Tiger PAWS Fall 2021 by Tiger PAWS

Tiger PAWS

St. Philip’s College Volume 10, Issue 2 Fall 2021

Tiger PAWS (Personal Academic Writing Space) St. Philip’s College Volume 10, Issue 2 Fall 2021

Cover Art: Metamorphosis Digital Art

By Jemma Tremillo

Cover Design: Jorge Saldivar-Guerrero

Tiger PAWS is a student publication consisting of nonfiction, fiction, poetry, literary analysis, fine art, digital 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 Communications and Learning Department. 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—Interim Vice President of College Services Dr. Michael Grillo— Interim 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 Connie Ramirez— Administrative Services Specialist, Creative & Communication Arts, Science & Technology Velia De La Rosa—Administrative Services Specialist, Communications & Learning Department of Communications & Learning St. Philip’s College Marketing & Strategic Communications Department James Klutz and SPC Staff at The UPS Store

Editorial Staff Student Staff: Alexandria “Jo” Guzman Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera Connie Pullen Saranya Rajendran Nair Asaletha Viviana Saenz Jorge Saldivar-Guerrero

Faculty Staff: Dr. Karen Cunningham Dr. Marie Feldmeier Stephanie Gibson Spencer Galvan Jamie Miranda Edward O’Casey San Juan San Miguel

Table of Contents Valley of Color by Timothy Hernandez…………………………8 “Utopia” by Hannah Jones ……………………..…………….... 9 Gratitude by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera………………. 12 “Beauty” by Anthony Rubio...………….…………………….. 13 “My Father’s Story” by Senorina Sanchez…………………... 14 Pine Tree by Stanislav Kovalchuk….…………………………. 18 “[Untitled]” by Rashida Wood………………………….......... 19 “Heartache for Homeland” by James McGuire.……..…….. 20 “Mexican Wife” by Selenne Patlan….…………….…………. 22 Stuck in a Screen by Stephanie Ocura.…………………………24 “A Piece of Mexico” by Lesley Duenas……………………….25 You’re So Golden by Stephanie Ocura..………….……..……... 26 “My Story about How I Learned English” by Takae Fox….. 27 “Classroom” by Paul Lemus………………………...………... 30 “Learning World” by Maria Serrano Pineda…….…………. 31 “The Truth” by Danielle Salazar………………………………34 Quiet Space by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera…………… . 35 “Outside My Window” by Francisco Zertuche……………... 36 Trees of Life by Tiffany Butler.....………………………………. 37 “Paradigm Shift of the Inevitable” by Connie Pullen..…….. 38 Minusinsk Winter Park by Stanislav Kovalchuk……………... 41 “The Art of Waiting” by Flor Calixto .………....……...…….. 42 You Can Regrow by Jemma Tremillo....………………………. 43 “Debajo la misma luna” by Jessica Niño.……..….………….. 44 “Under the Same Moon” by Jessica Niño..…...……………... 45 Still Rose by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera…..……………46 “Secrets” by Jessica Niño……………………..……………….. 47 “Disconnected” by Rashida Wood……....…….……………... 50 “Mrs. Mallard’s Awakening” by Anthony Rubio…………... 51 “The Cracked Doll” by Jamie M. Brock…..…..…....…………54 The Boat by Timothy Hernandez.……..…………………..….. 55

Table of Contents “More Than a Best Friend” by Lesley Duenas.………..……. 56 The Cycle of Life by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera...……... 57 Balance by Jemma Tremillo…………………..…….………….. 58 “My Majestic Feline” by Chelsea Frias……………….…….... 59 “Right Where You Left Me” by Jessica Niño.....…………….. 60 Los Cabo’s Rocks by Stephanie Ocura……………...…..…….... 63 “Components of the Colorful Stacked Sack” by James McGuire..………………….………………….…………... 64 “Nighttime Wonders” by Alejandro Alvarez-Riojas...……... 66 Tree of Knowledge by Tiffany Butler……….………………...... 67 “I’m Just a Wooden Fence” by Shannon Morris.……...……. 68 “Things You’ll Never Know until You Have One of Your Own” by Carrie Rosales……...………………...……..... 69 “He” by Amanda Al Janahi…………….…..….…...….…….... 72 “Bag of Burdens” by Alejandro Alvarez-Riojas.…….……….73 “My Nursing Journey” by Rebecca R. Charro..……………... 74 “Emergency!” by Adam Tellez…..……….……………….….. 77 “F.P.” by Viviana Saenz…………………...…………………... 78 “Tethers of Reason” by Hannah Johns...………………....….. 79 “Hidden Feelings” by Sarah Turpin…………………..…....... 80 “Cooking for the Soul” by Kimberly Hebert……….……….. 82 Sour Mouth by Jamie M. Brock…………….………………….. 85 “Judgement behind Charming Eyes” by Katrina Soto……... 86 “Concealer” by Taylor Valadez………………………............. 87 “Rainforest Greens” by Lesley Duenas..……………..……….88 “The Reply” by Skyler Cox………..………………………….. 89 “The Artist’s Puzzle” by Hannah Johns………………………90 “Reteaching Self Inner-standing” by Rashida Wood………..91 “Where I Left off Last” by Sarah Thompson…………………92 Our Judges ……………………...………………………………94 Call for Submissions and Editors……………………………...96

Valley of Color By Timothy Hernandez

Digital Art

“Utopia” By Hannah Jones The rays of the setting sun descend upon the wet concrete of the ground and varnish the whole city of DC a striking shade of orange. It would be stunning if I wasn't taking an abrupt turn into an alleyway, away from my pursuing older brother and his surly gang of boys. In reading class, I made the fatal mistake of crying at the end of a book, something a sensible schoolchild should never do in 2051. "C'mere, Cadey-boy." My brother Sean's voice rings like an old copper bell through the chilled evening air. His voice gives such a humiliating pet name a terrifying accent, and by God, if he was anyone else, I would be clutching my stomach in laughter from the stupidity of it. But he isn't anyone else; he's my brother, and he's never been a very funny person. "Don't be such a baby," my brother jeers again, his words coming out between breaths. The gang is approaching fast, and I know I need to devise something clever and quick. I have only one destination in mind, and my paramount hope is that I'll be able to reach it. I make a running leap over a fallen garbage bag in the corner of a dusky alleyway but also know that even if the path was entirely clear, the excruciating stitch in my side would prevent me from going much longer. In a moment of far-fetched hope, I see the ladder of a distant yet familiar rooftop looming before me like a descending angel. There's no time to judge whether I can reach it before they catch up with me, and as soon as the ladder grows in my vision, I jump onto it and begin to climb. The rungs are slippery and ice-cold between my fingers, and by the time I'm halfway up the ladder, my hands are numb. Yellow light pours through the windows beside me. Below, the impact of heavy boots on metal is shrill in my ears, and 9

my heart thumps in my chest as I glance up in search of the one window that would save me. Then my hand slips. Someone yells in the distance, and it isn't until I regain my composure that I realize it was me. A hand grabs my ankle and clutches it with an iron-tight fist. I try to wrench it away, but my leg is still too weak from running, and it's in this pitiful state that I make the mistake of looking down. The pinkish-red face of a boy whom I've never seen before is staring up at me, and his eyes are so full of malice that I wonder what wrong I've committed to deserve that glare. The faces of the other boys and my brother sneer up at me from the ground. I yell again as the kid wrenches my foot with such force it's as if I'm an ant resisting the power of a hurricane. As I pull my foot back, I scan the horizon, looking for something—anything—that would get me out of this situation. That's when I see a nail sticking out of a nearby windowsill. I wrench it out of the rotting wood with every bit of force left in me, and this pitiful, improvised weapon revitalizes me. With it, I finally find the nerve to stand up for myself. I hold it up so the boy can see it, and his grip on my ankle loosens as he considers. Deciding instead to face the scrutiny of his peers, he backs down the ladder, his "friends" jeering at him as he goes. Having survived the ordeal, I continue my journey up the ladder and wrench open the familiar window I had worked so hard to reach. My brother calls out to me from below. "This isn't over, Cade." It would never be over, not so long as we had each other. Neither of us had to worry about the other going home to tattle. It's just us. I squeeze myself into the window, a storm of flying dust greeting me like a loyal dog. The artificial lights of the city illuminate the grimy floor of the vacated room, where a few stray candy wrappers and 10

crushed beer cans lie. Along the walls are dusty shelves, and upon one of these is a single book without a cover. The inside page reads Walden. If I had been sound of mind at the moment, I would have noticed the anomaly. Physical books had been abandoned years ago. But instead of marveling, I pick it up and, by the dim light shimmering through the window, read it. The unfamiliar prose is a thick wall, which I have to excavate and interpret, but once I break through, I'm privy to the secrets of the longlost transcendentalist named Thoreau. And with it, the faces of the boys who had pursued me for my sensitivity disappear into the back of my mind. In the city, it's a dog-eat-dog world. It doesn't matter whether the person who's trying to kill you at any given moment is family or not; we're all a bit twisted, and nothing but genetics can fix that. Sometimes when I lose myself in a story, I immerse myself in the wonder of the idea that families weren't always broken and that people didn't divide themselves into perpetually conflicting groups from the day they were born. Whenever I express these ideas to someone else, I feel stupid and sensitive, but when I withhold them, I dislike my complicity. When I find myself caught between these two extremes, I can feel myself retreating into a shell, much like an overstimulated animal. To me, there's nothing more comforting than to experience the world outside of the world. To have all earthly obligations melt away as one drowns oneself in a book is a natural privilege, and as I immerse myself further into the story, I know that I've found my home.

Gratitude By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Photograph

“Beauty” By Anthony Rubio Life is fast. Life is too fast, here in the moment, Then it is gone. Sometimes before the moment has even begun. Being unwell can speed up that process. How to stop? Why so fast? Who knows? Just breathe. Breathe. Then breathe again. Take in as much as you can. Let the air fill your lungs like inflating a balloon. Inhale the aroma of the outdoors, with its scent as fresh as a newly lit candle. See as much as you can see. Visit the roaring heights of the tallest mountains that stand high like skyscrapers. Break free from the chains that hold you ever so tightly. Get loose from what is holding you down, even if it’s as heavy as the weight of the world. Seems doable. Right? Mission accomplished. Maybe, if it is not you who is suffering, It is possible to contemplate what someone is going through, But they will never truly grasp how one really feels inside.

“My Father’s Story” By Senorina Sanchez For as long as I can remember, my father has always been a dedicated individual. He worked at a box company for 34 years as a forklift driver before he retired. What was surprising to know is that in the 34 years of employment, he only utilized three sick days. This already gives a sense of my father’s mentality about his work ethic. The person who influenced me to continue my education is my father because he did not have the same opportunities as I did, sacrificed so much to give us a better life, and always had determination to get ahead in life, which resulted in encouraging me to keep learning. At family gatherings, my father shares his stories about how he came to the U.S. for a better life. It began at the age of eight years old: he began working in the fields helping my grandfather plant corn and bean seeds. His shifts would start at 6:00 AM every day until he turned twelve. By then, he was required to head over to the fields at 3:00 AM to feed the oxen, and when he was done, he would plant seed from around 7:00 AM until about noon. Once noon came around, he had to give the oxen a break, feed them, and then continue with the field work until about 3:00 PM. Rain or shine, he was out working the fields. When it was hailing and pouring rain, he had nowhere to go; his only option was to seek shelter under his vehicle. My father laughs when he tells us that his first form of transportation was a donkey. Yes, a donkey! He would pull the donkey under a tree and would curl up underneath it to avoid the rain and hail. It was rough doing this type of hard labor at such a young age day in and day out. He did not have a choice; he was the oldest of the brothers, but in total, he was one of thirteen children my grandparents had. However, in addition to not having a choice about work, 14

he did not have an option to go to school and get an education. At a young age, he saw other children going to school, but he only attended school on and off for about three years. He was not fully registered, nor did he attend on a regular basis because his main job was working in the fields with my grandfather. Knowing the lack of education he had does make me feel sad. This has been one of the reasons why I have made it a goal to get my college degree. All he knew was that he had to work all the time and never really had much of a childhood. It was not long before time passed on, and he continued working the fields until he was seventeen. At seventeen years old, he decided to work with a shoemaker and made sandals. He picked up that skill quickly and was eager to learn more, which he did. This resulted in making a little bit more money. However, he mentioned that the sandal making business started to be very competitive, and sales were down. He ended up returning to what he knew best, field work, until he was nineteen. This time, he worked with different farmers, not just my grandfathers. My mother was sixteen when she married my dad; he was nineteen. Getting married at a young age, surprisingly, was very common back then. He figured that now that he was married, he needed to change jobs for better pay. He helped build churches in the local town for a couple of years. By this time, it was 1963, and his best friend told him about a job opportunity in Mexico City. He took a chance and decided, and he moved there with my mom. Once in Mexico City, he applied for the job his best friend told him about. It was working at a factory called Bimbo, and to this day, it is still around. They make baked goods. It was not an easy process to get into the factory. After he applied for the job, he needed to take a written test. The written test really made him extremely nervous; he did not have much of an education. So, he took the test, and he did not pass on the first try. He was devastated because he made the big move to a whole new city. By the grace of God, he was given another opportunity to retake the test, and he did not 15

give up. He gave it his best shot, and he passed the written test and ended up working for Bimbo until 1969. In October of 1969, my mom and dad decided to come to the U.S. for the American Dream everyone talked about. They had family members living in the U.S. and decided to enter legally as tourists. They went back and forth between Mexico and the U.S. for about three years, working odd jobs and sleeping on people’s couches. Around that time, friends invited Mom and Dad to take a short trip to Canada. They did not think anything of it; they thought it would not be any harm. Well, during their short visit, their tourist visas were flagged by the U.S. Immigration office. They were informed that they were violating the law by being in the U.S. for an extended period. Their sacrifice came with a price, which ended with one night in jail. One of my aunts had a legal residency in Chicago, Illinois, and made bail for my parents, and they were released. They were allowed to come back to the U.S. and had one month to leave the country and return to Mexico. My parents agreed and went back to Mexico. In 1973, my dad attempted to come to the U.S. He crossed the border illegally and was determined to have a better future. At that time, they had four children already, and he wanted more for them than his hometown could offer. He was alone for about a year, and in the year 1974, my mother was pregnant and made it into the U.S. on a tourist visa. In 1974, if a child was born in the U.S., you could apply for permanent residency. They started the application process and were given a workonly permit. With the help of Catholic Charities, they were able to live in the U.S. legally. But that did not happen until December of 1978. Not knowing very much English for four years, he held various jobs in Illinois. Growing up, my being the youngest of six, we were given the opportunity to get a basic education. Out of six of us, only three have a college degree. My father would always tell us when we were growing up to go to school and get an education. As a child, I did not realize what my dad had gone 16

through, all the sacrifices he made for his family with little to no education. In 2010, he retired from being a forklift driver at the Royal Box Company. Here in San Antonio he has a beautiful home that sits on two acres. After working his father’s land for so many years, today he has a green thumb and can grow anything from cucumbers, chiles, squash, tomatoes, cantaloupe, and watermelons. He is very happy and even had an opportunity to travel the world. In conclusion, my father is a humble man who came from nothing and was able to raise us despite lack of resources. At my age, with a family of my own and once living paycheck to paycheck, I have had my own challenges in life. What got me through life is not letting my father down. He made it without an education and without speaking English—why can’t I? I recall my dad saying that kids these days have an opportunity to go to school, and they do not take advantage of so many opportunities. I have taken risks in my life and learned many lessons. Today, I am blessed with a respectable job and have the financial ability to pay for my own college courses. My goal is to obtain my college degree and make my father proud. He has always been my inspiration to go back to school. Juggling a full-time job, being a mom of three, and going to college is a lot on my plate; I am as determined as my father.

Pine Tree By Stanislav Kovalchuk

Photograph

“[Untitled]” By Rashida Wood

Trying to gain my trust back is like trying to walk on a bed of needles, barefoot with opened wounds.

“Heartache for Homeland” By James McGuire Letters pack the post, Hidden within the midst, as if a ghost. Worn, torn, frayed, and tattered, The card struggles to climb to the crest Screaming to be seen before the rest. As if it had something to say Before the end of the day The reader reaches down to rescue from the post This barely legible traveler from the coast. Smeared ink of blue The card of old has somehow struggled to get through. As the reader flips the card over faint images of grassy knolls Mountainous regions high and low Long forgotten, now remembered I do not know how this came to pass on this cold snowy November. How my homeland has found me I have not a clue Littered with stamps and glue As if dropped from the clear blue. The pictures I know all too well The happy and sad the heaven and the hell.

Now a war torn village filled with fight The end of the tunnel no light This land once God’s own masterpiece Turned into Satan’s playground where the needless bloodshed may never cease. To visit this homeland, I do gently yearn Sadly may never return The wonderous images of days of old Will remain in my memories unfaded, unwithered, glowing, and bold.

“Mexican Wife” By Selenne Patlan “Always say hi and smile to your neighbor; always say hi and smile to the person who is passing you by; always say hi and smile to your boss; always say hi and smile to your grandparents, but don’t over do it because a man can mistake your smile with flirting; don’t make your husband jealous or he will leave you then what would people say? You need to sleep at least eight hours a day, or your skin will sag when you are older; put some night cream on every day, or you will get crow’s feet; wake up every morning and do your bed; always have chicken soup in the freezer for the children; don’t let your kids be barefoot, or they will get sick; keep your eyes on your children; don’t EVER lose sight of them, or someone will steal them away; God can see your sinful thoughts; when making food, serve your husband first, then your father, then your brother, then your kids; don’t sit down to eat until they are full and don’t want any more hot tortillas; always have shoes on; don’t make noise at the dinner table; keep food hot so that your husband can eat as soon as he is home; if he can’t come home to a hot meal, he will leave you; you need to marry before you turn thirty, or else you will be dressing up the saints, even if you don’t want to; you have to plan your daughter’s quinceañera; make sure she dances the waltz; wear lipstick or else you will look pale and tired; you don’t need any girlfriends; they will want to sleep with your husband; even if you don’t want to have sex, you need to or he will leave you; when you iron his shirts, start with the shoulders; eat the food people offer you, even if you don’t want to eat; serve your guest with plenty of food even if they don’t want to; serve them seconds even if they don’t want to; always sweep your house from the back to the front; mop every area two times: one to pick up the dirt, the second to clean the floor; don’t let the dog inside the house; don’t let the baby touch the cat, or 22

she will get hair stuck in her intestines; you have to always look put together, or your husband will leave you; you can’t work because your children need you; always mop at least once per day; your children look sick; have you been feeding them?” “Yes, they ate breakfast already.” “You need to give them a cup of chicken broth every day before each meal; go to church first, then go to lunch with the family; tell your daughter to wear a dress; don’t let your daughter out of your sight, or someone might kidnap her.” “I don’t like it when you say things like that; it makes me nervous.” “Well, you need to be prepared and don’t let them out of your sight for one second, or someone will take them; stand up straight, like a swan; comb your hair; you need to look put together; don’t worry if your husband is cheating on you; you are the one he is married to; you look like you are gaining weight; never leave unwashed dishes in the sink the night before; in the morning, start by making the beds, then put a load of clothes to wash, then start making breakfast; never cry in front of the children; don’t nag your husband, or he will get bored of you and find someone else.” “But what if he finds someone else and leaves me? “If that happens, you will be alone with your children and have a hard, miserable life, and nobody will want you. It will be your fault.”

Stuck in a Screen By Stephanie Ocura

Digital Art

“A Piece of Mexico” By Lesley Duenas A part of me left behind, pieces of Mexico stuffed into an envelope. I have always admired the mountains. Now I only witness them through pictures. The fotos of my abuelos smiling at me with longing looks. My primos sending saludos with love radiating through. Trips to the mercados were like children in a candy store. My abuela's steamed hot tamales were savored through my mouth. When I return, my abuelos will have grown old and the mountains will be far out of touch. I will remind myself to cherish those moments. Forever in my memory like a locked box. These photos keep me warm. Until we can reunite.

You’re So Golden By Stephanie Ocura

Photograph

“My Story about How I Learned English” By Takae Fox When I was in high school and nursing school, I was so busy that I did not have time to do anything other than studying. I already had my mind set at the end of middle school to pursue my career as a nurse; therefore, I chose the fastest route to become a nurse, which was to go to a vocational high school and two more years in nursing school afterward. Both schools were so hard and challenging. There were so many assignments, papers, and, more than anything, lots of clinicals. So when I finally graduated, I remember thinking, “Early mornings, late nights, and emotional breakdowns have finally paid off. No more studying for me. Now I can do anything I want to do.” That really got me thinking . . . . What should I do in my free time? I was already working as a nurse and had some free time but realized I was so busy when I was in school that I stopped doing everything else. I needed a hobby. I always loved watching movies, but what if I understood everything in English without subtitles? Would not that be so cool? It was just “pure interest.” So one day I went to a private English school near my house for a trial lesson. That was it. I was hooked. These are the reasons why I started learning a different language. Since that day, my life has changed. For the next three years, I worked as a nurse, saved a lot of money, and took English classes a few times a week. During this time, I knew I wanted to study abroad and live in a country where people speak English so I could improve my English skills dramatically. The best way to learn a different language is to use it every day, all the time. I still remember the day my airplane landed at the airport in Australia. It was so strange because it was so cold and snowing 27

in Japan when I left, and just after eight hours, it was so dry and hot! I could feel the hot air—the temperature was nearly a hundred degrees Fahrenheit—and the strong sun was burning my skin. I lived in Australia for a total of a year and three months. During this time, I attended an English language school and had a part-time job as a waitress. I met so many people and got better at communicating with them. I watched the news on TV and got better at listening. I attended school and got better at reading and writing. Improving my English was one thing, but I also gained confidence every day. My life in Australia was one of the most memorable experiences in my life. After I came back from Australia, I started going to the same English school again. I was in a beginners’ class before, and now I was placed in an advanced class! You can probably imagine my excitement! My English teachers were surprised how much my English had improved and praised me so much, which led to gaining more confidence. I needed continuous learning to maintain what I had gained. One day, I met a guy. He was an American living in Japan who spoke almost no Japanese. We became friends and shared a lot of time together. Every time we met, conversations flowed. This would not have been possible if it was not for me speaking good English. I was so proud of myself. I was his translator wherever we went, and, of course, he became my future husband. After we got married and had a baby, my husband wanted to move back to the United States for many reasons. Well, let’s say that was not my plan at all. I wanted to be close to my parents and my sister, but at the same time, I was not scared because I knew I could do it. I spoke enough English to live in America. I will never forget the day I left my own country to forever live in a different country. I had my parents and a couple of close friends at the airport. We got there a few hours early, so we decided to have lunch. I was thinking how I did not want to say goodbye and to make my parents sad the whole time we were eating. The time passed very slowly because I was dreading the last moment. How 28

often would I get to come back and see them? Hopefully, once a year. When we finally said goodbye, we were just in tears, but my parents stayed positive for the sake of me and my future. This is still one of the saddest days of my life. So life went on. We relocated to the United States and landed at the airport in San Antonio in July 2010. I could not believe how hot it was! That reminded me of Australia when I first landed at the airport. From this time, I studied so hard to pass an English test and nursing examination, but I was always confident I could do it because I already had foundations. And the biggest part was that I had my husband’s support. To sum up, learning a different language definitely opened up my world in so many ways. I think this is a great example. My husband spoke no Japanese when I first met him. How was he able to live in Japan? I cannot live in America speaking only in Japanese. This is the difference. It was possible for my husband simply because he spoke English. English is a global language, and it is becoming more necessary and important for education. Everyone learns English at school and has some knowledge of it. Studying abroad and speaking English made me realize how important it is to connect to people in the world and have better global perspectives. English in the medical field is very difficult as well, but I have been working as a nurse in this country and have never been more proud of myself. To return to my original question, why did I start learning English in the first place? I simply wanted to watch movies in English without subtitles. Did I achieve this goal? Yes. I did.

“Classroom” By Paul Lemus I am honored by those who believe in the benevolence of my promises Gentle wishes and noble thoughts fill my wandering mind’s expanse Sudden intakes of luscious aromas persuade a smile’s coming An instructor’s patient words carry my mental mind down charming wonders I am dragged back by the clock’s hand prompting me to conclude this day’s academic wanders To whom it may concern This day holds victorious ringings

“Learning World” By Maria Serrano Pineda To begin, back in 2013, I had the most important learning experience that changed my life. My family and I had to move from Mexico to the United States. It was a very hard situation that taught me the importance of giving my best; it was very frustrating, but my parents needed my support. Eventually, I started to work cleaning a school; my dad found a job to stay with us, and in addition, we were able to buy a mobile home. I learned so many things, not necessarily academically but personally and professionally. I learned how to drive, gain knowledge, and improve my English, but most importantly, I became more self-confident. In 1979, when my dad was fifteen years old, he started coming to the United States to work on a farm. After a couple of years, my dad was able to get his resident card. At the age of twenty-one, he got married to my mother, and they had four fabulous kids. As they grew up, my dad decided to start the process for our documents, but his decision was a little late. At that time, my big brother and big sister were twenty-six and twenty-three; sadly, they were not able to get documents. Only my little brother and I did. Back in 2013, when my brother was ten years old and I was seventeen years old, my parents decided to come to San Antonio just to get our original resident card, and we spent some days in my aunt’s house. My dad had a talk with us. He asked if we wanted to stay or go back. We did not want to stay, but my sister and brother in Mexico insisted that we stay here, telling us that it was a better opportunity for us and so forth. For my mom, it was heartbreaking. She did not want to leave her other two kids. It was difficult, but we decided to stay. My dad found a mobile home to rent, and we went to take a look at it. The next day my dad had to leave us since he needed it to go back to work, and it was out of the state. 31

The first night we stayed in the house, it was horrible. I was so afraid of everything. The house did not have curtains, and I could see the shadows of the trees pass over the window that made horror thoughts in my mind. You could also hear the noise of the raccoons between the walls. In addition, it was during the hottest month of the year, and we were sweating. The next morning, we walked outside and found an old table and a rusty chair that we cleaned and used for our kitchen and a big rock to wash our clothes. After time passed by, my dad found a job in San Antonio so he could stay with us. They did not pay him adequately, and I could see him struggling. My mom did not know how to read or write, and she had epilepsy. I wanted to help. I still remember her words like they were yesterday. She stated, “We are going to get through this.” So I decided to ask my neighbor to take me to a school since I had heard they were needing people to clean. I asked the receptionist to help me apply for the job. Finally, I got a job as a janitor in an elementary school. Now my problem was, how am I going to go? I did not know how to drive, but thankfully, my neighbor kindly drove me to the job for a couple of months. Suddenly, in around four months, my dad found an old 1998 Nissan Quest, so I used it and started driving little by little until I was able to get my driver’s license. I felt so good because now I was able to help my mom run some errands and take her to the doctor if necessary. During my stay at the school, I met a third-grade teacher: Mrs. King, a bilingual teacher. She was an Angel for me. We used to have some conversations, and one Wednesday evening, she asked me if I was interested in going to school. I said, “Of course, I am.” The following week, she took me to the ESL school, stayed with me for the orientation, and helped me with the first step. I persisted there for a couple of years. My vocabulary, writing, speaking, and understanding grew—not perfectly, but better than in the beginning. In the same school, they offered some programs. One of them was medical coding and billing, and I decided to take the chance to learn 32

something new. I was thinking that it could help to add that to my resume. I was still afraid because of the language, but I did my best. In my mother’s words, “If you do not jump into the sea, you will not be able to learn how to swim.” In fact Google Translate was and continues to be my partner on occasions when I do not understand. When I finished the class, I wanted to do something new—something like a different job—so I decided to apply in a medical office as a receptionist. It was tough, but after a few attempts, I got the position, and that is where I work now. I added more vocabulary to my mind. It is exhausting having to live check by check; that is why I am now continuing with college to get a better quality of life and be able to help support my family and others that need me. To summarize, even though it was a complicated situation, we struggled, and it was worth it. I had the best reward. We worked incredibly hard to achieve some of our goals, and it took some years to start accommodating our lives. Now I am seeing life differently, but all I can say is, “We did it.” When I look back, I realize that God never left us alone. We all went through it for a purpose. He had something better for us, and during this time, I met extraordinary people. I called them my angels, and I will have them always in my heart. My parents are the best I could have, always supporting each other.

“The Truth” By Danielle Salazar All these past few months How can one even comprehend Just don’t know if one ever could Now here it is the time has come Got to do this one thing one thing But this one thing has turned into a nightmare Who could think about ever becoming a parent Everything just happens for a reason Who can go look and judge people all around They’re dealing with the same challenge It can be such a shameful thing Something one never planned for Look around for the sign of courage It will touch just like a cloud touches the sky The head keeps speaking Everything's gonna be alright Like it used to say In the kitchen all the time ‘My sweet child’ don’t give up There someday will be incredible things Show everyone the hidden talents Just one hug right now is all it needs The heart just feels struggles and pain Those feelings it stays trying to hide The mind has adapted to hiding all the lies Used to covering the emptiness That a big heart holds inside.

Quiet Space By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Photograph

“Outside My Window” By Francisco Zertuche

Outside my window Sun shining on the water Sparkles like the stars.

Trees of Life By Tiffany Butler

Digital Art

“Paradigm Shift of the Inevitable” By Connie Pullen There is no way of knowing what happens to the soul after death or what happens, if anything, once the brain stem becomes non-functional and breathing ceases. Outside of the simplistic, physically proven dying processes, the various estimations of what follows are plentiful. From many distinct religious faiths, diverse philosophical opinions to spiritdriven ceremonial creeds, all the way to several reports of those that die, are later resuscitated and profess to have out of body experiences. Although the afterlife or lack thereof cannot be scientifically proven, revolutionizing the uncertainty of human beliefs, reactions, and discussions surrounding the subject is possible. Numerous well-versed poems, all with separate renditions ofdeath written throughout history, prove that this paradigm shift is possible with just a little nudge of poised imagination. There is no comparison to the repeatedly snubbed topic of death in physical conversation to the abundance of literary compositions of the subject, particularly poetry. Perhaps this is because processing the feelings that a person has in the carnal world in terms of mortality is better left to articulate on paper than verbally, as was the story of Emily Dickinson, a renowned lyricist of the 19th century that is still captivating her readers. Emily Dickinson was said to be a young woman that shunned interaction to the extent of conversing from the confines of her apparent writing haven, as her sister unearthed some eighteen hundred poems in the wake of her death. Rumored that almost one-fourth of the handiwork produced by the peculiar Emily Dickinson was comprised of death's theme, some scholars allege Dickinson was obsessed or mesmerized by the topic. Of her extensive collection, in one of her lyric poems, "Because I could not stop for Death," Dickinson goes to great 38

lengths to ensure her readers that death is not evil nor is it harsh and forbidding. The first stanza begins by personifying death as a gentleman, and she follows by allowing the reader to capture the essence of his placidness upon approach: "Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me" (1-2). Not only is Dickinson denoting death being generous in choosing his time for her, but she distinctly clarifies this was kind on his part. She enlightens that he did not hurry as "he knew no haste," courting her past the phases of her living (5). Moreover, "[f]or his civility," she obliged by keeping her fears at bay and trusting him to extinguish her (8). This poem adds a picturesque depth to death's theme by viewing it as a voyage not to dread. An even more compelling piece than Dickinson's work is one of John Donne's Holy Sonnets, "Death, be not proud." This fantastic play of words takes the egotistical pride, seeming "mighty and dreadful" and personifies it with noble domination, proving that just as the physical body dies, "Death, thou shalt die" (2, 14). With bold absoluteness being projected back at death, the author declares it is just "[o]ne short sleep past, we will wake eternally" (13). Donne proposes here the product of an existing afterlife by advising to death that even at its most daunting moment, it is consumed by eternal life after just a short rest. Donne exposes death as merely a "slave" to the numerous ways it encompasses the world's misfortunes (9). There is no luck, divine intervention, nor any ruler or "desperate men" beneath the pride of death (9). Nor is death, the ruler of potions, curses, or crusades, going as far as to mock the arrogance of death by adding "poppy or charms can make us sleep as well" (11). By this correlation, Donne compares death's trademark to that of anesthetics or sorcery, which only encompasses their victims for a moment in time. John Donne minimizes the fear both to death itself and to his readers in a very keen tone, giving death no authority to steal the joy of patrons. Even in Donne's firm contention towards death and its arrogance, both he and Dickinson exude a nostalgic tempo in 39

the assured works having published. On the contrary, Dylan Thomas creates an anxious, fearful rhythm in "Do not go gentle into that good night." Its contradiction of not willfully entering into death, represented here as the night that the author himself has deemed good, proves to be an impractical resistance. Why would a person be reluctant to go anywhere described as good? The refrain's urgency and devout resistance, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," creates a constant fear and anxiousness of the dimming light and entering into the night (3). The poem leaves a distaste about death that creates a lifetime of anxiety and worthless worry. Being the dying light is inevitable. Death is only another living phase, therefore making it a paradigm the human mind can shift. Living every day dreadfully or in fear of the next is a thief of joy, pride, and confidence, understanding that the advancement of a successful life revolves around entrusting the other side of complacency. Each stage of success conquered is considered an advancement, and without a positive paradigm shift, no matter the outcome, the success is tried on the confidence and courage possessed upon the approach. Allowing the mind to doubt the soul's ability to supersede death is a failure within itself. With the proper paradigm shifts throughout life stages, there are only higher levels of success achieved. Having determined death is just another stage of living; entrusting the soul's journey in the afterlife is simply another successful level achieved. Works Cited Dickinson, Emily. "Because I could not stop for Death." Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org/poem/ because-i-could-not-stop death-479. Accessed 12 Nov. 2020. Donne, John. "Death, be not proud." Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org/poem/death-be-not-proud-holy-sonnet-10. Accessed 12 Nov. 2020. Thomas, Dylan. "Do not go gentle into that goodnight." Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, www. poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-goodnight. Accessed 12 Nov. 2020.

Minusinsk Winter Park By Stanislav Kovalchuk

Photograph

“The Art of Waiting” By Flor Calixto I’m tired of waiting. Watching the life of others through windows; Car windows, store windows, restaurant windows That should be me Me, me, me The want tugs at my heart; a string hung from my mouth and yanked every which way. It is sure to one day be ripped from my chest, passaged through my mouth, lips cherry blood-stained and quivering. And then what? What will become of me when the thing that keeps my body alive is no good? What is my life without the yearning, without the hours spent in my mind creating new worlds to live in Will I surrender to the earth, the gravity of life leaving me defeated and decayed But honestly, what is the difference I have been left to the worms of life long before

You Can Regrow By Jemma Tremillo

Digital Art

“Debajo la misma luna” By Jessica Niño Mi niña adorada Cada día sin ti Es un día sin fin Un día largo Sin ver tu sonrisa Lágrimas llenan mi camisa Te amo niña mía Con el poder de mil soles Y la luz de estrellas infinitas Deseo para ti Miles de sonrisas Y una felicidad Que llena el mundo de tu luz Cuando te vea Te esperaré con un campo de flores Cada flor Dedicada a ti Y en el otoño cuando esas flores se sequen Se irán con el viento Igual que las mariposas Y me tendré que ir otra vez Pero soñaré en verte Cada noche

Al igual que lo hago ahora

“Under the Same Moon” By Jessica Niño (translation by Spencer Galvan) My dearest daughter Every day without you Is endless A long long day Without seeing your smile Tears fill my shirt I love you my child With the power of a thousand suns And the light of infinite stars I wish/want for you Thousands of smiles And a happiness That fills the world with your light When I get to see you I will wait for you with a field of flowers Each flower Dedicated to you And in the fall When those flowers dry up They’ll go on the breeze Just like the butterflies And I’ll have to go away again But I’ll dream of seeing you Each night

Just the same as I do right now

Still Rose By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Photograph

“Secrets” By Jessica Niño A quick in and out, that's what they said it would be. Saturday, October 3rd, 6:30 P.M. I pull my caramel hair into a ponytail with one hand and pull my bangs out with the other. My suit and dress stare back at me, hanging still on the closet door. The task is simple: show up to the exhibition, get the keycard to the secret tunnel door, and return later to complete the heist. I gloss my lips with the red lipstick on the hotel dresser. I’m being paid to do this, and I'm more prepared than anyone else to carry this through. Chills sneak up my spine; with the amount of heists I've completed, one would think jitters were nonexistent, but I always get them before a mission. I slip my black glitter dress on, matching it with gold and black stilettos. I should be swimming in piles of money by this time tomorrow. Don’t sweat it. Saturday, October 3rd, 8:00 P.M. For a museum filled with such prestigious art, The Louvre security was pretty loose during its exhibition times. The afterparty is soon to begin, so I make my way into the designated room and drift around acting interested in the conversations others are having. I signal the waiter for a glass, and he approaches accordingly. I pick a glass off the tray, watching the soft amber bubbles float up to the top. I hear soft chatter to my right and turn slowly hoping to make easy conversation. Two tall men smile at me, extending hands. “Matt,” one says. “Clark,” says the other. “Peyton,” I say, raising my glass to avoid shaking hands. After hours of small talk and quick chatter, I decide to call it a night. I just need that damn key card. I look around; someone around here has to have it. Matt glances over at me, and, in an attempt to get away, I start the other way. As I pick up the pace, I continue looking around for a card. 47

Distracted, I slam into Clark, and a white keycard flies out of his pocket, along with the glass and rose he was holding in his left hand. Shaken from the impact, he looks straight at me, in total disregard of his belongings, with eyes wide open and holding my arms as if to catch me from tumbling backwards. I use this as an opportunity to step on the card, covering it completely. “In a rush?” He asks. “For what?” I reply. I bend down and let my dress drape over my heels as I reach for the rose and he reaches for the glass. He straightens back up and lends his arm to help me do the same. I give him my hand and the rose, as I use the other to tuck the card into the bottom inside of my heel. “This was actually for you,” he says, holding the rose out. “Cute,” I answer, accepting it. I turn to the door, careful not to make eye contact with Matt or Clark, but Clark follows after me. “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” “Taxis become harder to catch.” “I can drive you back,” he offers. “Meet me here before sunrise. We'll find a place to eat then be their first spectators of the day.” Sunday, October 4th, 1:33 A.M Let’s get this show on the road.. I throw my dress into a tub of bleach and change into my black suit. I make my way back to The Louvre and find it lifeless. She’s so calm at dusk. With my gun and blade on my hip and key in my hand, I make my way to the tunnel behind the pyramid. Inside, I find myself alone. No guards or security systems in sight. That’s strange. I pile all the paintings by the back door, making sure not to disturb their original form. As I place the last one, I hear a soft shuffle and swing around. When I turn, I face a blade, centimeters from the bridge of my nose. “Aspen?” exclaims the voice behind the dagger. I look to find a pair of eyes I know too well. Staring back at me is the man I almost married, the only one who knows my real 48

name. “Tyler,” I whisper. “I guess the secrets that tore us apart are pulling us together.” He withdraws his blade. “How long?” he asks, waving the knife. “Nine years.” “Aren’t you tired of working for others?” he asks. I don't answer. “I know I am,” he continues. “I’m doing what I’m told,” I interrupt. “Aspen . . . you know this is what tore us apart. All the secrets. I'll drop everything if you will. It’s not like we need to work anymore anyways. I’ve been looking for you since the day you left. Even after all those years, I hoped to find you.” “Stop it!” I say, pressing my blade against his throat. He steps back, putting his blade behind mine, releasing his neck from the pressure. The released tension makes both blades tumble across the room. “C’mon, Asp! What do you say?” He leans close, and I pull closer. Slamming him against the floor, I pull my gun out and point it straight at his temple. “I’m not the same girl I was eight years ago,” I answer. Sunday, October 4th, 7:05 A.M. The sun is rising. I switch on the T.V. and flip through the channels. C’mon, where are you? A channel finally answers: “Breaking news, reports flood in informing that The Louvre experienced multiple crimes overnight including a robbery and a homicide. There is an active investigation happening live, as officials claim they already have a suspect in custody. Detectives claim he was walking around the premises before sunrise and fit the description that officials received from a caller informing them about the overnight heist . . . .” A quick in and out. That’s what it was.

“Disconnected” By Rashida Wood with life, with time, with you, myself . . . Your touch doesn’t excite me anymore. It seems to be less and less effort when it comes to me. US . . . intimacy. I miss ecstasy, not just sexually but mentally

with you. Ur touch, Our love . . . where’s the patience with me? The consistency I fell in love with? Where’d that all go? I’m stuck, unbalanced . . . just need my sanity back. I shouldn’t depend on you to help mend the brokenness, But shouldn't you? When you were partially to blame for the reasons of uncertainty you left me with?

“Mrs. Mallard’s Awakening” By Anthony Rubio “The Story of An Hour” is a short story centered upon the protagonist, Mrs. Mallard, who has just been informed about her husband’s sudden death. Although she should feel an overcoming sense of sadness and despair, she instead is awakened, joyful about her life and how fortunate she is to continue on without her husband’s domineering presence looming. This short story is a symbolic tale of the role that women played in the 1800s, a role that burdened and caged women into positions of submission and abuse. Mrs. Mallard is representative of the women that society and men helped to enslave, and Mr. Mallard is characteristic of the society that silenced women and put them in a lower hierarchal position to men. While Mrs. Mallard is with her husband, she is being forced to live a false life, and when he is gone, she is free to be the woman that she truly is. Kate Chopin uses symbolism within “The Story of An Hour” to illustrate the ways in which the protagonist is feeling about the death of her husband, who chained her to an unfulfilling life. First, Kate Chopin shows the progression of Louise Mallard by giving her various names. At the beginning of the short story, Louise is known as just “Mrs. Mallard” (Chopin, par. 1). However, the story immediately mentions her husband’s name, “Brently Mallard,” within the first paragraph, and this only continues to reinforce the societal ladder of that time. The name “Mrs. Mallard” implies that Louise belongs to someone else, that she is Mr. Mallard’s wife and not her own person. This title at the beginning overshadows her own identity and is symbolic of the role that women would play during this time. As the story nears its end, Louise begins to see the new life she could have now that her husband is gone, and it is then that Chopin finally introduces her protagonist as “Louise”: “Louise, open the door! I beg; . . . you will make yourself ill” (par. 17). Her sister Josephine is knocking on the door to provide solace for her sister, but she does not understand that within the span of an hour, Louise has found herself and is anything but ill. Chopin giving Louise her name 51

back after the death of her husband represents that without the hand of society on her, she is truly free to take back her name and thus take back her life in the process. Additionally, Kate Chopin is introducing a lot of forwardthinking ideas in her short story, and she has the power to deliver a strong message without outwardly saying it. There is a correlation between the way that Chopin writes and the way that women had to disguise themselves and their true feelings during this time. Quoting Chopin, “[S]he [Mrs. Mallard] did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance” (par. 3). This exemplifies the idea that Louise is very aware of her situation as a woman, and she is aware of how the death of her husband will affect her life. Many of the expectations of women were upheld by the presence of their husbands, both in private and in public settings. This constant supervision of Mrs. Mallard by her husband forced her to deny herself and live as her husband told her to. With the death of Mr. Mallard, Mrs. Mallard is free to be Louise. So, it is true that Louise does not hear the news the way other women would have heard it; she hears of her husband’s death with a sense of solace, and she instead weeps over the death of Mrs. Mallard. Furthermore, as Louise weeps, she sheds her past life and waters the new growth, which sprouted from the wound that her husband left her. There is frequent mention of crying and rain within “The Story of An Hour”; rain and crying are used to symbolize healing and new beginnings for Louise. This is further illustrated by the comparison of Louise to a child: “She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep and continues to sob in its dreams” (Chopin, par. 7). Just like crying and rain, children are a symbol of new life; those tears are not for her husband, but they are symbolic of Louise and her own rebirth and renewed self. The way that Louise is shaken by these cries, in her stillness, is likened to the way that Louise’s inner self, which has been hidden from the world, is waking her up and forcing her to shed the person that she was and transform into the person that she is. This emotional boiling over is releasing Louise from the chains in which her husband bound her. 52

The reader is brought to an abrupt end; just as Louise has realized the freedom that exists without her husband, he walks right through the door and attempts to recapture her: “When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that kills” (Chopin, par. 23). Chopin uses irony to relay her point: Louise is joyful about the idea of life without her husband, and when he walks through the door, that is all taken away from her. It is impossible for Louise to go back to living the way she had been living; she is now awakened and will not be bound again. Chopin gives Louise both a literal and symbolic death in the moment that Mr. Mallard walks through the front door. She dies of a heart attack because his hand wraps right around her and attempts to chain her back up, but she leaves before it has a chance to take her. Chopin uses the literal death of Louise to symbolize how women should shed that old life of submission by killing off that oppressed person inside and setting themselves free. The death at the end of this story is another level of freedom, which Louise was able to experience. In conclusion, Kate Chopin does a lot of important work with her short story. She not only highlights the barriers that women had to endure for lifetimes, but she also builds up hope for the character and breaks it down similarly to the ways in which women were broken down in the past. Kate Chopin uses the characters Mr. and Mrs. Mallard to show the dynamic that existed between men and women as well as the physical and emotional harm that came from that power imbalance. Chopin does this by including a lot of metaphorical language, which successfully develops the character Louise and her feelings towards her husband and the role he created for her. Louise Mallard is able to find herself within an hour because she is able to realize her power and the life that she deserves to live. In the end, Louise does not die of joy but of a choice, and that choice is to live in freedom or die. This story creates a platform for a very important conversation that must be had, and continuously had, to ensure that these power dynamics are abolished completely. Works Cited Chopin, Kate. “The Story of an Hour.” KateChopin.org, The Kate Chopin International Society, 12 Feb. 2016, www.katechopin.org/story-hour/.

“The Cracked Doll” By Jamie M. Brock I try to hold myself together yet, I crack like the porcelain dolls I’ve seen before me. Chipping pieces of myself slowly away. The longer time passes, the more I lose myself. Not able to find those glass pieces. The glue can only work for so long, Until there is nothing left to put together. That once gentle doll has fallen.

Trying so hard to put everything back, But it’s never the same. I try hiding the cracks, but they scar that pretty face. Memories can’t forget, anger that holds on. I want to forget, forgive and flourish, However, I can’t. The cracks are too prevalent now.

The Boat By Timothy Hernandez

Digital Art

“More Than a Best Friend” By Lesley Duenas I found you unexpectedly one Tuesday, You fell into my lap as if it was meant to be, You were greeting me at my door just yesterday, I know you're waiting for me. I still hear your nails clinking across the room, I still smell the scent of your soap, I still feel your warmth when I'm alone, I still see our memories vividly. It felt unbearable to face reality, My heart shattered with despair, You will always be part of our family, The world felt so unfair, I’m content you're at peace, But I await the day you can be with me.

The Cycle of Life By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Oil Paint

Balance By Jemma Tremillo

Digital Art

“My Majestic Feline” By Chelsea Frias I have a cat named Reese. In fact, she is black. Not too slim, not too fat. She sleeps on a mat, with her toy rat, that she chews on like a snack. Sometimes she is a brat. When I call her, she just lies back like she wants a pat. I hate when she creeps out of the darkness like a bat and attacks my legs from the back. I hiss at her; she hisses back and then runs out of the room with an arched back like a scaredy cat. I look at her and say, “Cat! That is it; no more catnip for you!” FACTS!

“Right Where You Left Me” By Jessica Niño 262 days. 262 days have gone by since I last heard from you. 262 days since I heard your beautiful raspy voice sting my ears, and 262 days without that warm, comforting smell of grass and berries that always seemed to follow you. The last I got from you was a note you left on our rustic, wooden table in the kitchen that read, “I will be right back; don’t worry. I Love You!” I stared out and looked at the fields through the open door and windows of our little house. I knew I was supposed to wait for you. I always did. But for how long? All of our neighbors call me insane for putting up with you. They all tell me I should move on and make something of myself. When I visit town, I’m always asked about you. “How long has it been?” “When was the last time you heard anything?” “How much longer are you going to put up with this?” Those were the questions I was asked . . . the questions I wasn’t asked were always meaner and whispered in a much harsher manner. The worst part is I don’t have an answer. I don’t have an answer to any of their questions or mine. This is the longest you’ve been gone. Ever since I met you, I knew you’d fall off the face of the Earth occasionally, but this is starting to become a really bad habit, and I'm not sure how much longer my patience for you will hold. If I knew that warm summer night when you promised me the moon and stars that you’d leave to go and find them on your own, I would’ve told you they looked better from that sunflower field where you held my hand and I held our plans for the future. Ch. 1 I shifted my gaze from the stars to the breathtaking view 60

that lay next to me. How could someone be so beautiful? I thought as I admired the features I had learned to love and memorize about him. I couldn’t see them then, but his opal eyes were my favorite. They could hold your soul if you dared look into them. I, of all people, would know. The strong bridge of his nose poked over the rest of his face’s silhouette and softened at its end, leading my gaze to the rosy lips I had dreamed of time and time again. I was wearing my favorite dress; a rather simple tawny brown dress that hugged my chest and waist and flowed from my hips to my ankles. The sleeves were my favorite! They ran loosely from the end of my collarbones to my wrists, and the poufy, oversized material was not too noticeable but still added a nice touch to the simplicity of the dress. As my eyes made my way to his chin, he finally turned to look at me, piercing me once again with those eyes. If I had known two weeks ago that we would be laying together in the sunflower field outside my house admiring the stars and that those stolen glances would lead to us finally meeting, I would’ve tried to prepare myself better. The truth is that I was not prepared at all for Tolip, or “tol” as his friends called him, to show up at my door that night and ask me to hang out in my sunflower field. The same sunflower field that I grew for years on end and learned to love was finally giving back to me for once! I felt flushed as the man, whom I had wondered about so many times in the past few weeks during my city runs, stood at my doorstep and asked, “Are you busy right now? Never mind. That’s dumb. I'm sure you are. I just wanted to say your sunflower field is gorgeous. Is itcool if I check it out? Is that weird? That’s very weird . . . I’m sorry.” The pure abundance of surprise and awkwardness he showed made me laugh as he tried to find the right words to express his seemingly deep appreciation for the field. “It’s a little weird . . .,” I said through a giggle, “but you can check it out,” I added, in an attempt to comfort him. “This is another weird line . . . but—” 61

“Oh, you have more?” I pitched in jokingly. “Would you want to join me?” he finished. For a moment, I just stood there and stared with shock. Was this real? Like, actually, was this really happening right now? There was only one way to find out. “Sure!” I replied, trying not to seem too wonderstruck. Realizing he wouldn’t know the way around the intimidatingly tall maze of flowers, I took the lead. The next few weeks were full of midnight runs around the field, star gazing, secret sharing, and stolen glances. I had learned he was “blue collar,” part of the working class who did any job around town. He was a hard-working man, really. He told me a lot of city men had accused him of stealing and sent him to jail as a nuisance. I don't know how much of it I believed—Surely, he wasn’t a crook, but could he have been falsely accused? He mentioned leaving town some weekends, claiming he had business to tend to elsewhere, but he promised to bring me something next time he went out. The conversation still rings in my ears. “What will you bring me?” “The moon and the stars!” he smiled, as those opal eyes tugged at my heart. “Ha, I’d like to see how well you’d execute that, plus I don’t think I have a box big enough to store them in!” “Well, I guess I’ll look for one of those too.” You can imagine my surprise when I walked into my house two weeks later only to find a folded note on my table that read, “I will be right back. Don’t worry. I Love You!”

Los Cabo’s Rocks By Stephanie Ocura

Photograph

“Components of the Colorful Stacked Sack” By James McGuire In the corner of the brilliantly lit room sit hundreds of even brighter sacks of every color contained within the rainbow. My sack, crumpled and compressed, is hidden in the middle of the room beneath dozens of others and reflects multi-colors of white, green, and orange. These colors appropriately represent the grand flag of Ireland, where the family of McGuire first originated. Once this tri-colored sack tips over and the contents of the bag are spilled upon the dark hardwood floors begging for moisture, the sack then reveal a very complex set of contents. These contents are so many in number that it is impossible for anyone to conceive this tri-colored sack could hold such an immeasurable collection of components incomprehensible to anyone without interpretation of this foreign language of ingredients. This allusive multi-colored sack would unfold into a compassionate caring mortal human being. As the contents poured onto the floor descending in between the other colored sacks betwixt, one could view that these contents were seemingly both insightful and inciteful. First to the floor is the four-inch hair from a black bear stained with the blood of a fourteen-year-old boy; beside the hair lay a small block of wood, once used to hold up the world of a young boy now used as a weapon to be used in flight catapulted by the force of a young teenager. Yet another weapon on the floor is a small, chiseled rock stained by the blood from the forehead of a long lost yet not forgotten brother. A two-dollar bill emerges torn, worn, and mangled, touched by the hands of both the forgotten dead and the fingers of those who still breathe breath yet are not alive. Seeking for contents, as one moves the bags around, two diamond rings are hiding together, both at one point in time 64

worth a pirate’s treasure and, nevertheless, now contain no worth. Drops of cold rain begin to drip from the paper sack, which upon first glance appear to be tiny raindrops collectively leading to a disastrous encounter one late evening, but as the rains always eventually subside, the drips out of the bags do not and unveil themselves collectively to be not only the neverending tears of lifelong pain and regret but the collective tears of the victims of malicious behavior, wrongfully prejudiced, the unjustly incarcerated in both mind and body, and those that so passionately want to replace the hate with love in the world but are met by the discouraging avalanche of animosity, seemingly insurmountable. While the actual contents of my Irish-colored sack may be somewhat unique to me, the emotions associated with the contents are not. All individuals have contents in their sacks exclusive to themselves; nevertheless, the emotions of sadness, regret, longing, grief, sorrow, and despair, as well as happiness, laughter, comfort, and joviality bestowed upon us at birth are all equivalent. If we look inside, we are all unified.

“Nighttime Wonders” By Alejandro Alvarez-Riojas Eyes initially shut like earth is asleep Perspiration on my forehead much like morning dew at dawn I wonder of the dreams previously and ponder on what they might mean Running and screaming, things I can’t unsee Leaping over fences and sticks to flee from an ominous dark figure The stomping of my feet lands so hard I can feel the earth’s heart beat I trip and suddenly feel the need to squeal The sensation of pain like I’ve wounded my Achilles’s heel I am paralyzed hip down like a predator’s meal It felt like the best type of pain excreting like a great deal I lay and say a prayer for the foe that has wounded me For he is the reason I stay awake at night Because when I awake, the day is bright Despite the nightmares I will be alright

Tree of Knowledge By Tiffany Butler

Digital Art

“I’m Just a Wooden Fence” By Shannon Morris I used to look good in the sunlight I now look even better I once was plain and bland I now have a snow white look I am just a wooden fence I used to hide the blossoms behind me I now emphasize the tranquility of a weed I am in that storybook fairytale I stand out next to the neighbors’ chickens I am just a wooden fence I am designed to show my triangles I have wooden texture I still look beautiful on cloudy rainy days I complement the lush green grass I am just a wooden fence I enjoy the “chirp”—”chirp”—chirping of birds that land on me I watch animals grow small to big I am here standing still I am, after all, just a wooden fence

“Things You’ll Never Know until You Have One of Your Own” By Carrie Rosales It is all but a fanciful idea until you are placed in my arms. This warm bundle of creation that has sprung from within me squints and yawns and then, eyes closed, cuddles into my warm and safe embrace. I don’t know what to say. I cannot speak because for the first time in my life, I have experienced true love. As tears wash over my cheeks and small sobs of delight choke my words, I can only manage to say, “Hi there, I’m your Momma.” The nurses are all business and quickly want to whisk you away for a myriad of tests, but I reach down inside and say they will wait a little bit so I can soak you all in. Skin so soft, fingers so tiny and fragile that lock onto mine and coos of contentment immediately cause a protective reaction in me, Mom, Momma, Mommy. I will never let anything bad happen to you, sweetie, and I will always be here for you, always. We are home now to the place I spent months preparing for your arrival. People call to ask about you, and I still cannot believe how quick I am to tears just speaking about you. “Perfect” is all I can say. Nursing only creates the strongest of bonds between us, and we both look forward to feeding time, though you because you’re hungry and me because of the uninterrupted cuddles. I experience a new feeling for the first time, absolute joy. Your father and I have different parental beliefs and different beliefs on what is required to raise a healthy, responsible person. I am a single mom now. You and I had many wonderful years together, alone at home, but now I’ve had to return to work, and you are required to attend preschool. On the day before my first day of work, I experience a new feeling, a nauseating feeling, a feeling that breaks me out in cold sweats, quickens my pulse, and shortens my breath. This new feeling 69

wakes me at night and has me checking on you even more while you sleep. This feeling makes me call the preschool to check on you so much that they ask me not to call. They say I will be the first to know if there is something wrong. This sickening feeling is fear, and it is the monster in my dreams. I fear I have put you in danger of illness, put you in danger of minimal care, fear that the other kids will be mean. I fear I’m screwing it all up, fear you will resent me for screwing it up, and fear I’m not good enough and you know it. Time has a way of passing like a bullet train when you are a mom, and every effort to jump in front to slow it down is futile. I celebrate every first as though it is worthy of an Academy Award. I want you to have a well-rounded childhood so there’s gymnastics, baseball, soccer, swimming, hiking, and lots of reading. I make every weekend we are together an adventure, a hopeful stored memory: fun, laughter, and full of love. We spend summers travelling between grandparents so everyone can love on you and form that most important bond. I’m a PTA-Mom, homeroom Mom, teamMom, and fundraising queen. I slice oranges, wash uniforms for the team, bake for the team, buy goodie bags for the team, and host as many birthday parties as possible. I do my best to shower you with affection, fun experiences, and lots of laughter so that you will never notice the absence of your father from games, practices, and weekends. Motherhood is full of dilemmas; should I always come to the rescue or let you figure it out? Do I let you learn life lessons like I had to or shield you from those familiar hurts? Is a “spoiled” child really such a bad thing? I don my sword and shield and do my best to protect you from all possible hurts and earn an imaginary rescue squad badge. Throughout our childhood and adolescence together, I have done my best, though I know I fell short of perfect. I tried to lead by example and show you love, hard work, integrity, independence, responsibility, and how to face struggle as bravely as possible. You are what society calls an adult, but you will always be 70

my child, no matter your age. And now I have experienced a feeling that is not new to me but this time feels so much more raw: heartache. I can feel you are going through something but won’t talk to me. All the old doubts and fears are front and center and slapping me in the face every time I look in the mirror. I feel you struggling emotionally even if you are in the next room or hundreds of miles away. I have been shut out of your life and given the silent treatment for months and years now. And I now have confirmation of my original fears: I screwed it up, I wasn’t good enough, and you know it. So what am I to do? My only solace is through prayer and hope. I pray you can find forgiveness, and I pray I can forgive myself. I pray you will call on our early years together and all the happiness. I pray you will remember I was always there for you when others were not. I pray you still feel my love and know I am still here for you, always. And I hope one day, you will have a wonderful revelation when you hold your own child as to what it means to be a parent. I hope you forgive yourself for not being perfect and falling short. I hope you learned from my mistakes and don’t repeat them. And I hope you have the wonderful experiences I had of true love and absolute joy.

“He” By Amanda Al Janahi There is beauty in his eyes. His mind is a puzzle trying to put the pieces together He stares, he scripts, he jumps, he laughs. I won’t let Autism define him. He is my sun. His heart is my life. He will succeed.

I won’t let Autism define him.

“Bag of Burdens” By Alejandro Alvarez-Riojas People are crafted by their past, and although people may take the same path, they are never constituted by the same things. As Zora Neale Hurston explains, everyone has a bag of sorts, small little things that could define us and make us who we are. Inside my “bag” would just be a few things: a few bits of broken circuit boards I could never fix; my water-damaged first phone I'm convinced will have pictures of my long dead dog. A Ben 10 bracelet from my first girlfriend that I lost almost immediately, but I could never tell her because I was afraid she would fall apart with the news. A book full of ideas that I wanted to build but never had the courage to do because of the fear of failure. As much as I want my bag to be unique, I don't believe it is; everyone has things that they carry with them emotionally or think about often. Although we may carry different things with us, they are essentially the same in the end: objects we will always lug around with us till the day we die.

“My Nursing Journey” By Rebecca R. Charro The journey of becoming an LVN was challenging; it took overcoming my parents’ divorce, relocation, and finding the passion of caregiving through my mother's sacrifices. I watched the daily struggles my mom went through while still being the best mother and certified nursing assistant she could possibly be. This is the beginning of my nursing journey. Growing up on a farm with two sisters and one brother was often fun and always exciting. My mother would always tell me I was the child who would be the leader in all our activities outdoors. Who would have known a rambunctious child like me would end up in the medical field as a nurse? After my parents’ divorce was final, we were separated for a few months. I refused to leave my father alone on his farm. The thought of my father being alone with no one to take care of him was always heavy on my heart. I loved the farm and taking me away from there would only mean no more freedom, or so I thought. My mother finally decided that she would take me to live with her and my siblings. We lived in an uncomfortable three-bedroom, two-bath mobile home. With the move, I was transferred to a new school and had to make new friends. The task of making new friends was not a top priority; I embraced my solitude. My mother started a new job working at a nursing home as a certified nursing assistant, and it was approximately seven miles from home without transportation. She walked four miles to the bus stop and would ride the bus the remainder of the way. I often thought, why would she make this sacrifice daily with little to no days off, including holidays? It seemed to me she worked every day. I would only see my mother in the morning and sometimes late at night. She worked as much as she could just to make sure we had food on the table and clothes to wear. She finally made enough money to purchase a 74

car from a friend. After purchasing the car, she decided to get a second job located in the medical center. The drive was about 30 minutes in one direction and depending on traffic could be even more. I would at times go to work with my mother and volunteer with the activities director. Her name was Kathy, and I adored her. I would help Kathy with some of her tasks and duties throughout her shift while I was there. Not only would I help Kathy with her duties, but at the same time, I would watch the nurses and the nursing assistants. I would watch the interaction with the residents and nurses and take note of the care they were given. The more I watched the staff, the more I learned how to interact with the residents. I enjoyed the interaction with the residents when it was game time, reading hour, and other activities. These experiences started my journey to become a nurse. I later enrolled in Certified Nursing Assistant classes at St. Philip's College in 2007 and completed them successfully. I started my nursing journey in the same nursing home my mother worked at. The nursing staff and the nutrition staff were always great with the residents. The holidays were always the best in my opinion. We would see many families come to be with their loved ones. There would also be some residents who had no family, and those few we loved even more. My mother would make sure the residents who had no family had gifts and would let them know they were loved by all. I had seen many nursing home staff do this year after year, not only my mother. Seeing the care my mother provided for the residents was an experience that I will never forget. She took such pride in taking care of her patients and often would tell me, “I am probably the only person they will see today, so I have to take care of them as if they were my family.” I, from then on, would understand why my mother loved to work with the elderly. I worked with my mother as a nursing assistant for approximately three years. She would always encourage me to go back to school and further my education as a licensed vocational nurse. After four years of working as a 75

nursing assistant, I finally decided to enroll in a vocational nursing school to get my license as a vocational nurse. When I finally decided to go to school full time, I continued to work as a nursing assistant on weekends and at night. I was also a full-time mother of seven kids. It was a hard year, but I successfully graduated from Quest College and received my license. I returned to Regency Manor as a Licensed Vocational Nurse. It was the best choice and an easy transition for me as well. I knew many of my residents and, best of all, the staff. I took great pride in my work. I later took on the same thought process as my mother and enjoyed taking care of my parents with honor and lots of love. To this day, all I can remember is the love my mother had for her patients, or shall I say her loved ones. She had the utmost respect and love for them that I could never understand as a kid. Now that I am a nurse and a parent, I see clearly what it meant. I have enrolled in school again at St. Philip’s, where it all started for me, to achieve my goal and to continue my nursing journey. Becoming a Licensed Vocational Nurse was no simple task; there were many obstacles that had to be overcome. The sacrifices that my mom made paved the way for my nursing journey. Now I'm on my new journey to achieve my bachelor's and possibly my master's degrees. I understand I have a long, hard road ahead, but I am willing to sacrifice it all to achieve my dream. I hope one day my children will see my sacrifice and understand my reasons to follow my dream. One day they will do the same and pursue their dreams as my mother had and later I have. All journeys lead to different roads, but I know I definitely have chosen the one for me. We all have to travel down different roads to see which will be best for us and hope that one day we chose the right one.

“Emergency!” By Adam Tellez Before the city wakes up, truck engines rev with a roar as loud as a lion, as equipment is checked for the day. The smell of diesel fills our nostrils with a lustful aroma in our ambulance bay. Sirens turn on and off for function checks, chirping like the birds who welcome the first sunlight ray. Crews ready themselves for any emergency they can be called

for today.

No call for help to us is ever planned, every plea for assistance is short notice. No matter why they call us, for rolled ankles or for when at death they are closest. No other part of our day takes precedence, not prepping, not planning, prepared meals end up the coldest. No other job could I do though, as I experience life with the

noblest, I know this.

“F.P.” By Viviana Saenz There lived a man, who lived many lives. This man was not a stranger to many; but to many, his strange actions were. This was a man who loved, over and over again. His love planted a seed throughout various parts of the world. Could this mean he was addicted to love or simply discontent with the idea of his heart belonging to just one? Was this man’s life tragic or romantic? We tend to uncover the truths of people when they roam the world, no longer. To discover their front was nothing less than a reflection of who they really were. Time is longer than we think on earth. The thing that is short is the time we spend thinking about the long-term effects of our actions and how they can affect others. There lived a man, who lived many lives.

“Tethers of Reason” By Hannah Johns Soft eyes and a lithe smile lure the woman forward But upon her the three Fates glower. For the desperate pursuit, the bold-hearted hazard Is merely to end a venture gone sour. Sentiment is disheartenment so falsely adorned As she observes a little bird, perched upon a flower. What of it? The woman ponders.

It’s just a dear little bird, with its heart upon the alders. But the baby finch, in its childish hope, soars as the winds ebb Being thus ensnared by the widow’s web. And as long as the intricate tangle presides The struggling bird can do no more than to yearn for release Because but for the mocking webbing in which it resides, The little finch would decease.

“Hidden Feelings” By Sarah Turpin The feelings kept inside Some people try to hide. They don’t let the hurt out from day to day. Although they may seem to smile, that smile is only worth a while. They may seem to be happy and gay, But that is staged only for the day. After that, the depression sinks right in And they’re lonely once again. They think about the bad, and once more they are sad. Everything is staged. You only see a smile that can hardly last a while. Once you’re gone the smile leaves too, And lonely is back again. The heart is torn apart. Depression finds its place. Scorn upon the face. Words cannot describe the feelings that they hide. Some people try to say,

”It’s only a bad day,” But you’ll never know The feelings they never show.

And then before you know it,

It’s too late even to show it. In the blink of an eye You’ll never get to say goodbye. Out the door before you could say bye. They couldn’t stay much longer. They weren’t much stronger. The lonely sank in before you could say hello again. Their feelings were hurt, so they hurt themselves, Just to let the pain out. And they let it out before they were talked out. They were alone and depressed.

Quiet and shy, tied up inside. Their feelings they did hide. A life was taken and very much mistaken. A vein was busted, chemically overdosed. It was a shame they never said goodbye. It was a shame they had to die. Their feelings they hid. They wanted out so bad. It was a shame they had to go. I will miss them so.

They must have been scared. The pain they could have shared. If only we would have listened to them a little more.

“Cooking for the Soul” By Kimberly Hebert Have you ever wondered what it would be like to create explosions of delight for one’s palette? Most people first learn to cook by watching their parents in the kitchen. Another place to learn how to throw down in the kitchen is through online groups and message boards. Once you learn the basics, you can also find employment in a kitchen where you can learn from seasoned chefs. Having friends and family over for dinner is also another way to gauge how you are progressing in your learning of this fine art. Learning to cook will teach you organization and leave you with a feeling of accomplishment, and the final product will bring friends and families together. Your parents start the process off by cooking meals for their children. When children are young, they have a desire to help with everything. This is how my son Richard and I both started. To keep them interested, a great way to begin teaching them is to have your children help plan the meals that you will cook during the week. You can also have them be your “gopher” (go-for) person. This would entail the children helping you gather all the utensils and ingredients needed for the dish, which is also a lesson in organization and steps they would have to follow by reading a recipe. My mom loved the fact that I took an interest in cooking because it helped her out on school mornings. I knew how to make many breakfast dishes, so one of my chores became making breakfast for my brothers and me. As I got older, I graduated to preparing at least one big meal a week for the family. As you can see, if you start teaching your children early, it can be beneficial to you and the young one! The cliché is true that you can learn anything by searching the Internet. Social media, YouTube, cooking Web sites, and message boards are great resources when learning how to cook. On Facebook, there are many different groups you can join. I, personally, belong to four different groups: Soul Food, Keto Club Group, Easy Chinese Cooking, and Air Fryers Recipe Club. The Keto Club group has healthy recipes. At 82

first, I was skeptical of joining this group because I am a big girl and love to eat! However, after trying a few of these delicious recipes, I was hooked! The group also gave suggestions on “dirty keto” along with straight keto options. All week long, I would eat healthily. I would have a cheat day, which normally was on Sunday, our family day. This would be the day we ate all the comfort foods. I would search different sites online for a recipe that would have visual appeal. My wife and I would choose one. My wife, son, and I would all work together to prepare the meal. By means of this routine, I have lost forty pounds in six months! All these places online will have recipes, pictures, videos, and different techniques on how to cook anything your heart desires. Another great place I learned to cook was when I went to work offshore. When I first started working there, I was hired on as a galley hand. This job entailed cleaning the dining room, setting up the pastries and desserts, making sure there was always coffee and drinks for the rig workers and fruit in the baskets, and basically keeping everything tidy. When it was slow, I would go help in the kitchen. I would help the prep cook prepare side dishes, such as vegetables and homemade cornbread, and I would help the chef with prep work. I caught on so well that I was promoted to prep cook. As I worked in that position, I used my slow time to learn from the chefs. They taught me many main dishes. Because we fed over two hundred people, there were meals that we had to prepare that stretched out, such as beans, stews, spaghetti, and meats with gravy. There were also certain days for special meals. For example, Tuesday was Mexican night, so we had tacos, enchiladas, Spanish rice, and fajitas. On Fridays, it was steak and seafood night. Since I was from Louisiana, I was also able to teach the chefs a few things, such as cooking gumbo and jambalaya! When you use your time wisely, you can learn different skills anywhere you work. My favorite reason for learning how to cook is for entertainment purposes. Food brings people together. Whether it is having friends over for dinner, a backyard BBQ, potlucks at work, or bringing a meal to someone’s home who was having a rough week as a neighborly gesture, knowing how to cook comes in handy. When all your co-workers bring a dish 83

for lunch, you also get to try new things as well. If you like the dish, this will start a conversation about the way they make the dish, which gives you new insights on different recipes and techniques. Even though a backyard BBQ is about grilling (which is another skill completely different from cooking), the side dishes, such as potato salad, baked beans, and coleslaw, bring the meal full circle. Having friends over for dinner is very satisfying because you can show off your skills and be proud of what you have learned to do. Food and people gathered around a table are sure to bring such merriment for everyone. Becoming eclectic with the types of food you cook can seem like a tedious task. However, if you open your mind to the possibilities, there are ways to learn something new every day. The greatest compliment is having your child share in the same footsteps as you by wanting to learn everything you know. By following my instincts and watching my surroundings, I feel accomplished in learning how to cook different dishes. There is no better feeling than everyone singing your praises as they gulp down your delicious meals. It has also taught me how to be more organized in everything I do on a daily basis, at home and at my job. If the drive is there, your employment can become your passion! You know you have made an impression when everyone requests certain dishes for you to make to bring to potlucks. Learning to cook will provide you with many benefits, including internal satisfaction, social acceptance, and perhaps professional opportunities!

Sour Mouth By Jamie M. Brock

Digital Art

“Judgement behind Charming Eyes” By Katrina Soto We are always taught to be kind, To always say please, And always say thank you, To not be rude, To always be polite, ‘Cause nobody likes an unkind soul, Simple. But what about what people don't see? What about our thoughts? Do the same rules apply? For, if no one knows what we are thinking, Should it really matter? If we look at someone with kind eyes, In front of discriminatory thoughts, Shouldn’t we be okay? They don’t know what we think, So, we are still kind. Right? “Treat others the way you want to be treated” What a blurred expression. Is it exclusive to our external, charming avatars, Or does it include our pure, internal psyche?

If we judge others behind a beautiful smile, How kind could we be? Who's to say we aren’t being judged too? Is it fair to belittle someone in a concealed manner, And expect not to have the same in return? 86

“Concealer” By Taylor Valadez Concealer, A nude liquid that hides what we want it to. A simple stroke across the face, An insecurity is pushed aside.

A small, slick container, Containing the power to provide, Even the smallest sliver of a sense of pride. The beauty it contains lies not in that container.

It goes on slick like butter, Sure to make someone's heart flutter.

“Rainforest Greens” By Lesley Duenas The vibrant green grass ceiba trees touching the sky green pythons bright scales

“The Reply” By Skyler Cox She is no longer that girl Who kept it bottled up inside for she had the strength Of her family, She is no longer that girl Who was drowning in her mind for she had friends to Save her from the billow’s burden, And she is no longer that girl Who was slowly breaking for she was crystallizing Invigoratingly But she is most definitely the girl Who learned to smile for herself, She is most definitely the girl Who learned to laugh with others, And she is most definitely the girl Who learned to love herself without any problem

“The Artist’s Puzzle” By Hannah Johns She walks as Death incarnate But fireworks explode in her vision Her wit is a match to ignite, A Holy Ghost’s division. With a sound mind thus defied By her pen’s ink, I seek a vision divine Which her humble words belie. Within the sea of graceful lore, I joy to find The rhyme, the time, the prose sublime A nickel, a dime, an old windmill chime And when the words capsize, I find I may surmise Where the bones of Lady Fortune lie. Artists may succeed, but rationalists only try To see the world through a truthful eye.

“Reteaching Self Inner-standing” By Rashida Wood Lost in a world I knew so well. Now I’m struggling to re-wire the shit that used to come naturally. Re-teach self love. Re-teach self worth. Re-teach self uplifting. Re-teach inner peace. Re-teach until she’s no longer lost. Re-teach until she finds the pieces that make her whole again. Re-teach until her wandering mind is focused. Re-teach until she’s reminded that she’s a Goddess and nothing less. *Find the path that’ll open doors to a new meaning of YOU.*

“Where I Left off Last” By Sarah Thompson It was never supposed to be this hard Making friends man It feels like I’m torn apart Between do they like me Or the me I’ve chosen to show I never thought I’d feel this low Maybe I don’t want friends

Yea I’ll stay a mystery And say that it depends And might end my misery I feel empty inside Yea there’s a divide But for some reason I’m not willing to try I’m trying to toughen up My callus is finding A way to get to my heart

It’s frightening

But I’m already here

So why not I can make these thoughts disappear But I’m the author I’ll take the credit And who knows maybe I’ll regret it But then I remember who I used to be Some call it being happy I wish I didn’t start down this path But maybe someday I’ll pick up where I left off last.

Our Judges Fiction & 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! Nonfiction: Marie Feldmeier is an Assistant Professor of Philosophy in the Department of Social and Behavioral Sciences at St. Philip’s College. She has a Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of Notre Dame. In addition to teaching courses in philosophy and comparative religion, she has taught English composition and served on staff in a Writing Center. She loves reading, writing, learning, hiking, South Texas landscapes, nature photography, and the ancient rock art in the Lower Pecos Canyonlands along the Rio Grande.

Our Judges

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.

Call for Submissions and Student Editors Spring 2022 Submissions: Enrolled SPC students are encouraged to submit fiction, nonfiction, and poetry (in English or Spanish), as well as literary analysis essays, fine art, digital art, and photography. Submissions deadline: Friday, February 25, 2022 Spring 2022 Editorial Applications: Enrolled SPC students may apply to be an editor. No prior experience is necessary. Editors critique submissions, select works to be published, work on the layout, and more. Editors also may apply for scholarships. Editorial Staff Deadline: Sunday, March 6, 2022 Visit our Tiger PAWS Web page for more information. www.alamo.edu/spc/experience-spc/campus-life/getinvolved/clubs-and-organizations/tigerpaws/

Tiger PAWS Fall 2021

Articles inside

“The Artist’s Puzzle” by Hannah Johns………………………90 “Reteaching Self Inner-standing” by Rashida Wood

Call for Submissions and Editors

“Judgement behind Charming Eyes” by Katrina Soto

“Concealer” by Taylor Valadez

“The Reply” by Skyler Cox

“Cooking for the Soul” by Kimberly Hebert

“Hidden Feelings” by Sarah Turpin

“Tethers of Reason” by Hannah Johns

“F.P.” by Viviana Saenz

“Emergency!” by Adam Tellez

“Bag of Burdens” by Alejandro Alvarez-Riojas

“Things You’ll Never Know until You Have One of Your Own” by Carrie Rosales

“My Nursing Journey” by Rebecca R. Charro

McGuire

“I’m Just a Wooden Fence” by Shannon Morris

“Nighttime Wonders” by Alejandro Alvarez-Riojas

“Right Where You Left Me” by Jessica Niño

“My Majestic Feline” by Chelsea Frias

“Mrs. Mallard’s Awakening” by Anthony Rubio “The Cracked Doll” by Jamie M. Brock…..…..…....…………54

“Secrets” by Jessica Niño

“More Than a Best Friend” by Lesley Duenas

“The Art of Waiting” by Flor Calixto

“Under the Same Moon” by Jessica Niño

“Debajo la misma luna” by Jessica Niño

“Paradigm Shift of the Inevitable” by Connie Pullen

“Learning World” by Maria Serrano Pineda “The Truth” by Danielle Salazar………………………………34

“My Father’s Story” by Senorina Sanchez

“Mexican Wife” by Selenne Patlan Stuck in a Screen by Stephanie Ocura.…………………………24

“A Piece of Mexico” by Lesley Duenas

Valley of Color by Timothy Hernandez…………………………8 “Utopia” by Hannah Jones

“Heartache for Homeland” by James McGuire

“[Untitled]” by Rashida Wood

“Beauty” by Anthony Rubio

“My Story about How I Learned English” by Takae Fox