez..…………….………… 78 “Car Misfortune” by Tyler Whitney.……………………...…………80 “Yellow” by Valarie Perez ………………….……………………….. 82 “The Longest Three Days of School” by Alvaro Sotillo.….........…. 83 “Food Essay” by Kimberly Alcorta .………………………..………. 86 “When the Refrigerator Was Empty” by Leroy B. Henry………… 88 “Cherry Blossoms” by Jessica Nino.…..…………………………….. 90 “Yellow Morning Dew” by Sarah Thompson..………………….…. 92 “Jihi no Kagi” by Adrian Rojas.……………………………………... 93 “A Florida Story” by Nya Thornton………...……..………………... 94 “I Will (Family)” by Flor Calixto……………………..……………...95 Under the Same Moon by Vanessa Perez…...………………..………. 96 “My Throne” by James Rakovalis………….…………………….….. 97 “My Revolutionary Story” by Anastasia Rakovalis……………….. 98 “To the One and Only” by Ruby Perez…..…………………………. 101 Corruption by Bruce Panagopoulos..……………………………….... 102 Escape by Bruce Panagopoulos…..…………………………………... 103 “I Am” by Tikisha Franklin………………………………………….. 104 A Hand for a Hand by Genesis Vann………………………………….105 Innocent Noir by Tianee Richardson……………………………….... 106 “Feminism in Trifles” by Naomi Brown……………………….……. 107 “Leaning amid Light and Darkness” by Ryan Dugan…………….. 110 Colliding Waves by Vanessa Perez………………………………….... 113 “Morning Rush” by Jennifer Lopez…………………………………. 114 7

Table of Contents “It's Valentine's Day” by Jacob Guerra………………………........... 115 “Say” by Amanda Gonzalez…………………………….………….... 116 Passion Fruit by Candice Parker………….……..………………….... 119 “Sharper” by Ryan Dugan………………...………....………...…….. 120 “The Right Fight” by Krystina Alaniz……..……………..….…….... 122 “Symbolism: An Hour of Freedom” by Olivia Brummett………... 123 “Rollercoaster” by Tikisha Franklin……………………………........ 125 Drowning in Love by Ray McIntosh………….....………..................... 126 “Sunsets and Stitches” by Josie Crawford..………….……..…......... 127 “Silver Alert” by Derrick L. McIntyre………………….………….... 129 “The Godfather of Radiology” by Lieyette Saunders.…………….. 131 “September 11, 2001” by Jordyn Urban………………………...…... 133 “Two Words” by Isabella V. Rodriguez..………….……………….. 134 “The Wait . . .” by Marilyn Garcia..…..……………………………... 135 “Lost Mother, Strong Mother” by Lindsey G. Whidden…..…….... 136 “Jenny” by Jessica Nino…………………...………..…………….…...137 “As Time Goes On” by Herman George Brothers..……………….. 138 “Walks” by Elizabeth Garcia………………….……………………... 139 “Of Love” by Ka'Ren Collier…....……..……….……….……..…….. 140 “Love God First” by Essie Richardson…...………..………………...141 Knife and Fork by Scott Gathright…………..……….………..…….... 144 “The Key” by Isaac Pena………….…………..…………………….... 145 “Jasper” by Adonais Bentancourt.……..………….……………….... 146 “It’s Nice to Have a Friend” by Jessica Nino…..…..………………. 147 “Flower in the Sidewalk Crack ” by Natalie Salyers….…………....148

Our Judges Fiction, Nonfiction, & Literary Analysis: San Juan San Miguel is

the Academic Program Coordinator of the Rose R. Thomas Writing Center and an Adjunct Instructor at St. Philip’s College. He has a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English from St. Mary’s University and a Master’s Degree in English Literature from UTSA. He enjoys travelling, cooking (and eating,) cycling, reading, writing, and funding Kickstarter campaigns but most of all basketball and aviation! He is currently in pursuit of two of his lifelong ambitions: 1, to be a pilot and 2, to be an NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Coach!

Poetry: Ed O’Casey teaches English as a full-time faculty member at St.

Philip's College. He has a Master of Arts Degree in English from the University of North Texas and a Master of Fine Arts in Poetry from New Mexico State University. He is the author of the book Proximidad: A Mexican/American Memoir. His other works have appeared in Berkeley Poetry Review, Cold Mountain Review, Tulane Review, Prairie Schooner, Euphony, Voices de la Luna, Whiskey Island, NANO Fiction, West Trade Review, and others. He is doing his best to catch every heavy metal concert he can before he finally loses his hearing.

Fine Art, Digital Art, & Photography: Nicole Geary is a full-time

Adjunct Instructor in the Fine Arts Department at St. Philip's College. She graduated with a BFA in Printmaking from the University of Florida and an MFA in Printmaking from the University of South Dakota. She exhibits in juried print and sculpture shows, international residencies, and regularly participates in printmaking conferences. She was a resident in the Artist Lab at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, has been awarded a grant from the Artist Foundation of San Antonio, and was also an artist in residence in the Mojave National Preserve. Geary is also a Member-AtLarge for the Southern Graphics Council International, the largest printmaking organization in the world.

“ One Night Out” by Oswaldo Guevara

I graduated from high school back in May of 2007. I was accepted to Texas A&M Corpus Christi. I do not remember if it was a full scholarship, but it was in Electrical Engineering. Needless to say, I passed on such an amazing opportunity. I chose to attend San Antonio College with no immediate major in mind. I did not know what I wanted to do with my life. I was young and immature. The only thing I was certain about was that I liked to be hands-on with engines. Turns out I did not do much with that either. I was naïve and chose friends over my future. I figured I could miss a class here and there without consequences. I thought I would be able to speak with professors, and they would brush it under the rug. I did not think of how my actions would specifically affect financial aid. Fast forward to 2018 and a handful of failed and dropped classes later, and here I am. One Saturday night I was out with some friends. It was at a typical house party just hanging out having a good time and having a casual conversation with a buddy of mine named Brian. Brian had been going to a police academy through an outsourced company specialized in law enforcement training. Brian applied for SAPD, Austin PD, and a few other police departments surrounding Bexar County. At the time, he was working for Walmart’s’ Loss Prevention. He had his fair share of experience dealing with thieves and criminals. He confided in me and was telling me how he was feeling discouraged because he was not getting his chance to prove himself. He just needed the opportunity. That opportunity finally came when he got a call from his first choice, SAPD. He went through standard protocol, which consisted of a phone interview, the face to face, the background check, the drug test, and the lie detector test. He passed them all with flying colors. At this point in the process, he could see the finish line. All that remained was the final lie detector test, and the job was his. He was ready and could already see himself in uniform with a badge. The morning of the test, he was being hooked up to the machine; excitement set in causing the heart rate to increase. He completed the test and went about his day. Brian received a call later in the afternoon. His heart was racing as he answered his cell phone. His heart sunk. Excitement turned into a somber look. “I’m sorry, Brian, but after we reviewed the polygraph results, you failed every question. Thank you for your interest in joining the department. You can try again in six months.” 10

Brian was confused, upset, and overwhelmed with emotions. How could he fail every question? How was he not allowed to retest? Why did he need to wait six months to reapply? At this point, he felt like giving up. As he explained his story to me, I felt just as stunned as he did. How can his dream of being a cop just vanish in an instant? Brian continued and explained that the following week, as fate would have it, he received a call from one of the instructors from the academy. “We have a potential opening with the Floresville PD. Only thing is that it is unpaid. Think of it as an internship. This is more for experience. If a position within the department becomes available, then you would be our first choice. You will ride with officers, have your weapon but, again, unpaid. Are you interested?” Sure enough, Brian jumped at the chance without hesitation. A few months and numerous arrests later, Brian was offered a full-time position with the police department. As he was telling me how ecstatic he was to finally accomplish his long-term goal of becoming a cop, I saw the tears start to come down. The overwhelming emotions that he once felt when he missed the chance to join SAPD completely shifted as he became an official part of the Floresville Police Department. That night I had an epiphany. I wanted what Brian had. I wanted to do what I love. I wanted to accomplish my goals. I knew at this point in my life, it would not be easy. I have a full-time job, two children, a mortgage, a car payment, groceries, utilities, and much more. My first attempt, I failed and was dropped from several classes. My GPA was depressing to look at. I was unable to qualify for financial aid. How was I going to pay for classes? I just needed a small nudge, that final push to get me over the hump. I found it when I saw my kids laughing and running into my room. I was going to do this not only for myself but for them. I immediately went to the Alamo Colleges Web site. I made a few trips out to St. Philip’s College and spoke with my advisor. First, I had to get several holds waived and removed. I was required to write an essay on why I failed and my plans moving forward before I could even be considered for readmission. I checked that off the list. Next, I had a required student development course. I checked that off. Finally, I had to speak with an advisor at the Southwest Campus to put me on the right path for my major. To this day, I thank Brian every day, even if I do not say it out loud. I thank Brian because had we not spoken that night, had I not seen the joy and tears in his eyes, had he not said to me, “ I can’t believe this is happening; my dream of becoming a cop came true,” had I just stayed home that night, I would not be here today. I would be working my regular nine to five job wondering what could have been. I owe Brian more than he knows. While I may not finish as quickly as other students, I firmly believe I am setting the right example for my children. 11

Flower Boy by Sofiah Rose Griffey

Acrylic Paint 12

“Mandatory College Introduction Poem” by Jordyn Urban

I am from the lukewarm cup of peppermint tea that I made myself in a futile effort of self-care. I am from the litter of the divided moving boxes of a divided marriage, where I am deconstructing our life into my lifeSeparating six and a half years of memories and who gets to keep the coffee pot. I am from dying maple trees I planted in attempts not to feel like a transplant myself. I am from the abandoned playground, the cracked cement pool from years of neglect. From dying grass and the carcasses of fireworks my neighbor lit at four in the morning. I am from a choir of women whose favorite shade of lipstick is red wine, Who are breadwinner matriarchs, Married to emotional men From the poems of Richard and the mantra of CatherinePrior proper planning prevents piss poor performance. I am never prepared for anything, Despite obsessive mental planning. I am from summer vacations to the family farm, Where I spent my days perched upon the beams of our ancestral barn, Where I have seen the dust speck ballet rise and fall with the sun. The driveway lined with maple trees, tapped, and buckets hanging for their syrup. I am from the cemetery at the end of the driveway, Where I’d run my fingers over otherwise illegible headstones, Using braille to see when someone both was and wasn’t. I am from the children’s novels I keep tattooed on my skin, To take the only places I’ve ever felt home with me everywhere I go. I am from the faded poems I wrote about a God I no longer believe in, Obituaries of relatives and friends I lost, Dried rose petals from my prom corsage Kept in a box ironically labeled “happiness.” I am from trying to grow again from a neglected garden, Planting seeds into the still open scars of my trauma, And the pure hope of a rainstorm in a drought. 13

“The First in the Family Tree” by Stacey Burgoon

What was your first memory as a child? Hopefully, it was one of contentedness because whether you are aware of it or not that memory will most likely be tethered to the consciousness that makes up your mind for the rest of your life. It is the very first building block in the foundation of everything that has transpired to make you who you are at this moment. Unfortunately, early memories do not always foreshadow what is to come, as they did not for me. My first memory was the piercing coldness of the clean air in Landstuhl, Germany, my birthplace. The coldness was replaced with the warmth from my mother’s hand as we walked down the sidewalk leading to our house. It was the middle of December, and the base had hosted a winter festival for military families. I was six years old, and being an only child, jumped at any chance I could to make new friends. When it was time to go, I want to say I did not make a scene as my mom pretty much dragged me away from the festivities, but sadly I cannot. On the walk home, I decided that it had been the best day of my life. I grew up in Germany in a very loving, caring family. Although my parents were American, I had never been to the States before. I did not care. I loved Europe very much and never questioned the reasoning for this. My parents always provided what I needed, listened to my problems, and gave me the support and guidance every young child requires. They constantly doted over me. Attention was never a luxury I had to seek out. Of course, being military parents, they were strict and had high expectations. High school was filled with dual credit courses, extracurricular activities, learning the French language, and many hours of volunteering. My parents were very adamant about me carrying on the family tradition of joining the service after I graduated. Anytime I would have a conversation with them they would make sure to throw in an “after you enlist” this, or a “once you’re a soldier” that. Although at the end of those conversations, they would make sure I knew they supported me no matter what I chose to do with my life and that they loved me very much. I must admit they had their moments. I had always thought them to be a little weird, but what family isn’t without their quirks? Overall, we were a picture-perfect family, or so I thought. During the summer of my ninth grade year, I spent the weekend at my friend Lori’s house. Her mom dropped me off back at my house early 14

Sunday morning. What I saw when I walked inside left a mental scar that, from time to time, still seeps through the invisible bandages that try to cover it. Anything that hinted I had once existed in that house had vanished. My portraits were no longer hanging in the hall. The markings on the wall to measure my height had been painted over. In my room, I had found the little amount of my belongings left had been packed away in two suitcases. My parents were nowhere to be seen. On one of the suitcases I found a singular plane ticket to North America. I got a taxi to the airport and waited for my flight to board and take me overseas. I could only assume my parents were on the other side. The loneliness and confusion I felt as I looked out the window of the giant metal bird was incomparable to anything I had ever felt before. I watched the cars on the streets below grow smaller and smaller and finally let the tears that had been building escape my eyes. After what felt like a lifetime, my plane landed in the SEA-TAC Airport. There, I did not find my mom. I did not find my dad. I walked up and down that airport all day hoping I would see them or that they would come running to me, arms open wide. Instead, I was met by an inquiring security guard. I spent the rest of my adolescence in foster care. I lived with my new family in Schulenburg, Texas, about an hour and a half from San Antonio. I joined the Army reserves after high school, partly in hopes that I would find and reconnect with my parents again. I did my basic training in Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri, and my AIT in joint base LewisMcChord, Washington, where I studied nursing and got my LPN. I am currently a nurse at my local retirement home and attending St Philips college to get my RN. Eventually, I will get my RNA. Up until a couple years ago, I watched the news every day hoping I would learn something about the disappearance of my family. I regret doing so as I am now very familiar with the cruel bitterness that accompanies the loss of ignorance. One day I overheard the news reporter talking about how a couple in Eastern Europe who had recently been arrested for kidnapping a child from St. Francis Hospital in Wichita, Kansas, about 20 years ago. On the television screen were mugshots of my parents. My ears started to ring, but I could faintly hear the reporter say, “Child missing,” “still looking,” and “presumed dead.” They also reported that the lady from whom the child was stolen had since passed away. Today I am 20 years old and have never met my real parents. I do not know my real name. I do not know if my birth mom ever had a chance to give me one. I do know that I love my foster parents very much and that I do not need to know where I came from to know where I’m going.

Baby Feet by Ashley Harpel

Photograph 16

“Poesía” by Silvia Cassias

The history of your life is within you La historia de tu vida está en ti Illuminate your own path Alumbra tu propio camino Beauty is all around you capture it Alrededor de ti está la belleza captúrala Always show your smile Siempre demuestra tu felicidad Make every moment the best Haz de cada momento el mejor Dreaming awakens the soul Soñar te despierta el alma Live positive and open your heart Vivir positivamente abre tu corazón Show appreciation every day Sé agradecido por todos los días Adventures can be unexpected enjoy them Las aventuras pueden ser inesperadas disfrútalas Life is a gift live it without fear La vida es un regalo vívela sin miedos

The Dust of Snow by Crystilyn Kane

Photograph 18

Embrace the Cold, To Embrace the Beauty by Crystilyn Kane

Photograph 19

“Overcoming My Life Struggles” by Amber Esparza

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross once said, “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out these depths.” Life can be a struggle sometimes. Many people are fortunate enough to have everything prepared for them while others must overcome the hardest of trials, and tribulations to get somewhere in this world. Unfortunately, I happened to be one of those people who had to overcome the hardest tribulations to get where I am today. Life for me was never the fairytale I had always hoped for as a child. In this autobiography, I take you back to the very beginning of my life and how I overcame every single obstacle that was thrown my way. My name is Amber Esparza, and I was born on December 16, 1997, in San Antonio, Texas. I am the second out of four amazing sisters. In my early childhood, life was great; my parents absolutely adored me, especially my dad. My older sister wasn’t too fond of me, but I guess that’s how it is when you’re the first-born child and spoiled to the core. Growing up, my family and I did everything together from going to waterparks to attending every single Disney on Ice show. Three years later, my baby sister was born, and things completely changed. We weren’t the wealthiest family growing up, so we couldn’t do much anymore now that there were three babies in the family. For as long as I can remember, both of my parents worked liked crazy to be able to provide for us. We were always with my grandparents from my mom and dad’s side. In 2004, the last baby of the family was born. I was so happy to have three amazing sisters in my life, but I also knew this meant things were about to get crazier for us. Growing up, I remember constantly moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. We lived on the worst part of the east side in San Antonio, Texas. We lived on Center Street, where violence was normal both day and night. The best part of living in that neighborhood was Ms. Mitchell, an amazing, sweet woman who lived right next door to us. I always felt she was our guardian angel 20

sent from above. When we didn’t have electricity and water, she would always let us take our showers in her home. When we didn’t have enough food to eat, she was there with dinner ready for us. When things got bad with my dad’s alcohol problems, we would run to her because I always felt she was our safe space. At a very young age, I started to learn about my father’s alcoholic problems. Eventually, his drinking problems turned into physical abuse. My sisters and I were always sent to our room so my parents could have alone time, and I never knew why until one day I peeked into a hole in my bedroom wall and saw my dad beating on my mom. This had been an ongoing problem, and I never knew it was happening until I saw it with my own eyes. It then turned into my sisters, and I being abused for what seemed like any and every little thing that upset him. When my dad got drunk, I felt that was the solution to all his problems. I even told myself that abusing us made him feel better about himself because he never showed remorse about seeing his daughters in pain. Everyday life just seemed to get worse, and I went from being the happiest kid ever to just wishing it would all be over. The worst day of my childhood was when my dad got back from his Chicago “business” trip for work. When he got home, he sat my sisters and I down to give us the souvenirs he had bought for us while he was away. After giving us our gifts, he looked into my mom’s eyes and told her that he had found another woman he loved and wanted a divorce. As a child, I didn’t understand why my dad would just want to leave his wife and children like that, but reality set in when he packed his things and walked out the door. Everything from then on just got worse for my family and me. When my dad left, he made the decision to stop paying the bills for the house, so we had to leave our childhood home. After moving in with my grandparents, things were still rough, but my grandparents never failed to make us feel safe and loved. However, my dad didn’t give up on trying to get a hold of my sisters and me. He would constantly show up to my grandparents’ house and make big scenes, hoping that my mom would eventually give in. It got so bad that my grandparents would call the police on him because we just never knew if he was going to harm us the next time he showed up. My dad always threatened my mom, telling her that once he got a hold of my sisters and I, he was going to run away so my mom filed for custody of us. The court approved supervised 21

visitations, so my dad could finally see us. I was always so scared because all I ever thought about was the abuse that he had put me through. At first, the visits were great because it felt good to see my dad, even if it was just for a little bit, but after a while, he stopped showing up to them because he felt it was outrageous to have to pay to see his daughters, especially if he couldn’t be alone with us. I didn’t understand why my dad didn’t want to come and see me, even if it was just for a little bit. I was in middle school when all this was going on. I always feared that my dad was going to show up to my school and take me without anyone knowing. I struggled so much in school because all I ever thought of during my classes was my crazy life that was happening outside of it. This all took such a big toll on my mental health as a teenager, and it only got worse from there. Shortly after the supervised visitations began, my parents ended up having split custody of us. I would spend some holidays with my mom and the others with my dad. The year that really took a toll on me was the first summer we were going to be alone with my dad. Not only was I going to be away from my mom and grandparents, but I was just afraid of the abuse that would happen while we were there. That summer in fact we actually met my stepmom for the first time. Of course, I didn’t like her because she was the woman that my dad left us for, but she also took part in the abuse with my dad. We would get in trouble if we didn’t call her mom or tell her that we loved her. Sometimes when my dad would get home from work, she would lie to my dad about things we didn’t do just so she could see us get punished. I often feel that she was jealous of the love that my dad had for my sisters and I. She would do everything to try and make him feel different about us. She did whatever it took to make sure my dad gave her children more attention and love than he did with us. That whole summer was just horrible, and I couldn’t wait to get back home to my mother. After that summer, I began high school at Brackenridge here in San Antonio. I was more than excited to start the school year and just get away from all the bad things in life. Freshman year was such an amazing time for me. I met tons of new people, made lots of memories during band, and finally was at peace with myself. Sophomore year came along, and just when things were getting better, my great-grandmother passed away from cancer. I was completely devasted by her passing. My great-grandma was the 22

most selfless, loving, sweet, and beautiful woman I’ve ever loved in my entire life. If you’d ever met her, you would’ve never known she was sick. After her funeral, I didn’t go to school for weeks because I was just so empty and heartbroken. The end of my sophomore year changed everything for me. My mom and stepdad moved us to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, due to my stepdad’s new job offer. I was so upset about the move that as soon as we got to our new home, I stayed in my room the whole summer. I didn’t want to start over at a new school with a completely different crowd. I had to suck up my emotions and make the best of it because this was my new life. Starting my junior year at a new school was so difficult for me. I had tons of work that needed to be done to even be able to graduate, and trying to accomplish that with a new crowd wasn’t my ideal situation. Eventually, I did make new friends that made the change a little more enjoyable for me, and I also began something new that ended up being the best part of the whole move. I joined color guard after so many years of watching everyone else put heart into it. When I performed for everyone, I was always at my happiest I had ever been, and I just forgot about all the bad things in life for those few minutes on the field. Once I graduated my senior year, we ended up moving back home to Texas. I was beyond happy I was going to be with the rest of my family again. Moving back home was such a relief for me. I was back home with the people I loved the most. I got myself my first job to occupy myself during the summer. I decided to take a break from school, and return once I felt that I was finally ready to further my education. Of course, I had many other issues from the time I moved back home to today, but every single thing that I’ve been through has shaped me into the woman I’ve become. I absolutely wouldn’t change anything about my past. I’ve met lots of people along the way, some who have been amazing blessings, and others who have definitely been big lessons to me. My life wasn’t the fairytale that I had always wanted, but it helped me become the strong and loving woman that you are looking at today.

“The Child of a Mistress” by Abigail Perez

I was born on December 24 , 2002, at 2 in the morning and weighed in at 8 lbs. 13 oz. Yes, I was a big baby. Even though I’ve lived in San Antonio most of my life, I’ll always recognize Houston as being my hometown because it holds the most dramatic parts of my early life that would soon define all my relationships. Unfortunately, the drama didn’t begin at my birth but rather at the conception of my older brother in 1999. At the time, my mother, Abigail, was a young woman, 24 years old to be exact, and worked at a local Whataburger. This would soon be the place where she’d meet my father, John, who was 41 years of age and worked as a truck driver. His job consisted of delivering frozen foods to different Whataburgers in Texas and in Florida. Let’s just say he got around, and I don’t only mean in a traveling sense. This would eventually get John into some turmoil. After John was persistent in trying to get Abigail to go out with him, he was eventually able to wear her down, and she agreed to go on a date with him. Afterall, what harm could come from one date? Of course, John didn’t live in Houston; he lived in San Antonio. This meant that John and Abigail would only see each other periodically when John was in Houston. Simply put, he was not afraid to mix business with pleasure. After their first few visits, Abigail would be expecting a child. She assumed that telling John would be an exciting and a delightful conversation, but that was not the case. John was adamant in trying to convince her to abort the child, but doing that would go against her own morals. So she chose to keep her child. Eventually, John warmed up to the idea of having a child with her and began to financially help her with maternal expenses. Even though she was grateful for the financial help, she couldn’t shake why he didn’t want her to move in with him. Abigail believed it made more sense to live with the father of her child, and it would be a lot less expensive for John. When she was six months pregnant, John told her to quit her job and that he would support her by sending her money to pay for her rent, bills, maternal items, and other miscellaneous expenses. John was sending her about $3,500 a month so that Abigail would be able to live comfortably and not work. Of course, Abigail was beyond grateful for this because who wouldn’t want to live life without having to work, but John still wouldn’t allow her to move to San Antonio with him. He would always give her excuses, most of which were him explaining how his house was still under 24

construction and not suitable for his “baby boy.” John’s “baby boy” was born on June 29 , 2000. Abigail believed now that their baby was born, she’d move to San Antonio soon. Two years passed, and John was still sending her money to continue to live in Houston. Growing frustrated, she was going to confront him the next time he was in town to find out what was really going on because there was no way construction was taking that long. The night before John was supposed to arrive, a few days had already gone by with no sign of Abigail’s monthly cycle starting, so she went to a nearby grocery store and bought a few pregnancy tests. Sure enough, Abigail had another baby on the way, me. The next day, John arrived, and as he entered the door, she blurted out, “I’M PREGNANT!” Much to his surprise he immediately said, “Again? This time you have to abort it; there’s no way I can continue to support another f-” “Another what?” Abigail said, hoping that he wouldn’t say what she already suspected. One may criticize her and wonder how she could be so blind to the signs. Some may even call her naïve and a gold digger, but in my eyes, she is smart and heroic. Heroic? Yes, heroic because she was willing to sacrifice what she idealized her life to be in order for her children to continue to live a life she never could growing up in Aguascalientes, Mexico. As lively and beautiful the great city of Aguascalientes is, the rates of poverty in her childhood were high, and she was a part of that statistic. Abigail only did what she believed to be the best for her children. When I was three years of age, my father finally divorced his wife and allowed for his hidden family to move in with him. My father, being the older man he is, already had three kids prior to my brother John and I. And to get it out of the way, my parents are not the most creative people, seeing as to how they named their children after themselves. Regardless, his first three children were no longer children by the time we moved in. His kids were all in their early to mid-twenties. Surprisingly, they never treated my mother, my brother, or myself with any kind of disrespect. I would soon learn it was because they felt bad for what was in store for us. My father ruled our home with an iron fist. What he said went, and if you ever questioned him, good luck. My mother came from a culture where it is customary to have a husband that was per se “the man of the house,” so she had no complaints towards his parenting style. As a young teen, I had a huge problem with his strictness because I was never allowed to go out with friends, have friends come over, or do anything a normal teen would. As I grew a tiny bit older, I didn’t pay much attention to his parenting style anymore because I saw he was just trying his best and being overprotective was how he expressed it. I assume that he must’ve been even more strict with his first kids because they hate him with a passion, but then again he did cheat on their mother. As a result of my parent’s relationship and who my father was, it 25

affected many of my own relationships throughout the years. As a preschooler, many of the children who grew up near me chose not to be my friend because my father was the man yelling at little kids to get off the street when they blocked our driveway. As grumpy as he may have seemed, at the time the kids didn’t realize he was trying to teach them to watch out for cars when playing on the street. I find that part of my life rather amusing because it allowed me to realize that my maturity level was a little too high for a four-year-old. Growing up without any kind of financial struggle turned me into a materialistic person in my middle school years. I didn’t have a spoiled brat kind of attitude, mostly because my parents would never allow it, but it did affect who I chose to associate with. Since my family dynamic was similar to a business, in the sense that it’s a lot of give and take with each other, I expected it to be like that with friendships. I used to see friendships as an investment. Before I would talk to someone, I remember asking myself, “Okay, Abby, what does this person have to offer?” What a heartless little girl I was, especially when they wanted to talk to me about personal issues. At the time, compassion was not in my vocabulary. Highschool came along, and so did my change of heart. The summer entering my freshman year, my mother expressed to me how she truly felt about my father. She explained they didn’t love each other, but they did tolerate each other. I know this seems a little harsh, but in our household honesty is a virtue. I promise that we aren’t incapable of love though. My mother followed that statement by saying, “I did what I had to do for the loves of my life, Johnny and you. I was in a different mindset then, but you have every opportunity at your feet to live the life you want to live, mija. Never settle for second best, and never be satisfied with semi -satisfaction.” That was a lot to take in for a fourteen-year-old, but throughout high school, I understood what she meant little by little. That allowed me to open up to people, be more sociable, and truly enjoy everything I put my heart into. I am now only seventeen years old, but because of who my parents are, I was able to make life decisions that most seventeen-year-olds probably don’t think of. I graduated a year early from high school and started my college journey right away by attending summer courses. I know what I want in life, and I’m not afraid to do what I have to do to get it. I knew high school wasn’t my whole life, so why stay there for longer than what’s deemed necessary. I know that becoming a travel nurse and going to different parts around the country is my future, so why not get a head start on it? I know that I never want to settle for second best in any sense, and I know I desire complete satisfaction over semi-satisfaction. It took my parents ten years after moving in together to get married. Their matrimony isn’t conventional, nor is it the best love story to ever be told. But it’s played a key role in who I am today and who I will be tomorrow. 26

In the Distance by Esther Cole

Photograph 27

“The Creek” by Kelly Helms

The stream looks like the sky. The water whispers as it moves over the rocks. The fish play a child’s game of tag. The people eat, full of food and fun stories. The trees shade as umbrellas from the sun. The creek provides a home and happiness for all creatures, big and small.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Weathered Leather of a Pair of Cowboy Bootsâ&#x20AC;? by Olivia Brummett

There is something so significant about the weathered leather of a pair of cowboy boots The hours of work that those boots express, Is distinct in the weathered leather There is nothing like the weathered leather of a cowboy boot The leather is as worn as a tire with no tread The corners are scuffed and roughed The color of the leather lacks polish The scratches cut through the boot like a knife There is nothing like the weathered leather of a cowboy boot It is in these aspects of a cowboy boot That the genuine character is found The weathered leather of a cowboy boot, Has endeavored rain, shine, dirt, and barbed wire It has encountered cattle, horses, and saddle stir-ups There is nothing like the weathered leather of a cowboy boot The more work a pair of cowboy boots endure, The more wear and tear is evident in the weathered leather A pair of cowboy boots is more than just a pair of cowboy boots The worn and torn weathered leather of a pair of cowboy boots, Truly shows the measures, endeavors, and pleasures of a hardworking cowboy There is nothing like the weathered leather of a cowboy boot

“Once Upon A Texas Day” by Jill Bynum

Once upon a Texas day I headed out on my weary way With saddle in waiting and bridle in hand I stepped oﬀ the porch with one single plan Sometimes it’s easy, most times it’s hard That horse is tough, always on guard He hears me comin’ through that squeaky gate Pricks his ears up, and I know it’s too late So it’s down to this, this horse and me A fight to the finish, and we will see He’s cunning, he’s swift, he wants his own way Sometimes it seems he just wants to play That look in his eyes, that cocky prance He crosses the field to take his stance He wants me to chase him, but I know better Gotta give him credit, he’s a real “go getter” He’s not much of a horse, but he’s all I got At times he acts naughty, but usually he’s not He can be your best friend, tried and true Though he’s gettin’ old, he still runs like new So you see, it isn’t all that bad It’s only sometimes he makes me mad When it’s hot, and my patience is thin Or when it’s ice cold and I wanna go in I think it’s useless, these games we play But I know I must do it to keep him at bay It is a quest, a battle to win I know tomorrow I’ll do it again Always there are days I want to give up I think If I sold him I’d make a few bucks 30

But, no, I can’t, ‘cause he’s been here too long And it seems we go together like voice and song There’s times I’m jealous of his carefree days When he’s loping ‘cross the field and starts to neigh He seems to know all about life While most of the time I’m feelin’ strife He stands out in the sun and grazes the land Little does he know the time’s at hand He’s had a few days but now’s the time He needs a good workout to keep him in line So I see now what I have to do It’s a nasty trick, but it’s either that or “glue” It’s an old trick everyone knows A little feed and he’s ready to go He’s not too happy, but he’s satisfied With some grain in his belly, he’s ready to ride Sometimes I think he likes our game Every now and then, I think I’m the same Every day he’s on my heels Whether I’m fixin’ fence, or fixin’ his meals He can be a nuisance from time to time But when he’s runnin’ from me, he can turn on a dime Every time he sees me with a rope He’ll run away in a cloud of smoke Not that I blame him, he’s very smart He’s a real spitfire and a work of art I know when we’re old, crippled, and lame The story won’t change, it’ll be the same He’ll be a little deaf and a little slower I’ll be sittin’ on the porch just getting’ older For now we’re fresh and full of vigor He can get under my skin just like a chigger We’re both diﬀerent and both the same But he’s my best friend, though he can be a pain

“Boy” by Daniel Cole

“Treat others with respect. This is how you shoot a basketball. Use one hand and balance the ball with the other. Start with only one hand so you can learn to rely on it without the other. This is how you pass. This is how you dribble. Girls are different from you, but they are still equal. Treat them so. This is how you throw a football. Put your ring finger on the second to last row. This is how you catch a football. Not with your chest, use your hands. This is how you hold a bat. Right hand over left.” Can we play basketball instead? “Keep your eye on the ball. This is how you kick a ball. Use the side of your foot not your toes. Always say, yes, sir and, yes, ma’am. This is how you use a fence tool. This is how you cut a wire. The closer to the center of the wire cutter, the more leverage you have. We do not cuss in this family. This is how you drive a tractor. This is how you use the tractor fork to pick up things. This is how you drive a trailer. Backing up is opposite with a trailer attached. This is how you catch a wild hog. This is how you turn it into bacon. Kill it, skin it, and remove all the insides. Take the meat to the saltwater to soak. Now smoke the meat in the smoke house for several days.” I cannot wait to eat the bacon. “Always say, yes, sir and, yes, ma’am. Always take a tarp with you when you go camping. Gather leaves and make a thick layer of them. Pour this chemical in it before you put the tarp over it. That will kill the bugs, so they do not get all over you when you sleep. I better not hear you say that. This is how you stick a worm on the hook. This is how you cast a fishing pole. When you feel a bite, pop the line the opposite way. This will secure the hook in the fish’s mouth. This is how you start a fire. Gather dead dry sticks for the kindling.” What is kindling? “Small easy to light sticks and leaves for the start of the fire. Let the fire die down before you cook a marshmallow. Do not stick it in the flames, or it will catch on fire. Stick it right above the hot coals. Let it turn golden brown while you spin it in place. Your sisters 32

should feel safe with you at all times. Always carry a knife with you when you are on the farm or in the woods. Look others directly in the eyes when you introduce yourself. Say, yes, sir and, yes, ma’am when talking to adults. Shake with a firm hand. Open doors for others. Say thank you and, no, thank you. Be polite. Always say, yes, sir and, no, sir. Read the Bible every day.” Why should I read the Bible every day? “You must spend consistent time with someone to improve your relationship with them. Share with others, especially your siblings. Be kind. You should do the chores without me asking you. If I ask of you, do not make me ask again. Always stay alert when driving. Do not rely on your mirrors when driving. You have other people in the car. Their life is in your hands. They should feel safe when you drive. Always complete your schoolwork before you do other things.”

“Girl” by Amanda Wall

“Keep your legs closed and don’t walk around with an infection if you know you have one; if you don’t have time to shower or bathe, you will at least wipe down your arm pits, vagina, and ass; don’t spit like a man unless you want to be talked about as such; don’t share because you can get sores in your mouth; only sleep in late if you’ve taken care of all your housework and homework; you can relax during the weekend. But Sunday is the Lord’s day, so praise and thank him for your blessings; walk, act, and talk like you have some damn sense.” But I always act like I am supposed to when I am with or without you. “Don’t always be so quick to talk back; rushing causes mistakes, so take your time in order to not have to repeat things over unnecessarily; don’t have your shirt too tight, buttoned low, or boobs out like a whore.” I was molested. “What did you do to deserve that? If you think you’re gay, make sure you keep that to yourself; you must remember there is a time and place for everything; clean the base boards, keep the dust out of the house not to get sick from it; you should be seen and not heard; your hair is your glory, which is in the Bible” I do wash, dry, and style my hair so I look nice when I step out. “Don’t smile showing your pretty teeth and dimples to everyone; they are not all nice; spread the love of the Lord, not the hate of the devil; talk when spoken to or be silent; sit with your legs crossed while you are around me especially; always wipe off your makeup nightly, or you will end up with ugly skin and wrinkles; don’t be fast; men don’t respect that; don’t be afraid to play dumb because that’s the way to do it; don’t settle, and be a bitch when needed.” I thought as ladies we are not supposed to cuss. “Be quiet; always wear clean, fitted undergarments in case you’re in a accident or in the hospital; don’t let the sun catch your ass before you make it home; hoes do that; say yes sir, no sir, yes ma’am, no ma’am, please and thank you; that’s how you show

respect; use vinegar on your lady parts to smell really good; drink plenty of water to stay youthful and flush out your body; be submissive to your husband. A woman’s role and responsibilities are in the home; this is how you cook chicken, ribs, and steak, so make sure you keep the cabinet stocked with seasonings; do not be involved in your husband’s affairs; traditional roles as husband and wife will make the best life, so get married; always act and display that you are a well-kept woman.” How I keep my clothes ironed, nails painted, hair done, and smell good? “Make sure you keep a hot meal ready on the stove since you cannot keep a man if you cannot satisfy his hunger; you won’t ever marry if you can’t cook or clean; no man will keep a woman who acts like a whore in questionable hours of the night; this is how you keep your feet soft; this is how to bake a cake; come home at a decent hour; don’t ever make your husband question your behavior.” I am not perfect. I can stick to a role of a dutiful and obedient wife. “Then you are telling me you shall be the woman I am tailoring you to be?

I Am an Ocean I Am the Sea There Is a World inside of Me by Vanessa Perez

Sharpie and Color Pencil 36

A Turtleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Journey by Vanessa Perez

Acrylic Paint 37

“The Power of Me” by Tikisha Franklin

Love me don’t hate me Hear me, hold me Tell everyone about me Don’t care don’t judge me Listen up Can’t break me don’t own me Don’t down me, motivate me Don’t matter I still stand my ground Crowning my head with my own grace as the world spins in confusion My mind is right flying high as a kite Strap tight my heart wrapped in chains Waiting for it to claim a name Heart broken no worries ‘Cause every day I create a new story The courage I rose even in times I dosed Closed that door, I say no more Down in my core My heart grows sore and cold Deep down in my soul Is a warrior fighting, not dying nor crying So, winding me up See the force that is reckoned within

They try me, won’t ‘vise it I am ME to infinity power

no name by Candice Parker

Oil, Acrylic, and Marker 39

“Wake Up Call” by Josie Crawford

Flashing red and blue lights are more blinding than you can imagine. The sounds of sirens are more piercing than you would believe. Altogether, it is a horrifying scene to experience. There is nothing positive or encouraging to see. For whoever ends up in something like this, it will haunt you forever. Even if you never meant for it to go this far. Lying there upside down, tears fell at the pain of realizing this would be my last and final memory of you. Any other day, you were a handsome man, with the softest brown locks I’ve ever run my fingers through. Your brown eyes were always so bright and understanding. They accepted me no matter what state I was in. That warming smile always encouraged me to keep going and provided any hope I needed to make it another day. But now, that image of you is gone, that beautiful sight forever erased from this world by this tragedy. Your eyes were closed, so I couldn’t tell if you were afraid, mad, or in any pain with your last moments. Your lips were strangely straight, no hint of the smile from prior memories. The locks I loved so much, drenched in blood from your injuries. Unjustified injuries resulting from my terrible choices. You will never know how sorry I am for that. As the firemen tried to pull us out of the vehicle to ensure our safety, I knew saving you was a lost cause. I couldn’t help but wish I was dead instead. All of the drinks from that night still had me dizzy, but the numbing of emotions and pain drinking would usually bring was gone. I could feel every single thing. My injuries, and my heart aching for you. How did I let this happen? I asked myself several times. I knew the plan before we went to your work event to celebrate your promotion. Yet, once again, I failed you and let you down. I betrayed you in such a selfish way. That night was supposed to be about you. You wanted to enjoy yourself, for once. I denied my issue with alcohol so many times, yet you stayed with me. I said I would be fine and wouldn’t cause you any trouble. I promised to stay sober and drive you home so you could have a good time. I still don’t remember when I started and when I crossed the line that night with drinking. “Damn it, Jane! We are leaving now. I just wanted to have a good time before work gets more stressful with this promotion. You knew this! I couldn’t have just one night?” You took my glass away, grabbing my hand to leave. “Luckily, I expected this. I only had one drink. So I can 40

drive. Let’s go.” The tears that fell from my eyes were out of shame, not because you’re wrong. Yet I could tell your heart still hurt; you had snapped at me. And so we left, with me hoping you would forgive me in that following morning you never got to see. The drive home was fine at first. But I started to feel the punishing side effects from all of the alcohol from that night. “Pull over, John,” I demanded of you. I remember your eyes rolling—which, strangely, looked so cute to me— as you proceeded to pull the car up to the side of the road. Overcome with nausea, I let it all out, and for a moment, I felt like I was able to release everything. My problems and my regrets. I’ll fix myself this time, I thought to myself before getting back in the car. “Thanks. Let’s go.” Then, just a mile away from home is when it happened. I really thought I was feeling better, but my judgement was so faded. “I’m sorry I ruined the night. I’ll take a picture,” I said pulling out my phone. You shook your head in disapproval, “Now is not the time.” I pouted back childishly. “Such a sour puss. Yuck,” I said, sticking my tongue out. “Not now, Jane. I’m driving,” you replied tiredly. “Aw, come on, unexpected photos are the best kind to remember,” I said as I took your picture, forgetting I had left the flash on. Blinking lasts only a second, but it was enough to make you miss the stop sign and get hit by another car that flipped us over. Understandably, your family was upset. Since we weren’t married yet (two months shy), your parents had no problem banning me from their only son’s funeral. “John knew you were messed up and always stuck around.” “Wasting his life, for a waste of a life.” After that, I went into a downward spiral. My drinking got worse, as it helped me numb the pain. But the memories never went away, and neither did my love for you. And then one day, when I had no money left, my studio having nothing but my clothes, my bed, an empty fridge, and liquor cabinet, I watched the sun rise with sober eyes for once, and I felt a little different. And that’s when I heard it. “Don’t be the waste they said you would be. Make me proud,” I heard your soft voice say. Overwhelmed with sadness, joy, and confusion, I realized I couldn’t actually do this, alone. So that’s why I am standing in front of all of these people today. Perhaps this is my first step towards who I should have been for you. I’ve heard this really helps people like me too. So I’m giving it a shot for you, and for anyone who may ever love me again, as you did. I am doing this for my family, and any future family I may be blessed enough to create. I love you, John. “Hello, my name is Jane, and I’m an alcoholic.” “Hello, Jane.” 41

Plunge by Bruce Panagopoulos

Digital Art 42

“So young, so scarred” by Neyma Cerna

i’m so sick of pretending it doesn’t hurt i’m sick of the insults of living with them every word that comes out of your mouth is either a critique or an insult it hurts, and it sucks i can’t show it crying into my pillow isn’t something i should be doing you were raised by the same parents i’m being raised by, so why are you so mean? why do you feel the need to make me feel worthless? what did I ever do to you? you’ve made me hate my home now all i look forward to is leaving the toxicity is too much for me i’m too weak who would’ve thought, the last born would be the one brought down by my older siblings.

“Superpowered Love” by Ray McIntosh “He hit you again?” I rub the ointment on her, a large bruise already forming on her arm. She nods, tears in her eyes. I suck in my breath. I can save the whole world but not my own roommate. She gives me a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it; I’ve been in worse fights in my life.” She lets out a sigh, “At least I was fighting for something I care about.” I shake my head. “Why doesn’t he listen? Doesn’t he see how much harm he’s causing?” She shrugs. “He thinks he’s a hero, that everything he does is the better good, even if it hurts others around him.” I flinch. Savior complex, I think to myself. I look at her bruise. Why is she always getting in fights? She doesn’t seem that confrontational. “Regardless, you can’t keep doing this.” I take her hand in mine, to comfort her. “He’s embarrassed to be seen with you; he doesn’t listen, and you keep getting yourself in trouble because of him.” I wish you could tell me his name, show me a photo of his face. I’d make sure he’d be locked up for life so that no one could hurt you again. We lock eyes. “Please don’t see him again.” I can see the look in her eyes is one of determination. I can see that she’s not planning on leaving him. I let go of her hand. I feel tears of frustration forming in my eyes. I would fight anyone for her. “I’m sorry that I can’t always be here for you.” I wish I could stay, help her, and be able to defend the city, but I can’t. She leaves at odd hours, to sneak out to see him, so he won’t be embarrassed of them together. She deserves better. “We both have our own things to deal with.” She chuckles. “We are passionate people after all.” I finish rubbing in the cream; she flinches but smiles at me. I feel butterflies that I ignore. I can’t let myself get attached and hurt her any more than she already is. I walk to my bed across from hers and lie down, glancing around our room. We both are bland with room décor, stock photos on our walls, and empty calendars. She doesn’t ask about my life outside of class. We respect each other’s privacy. I try to not judge when she leaves at all hours of the 44

night, and she doesn’t question me. I tend to win my battles, save the city and the citizens in it. I don’t leave a trail. I don’t ask for help, and I rarely come back beaten and bruised. But when I do, she’s there for me. She helps me. She understands me. However, at times, it feels as if she is the complete opposite of me. I hear glimpses of opinions, frustration targeted to the version of me that she sees in the mask and cape on TV. She is different than I am. She doesn’t share her opinions, but sometimes, in rare moments, what I say triggers hints of aggression in her. It makes me wonder what made her who she is, another person void of a backstory, passionate, and undeterred. I like that she’s opinionated, even if her ideas may seem extreme or a bit dangerous. She’s never been heard, given a platform to let her voice be heard. She’d never do anything wrong. She’s the one who gets hurt; I’m the one who stands up for her and every other person in the world. I lie on my bed. It is exhausting to lie to her. It feels as if she gets hurt every time I leave. I can’t shake the idea that if I were to tell her who I am. She would know that she can be safe, that I can protect her, keep her close to me forever. She’d know what love is. Love is safety, communication, people caring deeply one another, not abuse, not pain and calling fear and anxiety merely butterflies. She would help me too; she opens my mind, helps me think out my opinions, corrects me when I get narrow-minded. She doesn’t guilt-trip me, nor does she demand answers that I cannot give her. We live as if we have no past, no future. I may hide under a mask when fighting a villain, but I cannot hide how I feel for her. It is as if I have known her for longer than we’ve been roommates, as if paths are aligned in some mysterious way. I glance at her from my bed. The Yin to my Yang. I smile. I guess opposites do attract. “Hey,” I call out. She gives me a weak smile, holding an ice pack to her head. “Can I just let something out?” She nods. I look at the floor, nervous. “What would you say if I told you I agree with that dumb superhero, you know, the one you don’t like, the one on the news . . . .” I say it casually, but I’m panicking on the inside. “What if I told you that I agree more with the villain herself?” I frown at what she said. However, I guess it makes sense. They are so similar. I give her a weak smile. “I’m glad you’re not the villain.” I try to sound lighthearted. “I mean, you can hold whatever opinion you want, but taking your issues out on the innocent isn’t worth making a point.” She’s angry at me. 45

“Pfft, please, the hero does that all the time. They never consider the damage they do. They leave a trail of destruction and arrogance. They act like they’re a god or something! They don’t care for the little guy.” She points to herself. I notice a confidence I haven’t seen in her in a while. “The ‘villain’ isn’t that bad if you ask me. They just don’t blame themselves for all the wrong in the world; they know that they can’t stop bad things from happening, and they decide what’s worth fighting for, not just go willy-nilly after whatever the mayor calls a threat.” She rolls her eyes. “That stupid ‘hero’ could do so much good if they just let go, stop caring so much for the world and listened to the individual needs.” I feel tingles go through my body. She is calling me out. I swallow a lump in my throat. I care about her opinion, and she does make some good points. I look at my lap; my hands are shaking. I sit on them. “The so-called ‘hero’ will never come to a middle ground or just talk things out. People will die regardless of who gets their way, but fighting . . .”; she touches a spot that is beginning to bruise. “It doesn’t help anything. More people get hurt, and no one learns.” I see tears welling up in her eyes. She must have been holding that in for a long time. I walk over to her and sit on her bed. She pulls me close to her in her warm embrace. I feel tears in my own eyes. How will I ever fix this mess? I need to talk to my nemesis; I need to build a better future, toMy train of thought screeches to a halt. Something has caught my eye and sent my heart to my stomach. It’s a clothing item tucked in her laundry hamper. The fabric is familiar. My costume is made out of it, lightweight, durable, not easy to get. I feel a lump in my throat. She pulls away from our embrace and looks at me curiously. All the puzzle pieces fit together in my mind. There’s a reason we are so similar. Neither of us have solid alibis; we leave at strange times in the night. Our backstories are vague, our opinions are opposites, and our scars tell similar stories. She’s not a normal roommate. She’s like me. I smile, though tears want to run down my cheeks. I’ve been the abuser the whole time! I’ve become stubborn, blinded by fame, ignoring the signs that were clearly in front of me. I wipe my eyes. This is my task. To talk things out, build a better future, a better us. But not by thinking of myself as the hero, but as equals. She’s not just a mask to me. She’s everything. I now know that I have fallen in love and lived with the person who I had called my archnemesis. The perfect yin to my yang was not just my roommate, but my very own supervillain.

“Partner Day” by Anastasia Rakovalis

The sapling was dying. Its leaves were limp and yellow. Its trunk was thin and pale. Shiloh leaned against the rough bark of the tree behind her. Her long brown braid draped over her shoulder down her pale-green tunic. She frowned. Her brow creased as she stared at the weak sapling. She sighed. What could it hurt? Shiloh leaned forward and extended her right hand towards the plant’s shriveling trunk. She took a deep breath and . . . reached. She stretched. She pushed. She tried so hard to feel something, to reach into the dying sapling. But there was nothing there. Shiloh leaned back against the tree and let her hand fall into her lap. She stared at the wilting plant. She should have been able to help it—it was a sapling for pity’s sake. “I’m sorry,” she said in a quiet voice. Standing up, Shiloh looked down at her brown boots as she found the path and walked through the forest. Soon, she began to hear music, shouts, and laughter up ahead. When the woods ended, Shiloh passed under a stone archway decked in leafy ivy. The dusty path turned to cobblestone under her feet. Venders lined the streets of the town with their colorful booths. Musicians wove through the crowd with their reed flutes and lyres. A train of children ran in front of Shiloh, trailing green, blue, and violet ribbons behind them. Shiloh felt a sudden familiar breeze and looked up. A deep-green dragon flew overhead and landed in an open space in the street. A few other dragons sat on the rooftops and paced the town streets, flicking their long tails, pinning their leathery wings against their sides. A small smile spread across Shiloh’s lips as she remembered when Jerra had first nudged her shoulder five years ago on a Partner Day like this one. When she had felt the hard nudge, Shiloh had jumped and spun around to find the deepest, largest purple eyes 47

staring down at her. Shiloh had stood speechless and frozen until the aqua-green dragon had extended her elegant neck and nudged Shiloh’s shoulder again. “Me?” Shiloh had asked. The dragon had bobbed her head. Shiloh had wanted to ask if the young dragon was sure, if she really knew what she was doing, but Shiloh had never gotten the chance. The dragon had motioned with her head for her to follow. Speechless, Shiloh had walked to the stage at the center of town and ascended its steps. Together, before the entire town, Shiloh and the dragon had made a tree sprout from its seed and grow into a sapling. After the ceremony, an elderly man in a dark-blue cloak had beckoned Shiloh into an alleyway. He told her that she had been bestowed with a great honor and that she had to protect her new dragon partner. Shiloh had wanted to ask how she was supposed to protect a powerful creature more than three times her size, but the man had left before she had gotten the chance. A familiar aching cold returned to Shiloh. She had failed that man, whoever he was, and she had failed Jerra. She had failed them both on that night two years ago—the last time she had been able to make even the grass grow. Suddenly, something bumped into Shiloh’s shoulder. She spun around and froze, staring up into deep, intelligent brown eyes. The dragon staring down at her had jade-green scales and deep-violet wings. Shiloh took a step back. The dragon’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she stepped forward and shoved Shiloh’s shoulder harder. Shiloh held her hands up, stepping back again. “No,” she said. “Trust me. You don’t . . . you don’t want me as your partner.” The dragon huffed and walked around Shiloh. She began shoving her in the back with her scaly head. “No, listen!” Shiloh protested. “I’ve already gotten one partner killed! I can’t make anything grow anymore!” The dragon snorted loudly and kept shoving her all the way to the town center. At the stage, Shiloh glanced around. A crowd had assembled to watch all of the partnering ceremonies for the day. The dragon snorted at Shiloh and beckoned with her head for her to climb up the stairs. Shiloh opened her mouth. She had to say something, but she glanced at the crowd. How could she announce before the entire town that she had lost her ability to make things grow and that she 48

had gotten her last partner killed? Gut churning, Shiloh ascended the stairs, each footstep feeling heavier than the last. She approached the large clay pot full of dirt at the center of the stage. The entire crowd watched in silence as the jade-green dragon extended her head towards the pot. Her deep brown eyes focused on a tiny seed in the soil. Suddenly, a shoot pushed through the seed’s casing and green leaves unfolded. The sprout grew to about six inches and stopped. The dragon looked up at Shiloh. Shiloh gulped. She held her hand out towards the sprout and . . . reached. She still felt nothing. But the sprout grew anyway. More leaves unfolded as the plant rose into a full-fledged sapling. The crowd applauded. Mouth hanging open, Shiloh raised her gaze to the dragon’s. The dragon stared back at her with a knowing, almost playful look. She arched her neck and raised her head, turning to face the cheering crowd. Speechless, Shiloh turned too. Why had the dragon done her part for her? Looking out into the crowd, Shiloh spotted him—the man in the blue cloak. Their gazes met. Instantly, Shiloh wanted to rush down the steps, to ask him who he was, to apologize for failing Jerra. However, before she could, the man mouthed two words: “Protect her.” Shiloh froze. Again? She glanced at the jade-green dragon beside her. The old man nodded. Shiloh swallowed. She bit her lip, lifting her chin. And she nodded back.

Elton John 4 by Daniel Davalos

Digital Art 50

“The Keys and Pedals” by Esther Cole As we stare at professional piano players in amazement, we notice one thing: the experts worked hard to get the amount of dexterity necessary for that occupation. It is probably one of the hardest instruments to play; the eighty-eight keys and three pedals are very daunting and certainly take a lot of skill and practice in order to be used correctly. Still, beginners can range from toddlers to senior adults. I began learning at six years old, the fifth of my siblings to start playing. Because of my parents’ belief in music’s importance, each of us took lessons from six years old until at least eighth grade. The privilege of being taught for nine years accounted for a large part of my life and education, and learning another language through music remains a skill certainly worth mastering. Extracurricular activities are more beneficial than I thought they were because they teach more than just that skill. Our church’s piano player was my first teacher. Kind, gentle, and patient, Mr. Field taught five beginners perfectly. As the youngest, I always was last to be taught, and, after my lesson, he would always accidentally take my music book home and leave his, since they looked so much alike. I would then not be able to practice the songs he had assigned to me. The next week he would come back remarking, “I took your book again; I know.” I would smile shyly, and then we would begin. When the notebook switching habit had gone on for a while, Mr. Field finally decided we should simply switch permanently. He put a paper on the front of his book that said “Esther” and, swapping the contents of each, gave me his. To this day, I still have that notebook, and when I look at that same notebook that used to be his, I miss him and his quiet, kind demeanor. Since my dad is an Air Force colonel, I have moved around a lot. With each of these relocations came new teachers with different teaching styles and attitudes toward their students and piano. I remember one who was quirky, one who was slightly insensitive, a few that were particularly kind, and one who was very hardcore. With all the different types of teachers I have had, my attitude toward piano fluctuated. With enjoyable teachers came enjoyable lessons, and with unkind teachers came taxing lessons. Sometimes I got tired of it, and sometimes I really enjoyed it. My last teacher, by far my favorite, understood me and put little pressure on me to do more than I was ready for. I learned more from 51

her than the others because of her teaching style, and through this, I learned how to play music and not just notes. She also exposed me to a vast repertoire of music, showing me piano is much more than just contemporary and classical. I learned about soundtrack music, slow music, fast music, fun music, and sad music. There are many different types of piano music hanging around the edges, waiting to be explored. At the end of my sophomore year of high school, I was finally seeing piano as an extra, something that did not demand much of my attention and time. It no longer seemed like a part of my school schedule, although I still took lessons and participated in recitals. Since I do not plan for music to be a part of my career or future, except for amusement, my piano time could have been well spent elsewhere, although I had not considered that yet. One day, as we drove to one of my last lessons of the year, my mom proposed, “I was wondering if, maybe, you might want to quit piano.” I knew she was not advising me to quit, just offering. I was now old enough to decide for myself whether I wanted to continue. “You don’t have to quit,” she continued. “It was just a thought because you’re coming up on your junior year, and I thought you might need the time for something else.” Gesturing to herself, she expressed, “I’m okay with it; I think you’ve learned enough and have gone as far as I wanted you to go, so it’s your decision.” I thought about it for the next few days, weighing the options and praying. After a while, I decided I was okay with stopping piano lessons. One reason was time management. It is hard to commit to extra things in high school. I knew that, just like the year before, piano would be tough to squeeze in during my junior year. Also, I had finally reached a point in my life in which I was no longer challenged by piano and had learned all I wanted to. I also did not want the stress of trying to learn a new song when I had already reached a worthy stopping point: simply enjoying piano. That may not seem to be the right time to quit something, but for me, it was perfect. Since the age of six, I had been laden with the activity, and now I was doing it willingly, the way I wanted to; so I was okay with stopping. After that nine-year experience, I learned, in a way I never could have imagined, that extracurriculars are important. Two of my siblings stopped piano when they did not like it anymore and now do not play at all. I stopped when I enjoyed it enough to continue, and still I play. The time I spend on the piano bench is relaxing and not stressful. Learning extracurriculars gives us new experiences, and we can become more accomplished at life when we participate in them. Now I have time to do other things, however, after quitting, and, after learning what I needed to, I am now practicing a song to accompany my little brother’s choir. 52

“Domino Theory” by Michelle Allen

Many Americans are encountering hardship each week of choosing to buy groceries or their life-saving medications. The steep cost of medicines in the U.S. has tripled for some. The pharmaceutical companies have upped the prices for their profit while controlling the generic equivalents that could be less expensive. Without proper treatment, many Americans are dying. Lowering the cost of medications will help those on a fixed income afford their prescriptions, stop the pharmaceutical companies from price gouging, save the lives of many that will otherwise have to ration medication, and stop the challenges faced in many life-ordeath situations. First, many Americans who are disabled, seniors on a fixed income, or even low-income families must decide every month between groceries for their families, medications, and health care. The number of Americans diagnosed each day with health conditions is regularly growing. According to the Health System Tracker, “Health spending totaled $74.6 billion in 1970. By 2000, health expenditures had reached about $1.4 trillion, and in 2018 the amount spent on health had more than doubled to $3.6 trillion. Total health expenditures represent the amount spent on healthcare and healthrelated activities including expenditures from both public and private funds” (Kamal et al). From this, it shows the cost of medication is growing over the time frame given. As evidence states, if we do not do something about the prices, they will continue to rise. Then, to make matters worse, many seniors live alone with limited family around. They do not have the income to pay for their everyday needs. According to the Foodbank of Contra Costa and Solano, “Limited mobility and dependence on outside assistance make seniors particularly vulnerable to hunger.” It also states, according to Hunger in America 2010, “[A]mong client households with seniors, 30 percent have had to choose between paying for food and paying for medical care” (Larry). As this evidence states, for those Americans on a fixed income, lower cost of their medications could mean putting food on the table and buying the prescriptions they need. 53

Next, how do we compare if this is a price spike in general or price gouging? With many medications, it is gouging when it is shown the price of some medicines are jumping to extremes while others stay the same. Even when patients try to save a little money on prescriptions, changing from a brand name medication to generic, they also come with a hefty price. According to AARP Real Possibilities, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The price of generic medicines has either doubled or possibly tripled in the last few years. Doxycycline Hyclate (100 milligrams), a widely used antibiotic, soared from $20 for 500 capsules in October 2013 to a staggering $1,849 in April 2014â&#x20AC;? (Jeret). As evidence shows, even generic medications are at a high price that some are unable to afford. When Americans are unable to provide even generics, their health becomes worse. The price spike or price gouging has left many Americans unable to buy the generic alternative to stay healthy. Also, the cost of medications used for preventative health is not the only concern; what about the life-saving medicines for diabetics? According to Huff Post one such drug is Novolog, a short-acting prescription needed to help control blood sugar levels in type one patients (Cooperman). This medication is used with every meal and costs $303.40 per box of five 100units/3mL pens or roughly $1,200 a month for a cash pay patient (Cooperman). Lantus is another medication used by diabetics. This is a long-acting medication and costs $414.00 per box of 5 100 units/3mL pens or close to $1,245.00 per month (Cooperman). Etanercept, sold under Enbrel is a Tumor Necrosis Factor (TNF) blocker (Cooperman). This medication is used for patients with auto-immune diseases such as rheumatoid arthritis to stop the progression of the disease. It has a price tag of $5,008.30 a month (Cooperman). According to the HuffPost, other life-saving medicines, the EpiPen, used in patients having severe or anaphylaxis allergic reactions, cost $600 per 2 pens (Weber). According to The Street, with the average income in the U.S. at about $48,672 per year, we cannot afford the health care and medicines we need to stay healthy and live a good life (Fiorillo). Furthermore, diseases such as diabetes or severe food allergies affect the person with the disease and involve the family. Americans with certain health conditions must stick to a strict diet, have accommodated nutritional needs, and must also ration their lifesaving medications. Americans pay more than any other country for their insulin, and some patients have rationed their medication, causing high sugars that lead to diabetic ketoacidosis and worse, 54

death. According to one study in JAMA Internal Medicine, “At least three people died in 2017 from trying to ration their insulin, and at least three more died in 2018. As many as one in four people who rely on insulin have had to ration their supply. Insulin is produced for just a few dollars, yet these companies mark up the price as much as 5,000 percent” (Milka). As this evidence shows, many will die because they cannot afford the price increase year after year. Lowering the price is the only way to change this. To make matters worse, once children reach a certain age, they are kicked off their parent’s insurance and forced to get coverage of their own. In addition, some are unable to afford insurance and pay cash prices. According to Health News from NPI, “The cost of insulin in the U.S. has more than doubled since 2012. That has put the life-saving hormone out of reach for some people with diabetes. It has left others scrambling for solutions to afford the one thing they need to live” (Sable-Smith). According to evidence, if we do not step up and make changes, many people with diabetes could die from lack of insulin. Rationing medication to live should not be an option anyone should have to consider. American families should not have to decide between life-saving medicines and food to live. The prescription should be sold based on the income of each individual so that it is affordable. On the other hand, pharmaceutical companies raise their prices to cover the middleman. The manufacturer also needs the revenue, even if the medication’s demand is not required. Many drug companies invest in research, with only a few years to see a return or a profit. The cost of research and studies is also needed to prove that the medicines are safe or see the other health conditions they can help. Even though that may be correct, medications for diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis, and even multiple sclerosis have become astronomical over the years and are not affordable for Americans. These medications, for some, are needed daily. Patients put their lives at risk when they must ration daily doses to live because they cannot afford them. Finally, there are many benefits and few drawbacks to lowering the cost of long term, life-saving medications. Though this could potentially raise taxes for many, nearly 45,000 people would live. Due to modern medicine, patients with underlying health issues, such as diabetes, allergies, rheumatoid arthritis, multiple sclerosis, and more can live full-fledged lives. Keeping medication at an affordable price allows everyone to afford medications to keep 55

healthy or prevent further health issues from developing. Lowering the cost of maintenance medication and life-saving medications based on income could give life back to many and save the lives of many. Works Cited

Cooperman, Tod. “20 Drugs That Cost a Lot Less Outside the U.S.” HuffPost, 1 Dec. 2017, www.huffpost.com/entry/20-drugs-that-cost-alot-less-outside-the-us_b_5a217e73e4b0545e64bf9277. Fiorillo, Steve. “What Is the Average Income in the U.S.?” The Street, 11 Feb. 2020, www.thestreet.com/personal-finance/average-income-in-us14852178. Jeret, Peter. “Prices Spike for Some Generic Drugs.” AARP Real Possibilities, July/August 2015, www.aarp.org/health.drugs-supplements/info-2015/ price-spike-for-generic-drugs.html. Kamal, Rabah, et al. “How Has U.S. Spending on Healthcare Changed over Time?” Health System Tracker, Peterson-KFF Health System Tracker, 20 Dec. 2019, www.healthsystemtracker.org/chart-collection/u-sspending-healthcare-changed-time/#item-nhe-trends_year-over-yeargrowth0in-health0services-spending-by-quarter-2010-2019. Larry. “Seniors Choose Between Groceries and Medicine.” Foodbank of Contra Costa & Solano, 26 Feb. 2013, www.foodbankccs.org/2013/02/ seniors-choose-between-groceries-and- medicine.html. Milka, Ruth. “Americans Are Dying Because They Can’t Afford Their Insulin.” Nation of Change, 15 July 2019, www.nationofchange.org/2019/07/15/americans-are-dying-becausethey-cant-afford-their-insulin/. Sable-Smith, Bram. “Insulin’s High Cost Leads to Lethal Rationing.” National Public Radio, Health News from NPR, 1 Sep. 2018, www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2018/09/01/641615877/insulinshigh-cost-leads-to-lethal-rationing. Weber, Lauren. “Here’s What Parents of Kids with Life-Threatening Allergies Think of the EpiPen Price Increases” HuffPost, 27 Aug. 2016, www.huffpost.com/entry/parents-kids-allergies-epipenprice_n_57c0b251e4b0267344502c4f.

Erosion by Sofiah Rose Griffey

Acrylic Paint 57

“The Sweet Lady's Barbeque” by Ray McIntosh

She was a small, frail, odd but quaint individual. At first, when she moved next door, she was alone. She wouldn’t close the blinds or hang curtains on the windows. Her life was public; she had nothing to lose. Each night she’d hobble to her kitchen and cook a feast, which would just sit on her table with no one to enjoy it with her and no one to help cook or clean afterword. After a few weeks, she began to have visitors. Distraught teenagers, adults dressed like hookers. She was an odd woman indeed. But after time, she had hung curtains, made her life more private, more lively. She was not alone. The smoker in her backyard always filled the air with the smell of maple syrup and tender barbeque. Her passion was cooking after all. She became plumper, more talkative, more popular. I watched from my windows. There was always someone new at her house, never more than one or two at a time. The music was loud; maybe her hearing was poor, but I didn’t call the cops on her. She was elderly, not a ruffian or a drug dealer. I could handle some noise if it meant she’d be happy, that she wouldn’t go back to sitting at the table, in a quiet home, withering away, all alone. I finally got to meet her when a child went missing in the neighborhood. She was kind, charismatic, and nurturing in nature. I told her about how I could smell her cooking from next door, and she promised to send me some jerky when Christmas came around. She had plenty, she told me; she used to be a butcher. I looked at her hands, toughened by years of manual labor, withered by the years. As we walked in search of the missing child, she had gained a following of children who clung to her. She was a safe haven, they said, always inviting them in if they needed food or a place to stay. She seamed to be a perfect individual, faultless, a saint in this sinful world. How lucky was I to have her as my neighbor! The cop came one night. Her music was too loud; it was early in the morning. The lights of the cop cars woke me up, for I had already clogged my ears to avoid the sounds. Why so many cop cars? I wondered. Did someone break in to her house? My head raced 58

with possibilities. She has been seen with shady characters. Did one of them take advantage of her generosity and hurt her? I worried and worried and finally decided to get out of my house, in my nightclothes to ask what was happening next door. She was more than odd, quirky or charismatic; she was analytical, precise, and persuasive. She invited the wrong person to her house alright, but not in the way I worried for her safety; for she hid secrets in that smoker, those feasts that she laid out over her dinner table. The curtains were drawn; the music was loud, not because of a privacy, having a party, or entertaining a crowd. The curtains held back horrors; the music muffled cries for help. She was a cannibal, preying off the vulnerable people who came to her for shelter, advice, or help. The whores were not missed; the teens just “ran away.” The children were naive, and their parents would not blame a “sweet old lady” anyway. The cops were called because of noise but stayed late into the next day. There was caution tape that reached up into my yard. Forensics carried away bags and boxes of human remains. I don’t know what happened to my little neighbor; may she rot or rest in peace. But her house still smells of maple syrup, and the smoker still lies in the yard, rusting to the colors of the autumn leaves. No one will move in where the butcher once lived, although months have gone by. The curtains still hang with the wine-colored stains. Missing posters cover the streets, and the town has become untrusting. We’ve grown older, more aware of the little things. Truth be told, I tried to forget, move on, not peek at the house a few feet away from my own, but by December, a small package had arrived at my home. It was a bag of jerky, made out of an unknown meat. The sender had no return address and my heart sank as I knew that it could only mean-Christmas had come early.

“Ohio Terror” by Kimberly Alcorta

It all happened at a small village in Lindsey, Ohio. Back in 1988, my family and I traveled from San Antonio to Ohio to work as migrant workers in the fields. The long road to enter the place we would stay at would take approximately five minutes to get to the houses. It was three separate buildings in total, but they were all close to each other. Two of the buildings were houses for two families to live in, and the third building was just to wash clothes and had big sinks there as well. Everyone that stayed in the little ranch would leave early morning to start the day by picking cotton, fruits, and vegetables. I was sixteen years old at the time and would stay in the house with my two younger brothers until everybody returned from the fields. Being the oldest sister, I was in charge of my sibling’s safety and my safety. Surrounding the ranch were acres and acres of corn fields. It was very quiet and lonely when everyone was gone. One day my brothers and I were watching TV and suddenly heard a car pull in slowly and heard the brakes screech and park. We filled up with excitement thinking our family had come back from work. Usually, they would come back around noon to make lunch, but that was not the case. We did not get up to see who had arrived, but we heard someone had turned on the water from one of the sinks outside. That’s when my little brother had gotten up to check through the window blinds to see who it was. When he looked outside, he noticed someone strange by the sink that was wearing a black mask with a long vertical zipper in the center of the mask. This man was wearing a black leather jacket and black gloves that reached past his elbows with blue jeans and brown boots. He had two black plastic bags and took out a bloody rope and started washing the rope. As he was doing this, you could see the blood draining from it. The distance from the man to us was not far, so he heard the blinds move and walked towards the house next door, thinking we were in there. He vigorously started kicking the door to try to get in; meanwhile, we were terrified for our lives and in shock. My 60

youngest brother was peeing because of how scared he was, so I got a mop and put it under his legs to stop the sound of the pee drip on the floor. My other brother snapped and realized that we had to get out of there. There was a mini door for fire emergences to exit the house that we crawled out of to start running. We were surrounded entirely by corn fields. We then ran into the fields and heard the man running around the houses trying to locate who had seen him. We got down on our stomachs and looked through the crops towards the houses and saw the shoes stop and return to his car then speed off out of there. When we saw that he had driven off, we started running again looking for our family in the fields. We had spotted them in the distance, but we were far from them. We waved our hands in the air back in forth for them to recognize us, and when they finally did, they thought we were just waving hi. Little did they know that we were extremely frightened and crying. When we got there, we were breathing hard from running so much and trying to catch our breath while explaining what we had just experienced. Everybody went back to the ranch to check and sure enough they saw the sink full of blood and the man’s big footprints on the floor and on the door that he was trying to knock down. They ended up calling the police, and my younger brothers and I had to explain to the officers what had happened and gave the description of the man. Later, we found out that they had caught this man, and it turned out that he was a serial killer who they’d been on the search for. He was from another state and had been passing through Ohio and didn’t think anyone lived in our ranch. He could’ve killed us if he had caught us, but I’m tremendously grateful that we all came out alive. I will never forget about this horrible experience that I went through with my brothers.

“Thorns” by Anna Simpson

Like a drop of blood, red is the petal Beautiful smell, unlike metal. While at first glance, roses are elegant Touching the thorns will feel like a fire ant. Don’t be afraid to admire roses, dear, For being blindsided is something we all fear. Like a human, a rose must be nurtured and fed Sadly, in the end though, they all end up dead. Like a newborn baby, alive is more beautiful When a rose dies, it’s as sad as a funeral. > < >

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“Evening Walk” by Ashley Cole

“Iron clothes Saturday night for Sunday morning; always carry enough money for a phone call; always wash the baby before your husband comes home; take the trash out before you leave on a trip; otherwise, the house will smell; carry a pocket knife; put your coat in the dryer before you leave the house; this is how to two-step; have a black dress on hand in case of funerals; crying doesn’t solve anything.” But it’s cathartic. “Don’t eat supper till your husband does; this is how you make agarita jelly; don’t go looking for trouble, or trouble will find you; don’t invite evil to your home. You got it out; you put it up; be quiet or go outside; this is how to crochet a baby blanket; this is how to change a tire; this is how to caulk up a hole in the wall; remember to look for the best fishing worms in the garden; this is how to find the ripe avocados, and this is how you find the ones that aren’t ready yet. Don’t worry; your husband will take care of most of the yard work; wash behind your ears and between your toes; always pray before you stuff your mouth. Smile with teeth; it’s prettier; don’t say yeah; say yes ma’am; this is how you load the dishwasher correctly; this is how to roll out tortillas; this is how to make biscuits; how do you not have a husband yet? When I was your age, I was married with two kids.” Just lucky, I guess. “Don’t be a smart aleck; don’t spit into the wind; cross your legs when you’re wearing a dress; this is how to calm your husband down when he starts to slam doors; use a clothesline during the summers; keep a tidy house, and most people will think you have your life together; you can’t move away too far from home. Otherwise, who will take care of me? You need to dress nicer; what will your husband think? I don’t want one. “Then who will be the breadwinner of the household? I imagine I will. And I’ll iron my own clothes, and I’ll make my own rules.

“What It Means to Be a Woman” by Dannette Gonzalez

Since the age of thirteen, being a wife is all I have ever known. I never had a chance to be an individual, I’m always just stuck in this house feeling alone. Oh, but what an easy life I live, right? I have it easy; I have it nice. I may have to keep the house clean, but at least I get to rest my head in the bed at the end of the night.

I’d trade it all though; my heart is filled with greed. I never had the chance to be an individual. I was only ever taught to clean, write, and read. I wasn’t raised to be myself; I was raised to be a wife. My body was sold to a man at such a young age; now I must live as a slave for the rest of my life. You want me to believe it Wasn’t my body they wanted. I couldn’t even live with my husband until I bore a child.

But it was a blessing I bore, right? I guess I should feel beguiled. I’m an Athenian woman who lives for a man. But, yes, I am proud.

What pride I have to be who I am. What else would I dare want to be? I’ve been a wife since eighteen, But that isn’t all that I am. I’ve been able to be an individual. I never needed to depend on a man. You say I have an easy life? I’d probably say you’re right. I was raised much like my husband, taught to read, write, and fight. Though some may say different, I’d say I am free to be myself.

I have no obligations to anyone; my feelings don’t feel as if they are left on the shelf. I wasn’t raised to be a housewife, so some of those skills I admit I lack, But I am a strong woman. I can defend my home if my husband never came back. Though I was raised strong to bear strong children, that does not define me. If I ever decided I wanted to leave, I can. I won’t lose my children, and I’d be free. I’m am a Spartan woman who is equal to a man. But, yes, I am proud.

“A Beautiful Thing” by Daniel Cole

The guitar is a beautiful thing. I love to pick it and strum its strings. With it I worship while I sing. The guitar is a beautiful thing. Its beauty shows through many songs, From B.B. King’s to Stevie Ray Vaughn’s. Like it, there is nothing, when I play its strings.

The guitar is a beautiful thing. Up and down the neck, my callused fingers slide, Making music that pulls emotions from inside. Calmness it gives me; peacefulness it does bring. The guitar is a beautiful thing.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Changesâ&#x20AC;? by Erika Barrera

As I sit and look, I see the same tree Standing tall and dark He is handsome as can be

As the seasons change, he stands brave and still Winter, summer, spring, and fall This tree has managed to see it all

While many things have come and gone He has always stayed still and strong He questions not where he belongs

I have sat in his presence many times And while everything around me changes and I begin to cry As I sit and look, I see the same tree

Eclipsed by Scott Gathright

Photograph 68

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Beginningâ&#x20AC;? by Hanna Hodges

In the beginning darkness reigned over our universe. There was nothing but chaos, and it swirled around unchecked. There was no direction, no beings, only what we would now call star dust. Whether by sheer will or by her first conscious thought, Luna was born from the darkness. She was formed from the unity of star dust and conscious thought. As she grew, Luna was the only point of light in the darkness. She immediately became the mother of all gods, the goddess of immortality and knowledge. No one knows where she came from, only that she has always been there since the beginning of time. Just like the appearance of Luna, Sol brought himself into existence, sparked to life from his own thoughts and uniting the leftover star dust as he formed. Since he was the subsequent being in existence, he is known as the father of the gods. He became the god of power and strength, the second light in the darkness. As he formed, his thought remained only on the darkness and how he could end the chaos. However, once fully formed, Sol immediately began to search for Luna in hopes that together they could bring light to the darkness and end the chaos all around them. Sol searched for Luna, and Luna searched for Sol; it was inevitable that they would come together. It was like a magnetic pull guiding them towards each other. Like two halves of whole, they are greater together than apart. The closer they came to one another, the brighter the area around them became. It may have taken minutes, hours, or even years to find one another, but they finally did. For a while, they walked side by side content with bringing just a little extra light to the darkness nearest to them. For a time, the chaos was pushed away, and in their vicinity, all was calm. For some time, walking side by side in their sphere of light sustained them. Slowly their emotions took hold, and their urge to touch one another overtook them. What they did not know was that they were doomed to never know the feeling of the otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s embrace. As their hands drew near, the light around them increased. When his finger touched hers, there was a massive flash of light that pushed 69

back both them and the darkness. With the dark gone, the planets and stars developed. The sparks that left Luna and Solâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finger tips seeded the planet with life. Sol reached out to touch what they made, and it almost blinked out of existence. Luna was distraught seeing what happened when they tried to nurture what we could only call their children. The solution was to create Gia, mother earth, to care for their creation knowing they could never touch it. With love in their heart and the sadness of knowing they could only watch, Luna and Sol settled into place. We know them today as the moon and Sun who watch over us night and day. Father Sol uses his power and strength to fight back the darkness bringing us the light to end the darkness of night. Mother Luna watches over us at night providing us with knowledge so that the darkness cannot brings chaosâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;there for eternity only able to watch and guide us through the dark.

“Beauty in the Ordinary” by Joshua Gould

As I sit upon my porch one midnight dreary, I recall on the day’s ventures which grow me weary Through all my sorrows and distress my mind imply, I glance up in the darkness deep in the night sky. My eyes so eagerly entice me into the bed of stars; Aye, where the planets linger, both Venus and Mars. When I see a falling star shoot across the sky above, I feel my Savior looking down on me with love. Now hear this, oh, people under my voice, When thou bear sadness and unable to rejoice, Abhor to linger in sorrow but rather be lifted to the contrary, Which is able to reveal to you the beauty in the ordinary.

“The Beauty of Pregnancy” by Leticia Ramos

Nine months is quite a journey Nine months of feeling a squirmy wormy Nine months of tossing and turning Nine months of yearning and yearning

Your presence here is so far, yet so near You’re almost here and it makes me tear Your warm embrace will be so divine Your sweet soft skin will soon be mine

It’s life’s greatest miracle It’s life’s greatest spiritual It feels like eternity It feels like maternity

Miracle Touch by Rebeca M. Alvarez

Photograph 73

Deception Pass by Evan Perez

Photograph 74

“A Brilliant yet Ominous Setting” by Isaac Pena

Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Cask of Amontillado” is a short tale of a man that murders his friend for revenge. The murderer, Montresor, is narrating the mysterious and gruesome story, and he is confessing his past actions. Poe makes the story very ominous, and he does this by utilizing various literary elements; these elements help bring his story of horror and mystery to life. A crucial component to his story is the element of setting, and in “The Cask of Amontillado,” Edgar Allan Poe uses various creative settings to help illustrate the ominous, mysterious, and homicidal plot of the story. One way Poe utilizes the setting is to make the story seem more ominous. Though some of the setting details are only mentioned very briefly, they prove to be very useful in establishing the story’s mood. For example, in the opening of Montresor’s retelling of the story, he says, “It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend” (Poe, par. 4). The mention of dusk helps set the atmosphere in the story; this is because the mention of dusk automatically gives the reader a feeling of uncertainty and uneasiness. Poe excellently uses the small detail about it being dusk to help draw the picture that he is trying to present in the reader’s head. Dusk is a time when the day has almost fully departed, and the darkness of night has nearly fallen. This is only one of the many ways Poe gives the story an ominous atmosphere. Another way Poe illustrates an ominous setting can be found in the same sentence. This time he gives the story a more visual backdrop for the reader; this occurs when Poe writes about it being “carnival season” (Poe, par. 4). The reader can now start to see the backdrop. This element of setting also gives a feeling of uncertainty, which is odd because a carnival typically creates a mood of fun and happiness. However, in this story, the blend of it being dusk and it being the time of a carnival makes the story more ominous than if there had not been any mention of a carnival. To expand, having a mix of the new darkness of night and the slight lighting of the joy of the carnival creates this imperfect balance that produces a sense of 75

uncertainty, further adding to the story’s mysterious, ominous mood. However, this is only the start of Poe’s use of setting to make the story ominous. In the story, Montresor invites his friend, Fortunato, to his home, and it is here where Poe gives the reader another small but important fact. Montresor reveals that “[t]here were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time” (Poe, par. 24). The lack of anyone else’s presence in the home is significant to the story’s eerie plot. By setting the story with no one home but Montresor and his friend Fortunato, the story starts to grow its already ominous atmosphere, and it creates a fear that something abnormal and possibly scary is about to take place. From this point forward, Poe maintains the dark and ominous setting element in his story, and he gradually increases this mood as the story goes on. For instance, using the setting, Poe increases the uneasiness in the story as the two characters approach the catacombs. Catacombs are, very obviously, commonly attributed to death, so this alone is an indicator of the gruesome act that eventually takes place in the story. However, the author still manages to keep the story mysterious. And this is once again done by keeping the elements of the setting subtle, yet mysterious and foreboding. For example, when describing the catacombs, the narrator states that the two of them “stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors” (Poe, par. 25). Readers are given details on how the ground felt: it was damp. By providing the reader with the feeling of the ground, the mood still seems portentous, yet it also stays quite mysterious; it induces the readers to question ideas in their heads. Poe brilliantly utilizes the element of setting in the rest of the story, and he uses the setting to make the story smoothly glide down to its gruesome, yet very mysterious, theme. Once again, as the two walk deeper and deeper into the catacombs, the narrator explains to the reader the setting, and it begins to appear more ghastly; it no longer seems only ominous. As an example, the catacombs are said to have walls full of human bones; they are also under a river, and this causes them to have water dripping off of them (Poe, par. 51). All this information Poe gives the readers through the setting helps more vividly fit the overall theme of the story: the murder. Through all these visual descriptions of the elements of setting, the mood in the story can be 76

very well interpreted, and this is because all these things are associated with death: human bones, catacombs, and even the dampness from the river above. Furthermore, the closer the story gets to the murder, the more ominous the setting gets. Lastly, the story’s setting begins to feel darker as it approaches the murder of Fortunato, which is done by burying him alive. At the catacombs’ very deepest end, Montresor points out that “[i]ts walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris” (Poe, par. 67). The mention of human remains is very frightful. Human remains give off an atmosphere of death, and it makes the story feel as if it will lead to a terrifying murder. Without the important element of setting, the story, which ends in a live burial, would not appear as horrific, and understanding what is truly happening would be much more difficult. In conclusion, Edgar Allan Poe magnificently utilizes the element of setting in his story “The Cask of Amontillado.” The setting helps set an atmosphere of mysteriousness and of a dark homicide that is about to take place; it also gives the reader an ominous feeling throughout the story, which increases as the story goes on. Poe excellently uses the setting to help the reader see what is taking place. Finally, in the story, the setting is essential because it is brilliantly done in such a way that it helps the readers decipher it, while it simultaneously gives the story a mysteriousness that entices the readers to try and decipher what has already been determined. Works Cited Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Cask of Amontillado.” The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, Florida Center for Instructional Technology, College of Education, University of South Florida, etc.usf.edu/lit2go/147/theworks-of-edgar-allan-poe/5245/the-cask-of-amontillado/. Accessed 21 Feb. 2020.

“A Self-Taught Swimmer” by Sergio Velez

Growing up I learned a lot of valuable lessons that I carry with me to this day. A lot of which can’t be taught in a classroom or learned by reading a book. Some things learned would come to me so naturally. Others took lots of time and practice. Something I learned on my own was swimming. Over time, I became an awesome swimmer, but I didn’t start that way. One of the first experiences I had swimming was my mom enrolling me in swimming classes around the age of six. Long story short, I hated it. I think I only attended one or two classes before I gave up. All I remember from this is the instructors making waves and telling us to dive under them. We would then have to come up for air and dive under the next wave. To me, this wasn’t fun at all and turned me off to the whole idea of learning to swim for a while. Not too long after that, I went to the pool with my mother and little sister one day. Of course, neither my sister nor I could swim. If we went to the deep end, we had to hold on to the sides. At some point, my mom got out of the pool to use the bathroom and said to us, “I’ll be right back. Don’t let go of the side.” That must’ve been some sort of premonition because sure enough, shortly after my mom left, my sister let go of the side with both hands. She instantly started sinking to the bottom before I could grab her arm. I panicked. Frozen, I didn’t know what to do. I guess my sister reacted the same because as she sank, she remained motionless—like a statue—sinking straight to the bottom of the pool. At this point, I yelled my mom’s name as loud as I could. The tone in my voice must’ve been alarming because my mom bolted out of the bathroom and dove into the pool quicker than The Flash. Before I knew it, she had my sister out of the water at the edge of the pool. I was still frozen holding on to the edge of the pool. My sister was crying, but luckily still conscious, though she did cough and throw up a good amount of water. “Why didn’t you help her?” my mom yelled at me after making sure my sister was okay. I couldn’t say anything back. I felt guilty and helpless that I couldn’t do anything. This is when I decided I needed to know how to swim. As several years went by, I spent the many weekends at my dad’s place. After my parents divorced, my father moved to these apartments, which were kind of run down, but at least they had a pool with a deep end. I spent countless days out in that pool enjoying the sun. I lived in San Diego where there was perfect beach weather 78

ninety percent of the year. This gave me plenty of time to practice and learn to swim my way. I had a slow start learning to swim. At first, I would swim like a frog underwater. I was able to come up for air but not keep my head above water. This is also where I would practice holding my breath for as long as I could. Eventually, I got to the point where I could hold not only my breath for a long time but keep my head above water with ease. I even learned to float on my back and freestyle swim over time. To me, it was all about having fun. I had no idea these skills would help me and possibly save my life. Spending my childhood in San Diego, going to the beach was a big part of my life. It’s one of the few things my family could do since we never had that much money. One day my aunt, sister, and I decided to go to Coronado Beach with a couple of the neighbor’s kids. This is my favorite beach. Even the drive to get there is fun. The only way to there was across Coronado bridge. It’s this long blue bridge, a couple miles long and 200 feet at its highest point. There’s so much of the city and ocean to see, but before you know it, you’re already to the other side of the bridge. It was just an ordinary sunny California day, and we were all enjoying ourselves. I spent most of the time boogie boarding but after a while decided to swim out into the waves with my neighbor Jesus. Jesus was about sixteen or seventeen at the time, and I was about five years younger than he was. Here we were out swimming, having fun, but after a minute, we notice we were getting quite far from the shore. We tried swimming back with little success. No matter how hard we’d swim, we were only getting further from the shore. We were caught in a rip current. A rip current is a water channel where all the waves that crash on the shore drain back into the ocean. If we didn’t get out of the current soon, we were in danger out of being pulled too far from the beach to make it back. I could hear Jesus breathing hard, gasping for each breath of air. “Fuck! I'm getting tired!” he yelled out. I could feel the fatigue setting in as well. The people on shore were starting to look like ants. Fortunately, I recognized what was happening in time to save us. “Swim sideways! We’re in a rip current!” I yelled out. We swam parallel to the shore for a little bit, and then, we were finally able to make it back. The last thing I remember from that day was Jesus telling me “You saved us.” I didn’t think much about it then. One of the things I took from learning how to swim without even realizing it was perseverance and determination. Many things in life take time and practice to be good at, but often, those are the things most worth learning. I've had so many great memories of going to the pool and beach as a child. I couldn’t imagine my life not knowing how to swim. 79

“Car Misfortune” by Tyler Whitney

I have loved cars ever since I was a little kid. Throughout my life, I would always look out the window to see what kinds of cars there were and kept a mental library of all the different manufacturers and models. I loved going to car shows and seeing all the old cars that had been restored. Since I have been a teenager, my dad has taught me how to fix cars and do general maintenance on them, including many different things, such as brakes, struts, and even partially pulling apart an engine. My dad has shown me how to replace the different parts whenever we needed to fix a car. We changed struts on four cars and replaced brake pads on too many to count. One time we needed to replace the fuel pump on my grandad’s 2001 Corvette. The car was so low to the ground that we had to roll the car onto some boards just to be able to fit the jack under it. The fuel pump was under the rear of the car right above the exhaust pipe, so it was not very easy to get to. After a half hour of maneuvering my arm around the exhaust pipe just trying to get a wrench on the pump, I was finally able to get it replaced. When my brother ended up needing a car to go to college, we decided to buy my great-grandmother’s car. It was a 1996 Toyota Camry that had just been sitting in her garage not being driven. The car had not been getting its general maintenance as often as it should have. While my brother had been driving it around, it had been slowly breaking parts here and there. All of this eventually led up to it overheating when he was driving home from a friend’s house. My dad went to help him bring the car back home, and we started dissecting it like a scientist dissecting an animal to figure out what was wrong. We kept at it over multiple days pulling apart some of the engine just to try and figure out what was causing it to keep overheating. Was it an oil leak into the coolant, maybe a crack in one of the coolant lines? It felt like I was an investigator on a case searching for any clues that I could find. We decided to thoroughly clean all the parts and replace all the gaskets on the head of the engine. When I first lifted the head off the engine, it felt as if it weighed as much as a large dog. I looked inside the engine, and all around the 80

camshaft there was oil buildup that felt like stiff Jell-O. My brother and I took the valve springs out, and we scrubbed them with acetone until they were as shiny as a newly polished quarter. While I was applying the gasket to the head of the engine, it was like I was performing brain surgery trying as hard as I could not to scratch any parts and damage them. We tried replacing the valve that opened and closed the water pump, we flushed out the whole cooling system, but still it would continue to overheat. We found out that something was wrong with the wiring or the sensor for the fans that are supposed to cool down the engine. They would only come on when I hit the air conditioning button inside the car. Whenever my dad and I tried to run the car to see if it would work correctly, I could hear bubbling, like hot springs that are boiling over, coming from the engine bay. I knew that meant the coolant was boiling inside of the lines just trying to find an escape to cool down. One day when my dad and I decided to run the car, I was standing in front of the car with the hood open, while my dad was in the driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seat. He periodically asked me if I could see anything causing the issue. I noticed that I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear any bubbling this time, so I felt like something was wrong. I decided to step to the left side of the car right next to the fender to get a different angle and to be safe. Only a few seconds later the radiator burst straight into the blue sky, shooting as high as Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park, reaching all the way up to my second story window and covering it with scalding hot coolant. I jumped back faster than a cheetah lunging at its prey, while my dad stepped out of the car to see what was going on. There was sticky yellowish green coolant all over the front of the house and on some stuff in the garage. When I went back to the front of the car, I looked at the top of the radiator and saw a massive crack in it. I was very thankful that I had decided to step to the side; otherwise, I could have been hit in the face with extremely hot coolant that would have melted my skin off. After the incident, we replaced the radiator and continued to try and figure out what was wrong, to no avail. We never actually found the reason the car was overheating, so it is still just sitting there collecting dust. My dad has taught me a lot about how to work on cars; however, sometimes it is just not worth it to spend so much time trying to figure it out. Since then, I have started college to learn more about how to fix cars, so maybe one day I can go back to figure out what is wrong with that Camry. I learned that day if you feel like something is wrong or you are in danger, you should trust your gut instinct because it might just save your life. 81

“Yellow” by Valarie Perez

My favorite childhood memory is not, in my opinion, one of your typical memories. When I think of a typical response of a childhood memory, the first thing that comes to mind is someone talking about going to Disney Land or somewhere special. My childhood memory was just a regular day when I was around ten years old and involved my mom, dad, and myself. Now before we get started, let me give you a little background information that will help the story make sense. I grew up in a bilingual home. My dad spoke mostly Spanish but knew a little bit of English; my mom spoke both English and Spanish, and I only spoke English and understood very little Spanish. It all started one afternoon when my dad called me into his room. He often yelled for us to do things for him because he wasn’t in the greatest of health and often needed help doing day to day things. I go into his room. “Yes, Dad,” I say. He responds, “Dile a tu mamá que me traiga una copa de hielo,” which translates to “Tell your mom to bring me a cup of ice.” Now, at the time I was able to decipher that he wanted me to ask my mom to get him a cup of something, but just couldn’t figure out what “hielo” was. I stared at him blankly for a few minutes and asked him to repeat himself. He was patient for the first two or three times that I asked him to repeat himself but naturally grew weary and sent me to my mom after my fourth attempt at understanding what he was trying to tell me. I go to my mom and she asks, “What did your dad ask you for”? I look at her with a straight face and tell her, “Well, he asked me to ask you for a cup of . . . yellow. What is he asking for? What is yellow?” My mom could not contain herself and busted out laughing! After she gained her composure, she explained that hielo means ice and that my dad was asking for a cup of ice. After that day, I never forgot what hielo meant, and as soon as my dad asked, I automatically knew what he was asking for. This is my favorite childhood memory because approximately two years later my dad passed away from his medical issues. Every time I recall this memory, I can still see my dad’s face and how upset he got that I didn’t understand what he was asking for but how he never lost his temper with me. I can also remember how happy he was when I brought him his cup of “yellow.” 82

“The Longest Three Days of School” by Alvaro Sotillo I experienced the longest three days of school within the first week of being in the U.S. thanks to my fourth-grade teacher, but even though it was not an easy week for me, it taught me to always be kind and to not let anyone stop me from achieving my goals. When it comes to school, I have always been one to ask lots of questions because I want to make sure that I do what is asked of me but also because I want to make sure that I am understanding the material, and at times, it is what has gotten me into trouble. Although I did not have a good experience with my teacher and how she handled things, I made a friend and learned a good life lesson along the way. Coming from Peru, things were already very different. What stood out to me the most was my new classroom. The floor was navy blue with small splashes of red, and it was not tile; it was carpet. I was able to sit down and play with the fuzzy hair of the carpet without feeling cold. This was all new to me because in my old classroom, we had a brick red tile. The desks were also a new thing to me; it was not a single desk where it was made out of wood and had an opening just big enough to fit one person. There were multiple desks that were pushed together making a big square, and they were made out of metal and not wood. The chairs were small enough that they allowed my feet to touch the floor and not hang like the other ones did. Right when I thought things couldn’t get any better, I looked over to the right side of the room, and I saw a box of toys. At that point, I was completely ready for class to begin so I could play and make new friends. The first friend I made was Michael. Michael was nice. He liked soccer; his favorite color was blue, and he also loved pizza as much as I did. But most importantly he spoke Spanish! Well, for the most part. Throughout the day, Michael was my English teacher, and I was his Spanish teacher. The teacher was not very happy about us talking so much, but he was the only one that was able to kind of translate what I was trying to tell her. To my luck, there was a quiz on my second day there. The teacher handed out the papers to everyone and said, “No talking.” I didn’t understand what she said, so I looked at Michael for help. However, 83

he shook his head and said, “Sshh.” At this point, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t read English, and the only person that could help me wouldn’t. I tapped Michael’s shoulder so that he could help me, and he kindly started to whisper what the paper was saying. But even though he was very quiet, the teacher overheard and thought we were cheating. She got up from her chair so angry that her eyebrows wrinkled down to her nose, and her lips were shut so tight as if they had super glue between them. She gave me the look that moms give their kids when they want them to stop doing something immediately and proceeded to say, “I said no talking!” I quickly turned around and pretended to start writing but realized that I had one more question left, and the only person that could help me was the one sitting right by me, Michael. He would not help me because he did not want to get in trouble, which was completely understandable. I whispered again to him, but before I knew it, my teacher was standing right behind me. As I turned around to face my teacher, I gave her the biggest smile I could—with teeth showing and everything—but, no, that was not changing that angry look on her face. She grabbed my paper, tore it in half, and began to yell at me. I do not know what she said because at that time I didn’t speak English, and even though I wanted to cry, I didn’t because I was a big boy and big boys don’t cry. I waited until I got home and cried. I didn’t tell my mom about what happened that day, but the next day the teacher didn’t seem to be very happy with me again. It seemed that everything I did bothered her. Whether it was the way that I walked or even the way that my hair was styled that day, she just did not like me. The next day she gave us a group of two assignment but did not let me work with Michael. The assignment was to draw a picture of what your partner wanted to be when he/she grew up. I had no clue what she said because I had no one to translate for me, so I drew what I wanted to draw, a soccer ball. When my teacher came around, she was upset at my drawing and yelled at me once again. This time as soon as I heard the bell to go home, I ran home as fast as I could feeling the tears go down my cheeks. I wiped them off and ran into my mom’s arms. I explained to her what happened and how the teacher had been treating me, and she comforted me and assured me we would talk to the principal the next day. As soon as we stepped foot through the school doors, I grabbed my mom’s hand and stood right behind her as she spoke to the principal. My mom used a very firm tone to explain what I said to her 84

and told her she needed to handle it, or she would be switching my school. The principal was very apologetic and got down to my eye level, held my hand, and apologized. Her eyes were an ocean blue, and her hands were as soft as the fluffy blanket I had on my bed. I looked at her and smiled. That same day I was put in another class where the teacher also spoke Spanish, and things became a lot easier from there. Thanks to this experience it has pushed me and motivated me to be kind to everyone and to not let anyone get in the way of what I really want to achieve. My teacher was not kind enough to teach me how to do things the way she wanted them done or to get a translator, but it did not stop me from wanting to go to school or making new friends. The life lesson I learned from this is that we need to stop letting other people affect the way we feel. If they are cranky or upset, then maybe they are going through something that day, but we shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t adopt that same behavior or emotion.

“Food Essay” by Kimberly Alcorta

As we all know Christmas falls on the 25th of December. I come from Hispanic roots and with that comes an amazing Mexican cuisine. The kitchen fills up with different aromas, such as menudo, tamales, Mexican buñuelos, pozole, and frijoles charros. You could just smell the red chili pepper, oregano, hominy, and other spices on the menudo. When serving yourself a bowl, you could see bits of red chili pepper and pieces of beef tripe; you also see hominy, onions, and the fresh lime. Just when you're about to eat, you could hear the stirring of the spoon in your bowl and the caldo dripping off of it. Scalding your mouth, you could feel the flabby texture of the beef tripe. You could taste the sour lime and spicy chile pepper mixed with the onion, giving the menudo an exquisite taste. When unwrapping a tamal, you could hear the corn husk come off. You feel the roughness from the corn husk, but inside you feel the mushy and steamy hot dough. Smelling the green salsa and chicken wrapped around that warm dough, you could also smell the cheese and jalapeno tamales cooking and see the steam come out from the green chicken tamales and the melted cheese coming out from the other tamales. Both types of tamales have a savory taste such as them being spicy. While stirring up the pot of the charro beans, you could see pieces of tomato, cilantro, onion, bacon, and the beans, of course. You could feel the small and round shape of the beans and the mushy feeling of the tomato and onion from being cooked. Living in a Mexican household, we tend to add just a bit of beer to the beans while they cook, giving the beans a really good smell and taste. Meanwhile, the beans are cooking, and you could hear them boiling. Last but not least are the Mexican desserts, such as buñuelos. They are a brown, thin, and sugary flat disk. Buñuelos smell a lot like cinnamon. Holding one feels rough, a bit hard, and sugary! When picking one up, you could hear the sugar fall off and the crunchiness when you bite into it. These Mexican pastries tastes like cinnamon and are so sweet. The champurrado, falling in the dessert category, is a warm and 86

thick Mexican beverage. This drink smells just like chocolate. It also has a thick consistency because it is made with ground nuts and orange zest that enriches the drink. Champurrado is a brown beverage, and you could see the bits of ground nuts and cinnamon. When making champurrado, it is made or “whipped'' with a “molinillo,” which grinds up all the ingredients together on the palm of your hands with you being able to hear the ground nuts crushing up. This amazing drink tastes just like chocolate and pecans; you really can't taste the cinnamon. This is the reason why Christmas is my favorite holiday—being able to be with my family but also being able to eat the food!

“When the Refrigerator Was Empty” by Leroy B. Henry

Born to a family of eleven children, I was number eight, born in a town called Weeks Island, Louisiana, a small salt mining town, well, more of a village, on an island in the bayous of Louisiana. Located at Weeks Bay on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico, the only thing that connects it with the land is a bridge on one side. The island is owned by Morton Chemical Salt Company. All lived there; a family member had to be employed by this company. My father worked in the company's salt mill and mines. The place had one building that housed the grocery store, post office, and courthouse; another small building just to the side, I recall, was a jail. It had one town sheriff named Kelly LaBlaux and one doctor my mom called Dr. Spock, who delivered all my siblings at birth, different times of course, in the same bed that had big bed poles. Dr. Spock was a home visiting doctor (like old Doc on the Gunsmoke television series) that cared for all living there. He took care of blacks and whites. When one of us got sick, two of the older sisters went to get him; however, most of the time old country remedies were used, such as castor oil and orange juice (hated that stuff), crystal white tree leaves wrapped in cloth around sprains, and many others. My brother and sister next to me in age went to a small segregated school that was part of the church; the older ones were at a bigger building back in the woods. My father, before passing, had a little livestock, chickens, five hogs, a milking cow, and a few ducks. Hilda, my sister next to me a year older, showed me how to milk a cow. I had to be four to five years in age. She would say, “Don't get behind her; she might kick you.” On the other side of the hog pen, my father had a smoke house. He died when I was around the age of four; Mamma was left alone with eleven kids to raise. Times got hard, we had no choice but to eat the livestock, except some of the chickens were kept for eggs. The hogs got butchered, and the milking cow was sold to a neighbor. We had an oldfashioned ice box, the kind with no electricity attached; a block of ice was placed in it. The iceman would bring ice in the back of an old truck to sell, 10 cents, l5 cents, using an ice pick to break the ice and place it in the icebox. Clothes were washed outdoors by hand in number 3 wash tubs with a washboard and Octagon Soap, Clorox for sanitation of white clothes. Fire was lit under one tub and bluing used for brightness of sheets in rinsing; we also used those tubs for bathing in the house, of 88

course. Lysol and Pine-O-Pine were used for cleaning the floors. My older brothers and sisters chopped wood while my mother cooked food on an ironclad kitchen stove. When she fed us little ones, ages eight on down, old newspaper was spread on the floor we sat on, newspaper given to us by neighbors, and also stacked on a little shelf for outhouse usage. A table with six chairs were for the older siblings; one brother, four sisters, and Mamma would sit for their meals. In the late ‘40s, times were hard after Pop died; my mother’s surviving instincts kicked in. When all the livestock was gone for food, she had to scramble feeding us; sometimes all we had was “cush-cush” and “kaiyae," pronounced "kaw-yeh" (milk in Geechee language). I believe it is spelled correctly; cush-cush is cornmeal mixed with a little water that makes it lumpy, fried with hog lard in an ironclad skillet, a little salt, sugar, milk poured on. When hungry, I thought it was the best tasting food in the world. In 1949, I remember the first electric refrigerator delivered to our house; it kept things cold like meats, milk, and a few other things, but times got very hard. My mother started receiving my father's Social Security check, around $35.00 per month to feed eleven kids. She cooked food like beans and rice; spinach from cans with sausage cut up, cooked, and poured over a bed of rice; and tomatoes with rice. She cooked rice with almost every dish, even smothered Irish potatoes in gravy with rice, sometime Creole foods: jambalaya and filé gumbo. It carried us some distance closer to the next month's check; then there was not a thing to eat before the next check arrived. My brothers and sisters had to go out into the woods to hunt wild rabbits and turtles, go fishing, crabbing. We had neighbors who went hunting and shared their catch with my Mamma; it helped. However, my mother had friends drop by every so often, one friend a middle-aged white man, a fisherman with a red beard. His name was Mr. Pepper; he came to visit and drop off some of his catch. I feared him not because he was white; he always was dressed like the Gorton Fisherman, rubber fishing coat, boots, and cap, but he had to be a nice person for my mother to have him as a friend. I would hide every time he came around. While we were waiting for food, I always looked in the refrigerator, and it was very visible when the refrigerator was empty. There was not a thing to eat many days to follow; it was a constant recurrence. The refrigerator would be empty with no food in it. Later, we moved to Lafayette into our grandparents' home where we resided for one year; then in 1952, we moved to San Antonio, Texas, to be near my Uncle Batiste. My mother somehow always managed to provide meals for us daily, but there still were times when the refrigerator would be empty. True story! 89

“Cherry Blossoms” by Jessica Nino

As she sat in her desk She understood No progress meant defeat But she couldn’t bear the idea Of losing again With odds stacked against her She sunk into her chair The shimmer in her hair Bounced in and out Reflecting with the specks of light She was not yet satisfied But she was out of might As a woman Of color In a poor neighborhood And a broken home She understood Failure was at every corner So that night She sunk into her bed A little deeper She had finally felt Accomplished for her acts Until the men of her society Felt taken aback Who was she To believe she could do anything And who was she To think she held any power So that whole year She sunk into the background

One night She finally felt She had lost the fight With hazy sights She decided It was time for the end 90

And she swayed into that water Hopelessly sinking to the bottom Like a dirty muddy rock That dirty muddy rock Fell to the bottom And lost any hope Of seeing the shore again She was too dense And felt her final moments Coming to an end But then clarity struck her And helped her out With the grace of A million spring flowers And held her that night Until she had to leave And those spring flowers Bloom every September Reminding her Of the love she felt that night And she knows How much they meant in that moment Although the flowers wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hug her again She thinks of them And picks them when she can As a reminder Of the dirty muddy rock she once felt like And how they saved her And cleaned her And found the crack on her And showed her The flower that was blooming inside That flower Eventually grew And nourished many helpless bugs Those helpless bugs Were fed to a baby bird And that baby bird Finally flew Because of that flower That bloomed out of That dirty muddy rock 91

“Yellow Morning Dew” by Sarah Thompson

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Jihi no Kagiâ&#x20AC;? by Adrian Rojas

In life, we decide the right choice to provide. For me, the decision is quite easy bring joy to thee. The key to benevolence Always help one another A helping hand is prevalent. I do help to the best of my ability I unveil the solution I help my friend willingly. A thank you is all I need I feel appreciated For love and hate When someone needs a friend I am a call away they can always come to me again. I do not regret the things I have done because when I help I also show love when times get tough I am a friend or family member thereof that you can call to laugh a connection to feeling loved

I have discovered all we need is a friend in the end.

“A Florida Story” by Nya Thornton

Where’s your mother, brothers, cousin, your niece? Caught in your lies, everyone is sick of this, please Just open up to me this is your son speaking with peace Swallow your pride, let the hate go; release Now from the outside looking in do you see yourself? Talking bad about your own kids saying we’re no help Easy with lies, no regards how we felt But up until a month ago who was holding it down himself That’s cooking, cleaning, even working football games for money Yeah, that’s only a few dollars, but that put food in all of our tummies Every day she’ll tell us, “Don’t tell my business,” that family be lurking But did I mention the whole time that she hasn’t been working Unemployment for two months Times were getting hard all she needed was our support And trust me it was there, we gave her strength, we gave her power But you can give this girl the world and not the stars and she’ll go sour Man, what the heck are we supposed to do? Not only turning on your family, But your kids too? They say time heals all wounds but who hurt you? These are questions that I can’t answer keep on growing just like a cancer Paranoid, she thinks the world’s out to get her Cut us off from everything, so past events wouldn’t recur But you were wrong, we tried to help your pain You can scrub all day but still can’t wash those stains We’re gone…. When you finally get to that point where you realize Whether it’s 50, 60, or 75 That all we wanted to do was a compromise And when you finally realize you’re alone because you burnt nearly every bridge in the family Tree, I want you to know that you can always Pick up the phone and call me

“I Will (Family)” by Flor Calixto

I will still cut your hair I will rub your back after you cry I will read you bedtime stories and lie in bed with you until you fall asleep; the sound of your breathing stunning the heaviness of my heart Then, I will silently cry

Hot tears streaming down the slope of my face For your sake, the feeling of my throat closing My embrace around you tightens I will try to remember the good; the sound of your laughter, the bright youth in your eyes This feeling is enough; the warmth It will comfort me until the next time And we’ll start anew.

Under the Same Moon by Vanessa Perez

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“My Throne” by James Rakovalis

It’s a thing quite simple with origins quite humble. It came from the forest along with a sap smell stately, sturdy, yet so smooth. Like the Olympians, I also have a throne wanting in gold and fame but not in dignity it is my old wood stool and that’s enough for me.

“My Revolutionary Story” by Anastasia Rakovalis

I’ve been to many places and walked down history. I’ve walked the paths of heroes and breathed their memory. Mona Lisa, Neuschwanstein, Big Ben, Acropolis, the Alps, the Eiffel Tower, and Buckingham Palace. All these places, world-renowned, famous among mankind, in truth, meant little to me, passed in and out of mind.

However, there is one place that in my mind still mills: Colonial Virginia. It gave me chills and thrills. Williamsburg, Yorktown—to walk those historic streets! Horses, cloaks, and dresses—place where past and present meet. Take me to the colonies to watch them strive and thrive. Revolution Era—when a nation came alive. Oh, how different it would be to live at such a time. Though health and hygiene suffered, tricorns were in prime! A loyal subject or a rebel—no in-between. A huge decision to make for girl of seventeen. It’d be a different world.

For me, different role. But I’d watch freedom’s fire leap from oppression’s coals. I’d live among the heroes I’ve heard of for so long— Hamilton, Henry, Hays—to join their liberty song. When I walked Virginia, I walked their steps and station. They left footprints on a street, handprints on my nation. I ask myself a question. I breathe in awe and thanks. Would I have had the courage to stand among their ranks? What was it like? Could you feel the tension in the air— the excitement, the suspense, resentment everywhere? Injustices, taxation, quartering, oppression. I want to go and watch, to feel the rising tension. To contemplate the risks, to choose what choices to make, to decide how far I’d go to see my bondage break.

The colonists, they acted, refusing to sit still. They talked and planned and plotted in voice and ink and quill. To protest the Stamp Act, the 98

Sons of Liberty formed, Stamp Act Congress petitioned repeal, protestors swarmed. After Coercive Acts, the colonies boycotted. Militias, arms, storehouses— they readied and plotted. Correspondence committees, Continental Congress, Federation Articles— single nation’s promise. Colonies set aside their individual wants. The South gave up their exports to silence Britain’s taunts.

not glory or for fame. Soldiers and weavers, those who made bullets, those who shot— faceless, nameless, but impact never shall be forgot. Their courage lives on today. They made my nation stand. I long to have been one of them, fighting for my land. I ask myself a question. I breathe in awe and thanks. I hope I’d have the courage to stand among their ranks. Homework, soccer, college are the worries of my day, and national news often seems very far away. But back then, headlines would be about people I knew. My personal business— what happened in the news. I’d know a dozen people dead on freedom’s behalf. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth all that.

What mattered was their freedom. They sang a common song. They were all in it as one, united and made strong. Take me back so I can see brotherhood, unity, laying down of selfish gain to form community. I want to see that fire and what they did with it. I want to stand in moments history can’t forget.

But in the fear and unknown, I think I’d find some hope, looking at people around me, seeing how they coped. I’d be inspired by those who’d taken up the cause and stood for it constantly without a moment’s pause. Soldiers in home, no tea in cup—all for greater things. I’d fight on for tomorrow, a future without kings.

If I were there among them, what actions could I take? A young girl of seventeen— what difference could I make? I might not have been spy or soldier but others were— women of the battlefield: Ms. Sampson, Ms. Pitcher. And there were thousands others— men, women without names— After war, ‘twas up to them, who risked their lives for freedom, a nation of their own, 99

to keep liberty their right and tyrants off the throne. How exciting and daunting— a government from scratch. No precedents, prototypes, or examples to match. Ideas of social contract, instilled rights, liberty— on this they built their nation, the first non-monarchy.

And here now I stand in a different age of time. So long afterwards but the awe is still fresh in mind. It’s up to me to preserve that honor, courage, spark Colonial Virginia instills in my young heart.

America’s my country. Its story also mine. Freedom wasn’t free for them, It’s my history, my past, so they knew its value. the start of my timeline. They had to fight hard for their It’s the birth of my country, voice—I’ve never had to. its struggle to survive, I want to go back so I and part of it is still in can know what freedom’s worth. me, breathing and alive. They fought and bled and died for Oh, to go back and see its what I’m given at birth. young struggle, its small start, and know those patriots’ blood still beats on in my heart. Though right after victory Oh, to see the fire, to all wasn’t perfect yet— women lacked the vote and slaves’ see both dark and glory, to see the sparks that lit my humanity beset. Revolution Story. But it was a good start, a step in the long process. We’re here now because of it, trekking up freedom’s crest. When I look back, I know I’ve got something so precious— from the blood of soldiers dead to those who were voiceless. I’ve a standard to live up to, principles to preserve, privileges to make use of, and a nation to serve. I ask myself a question. I breathe in awe and thanks. I hope I have the courage to stand among their ranks.

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“To the One and Only” by Ruby Perez

Oh, parent of mine, where are you now? Where were you all this time when I am in search for your soul? Who am I to you? Have I become the lost child in your eyes? Oh, parent of mine, where are you now? When did I realize I need you? Did you forget me? Did you forsake me? Who am I to you, oh, dear parent of mine? Am I a burden to your soul who hides itself in a human host? Oh, parent of mine, where are you now? Where is my other half? This half is incomplete without your presence. The half that is indeed in search for your presence. Oh, dear parent of mine, where are you now? I share your same DNA, the mirror doesn’t lie. When I look into the mirror, I am reminded of your daily presence. I need you, dear parent of mine. I need everything from you. Oh, dear parent of mine, where did you go? Where are you now? Did you forget me? Did you forsake me? Is the host who raised me, cared for me, my only parent? Oh, dear parent of mine, where did you go? Where are you now? Are you dead? Are you alive? Oh, dear parent of mine, I have a message for you: We shall meet and greet on the day of our death. We shall meet and greet on the day we are to be judged by our actions. I will await until then, dear parent of mine. By then we shall meet and greet, dear parent of mine.

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Corruption by Bruce Panagopoulos

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Escape by Bruce Panagopoulos

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“I Am” by Tikisha Franklin

Am I your thought or memory Am I your peace or your demise Am I your love or your pain Am I the clear lens in your foggy nights Looking up at the night’s sky I can see, feel your presence Lurking, looking for answers Your answers are within question Am I your fear or your calm Am I your support or the thing to make you break Am I your world or your universe Am I the method to your madness The tears in your eyes Is it me or your life The sleepless nights Is it me or your regrets The long walks in the middle of the night Is it me or your dark thoughts The chills that runs down your spine Is it me or are you losing your mind What you seek is I I am your madness I am your peace I am not your world or your universe I am something you cannot live without I am the force that makes light and darkness collide

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A Hand for a Hand by Genesis Vann

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Innocent Noir by Tianee Richardson

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“Feminism in Trifles” by Naomi Brown

Susan Glaspell (1876-1948), a notable novelist and playwright, wrote many successful plays including Trifles (1916). At eighteen, Glaspell embarked on her journey as a journalist and became a prominent writer in a career field dominated by men. Glaspell focused on exposing the prejudices against women and advocated on behalf of feminists (“Susan Glaspell”). While there are many themes throughout this play, the main theme revolves around gender and how women do not have an equal footing in the world. Feminist criticism in Trifles involves a revolt against a male-dominated society, the recovery of female identity, the importance of women supporting each other, redemption, and the true way men—convinced they are right—treat women. The murder in Trifles tests the effectiveness of the law in upholding righteous morals, but there are two victims in Trifles. Society, even today, constantly names a man’s role, power, or abilities as more significant than a woman’s. It is clear to the audience that Mr. Wright was an aggressive man that held power over his wife, and he was unscathed, even though his actions of isolating his wife and treating her poorly were unjust. Mrs. Wright’s action of murdering her husband represents a revolt against the way society allows men to get away with treating women poorly. In this instance, Mrs. Wright is determined to prohibit Mr. Wright from taking advantage of her; instead, she breaks the cycle and attains revenge the only way she knows how, by killing him. Although murder is evidently wrong, Glaspell paints this picture as an inevitable release from the bondage Mr . Wright has created over his wife. Throughout Trifles, there are plenty of reminders of how female identity can be lost when a woman is not true to herself or when her identity is defined by her relationship with a man. Glaspell encourages the audience, mostly her female audience, to see the importance of women having an identity in each other. Mrs. Hale states, “We all go through the same things—it’s all just a different kind of the same thing” (Glaspell 1.1). This quote is meant to convey that women should find identities in each other and their singular beings. Specific hardship is something that all women share, and as a result, they should stand with each other in being true to themselves. 107

According to the Cambridge Dictionary, the definition of feminism is an organized effort to give women the same economic, social, and political rights as men (“Feminism”). Along with this definition comes other aspects relating to feminism such as women supporting other women. Both Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters share the feeling of isolation with Mrs. Wright; the loneliness they share allows them to sympathize with her. As a result, the two women are perplexed on what position they should take with the evidence convicting Mrs. Wright. Towards the end of the story, one of the biggest realizations for Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters is their failure to be there for Mrs. Wright as a friend or a helper. Mrs. Hale exclaims, “Oh, I wish I’d come over here once in a while! That was a crime! That was a crime! Who is going to punish that?” (Glaspell 1.1). This event is meant to be a realization to women that they need to support and be there for one another in order to aid each other in times of need. They discern that as a women their job is to lift other women up, and through putting this important message in her play, Glaspell portrays to the audience the theme of isolation. One of Glaspell’s goals is to show the possibility for redemption when it comes to women standing with each other. Mrs. Peters is much like a dynamic character who experiences a change in the progression of the story. Throughout the story, she changes from society’s idea of a desirable wife to a woman who’s eyes have been opened and wants to make the necessary change to stand with other women. This part of the play relates to a woman’s self image. Mrs. Peters changes from a women simply defined by her husband’s job, which says she is “married to the law” to a person that has deciphered her own ideals and actions (Glaspell 1.1). As a repetitive issue in the play, the male characters label women’s worries as insignificant trifles. For example, in one of the beginning parts on the play, the sheriff, county attorney, and Mrs. Hale are having a conversation in the kitchen in regards to Mrs. Wright worrying about her preserves. The sheriff and county attorney exclaim in surprise at how Mrs. Wright could focus on preserves at this time; meanwhile, Mrs. Hale states, “Well, women are used to worrying over trifles” (Glaspell 1.1). This part of the play represents how men often disrespect women’s work, and how this might be one of the roots of the problem to the inequality between men and women in society. Also, it is most likely that this part of the play is responsible for naming the entire work Trifles. By definition from the Cambridge Dictionary, the word trifle means a matter or item of little value or importance (“Trifle”). By using this word to describe activities and objects often important to women, it disregards their roles and women completely. 108

Mr. Wright is the most obvious victim of crime, but Mrs. Wright is also the victim to a crime that is not as evident. The role Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters play in covering up evidence that could be used to convict Mrs. Wright is understandable, but in reality, this murder cannot be justified. Mrs. Wright did not murder her husband as a way to defend herself in the moment; Mr. Wright was asleep. Further, Mrs. Wright did not accidentally murder her husband. She had a thought out plan and followed through with it. With all these instances in mind, one can see that by law this murder cannot be labeled acceptable no matter how unacceptable Mr. Wright treated his wife. While all these things are clear in reference to the moral aspect of the play, Glaspell does a fantastic job at exposing society and building to a larger effort to display men and women as different but equal human beings. Work Cited “Feminism.” Cambridge English Dictionary, 2020, dictionary.cambridge.org/us/ dictionary/english/feminism. Glaspell, Susan. Trifles. The Project Gutenberg eBook of Plays by Susan Glaspell, 17 Mar. 2011. www.gutenberg.org/files/10623/10623-h/10623h.htm#TRIFLES. McClure, Christina. “The ‘Trifles’ of Feminism.” Critical Theory, 14 May 2009, litcrittheories.blogspot.com/2009/05/trifles-of-feminism.html. “Susan Glaspell.” Short Stories and Classic Literature, americanliterature.com/ author/susan-glaspell. Accessed 1 Nov. 2019. “Trifle.” Cambridge English Dictionary, 2020, dictionary.cambridge.org/us/ dictionary/english/trifle.

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“Leaning amid Light and Darkness” by Ryan Dugan

We are lost with nothing but the sea for miles in all directions. The sun rises and falls, but the waters never seem to sleep. Do we? Would we dare allow rest to befall our eyes just to become lost further still? How would our emotional state-of-mind be affected by desperation and visual perspective while trapped within this environment? It is here where frothing white-tipped waves from a majestic yet uncaring ocean toss a bobbling boat packed with four lone survivors. The boat’s occupants are a sickly captain, an optimistic cook, a cynical correspondent, and a straightforward oiler. Each of these men are hoping for the best outcome yet dreading the worst. In “The Open Boat,” Stephen Crane uses the themes of light and darkness to both manipulate and reflect the mood of its characters within its oceanic setting. Perhaps the most obvious influential and visual representation toward character disposition would be the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet. This towering yet distant landmark could most popularly be interpreted by readers as not only a beacon of light but also as a beacon of hope. Crane allows the captain and cook to catch the first glimpse of it in the midst of the sea while the correspondent is busy working the oars. Yet, “for some reason he too wished to look at the lighthouse” (Crane). The underlying glimpse of hope is enticing enough to draw the correspondent from his duties—it does not, but the temptation is present. When he finally does have a safer moment, he anxiously scans the horizon and finds it. The lighthouse signifies a homestretch toward land and an end to this forsaken journey, but it is also uncomfortably out-of-reach and minute, “like the point of a pin” (Crane). Even with the ocean’s constant teasing as it pushes and pulls from the gradually growing embodiment of hope, the men rest just a little easier “with an assurance of an impending rescue shining in their eyes” (Crane). However, the teasing of the sea intensifies and eventually removes the lighthouse from their sights as they are forced to shift their position and wait at sea for rescue to come to them. But it does not come. The survivors at this point have seen a small populous upon the shoreline, but they were seemingly of no help to their cause. The stranded men’s attitude and commentaries toward their potential rescuers are now tainted, as demonstrated by one of their comments: “I’d like to catch 110

the chump who waved the coat. I feel like soaking him one, just for luck” (Crane). What then comes for the survivors after the ever-distant lighthouse fades away? Paranoia and darkness emerge amidst their ranks. In the next moment, Crane shrouds his characters and readers within the absence of sunlight as the evening’s gloom emerges. The only reminder the survivors have of their proximity to the land after it “vanished” is their memory and the “low and drear thunder of the surf” (Crane). Even with these reminders, a panicked—almost hyperventilated—response struggles free from the mouth of one of the men: “If I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned” (Crane). This is then followed by the familiar phrase frequently mentioned throughout the story: “[W]hy, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese of life?” (Crane). Crane’s ocean frequently pushes and pulls the characters’ state-of-mind and is emphasized by the darkness that accompanies these “mad gods” and their supposed corruptive mission to drive the characters to breaking points. Crane summarizes the current predicament simply: “A night on the sea in an open boat is a long night” (Crane). While the correspondent is the only survivor awake, it feels as though “he was the one man afloat on all the oceans” (Crane). The mood in this setting is drawn out and brings an anticlimactic, lonesome, and downcast feeling upon the characters as they succumb to much needed rest. In addition to this, another mood shift soon surfaces here. A popular correlation to darkness that most readers may relate to is the unsettling dread of the unseen and unknown. A “stillness” is on the sea just before the correspondent notices “an enormous fin speed like a shadow through the water (Crane). And while he is not inflicted with an intense horror, he certainly “wished one of his companions to awaken by chance and keep him company with [the shark]” (Crane). And so, we see the darkness bring paranoia and uncertainty, but could there be something more here? Perhaps there is an alternative cause and effect that is not as foreboding? Within the deep darkness of the ocean and skies that are enforcing a setting filled with—understandably—pessimistic moods, there is a companionship that must be recognized. While the cook and captain are resting, it is the correspondent and the oiler who share in the first leg of the nightly experience. One man stays awake to use the oars and “bails out the boat” of salt water until they have “lost the ability” to 111

continue to do so (Crane). While contrasting the sea in the light and complementing this slightly optimistic kinship, we see that the survivors are gifted within the night a less violent sea: “The waves came without snarling . . . the black waves were silent and hard to be seen in the darkness” (Crane). The two men switch often throughout the night, but during one of the correspondent’s watches, the captain arises to join him. He mentions that he was awake during the shark’s curiosity earlier. Turns out the correspondent’s wish for a companion to be awake with him came true; he just had not realized it. Continuing to take advantage of the calmer night, the captain and cook then allow the correspondent and oiler to rest. Mood regarding the setting is still largely weary and pained, but a respectful and collaborative bond is clearly linked between them all. Finally, as light returns with the dawn and brings with it renewed hope that mingles with the lonely aches of the night, the survivors prepare for eventual landfall. In “The Open Boat,” Stephen Crane uses the themes of light and darkness to both manipulate and reflect the mood of its characters within its oceanic setting. The lighthouse acts as a beacon of hope for the survivors, a focal point to guide them to eventual safety. The characters’ desire to see and be drawn near to its resting place is at the core of their predicament—even when hope feels lost due to their perception of the witnesses upon the shoreline. The dark sea and sky brought forth loneliness and uncertainty, but it was not all that they delivered. The setting enforced the men’s companionship to become refined and kept their moods aligned. Relating this to the reader, it may be concluded that—while the odds may or may not be in our favor—we are certainly not alone. During the night, it seemed as though the correspondent was alone with the shark, yet the captain was alert, watching him silently. Likewise, it may be stated further that even when someone is not physically there to witness alongside us, there are still others—as those along the shoreline—who may aid us in our journey in their own timing and ability. Despite what mood any given setting may issue us, we must know and remember we are never truly alone and therefore do not have to handle our troubles alone. We must remember to lean on others amid light and darkness.

Works Cited Crane, Stephen. “The Open Boat and Other Stories.” Project Gutenberg, 28 Apr. 2014, www.gutenberg.org/files/45524/45524-h/45524h.htm#The-Open-Boat.

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Colliding Waves by Vanessa Perez

Mixed Media 113

“Morning Rush” by Jennifer Lopez

Open eyes, Thank You, Lord! Aches and pain, I am not sore I wash my soul, splish and splash, It’s time for me to go explore. Set in motion in a white horse of steel With gripped hands on the steering wheel Warm sun fire sunset in the distance on my face. It's not easy to get out of that hypnotic race Feel that vibe? Eeeekkk!!! It’s time to stop! I have to clock in before 8 o’clock. Time has started to begin my day Home away from home, I’m here to stay.

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“It's Valentine's Day” by Jacob Guerra

People getting ready for that one time of the year on Valentine’s Day, Picking up the Chocolates and buying Flowers on Valentine’s Day, All over the World, Love is in the air on that Special Day. It’s almost time; it’s almost Valentine’s Day. It’s Valentine’s Day, and it’s finally here, The most wonderful time of year. Birds will be whistling Flowers will be blooming on that special day. It’s Valentine’s Day, and it’s finally here, The most wonderful time of year When you hold your loved one on that special night on Valentine’s Day. It’s Valentine’s Day.

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“Say” by Amanda Gonzalez

Some say that I look very young for my age. While also treating me like a child. I feel like they are just very confused. They see the wrinkles in my forehead, The crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes, But the acne scars of a pubescent teenager Make them doubt that I have any life experience at all. Yes, I am older. Yes, I have had my experiences, Experiences that could harden one’s heart and mind. I have lost and grieved and hurt, repeatedly. But I look very young for my age, so they will treat me so. They will talk to me like I do not understand, Treat me like I am naive, Refuse to listen to my words. Some say I am very white for a Hispanic Because of the pale skin color, Inability to understand or carry on a conversation in Spanish, And how pink I turn when I am shy, embarrassed, or when I laugh. The subtle ingrained racism that spews from their mouths bothers me. Nobody ever prepared me for the racism that would have to be endured, Just for growing up on one side of town and looking a certain skin color. Some say I should have waited to go to school. I was so selfish the first time to put my son in a daycare so that I, A first time High School Graduate, First time Military Service Member, Single mother, First time college student, could further my education By finishing my degree and providing myself better opportunities in the future, our future. It was not selfish when I was in uniform, or when I was a civilian Working six days a week while all of that money disappeared 116

For child care and left me with nothing else but exhaustion and little family time. I think they mean selfless, as I set a better example for my son, And now my daughter, who is watching me. Some say I need to lose weight because I am not as small as I once was. The number on the scale does not depict the kind of person I am. Nor does the size of my clothes equal the character. When I had my daughter, my second child, people quickly Recommended working out daily as if the postpartum depression, The lack of will to exist, was not as important or debilitating, As if my mental state was not as important as my waist size, As if I did not suffer hospitalizations due to my mental health prior to this, Completely disregarding the serotonin that my brain was failing to produce. No. Their first recommendations were to start walking around the block, Doing home workouts, watching what I ate, because appearance is everything. Especially in a woman. Especially in a mother. Some say I will burn out by taking on all these things at once. They say it like I have a choice in the matter, as if I wanted to be overwhelmed. They say it like we are not going through a pandemic due to a virus that both my Mother and brother suffered from back in March, When everyone’s lives changed. When we moved to North Texas. When my partner could not get employed After we thought this job would come through. And we were denied for every government assistance program Because gross monthly income, even though you are not receiving it, Determines if you really need help or not. And if it was not for my Veteran Disability Income, My two kids and I would be homeless. Between my school work, Guiding my son’s remote learning class, Both my kids’ wellness appointments, My mental health appointments, The never-ending housework that mainly consists of dirty dishes, 117

Laundry, and dirty floors, play time, bath time, story time, & bed time. Trying to delay payments because of money I do not have, Trying to convince my bank not to charge me insufficient funds, again. I did not choose this. This was not what I wanted. I did not choose to be stressed and worried all the time. I am exhausted and just want to hold my kids close. But a mother does what needs to be done for the sake of her kids and her family. People say things for the sake of saying them. Using their voices matters more than the content that comes out. Regardless of another personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s obstacles. And people will say things that will hurt you, Sometimes even anger you, frustrate you to your core. The words will echo through your ears, And bother you later on in your day, into the night. Whether it is true, or completely made up and false. A person will say things, Because silence is uncomfortable.

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Passion Fruit by Candice Parker

Mixed Media 119

“Sharper” by Ryan Dugan

“Keep your blade sharp and your wits sharper; a dull perception leads to missed opportunities; resist becoming your former dinner’s formal dinner; serve the wilds respectfully or the wilds will respectfully serve you—the forest is hungry this season; keep your clothing close, or you’ll catch a branch but not too close, or you’ll catch your breath; track your quiver as you track your quarry—thoroughly.” But shouldn’t two dozen be enough without concern? “Remember the wind, for it surely will not forget to blow—your quarry is intimately familiar already; let the rain mask your steps; softened leaves provide advantage, but they cannot veil your clumsy left feet.” Seven months ago cannot be forgotten sooner. “Keep pace but pace yourself; keep downwind further downwind; this is how you tie a knot; this is why you tie a knot; this is when you tie a knot; keep your limbs limber; stretching is not a suggestion; stay out of tight positions where you do not belong; just because you enter easily does not mean you exit just so; do not become trapped; remember what I told you about formal dinners; when you do craft, do so with supple rope, and remember its length lest you come up short when it is over; this is how you read the bark; this is how you read the foliage; this is how you read the earth; this is how your quarry reads you just the same; remember to measure your quarry and yourself; you will not want to discover yourself abandoning the prize for another to receive as their own; however, do not give another more than they deserve due to your miscalculations; you may be thinner than you used to be, but you are still meat; never forget that the wilds are unforgiving, so do your best not to forgive them; take care not to lose proper respect when it has been earned; take care to properly respect when it has not been earned; notice the hour and where the evening sun is resting; notice the hour and where the morning sun is rising; timing is everything; know the quarry’s household as well as your own, but do not lose your household—the forest is winding; take care not to be wound up along its paths; this is how you build a fire; this is how you control a fire; this is how you extinguish a fire; remember to fill the goat skin with water and where to fill it back up; a source may lack convenience in its location; therefore, moderation is vital; take care not to swallow what is 120

contaminated, for it will surely befoul your gut.” Never will I forget those nights. “Perceive each and every offering the wilds grant you, for there are poisons and purities abound; preserve your reserves; be sure to leave an invitation that others may join if your quarry is beyond your means; do not succumb to your secluded solitary pride.” But I have success in recent past, and I know you have seen it. “Understand that others may be more seasonally skilled, swift, and stealthy; do not permit your foolishness to allow you to be more seasonally skilled and swift at dying—I haven’t the energy to find your remains.” But—. “Do not be distraught. I would find them eventually—unless the quarry found them first, yet even so we may capture the quarry and find you just the same.” There is much to consider. “If nothing else, take with you the knowledge that the value of the prize remains consistent no matter the levels of expertise; stories are stories, and meat is meat; keep the threads you have found yourself lacing from unravelling until you can properly weave them into a presentable pattern; remember your lessons; remember your family; please, remember to keep your wits sharp and your purpose sharper.

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“The Right Fight” by Krystina Alaniz

Customs are the way of our world. Must that be so? What dictates the rules of traditions? One normally hears that “tradition says we must do XYZ.” Why must we follow these rules? Nobody asked us if this would be a smart or ethical set of guidelines. Where is our say? Sometimes we need to lash out and correct terms and actions to which we have not agreed. That will certainly ensure and cement our place in this world as activists fighting for our cause. All must participate in acting for our rights in the faces of those who would take away from us. Nothing they say can change our minds. We are steadfast thinkers and know what is best for us. Through spoken battle and spoken battle, we must use our physical and digital resources to fight. Do not stop fighting those that know not what is best for us. We cannot let these tyrants win. Our future depends on us standing up to those that make judgments for us without our consent. We must press on, using every ounce of knowledge in our young minds to defeat these dictators. Now, harder than ever, we must work together as a group to fight these oppressive rules. Technology is on our side. We shall spread our words for the world to see our struggle. United, we have triumphed! Unexpectedly, we can no longer sustain our basic survival needs. Resources depleted, we face mortal peril. Why will nobody help us in our grave time of need? “Nobody” was there: fighting to prevent us from making the mistakes that put us here today. We are in a state of CONSTANT DOWNTURN. 122

“Symbolism: An Hour of Freedom” by Olivia Brummett

In the “Story of an Hour,” Kate Chopin narrates a story demonstrating the mixed emotions of freedom and sorrow that Louise Mallard is experiencing after hearing news of the loss of her husband. In this story, it can be difficult to understand the primary emotion that Mrs. Mallard is feeling. However, all throughout the story, the author clearly demonstrates that Mrs. Mallard is feeling more freedom than she is sorrow. Therefore, in “The Story of an Hour,” Kate Chopin uses symbolism in the open window, armchair, and nature outside the window to represent the freedom that Louise Mallard is experiencing. The first instance where the author uses symbolism to demonstrate freedom is in the open window. An open window represents freedom from being closed in and provides fresh air. Instead of Mrs. Mallard choosing to go to her bed or perhaps the living room, she chooses to go to her room and sit in front of the open window. In the story, Chopin says, “There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank” (Chopin, par. 4). Mrs. Mallard choosing to sit in front of the open window shows the freedom and opportunity that she is attempting to obtain emotionally, mentally, and physically. An open window also gives a clearer view to the outdoors. With this fact in mind, it is clear that the open window also represents the clear view that Mrs. Mallard has to the opportunities and free life that are ahead. Chopin says, “There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself” (Chopin, par.12). For so long, Mrs. Mallard lived under the thumb of her husband, Brently Mallard. The author says, “There would be no powerful will bending hers” (Chopin, par. 12). Mrs. Mallard had little freedom and was extremely trapped under the will of her husband. After sitting in front of the open window and feeling several different kinds of emotions, Louise Mallard begins to feel the sense of freedom that she is truly experiencing. In addition, another time that symbolism is used by Kate Chopin in the “The Story of an Hour” to demonstrate freedom is with the armchair. When Louise Mallard goes up to her room, the first thing she does is sink into the armchair sitting by the open window. In the story, Chopin says, “There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul” (Chopin, par. 4). Not only is Louise Mallard physically exhausted, but she is also emotionally exhausted. The chair rescues her from physical exhaustion just like the absence of her husband rescues her from emotional exhaustion and pain. The author states, “She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion 123

of the chair, quite motionless” (Chopin, par. 7). This statement in the story shows the sheer exhaustion and emotion that Mrs. Mallard is feeling as she sits in the armchair. Further, the welcoming presence of the armchair also represents her future welcoming her to enjoy freedom and release herself from the bondage she was in from her husband. Mrs. Mallard encounters several emotions, with freedom being the most dominant, throughout the hour that she sits in the armchair. Throughout the first part of the story, it is clear Kate Chopin uses this comfortable armchair to demonstrate freedom from exhaustion and pain. Finally, the author uses several different scenes in nature to represent the freedom that Mrs. Mallard is feeling. She sees things outside the open window that represent new life and freedom. Some of the things that she sees include trees with new spring life, the smell of rain in the air, sparrows singing, and the patches of blue sky breaking through the clouds. Chopin says, “She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life” (Chopin, par. 5). These various sights in nature that Mrs. Mallard is viewing from the open window are representations of the new life Mrs. Mallard is experiencing in the absence of her husband. For example, the patches of blue sky breaking through the clouds represent Mrs. Mallard’s freedom breaking through the bondage that she was in from her husband. The trees with new spring life in them show that even though something looks dead and there is no hope left for something, new life can sprout up out of nowhere. The smell of rain in the air represents the refreshing sense of freedom that Mrs. Mallard is experiencing. Finally, the sparrows singing also represent freedom and joy. These sights outside the open window are the strongest symbols throughout the story that represent the dominant emotion that Mrs. Mallard is experiencing. Overall, Kate Chopin uses all of these symbols in nature that are seen outside the open window to further demonstrate the freedom that Mrs. Mallard is feeling emotionally. In conclusion, Kate Chopin uses several symbols to demonstrate and represent the joyful emotion of freedom that Mrs. Mallard is feeling inside. Although Mrs. Mallard is torn between feeling sorrowful and free, the feeling of freedom far outweighs the feeling of sorrow. Chopin says, “‘Free! Body and soul free!’ she kept whispering” (Chopin, par. 14). The feeling of freedom overtakes Mrs. Mallard. She keeps whispering to herself that she is free to actually understand that it is a reality. Because of Mrs. Mallard’s mixed emotions, the use of symbolism in the open window, armchair, and nature outside the open window help to clearly demonstrate that Ms. Mallard is truly experiencing joy and freedom. If the choice of freedom is available, do not resist it. Works Cited Chopin, Kate. “The Story of An Hour.” American Literature, 15 Feb 2020, americanliterature.com/author/kate-chopin/short-story/the-story-of-an -hour. 124

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Rollercoasterâ&#x20AC;? by Tikisha Franklin

Sometimes you know me At least you think you do Sometimes you think about me At least I want you to I see the way you stare at me Bashful eyes with a worried soul You want to help me But don't know how The truth is I don't know how to help myself The thoughts that keep me up at night Are constant reminders of the things That made me feel like I never belong But am I wrong What if all this is just a figment of my imagination That all this time I never felt all of this And I am just overthinking it all Looking up at the sky I am happy Everything is bright and colorful Rainbows surround me My thoughts are not in control Then I am down everything feels wrong Everything is dark and gloomy I see painful memories and dark clouds My thoughts are in control This ride is a never-ending battle Sometimes I wonder am I strong enough to keep fighting Will one day the thoughts take over And all that will be left is me looking on the outside in As lie next to you I wonder what you think of me How long will you stay on this ride with me Or will you walk away Your arms around me say it all The ride stops There is a sensation of peace Your voice hypnotized my mind Then the roller coaster became a carousel. 125

Drowning in Love by Ray McIntosh

Watercolor 126

“Sunsets and Stitches” by Josie Crawford

The best view in this town is here, on the rooftop of Tutum de Loco. All of the buildings seems smaller as they embrace the orange and dark blues of the upcoming night. However, this night was a little different, seemed that someone else had found a fancy for my hideout. Skinny little thing, her skin reminded me of a bronze prize medal, with dark black waves that reminded me of my favorite thing in the world: seawaves. “My advice, go to the sea first. If you can’t, find a video and listen to the waves as the sun sets.” She turned to me giving a forced smile. “How’d ya guess?” I shrugged my shoulders at her reply since I didn’t really know either. “Not sure if it would be obvious to someone just passing by, but let’s just say, I’m the type that knows better.” She looked back at the view of our small downtown city. “I’m just tired of it all, tired of him. I’ll never escape.” I placed my hand on her shoulder and noticed her natural flinch. “Real asshole huh?” She wiped her tears away as she replied. “You’re the only one that thinks that. No one else sees it. They think he’s such a fucking prize.” She rolled her tear-filled eyes. I placed my hand my hand back on her shoulder to reassure her. “I’m only a thirty-year-old guy, but I’ve been through this more than once myself,” I admitted to her. Her eyes widened with surprise at my confession. Can’t say I knew why I was spilling the beans myself. “True story.” I pulled out a cigarette and lit it before I continued. “My parents were a great example of why you shouldn’t stay together for the kids. My mom had depression and anxiety, so when she’d go through her episodes back then, she’d say a lot of mean shit. And if my dad was really drunk, he’d just start swinging. Made me hate people and not trust anyone. Guess it made others think I was some antisocial asshole.” I rolled up one of my sleeves above my elbow slowly to avoid burning myself with my cigarette. “Lucky me, I got that depression gene. And to top it off, a lot of my classmates thought that I sucked and didn’t mind reminding me of that every single day. Anywhere from hateful words, knuckle sandwiches, or trips to the toilets.” She placed her hand on my shoulder. “A lot to endure for a male teenager with raging depression, questioning his manhood. So when I hit about seventeen, I tried to slit 127

my wrists and end it all.” I maneuvered my arm to show her the scar that was hidden under my sleeve. It was barely visible, just a shade lighter than my already pale skin tone. “The shit hurt so bad, I passed out, and clearly didn’t finish the job.” I noticed her hands were so soft as she examined the scar. “None of the things I hated really stopped, but I couldn’t find a way out that didn’t include physical pain. Until one day I saw something on television about overdosing. Seemed simple, so I figured it’d be perfect. I’d just take some pills, head to the beach, and let the waves wash me away.” The young lady fingered her hair behind her ears. I could tell she was thinking deeply on her life and her decision. Suddenly, I noticed that venting to her felt damn good. “When I got there, the sun was setting. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen despite being so drowsy. A perfect last memory. I kept walking closer and closer, but tripped because I was so high.” She chuckled lightly, and it was delightful. I hoped after this she’d smile more, and realized I wanted to help her do so. “Anyways, when I fell, something amazing happened. The feeling of waves on my lower body, felt like a comforting blanket. The sounds of the waves kind of… spoke to me, I guess. A balancing, soothing push and pull sound that said ‘wash away the bad instead, hold on to the good and move on.’” I tossed my finished cigarette off the top of the building and turned back towards her. “I passed out after that, got found by some concerned citizens who called the cops. Then I started therapy, little by little got better in the head. Finished school, and got a badass job.” She smiled at me and hugged me gently. “Well, I’m happy for you. Oh! I’m Eve.” Embracing her completely I told her my name was Eloy. “I want to be able to say the same to you next time.” She planted her face in my chest in shame. “I told you, I can’t escape. He made me get rid of my friends. I have nowhere to go. If I move out, he’ll just find me again. I’m a jobless bimbo with no resume.” Slowly, I backed up, surprised at what I was about to do. “Well, I have a basement that I don’t use. And this is the roof of my restaurant. So instead of jumping, come work for me for a bit.” I held my hand out, hoping she’d let herself live. Eve looked up to the sky and smiled with a tear in her eye. “I’m fucked up in the head, Eloy. But it’s nice someone has faith in me as myself for once. But right now, I feel like happiness is impossible for a failure like me.” “The pain won’t be easy to beat, but it’s possible. And you have some support now.” She placed her hand in mine. “You may just be the stitch for my wounds, Eloy. So… what side of town do we stay on?” 128

“Silver Alert” by Derrick L. McIntyre

Mary Williams drives home emotionally drained. It has been over 24 hours since she last saw her father; when she left for work yesterday morning at 7:30, he kissed her on the forehead and wished her a good day. When she returned home at 5:30 that evening, he was missing, and his car was gone. At first, she thought he may have gone to the store, but when he failed to return after a few hours, she started to worry. She tried calling his cell phone, but it was still on the nightstand in his bedroom. She has lost count of the number of times she has reminded him to take his cell phone with him when he leaves the house. The cell phone is just the tip of the iceberg; she constantly has to remind him to lock the front door or help him find his keys which are usually in the unlocked door. She drove to all the places she thought he might go, but no one had seen him. She called the hospitals and morgue, but no one fitting his description had been checked in. She called the police, and they said if he had not returned by morning to come in and make a missing person report. Less than a month ago, she moved her father from Missouri to live with her in Texas after her mother passed away unexpectedly. She was always close with her mother; they talked on the phone several times throughout the day. Her father was quite the opposite; he was always home when she talked to her mother, but she never spoke to him directly unless it was his birthday or Father’s Day. She loved both of her parents, but her and her father’s bond was never as close as the one she shared with her mother. With her mother gone; she wanted that to change. “Will I get the chance to know my father better, or is it too late?” She pushes the thought out of her mind. “Where are you, Marty Williams?” She exhales as the stress of the situation wells up inside of her.  ♦ ♦ Marty pulls his car into the restaurant parking space and puts the transmission into park. He exits the vehicle and instinctively walks around the car to the passenger side to open the door for his wife. “Marty.” He exhales as he looks through the passenger side window at the empty passenger seat. “Vera is not here with us anymore.” He places his left hand flat against the window; his wedding ring makes a soft clicking sound as it touches the glass. He turns and walks towards the restaurant entrance. He has worked hard to maintain even a semblance of control over his life, but in the past month, he seems to have lost all control. First, Vera goes into the hospital with what he thought was a flu bug, but turns out she has pneumonia 129

and in less than 3 days, a woman in perfectly good health is dead. Then some doctor barely out of medical school says he has early-stage Dementia, and the next thing he knows, Mary is packing him off to live with her in San Antonio. He doesn’t have dementia; he may forget something every now and then, like that stupid cell phone Mary makes him carry around. “Crap!” he exclaims as he opens the restaurant door for an elderly woman. She looks at him in shock. “My apologies, ma’am. I just realized I left my cell phone at home.” He tips an imaginary hat to the woman. She gives him a smile, taps her purse, and says, “I never leave home without mine.” She sashays past him. “She has to be 20 years older than me; if she can remember her cell phone, I may have dementia.” He chuckles to himself as he slides into the closest booth. Since he left his cell phone, he must figure out a way to contact Mary. He never had reason to call her because Vera always talked to her. He tried calling information. But, of course, her cell phone number isn’t listed, and she doesn’t have a home phone. He went to the library and tried looking her up on Instaface or whatever website the librarian told him to search, but there are hundreds of Mary Williams listed. If he could just remember where she worked. ♦

♦

Frustrated with not knowing what to do next, Mary walks into Marty’s room and sits on the edge of his bed. She feels like crying, but her soul is emotionally dehydrated from struggling through all the emotions she felt with her mother’s death. All the anger, denial, depression, guilt, and sadness are gone; there is just a wanting. She wants her father back. She closes her eyes and says a prayer. Just then Marty’s cell phone chimes; she picks up the phone hoping for a message from her father. It isn’t a text, but she knows exactly where to find him. She hops off the bed and runs for the front door. Later that night Marty is sitting on the grass. “Remember that time I tried to fry the turkey and darn near burnt the house down?” Marty laughs; he is laughing so hard he does doesn’t hear the soft footsteps behind him. “I remember; we ended up eating pizza for Thanksgiving.” The voice responds from behind Marty. Marty turns in shock and sees Mary standing behind him with her hands on her hips. She kneels beside him and wraps her arms around him. “How did you know where to find me?” He wonders. She hands him his phone and says, “Your calendar alert saying today is your 40th anniversary. I knew you would come to mom’s grave.” He takes the phone, and it chimes an alert. He looks at the screen and says, “There is a silver alert for someone with a car just like mine; I hope they find them.” 130

“The Godfather of Radiology” by Lieyette Saunders

After the death of my baby brother who passed at the age of two years old from childhood cancer, and shortly after my mother’s heart breaking divorce, my grieving mother decided it was time for a fresh start. Moving from the land down under to land of opportunity was an interesting struggle. Adjusting to opposite time zones, driving on the opposite side of the road, learning the values of a dime, nickel, quarter, and trying to comprehend and understand the “American English” slangs, terms, and idioms really got me thinking hard. I had so many doubts and was very hesitant leaving a country that was home to me for nineteen years of my life. It was like pulling teeth for my mother to convince me to take this leap of faith. It was either we stayed and be reminded of our sad and grieving loss or embrace this positive change. My boyfriend at that time, who is now my husband, convinced me to give it a chance. So I reluctantly agreed to turn the page to a totally new chapter in my life. While waiting for official work permits and a green card, my stepfather and mother enrolled me to attend classes to be a Certified Nurse Assistant, hoping that it would lead me to become a Registered Nurse some day. I tried to enroll and get into health care academy programs and tried to get into college, but I encountered so many road blocks. There was so much conflict enrolling from an Australian high school, to an American college. I was not quite meeting the American college criteria. This was really weighing me down because I would need to get a GED and take several placement tests. I became very inpatient, and the young and dumb part of me was thirsting to earn my own money. So I decided to start working instead of taking my academics seriously. With just a CNA certificate under my belt, and with the feeling of uncertainty, I felt like I was not off to a good start with my academics. I had no direction to where and what I wanted to do, until I received a call from Mr. Desiderio Medina calling me in for a job interview. At that time, I had no idea what exactly the job description was. In fact I had fears of having to do some dirty work like change smelly diapers. But I was hopeful and prayerful that this could be the job that would lead me to blessed opportunities. Mr. Desi Medina was the supervisor in the MRI department who interviewed me and took a chance to hire me to work at University Hospital here in San Antonio. “Just call me Desi, like Desi Arnaz,” he would always say. Although he did not look like Desi Arnaz at all, this 131

old man, who looked somewhat Arabic but was really a Mexican and had a shiny bald head with salt and pepper hair encompassing sideburns and goatee, selected me to work as an MRI technical assistant. He was the instrument of God who gave an opportunity to this young nineteen-year-old lost girl and helped give light to a new career path that sparked my interest, which I began to grow a fond passion for. Furthermore, Desi mostly taught me from everything about MRI patient safety, patient care, facilitating clinical work flow, assisting the technologists prepare MRI exam rooms, communicating and establishing relationships with doctors and nurses, and exposed me to just how fascinating the world of Magnetic Resonance Imaging is. Only then I realized how MRIs plays a vital role in medical diagnostic imaging. This was it. I finally discovered what I wanted to do for my career. I wanted to become an MRI technologist. A God-fearing man, and a father of a six of children, Desi also faced life’s many challenges. Despite the rocky roads of life, when we were short staffed at work, I remember he would be at the forefront working long hours at the hospital and still was able to display his true love and compassion to patients as he would help them through their MRI exams. Desi loved to talk, and he was a good listener too. Not only would he always find ways to connect and touch the hearts of the patients and make them feel important, but he would also make us who worked under him feel important and valued. Because of this, we all grew a special bond with one another, and we, his MRI family, would always refer to him as “Your Daddy” because if we wanted to feel better, we would just go to “Your Daddy.” Significantly, Desi retired after serving fifty years in the field of radiology. His humble beginnings started off as an X-Ray technologist, to working as CT technologist in Saudi Arabia, and then completed his last stretch in MRI. Indeed, this ancient old man has witnessed the rapid development of technology in the field of radiology. I think many of us in our circle of MRI family have all developed that admiration for Desi’s endurance, perseverance, and resilience for lasting this long. Something that my mother taught me is to always respect and be polite to your elders. So from this day on, Desi has earned my great respect that serves as my inspiration and idol to what I hope to someday become. I do not wish to look like this old man with a shiny bald head, with salt and pepper goatee hair, but if I can just be an ounce to be remembered and admired like Desi, I can be at peace and grateful that I had a purpose to help give sound direction and help somebody grow. With much gratitude, thank you, Desi, and God bless the “Godfather of Radiology.”

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“September 11, 2001” by Jordyn Urban

I was in sixth grade, Finishing an algebra test, When we were escorted into the gym To watch you leap from the towers. I remember sitting there, White-knuckling my lungs, Trying to force myself to breathe For the entirety of your swan dive. I never breathed right after that. It was the first moment I realized that the world Was not safe. That people were not safe, That I was not safe in my daily routine Of going to school, Of after school cartoons, Of never stepping on the cracks in the pavement. There were no sounds in that gym, Filled with three hundred young students, Besides the voice of the newscaster, The dying of our innocence. We sat there in horror, Praying for a country that wasn’t our own. Praying for the lives of the people we will never know. I came home that night, And had my first panic attack, My always angry father held me For the first time in years. I asked him how people could do this to each other, A man who always had the answers was suddenly speechless. He cried too. He knew that a part of all of us fell in those towers too.

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“Two Words” by Isabella V. Rodriguez

The emptiness you left is there every day, The pillow sheets are often drenched, My eyes stay shut to keep from the truth, My ears still wait to hear you say those two words, My nose clings to the smell of your favorite plaid jacket, It’s been that way for eighteen years, and it will be that way till I reach the bridge And when I do, I will be the one that says those two words

I’m home

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“The Wait . . .” by Marilyn Garcia

Eerie sounds beep and echo through the room. Our eyes super-glued to the screen not a single move. Every drift the line made was an anticipated overweighing thought that gravitated us down to the marbled floor. Again, the machine beeps pumping more blood through our veins to the core. My grandma trembles in her bed, every muscle tensed and strained. The over layered blankets rattled, her face beat and drained. With woe in her tone, she blurts, “Mom!” in a way You would hear a four-year-old say. The moment was raw for when I heard her plead . . . The vulnerability was what made me almost cede. Although the scene made its way to my heart. You won’t see me cry and fall apart. The two sisters together watching their mother, Just like a flashback to when the hospital took their father. The moment was too well known for the two. The past calamitous incidents gradually diminish the bonds of their family like glue. Being the oldest grandchild to my grandma, I feel like things hidden behind the others was done for a reason. What I saw, I would never want to re-live it. Before leaving on my mother’s command, I gave my grandma a hug. A flash of remembrance counterfeited my melancholy knowing that the last hug I gave was stolen by death.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Lost Mother, Strong Motherâ&#x20AC;? by Lindsey G. Whidden

Mighty oaks from acorns grow I will remind them of what they know, The times we shared they can stow, Easy come easy go. Did you cross or did you stay? Cannot think of a better way, What may lay ahead is for another day,

But only if my mind does not fray. Nothing here nor there, Will ever compare, To the love you always declared, Wait for me up there. For now, I wait, Watching my little acorns grow, Into the big tree they will soon know, My love will always be in tow.

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“Jenny” by Jessica Nino

Candles lighting Up my living room But in that moment We felt bulletproof Away from the storm Just us, no regrets Dancing round In our pajamas Only 7 My God we loved us

I won’t forgive me For failing to see All the signs You were showing me And now There’s no goodbyes Only memories Of all our ties Red roses carve Into my heart Covered in art From your fast depart

You’ve been distant Feeling busy Not sure how to feel About the baby But I hope They make you happy

But now I swing From safety net to safety net Hoping strings won’t split Under the weight of my hurtin’ My feet have not danced Like they did that night with you

In like an instant Suspended in the air I knew you were gone There was no repair You showed signs Mind with despair

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“As Time Goes On” by Herman George Brothers

Time, time is like a clock that never stops ticking Time can be your best friend or your worst enemy Time can remind you of all your greatness Or time can remind you of all meaninglessness As we grow old we will see it all before our eyes Time for me is torture in disguise Time well spent or time’s demise We must all face our great divide My soul is old, unkind to time My soul howls like wolves to dark skies My soul is steadfast and iron-willed Will time permit the Prominence of will My soul longs for a dream fulfilled Will time be gentle with time to yield Time is despair no friend indeed My will to succeed will put time at ease

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Walksâ&#x20AC;? by Elizabeth Garcia

Once upon a time I walked with you, I loved you walking by my side as the wind blew, We stopped to smell a rose I tasted one and began to chew, I looked into your eyes my heart told me this is true, As we walked through the roses my love for you grew, I looked once again and bye you said now my heart has to renew.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Of Loveâ&#x20AC;? by Ka'Ren Collier

You taught me of love How to be patient How to be kind You taught me of happiness I have light in the darkness I hear song in the bedlam You taught me of patience How to forgive Why to forget

You taught me of appreciation The moments that endure The moments that retreat You taught me of understanding How to become When to remain You taught me of love Unfaltering Immense Incandescent Love

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“Love God First” by Essie Richardson

I prayed to God last night for the knowledge of what forgiveness really is. When I woke up, I realized I still haven't forgiven you, yet. I dreamt about you and I talked at you, but not to you with revenge still deep in my heart. I wanted to make you feel how you made me feel, or worse I wanted you to see me in the store with my new boo, so you too can feel the pain. Yes, I know you didn’t cheat on me, but your words felt like a hateful tweet. I just wanted you to make it make sense. When I read the text, my muscles tensed. But every day after, they tensed less and less. It seems like, you weren’t taught to respect women; at least you didn’t act like it. No disrespect to your mom. You probably just forgot, like you did my birthday. I forgot yours too, so I really can’t judge you. But it hurt. It hurt for you to place those laughing emojis after you said you didn’t care. I didn’t understand because the “I love yous’’ you sent flooded my mind.

Your so-called love folded and my mind was just loaded, with your lies. But you know what they say, love doesn’t last always.

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But that isn’t true. Because if we loved each other, I would still be with you. I’m now glad God showed me the real you. I hate to think I raised you, to become a better man for another woman. K. Michelle taught me well but I just didn’t listen. But maybe you’ll then realize, what love truly is. I pray you do. But it's my fault; I choose not to listen. To reason number one, two and three. I guess just wasn’t enough of a bad B. It's my fault I choose to only see, the good in you. I didn’t give honor where honor is due, and it’s certainly not to you. What I thought was love is, isn’t. We at this time we didn’t comprehend the true meaning of love. But God’s timing will show us what love truly is. Let the church say, but God. See, my problem was I didn’t love the one who truly loved me first; when he is the one who first loved me. I didn’t fully understand how to love like him. I didn’t give Jesus the glory because I wanted to facetime you meaningless stories. Wasting my God-given time, for someone who called me ‘’slime.’ 142

And all these rhymes just to convey how I feel, but, baby, I’m just being real. When the only facetime that matters is on the day of glory. When God is willing to say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.’’ feeling the true and never-failing love God gives me every day. I’m so glad he is here to stay. God said, he will never leave or forsake us. And hope he takes me into his kingdom So I can sing to him; I know I mean so much to him. This rhyme scheme may seem like a sad song. But it can’t be because God loved me all along. It’s really, it was my fault: I shouldn’t have hit you up, I should've never stayed when God told me no. It was really my fault. I’m now facing the consequences, and I’m now okay with it. Because whether or not you love me, God’s love is better, and I am learning to love him first.

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Knife and Fork by Scott Gathright

Photograph 144

“The Key” by Isaac Pena

Stored so snugly deep within someone’s blue jeans pocket, And so serenely together with his siblings in a metal ring; Stored so safely in order to allow the possessor to unlock it, And so, when you are moved around, heard is the soft jingling. Built with a magnificent coat of metallic armor that shines, And with an armor that glows as a cat’s eye in the reflecting lights; Built with an exquisite yet unique shape, like a flat metal forest of pines, And with a mass of ridges that are like micro hills of various heights.

Created you were made for a definite, specific, and only purpose, And you were made uniquely, and for only one reason you can be; Created you were made for a reason, but first you need to be of purchase, And you were made for one definite reason, well, here it is, the key.

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“Jasper” by Adonais Bentancourt

Your energy and love start in the morning when you wake me with your nose that’s cold as ice cubes. You bring your toy wanting to play so early. You’re sad when I leave to work, and you walk me to the door every morning. You greet me every day to show me how much you missed me that day. You won’t eat until I sit down to eat. You’re unpredictable like a tornado and have an attention span of a goldfish.

Yet every night you bring your blanket next to the foot of the bed and lie down, so peaceful as if you had no worry in the world, Jasper, a man’s best friend.

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“It’s Nice to Have a Friend” by Jessica Nino

Late summer nights In our backyard Green grass grows Under our toes Secrets spill out Only five then We know nothing Still innocent Now we're turning ten Hang in the den Doodle with our pens Were our only friends

Just teenage school friends

I still think back to then

How soon we’d forfeit

I still feel the love from then

Walk over chalk

Light pink sky After school days Let your friends know You’re going with them No it’s okay though Just bring the remote

Buried under leaves With our hands tied By invisible strings

I still think back to them

And there’s hope that this won’t end.

Playground swings Covered in rain We climb on them To forget the pain Instead it Lights a fire Now we're taking Our separate ways I still think back to it

We were always more than friends

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“Flower in the Sidewalk Crack” by Natalie Salyers

Blue sky Children’s laughter In the neighborhood Bright sun Small disasters Right now, my life is good Walking along the pavement That lines our every street With my squinting eye I spy What makes me skip a beat

A flower in the sidewalk crack Small and pink and strong It danced alone within the wind To a light birdsong White clouds Lemonade stands Drawing with my chalk Ice cream Holding friends’ hands Taking family walks The stray sprinkler helps her living The sun looks at her and smiles The children stop and talk to her ‘Now won’t you stay a while?’

A flower in the sidewalk crack Small and pink and strong It danced alone within the wind To a light birdsong

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