Tiger PAWS Spring 2022 10th Anniversary Edition by Tiger PAWS

Tiger PAWS (Personal Academic Writing Space) St. Philip’s College Volume 11, Issue 1 Spring 2022

Cover Art: Mehndi Graphite Pencil and Copic Marker

By Hannah Chelf

Cover Design: Hannah Chelf

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 Dr. Michael Grillo— Interim Dean for Academic Success, Creative & Communication Arts, Science & Technology Dr. Kimberley Irving-Conaway—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 Reece Hinze and SPC Staff at The UPS Store

Selections for Tiger PAWS are printed with the permission of the authors and artists cited. Copyright reverts to authors and artists immediately after publication. 4

Editorial Staff Student Staff: Luke Burris Hannah Chelf Elliott Cooper Arielle Cubillos Alexandria “Jo” Guzman Ailiyah Holmes Angelica Idar Noah Monreal Emily Palmer Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera Vanessa Perez Connie Pullen Viviana Saenz Jemma Tremillo Elaina Williams Elisa Zamudio

Project Directors: Stephanie Gibson

Jamie Miranda

Faculty & Staff Mentors: Dr. Karen Cunningham Dr. Marie Feldmeier Spencer Galvan Edward O’Casey San Juan San Miguel Dr. David Torres 5

Table of Contents Dedication ………………………………………………………..9 “My School Experience” by Sarah Casillas .......……………..10 This One Is for You by Connie Pullen..………..…………….....13 Flourish by Alexis Gonzales …………………..………………. 14 “Bearing Fruit” by Maya Sepulveda ….……………………... 15 Rocky Point by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera ……………16 “Pepper” by Cyrena Arredondo ….…………………………..17 Moses, Abridged by Jocelyn Spear ……………………............ 18 “Setting: Conveying Messages to Strengthen Themes” by Cyrena Arredondo .……..……………………………….19 “Made from Scratch” by Alyssa Delgado ……….…………...22 Homerun! Or the Continuation of the Self by Jocelyn Spear ...25 “Silence” by Torrynce Armstrong ..……….………………….26 Peace by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera …….……..………27 Perspective by Dina Guzman ………………………………….. 28 “A Scattered Heart” by Jerry Garza………………...………... 29 Disabled Veteran with Spinal Cord Injury and Amputation Bungee Jumping 1 by Ivan Moya. ……..……………………...…. 30 Disabled Veteran with Spinal Cord Injury and Amputation Bungee Jumping 2 by Ivan Moya .………...…………………..…. 31 San Fernando Cathedral by Connie Pullen………………….….32 “Grandmother's Santo” by Francisco Zertuche…………….. 33 Sunday Morning Stroll by Connie Pullen………….…………. 34 “Whirlwind: A Short Collection of Memories” by Jessica Niño .……………………………………………...35 Mine Is Gold by Vanessa Perez ………………...………………37 “Natural Light” by Maya Sepulveda .………....……...……... 38 Rolling Fields and Mountains by Helena G. Cavazos .………..39 “Ravings of a Madman” by Andres Enrique Gonzalez ..….. 40 Mystery in Space by Breana D. Sanchez ..…...………...………41 6

Table of Contents “Symbolism” by Joyce Segura ……………….…..……………42 Medusa by Lewis Morse ……………………..…………….….. 45 Empty by Dina Guzman ……....…….…………….…………... 46 “Time” by Juliana Castaneda ………………….………..……. 47 Tree Covered Peaks by Helena G. Cavazos .……………….…...48 “Bianca” by Sierra Araiza .…………………..…….………….. 49 “Little Light of Mine” by Delicia Garza …………….……......51 Untitled by Jacquelyn Salgado ……………........……………...52 “The Forced Transition” by Christina Rosas .…...…..…….... 53 Love by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera ………..………….. 54 “Vessel of Life” by Christina Gloria ………………......……... 55 Alternate Point of View by Dina Guzman ……...…………...... 56 “Gone with Time” by Viviana Saenz …………...……...……. 57 Smoke in the Mountains by Helena G. Cavazos ...…...……......58 “June Done up in Ribbons” by Jocelyn Spear …...….….….... 59 Naturally Pink by Geraldine Correa Morin …....…….……….61 “Hometown” by Maya Sepulveda …………....……………... 62 Carbónita by Maya Sepulveda .…..……….……………….….. 63 “Sarah in the Sword Grass” by Jocelyn Spear ……….……... 64 River and Mountains by Helena G. Cavazos ..…………....….. 66 “The Island” by Sarah Thompson ...…………………..…....... 67 Turtle of the Sea by Vanessa Perez……………...…….……….. 69 “Hasta la raiz” by Jessica Niño (with translation)………….. 70 Pure Bliss by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera …………....... 72 “You Cannot” by Cyrena Arredondo ……………….............. 73 Healing Heart by Jemma Tremillo..……...……………..………74 Ignite by Jemma Tremillo ...………..………………………….. 75 “Father at My Funeral” by Rolando Guerra …………………76 The Path Not Taken by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera...…..79 “Just Imagination” by Hudson Wyatt…..….…………………80 7

Table of Contents Late Night by Dina Guzman …………………………………...82 “Run, Boy, Run” by Jessica Niño ……………………………..83 Our Tenth Anniversary: A Retrospective…………………….85 Love Eternal by Emily Gresham ……………………………….86 “Trials” by Justin Rodriguez .………………………………….87 Free Food by Luke Martinez …………………………………....88 Untitled by Dercy Perez…..…………………………………….89 Landscape View 1/1 by Dora Nieto ……………………………..90 Evening Glow by Serina Holder ………………………………..91 Two Birds by Melody Halsrud………………………………….92 Waiting to Dance by Joe M. Cervantes, Jr. …………………….93 “Scars on My Soul” by R. Daniel Gomez …………………….94 All in a Day’s Work by Giselle Vasquez ……………………….97 Pearl by Angelia Jacobs ………………………………………...98 Country Rooster by Diane Wilson ……………………………...99 Valencia by Brandy Guitron ……………………………..……100 “Nineties-Rosa: An Ode to Giovanni’s ‘Nikki-Rosa’” by Emily Hawley .…………………………………………...101 CMBYN 3 by Daniel Davalos …………………………….…..102 “Lavender and Chamomile” by Jordyn Elliott …………….103 Plunge by Bruce Panagopoulos ………………………………105 Untold Secrets by Amina Jumamyradova …………...………106 Los Cabo’s Rocks by Stephanie Ocura …...……………………107 Our Judges ……………………...………………………..……108 San Antonio Youth Wind Ensemble ………………………...109 Call for Submissions and Editors…………………………….110

Dedication

This edition of Tiger PAWS is dedicated to the memory of two special women: Laura Kotara Wollney, May 14, 1926 — January 26, 2022, grandmother of Stephanie Gibson,

and Jamie Louise Duffy Humberson, September 29, 1934 — February 26, 2022, mother of Laurilyn Humberson.

“My School Experience” By Sarah Casillas

“Life is filled with ups and downs, the one who perseveres can turn his life around,” said Sherman Holmes (“Turn Life Around Quotes”). Something that influenced my education was my middle school and freshmen year of high school experiences. During those years, I did not care about learning in school. I wanted to be “cool” and “fit in.” However, there was a point when seeing my grades so low did not sit well with me. I needed to be better, and it was something I had to overcome. It all started in middle school; my mom had moved me to a new school. I had no idea what to expect, but it felt like a new beginning. I had to meet new friends, new teachers, learn a whole new school building. Nonetheless, I was not too thrilled about a new beginning; I did not care at all. I missed my old friends and wanted to go back to my other school. However, that was not because I wanted to but because it felt like I had to; the most I cared about was who was going to be my new best friend. I did not care about what was being taught at school. I wanted to “fit in” and not give a single care about school. It felt as if I was just getting back at my mom for doing this to me. When all the parent-teacher conferences occurred, none of them ever went well, so I dreaded those conferences because I already knew what was going to be said. I knew I was going to be in trouble, and I knew the teacher was going to expect more out of me the next day. I remember constantly being told to pay attention and to do my work. I also remember a lot of my teachers would tell my mom that they had seen the work I could do, such as writing or math in general. They would tell her how great my writing assignments were and how my math work was always right, but I just needed to do the work every time. However, to me that was not the case; I just wanted to be out of school. It felt like I did not need to prove myself to the teachers because they knew what I could do. Going into my first year of high school, I was very excited; however, I was not excited about actual school. I was excited about all the new 10

friends I was going to meet and who I was going to be calling my boyfriend the next day. It felt as if I was going to a party every morning, and all I was worried about was my social life. Learning in school still was not my priority, and all I made sure of was not failing, even if that meant barely passing my classes. After wasting a year in high school, the consequences of being in a slower class and being in tutoring classes felt like a huge waste of time. It was a huge weight on my back. It was miserable. The classwork I had to do was too easy for me, and all the students that were in the class for an actual reason, such as they did not understand the work, made it difficult for me to sit through it every day. I instantly regretted not doing the work and not paying attention the first time. From the way I would act and not pay attention, the teachers from my first year in high school would not take me seriously. When I would ask for help, the teachers would either push me away or joke around about me caring for school all of a sudden. Even my classmates would not take me seriously; no one wanted to do group work with me because they would assume I would not do any of the work. I felt like a failure. It was embarrassing, and I did not feel like I had anyone to lean on. Due to my actions and finally realizing how important a GPA is, it felt like a huge slap in the face from all the time I had wasted the first year. The reality was starting to set in, and I started to worry about my future with college. I needed to do better and ace my classes. I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone what I could do. I wanted to be better than everyone else. At that point, I realized that I was the only person holding myself back, and I knew right away what I needed to do to get back on track. Unfortunately, I had already wasted a year. Therefore, from my sophomore year to senior year, I was on top of the world. I was on myself about homework, and I made sure to study for every quiz and test. I would even make sure to constantly ask for help when I needed it. I went from no one wanting to be my partner in class to everyone looking at me to be his or her partner. It was like my life had changed within days, and I felt good about myself. My work had finally paid off, and all my teachers took me seriously. I did not have to worry about what the teachers were going to say in the parent-teacher conferences; as of matter of fact, I was excited to hear about how it went. I was so eager to hear what my mom had to say about it. Unfortunately, my GPA was still not the highest due to my first year of high school, but I knew what I was capable of. I went from doing 11

nothing to working hard every day, and it showed instantly through my results. It was like I had finally seen light after being stuck in the dark for so long. Looking back at my high school experience, it is hard to believe that I did it. Going from not giving a single care about school to graduating with the A/B honor roll for three consecutive years blows my mind. It really proved to me what I can do. Therefore, my experience has influenced me to continue my educational journey with college. This experience influenced my education in both high school and to this day with my college career by being better and working harder till the work is done. It still makes me want to prove to myself and to others what I can do. To me, it is about being able to persevere through the hard times to get where I want to be. Works Cited “Top 100 Turn Life Around Quotes: Famous Quotes & Sayings About Turn Life Around.” Famous Quotes & Sayings. 2022,

quotestats.com/topic/turn-life-around-quotes/. Accessed 05 Feb. 2022.

This One Is for You By Connie Pullen

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Flourish By Alexis Gonzales

Digital Art

“Bearing Fruit” By Maya Sepulveda

I can’t care for nor handle the bearing of fruit,

nor bear the thought of caring for them. Such saplings confiscate resources and require trudging through obstacle courses, that I certainly haven’t matured in time for, nor haven’t the time for such maturity. No thank you. I refuse to ruin my socializing

because I know I will end up despising beautifully innocent scions for it.

Rocky Point By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

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“Pepper” By Cyrena Arredondo

On this day, the sky cried too. Bedroom, the blue sheet, it is cold and dawn. My mother rocking the blue-sheeted bundle in her arms My mother’s tears trickle down her face, and I cannot help but feel an empty embrace. My father has a saddened look in his eyes but also tries to hide behind this awful disguise. My younger brother tries to hold back his tears and mumbles under his breath, “This isn’t something I can face.” The bedroom feels dark; it feels as if the walls are closing in, and I cannot breathe. Pulling me under and I cannot break free. I am crying hysterically. Holding my Pepper’s little mittens. She is cold, and I am thinking of what could have gone wrong. Ten years and just like that, poof she is gone. Nobody’s time here is guaranteed. Not for me, you, or anybody.

Moses, Abridged By Jocelyn Spear

Acrylic on Canvas

“Setting: Conveying Messages to Strengthen Themes” By Cyrena Arredondo

In "American History," author Judith Ortiz Cofer introduces us to the protagonist, Elena, as we dive into her tragedies, feelings, and views. The story is based upon the day of John F. Kennedy’s death in 1963, a day in American history where racism and xenophobia were still very prominent. Throughout the short story, the author uses the setting to solidify and strengthen the story's theme. Cofer begins by introducing Elena, who has already set certain feelings about “El Building” and students of her class. However, Cofer’s use of setting elements of fiction contributes to the influence on the character, the tone or mood of the story, symbolic significance, as well as the creation of social conditions, all strengthening the theme of the story. One way that setting may contribute to the theme is through influencing the character. Elena introduces us to her day, a day that would end in sorrow for the nation, but she is seemingly oblivious to it. As she begins her recollection of the day, she continues by saying, “The chill was doing to me what it always did; entering my bones, making me cry, humiliating me. I hated the city, especially in winter. I hated Public School Number 13. I hated my skinny flat-chested body, and I envied the black girls who could jump rope so fast that their legs became a blur. They always seemed to be warm while I froze” (Cofer 1). The setting also creates this divide she feels between her and people that do not look like her. This influence of setting is essential to the character’s development. It strengthens the theme, racism and xenophobia, which Elena is experiencing but does not become aware of until the story’s setting develops further along with the theme. Another use of the setting contributing to the theme of the story is the symbolic significance. Throughout the story, “El Building” symbolizes immigrants and the pursuit of the American dream. Elena 19

says, “The light through the large kitchen window of his house told me that El Building blocked the sun to such an extent that they had to turn lights on in the middle of the day. I felt ashamed about it” (Cofer 4). This setting is significant to the theme because, again, the building symbolizes immigrants and the pursuit of their dreams. Elena is almost embarrassed to be living there, obstructing Eugene’s household from a “perfect” view. Another example of symbolic significance would be Eugene’s green door. Elena states, “I turned away from the green door, and heard her close it gently” (Cofer 6). The hope she once held is no longer accessible to her at this point in the story. The utilization of symbolic significance with “El Building” and the green door add to the setting element of fiction. Through this added element, Cofer continues to build and deepen the theme, racism and xenophobia. Lastly, the setting contributes to strengthening the theme through the creation of social conditions. The social conditions are seen throughout the story when Elena is constantly placed in scenarios where a division is created. This division is not based on age or gender but seems directly related to skin colors and ethnic backgrounds. Elena tells us, “Once school started I looked for him in all my classes, but P.S. 13 was a huge, overpopulated place and it took me days and many discreet questions to discover that Eugene was in honors classes for all his subjects; classes that were not open to me because English was not my first language, though I was a straight A student” (Cofer 2). When reading this, I understood that being a straight-A student was not enough for Elena to be allowed to take honors courses. The division is seen and made clear that it has nothing to do with her grades but more so has to do with her background and Spanish being her first language. Another example of the setting being used through social conditions is multiple instances where Elena is addressed as “you people.” These instances are clear examples where they speak to her in a demeaning manner. The use of social conditions creates this exclusiveness idea that she is not a part of. The coach says, “The President is dead, you idiots. I should have known that wouldn’t mean anything to a bunch of losers like you kids. Go home” (Cofer 4). Here the term “you” adds to this divide between the you and me scenario. The coach insinuates that they care less than he does simply because the class is full of immigrants and black students. The author can keep this division apparent throughout the story, ending with Eugene’s mother. The use of social conditions helps develop the theme because Elena 20

comes to understand that the use of “you” and “your people” further cements the divide between races during the time. Overall, the setting elements of fiction contribute and strengthen the theme of the story. The setting is used to influence the character and her feelings about the world around her. The setting also carries symbolic significance to carry the theme. Her embarrassment of the immigrant tenant building and the door of hope closed on her both add to the story’s racial prejudice and xenophobic theme. The setting of social conditions also helps strengthen the author's theme by always creating an obstacle of division for Elena. Elena understands that she is not and will not be included because of how she looks. Works Cited Ortiz Cofer, Judith. American History. resources.finalsite.net/images/

v1560883341/ sandyspring/psdflzfbhjvwuasxxcym/ AmericanHistory.pdf.

“Made from Scratch” By Alyssa Delgado

There are so many skills we learn in school that we use every day, such as reading, writing, and problem solving, but what about the skills that are not taught in the classroom? Many things we learn at home from our parents while we are young. This is because when we go out into the world on our own, we have to take care of ourselves. My parents instilled a lot of great life skills into me. For example, my mom taught me how to clean a house from top to bottom, whereas my dad taught me how to change a tire. These are great things to know; however, they are not the most practical. Something I had to teach myself was how to cook. Through perseverance, practice, and a whole lot of patience, I learned a skill that I could put to use every day. Throughout my childhood, neither of my parents were ever home. My mom was the main provider for my grandma, and my dad worked a full-time job to support our family of six. Because of this, when they were home, they were too tired to whip up a meal. Many times, we picked up take-out on our way home from school or went out to eat as a family. Home cooked meals were rare and only really happened on Thanksgiving. That is the way I grew up though, so I never thought anything was wrong with it. I was eighteen when I moved out of my parents’ house and was all on my own. I worked a full-time job as an early childhood educator in order to support myself. My days started at seven in the morning and did not end until six in the evening. I would pick up breakfast and a coffee heading to work, go out with my coworkers for lunch, and pick up something quick on my way home for dinner. It was not long before I noticed a huge chunk of money going towards food. These were bad habits that I knew could not continue. It was like eating my paycheck away. Later that weekend, I went to the grocery store to find things I could make for dinner. I had no game plan when I walked through those sliding glass doors. As I strolled the aisles, all I could see were single 22

ingredients. For someone that had never made anything other than sandwiches and cereal, it was a pretty overwhelming experience. I grabbed the basics: milk, bread, eggs, and a whole lot of frozen ready-to -eat meals. One Friday night, I was craving picadillo tacos that my grandma used to make. I looked up a recipe and hurried to the grocery store. The ingredients I needed were ground beef, potatoes, seasonings, and tortillas. It was a very simple recipe, and I was confident that I could make it. When I got back to my kitchen, I was excited to begin. First, I put the ground beef in my skillet to start cooking while I diced the potatoes. I followed the recipe step by step, but some amateur mistakes were made. For example, I did not cook the ground beef all the way before I added the potatoes or seasonings. I had just thrown everything in the pan and let it cook itself. It tasted decent, but it definitely was not like Grandma used to make. Later that night, I was awoken by a cringing knot in my stomach; I was going to be sick. The first time I tried to cook a meal from scratch, I gave myself food poisoning. From that point on, I was traumatized, and I had no desire to step foot in another kitchen. On the rare instances that I did, I tended to overcook everything, leaving the food as dry as sand. I did not seem to mind because I was only cooking for myself, and I had no intention of allowing anyone to try my food. Two years later, I found myself in a relationship with a baby on the way. It was not just me anymore. I now had three mouths to feed, three times a day. This meant I had to be conscious of what I was feeding us to ensure a healthy pregnancy. My grocery lists now consisted of fresh produce, organic ingredients, and no processed foods. I knew it was going to be a challenging and a complete lifestyle change. Every meal I made at first was not exactly chef quality. I only stuck to a few basic recipes that I knew I could not mess up. Every time I cooked something new, I gained more knowledge and experience than I had the last time. It was a lot of trial and error at first, and then, slowly but surely, it all became easier over time. After a few months of practice, I no longer dreaded mealtimes. I knew that learning this great skill would improve my and my family's quality of life. There was no more having to eat take-out or highly processed food. We can now enjoy a healthy meal around a table as a family, a simple joy I lacked growing up. I am happy that I put my fears aside and continue to persevere through learning how to cook. Not 23

every meal I put on the table was perfect, but because I continued to try is why I only got better. Now I look forward to making new recipes my family will enjoy, and I feel confident enough to even throw my own spin on things every once in a while. For the past couple of years, I have cooked three meals a day, seven days a week to feed myself and my family. I have come a long way from that first instance in the grocery store. In brief, I taught myself how to cook because financially and realistically it is an important life skill to have. I wish I could say that it was easy for me, but for a long time, I really struggled with eating because I dreaded using the kitchen. Learning to cook was something I challenged myself to do because I knew it was best for my family. I stuck to it, and because of that, I was successful. I did not want to follow in my parents’ footsteps by eating out every night. Now I can pass my knowledge of cooking to my kids, so that way they do not find themselves in the same situation I was in. Therefore, we can live happier, healthier, and well-balanced lives.

Homerun! Or the Continuation of the Self By Jocelyn Spear

Acrylic on Canvas 25

“Silence” By Torrynce Armstrong

I once tried to talk to the Sky

As if she would answer back and then say bye As I stood and spoke They all looked at me as if I was a joke They called me naive as I stood in the same spot But I spoke with purpose and did not ask for a lot I only asked for rain To drown out the Earth’s pain To bring a rainbow So that the children could see the Earth’s crust glow I only asked for the clouds to cover the sun So that there could be a bright spirit in everyone The Sky speaks back and I know it’s true The Sky speaks back in a voice of smooth blue

I know because my ancestors once spoke to the Sky Back then she answered and then said bye But now the Sky replies with silence Silence because they all believe in violence

Silence because they call me naive Silence because they no longer believe

Peace By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

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Perspective By Dina Guzman

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“A Scattered Heart” By Jerry Garza

I’ve seen the look of love in the eyes of so many . . . I’ve felt the same nervous feelings, the same yet different with everyone. Each sees the same thing in me . . . sees my smile that gets them giddy, the way they can’t help but laugh, or look away . . . The same old lines that lead to something new. The magic moments I try to make with them. From the first look across the room when our eyes first meet. To my soft words All the way to where their lips meet mine and it becomes a promise and a beacon of hope . . . each sweet, beautiful and someone I can see myself in. Everything I ever wanted all in one moment. The fear to the joy. I’ll forever have those hearts. To look back on. They’ll forever have a piece of mine. Some pieces are bigger than the others. But a piece nonetheless. I’m sorry for walking into your lives . . . But thank you for being in mine. This to all my flames and to myself. And whoever reads this... for those moments will last forever and ever. Till the end of time. 29

Disabled Veteran with Spinal Cord Injury and Amputation Bungee Jumping 1 By Ivan Moya

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Disabled Veteran with Spinal Cord Injury and Amputation Bungee Jumping 2 By Ivan Moya

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San Fernando Cathedral By Connie Pullen

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“Grandmother’s Santo” By Francisco Zertuche

El Pocito, Coahuila, A Pink Haven grandmother's home safe from all harm I always chased the canasteros for savory tacos de canasta on an old dirt road An old black and white picture the closest I'll be to her after four children of my own its journey back to me tears of happiness rush down my cheek her protection back with me Whether in sickness or health always on her nightstand just like I recall now I will have El Santo Niño de Atocha always with me

Sunday Morning Stroll By Connie Pullen

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“Whirlwind: A Short Collection of Memories” By Jessica Niño

Parents: the seven-lettered noun we depend on for the first eighteen years of our lives. Typically, parents are our guiding shoulder through our adolescent and young adult years; teaching us morality and the basics of civility, our mannerisms follow theirs, and our potential carries impact with the first step we take. But what happens when both of your parents are missing for years?

2010: I’m shaken awake.

Mija ya vámonos para la escuela. As I start getting dressed for school, I go into mom’s empty room looking for my shoes. Every day I wake up, and she’s gone. When she comes home, she sleeps or sits all day. I wish she was the one taking me to school. I can hear a train running as Grandma sits me on the counter and laces my shoes. Cheugh, cheugh, cheugh, cheugh. I like the pink sparkles on my

shoes—mom picked them. I wish she were here.

Dad is never home either; he says he needs money to buy me those dolls I like... and I do like those dolls. 2011:

Dear Diary, I’ve missed Grandma since she left for Mexico. Now, Dad has to care for us, but he can’t because he has to work. Mom’s living in the hospital now, which was cool at first. But she’s sick, so I guess it's not as cool. Mom said she received a kidney, not sure from where, but it means she won't be sick anymore, I think. That’s why she has to be in the hospital. Dad is staying home all day to care for us for two weeks. He says it's difficult not being able to work because he needs to be making money, so he leaves for a couple of hours and leaves Ceci in charge.

2020: With absent parents throughout my adolescence, I learned to be independent and sought out experiences that interested me. For instance, during the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, my friend Vince reached out and introduced me to his resource group called Study Bubbly. They needed bloggers, and I thought that would be a great opportunity for me to gain experience. That first week, I was so excited that I brainstormed various ideas for my blog and what I hoped for it.

Dear Diary, Covid is still tough, and being alone all day is draining. However, things have started to slowly recover from the chaos the last seven months have brought. Also, the blog is official now, and I've begun involving myself in more extracurriculars such as being an NHS officer. Unfortunately, in the midst of all this thriving, mom has mentioned her transplant function has decreased, and her kidney might stop functioning soon. With my declining mental health, and my mom’s compromised immune system, it’s difficult to remember to stay involved with my community. At times, I feel that my efforts won't be of significant importance. Is spending all my time on school and extracurriculars worth being away from my mom when she’s sick? Should I really care what the world thinks of me when my mom is sick from her dialysis? 2021:

Dear Diary, I'm graduating soon; where did time go? All is well. Mom’s health has drastically improved, and my academic standings stay strong. I’ve learned to cherish my family and pursue goals that interest me. Blogging has helped me narrow my major down to English and journalism as I’ve learned to be confident in my work, which has also led to 11 publications from Tiger Paws, my school’s literary magazine. Slowly, as I reflect on the past year, I am seeing the difference I can make. I am ecstatic to think of where I will be and what I have done in the next 20 months and how that will catapult me into the difference I want to see in this world. It begins with me.

Mine Is Gold By Vanessa Perez

Sharpie Marker

“Natural Light” By Maya Sepulveda

Would you like my eyes in natural light? not doused in shadows and wings? Without fluttering wisps that linger and wink uncovered by colorings. Would you still enjoy my lips that aren't displayed by pigment sticks, if they didn’t shine by glossy tints? Would you still fancy skin isn’t glassy? Still love slightly patchy topography, and reckless freckles and transparent peach fuzz? And if my body constituted of trails of constellations, could you give them attention instead of contempt?

And if you realize you’d rather ride someone else’s stream of life that’d be Okay, I wouldn't thrash nor sneer, just cherish these souvenirs And bid you goodbye, And for your absence I will only ever cry, But never will I shatter for it. Never apologize for my designfor I mount myself upon a pedestal and I will not step down. Chin up, beautiful girl, Here, let me fix your crown.

Rolling Fields and Mountains By Helena G. Cavazos

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“Ravings of a Madman” By Andres Enrique Gonzalez

“I am just a collection of memories, Never enough, and always too much” - A.E.G. “Beauty makes you forget” - A.E.G. “And through the rivers of blood, only then will you find yourself surrounded by men too immoral to understand why you seek the truth” - A.E.G.

“I’d rather die with the known than live with the unquestionable, such is a life unworthy of living. And so, I pass from this life to the next a man, not a mouse” - A.E.G. “The beauty of the darkness and the romanticization of the void. He spoke of the darkest moment and if God remained faithful in our succession of the instance. That he is. But the beauty of it is that you cannot deny the joy of being in the instance. The succession whence you overcome all. The breach between the void and the paradise and the limbo. Others entirely enthrall themselves in the void because they believe their suffering allows them some sense of entitlement. To believe that you are above your station solely because you suffer one minuscule moment longer than others? The beauty of the phoenix is that they rise infinitely on every occasion no matter the condition. And men assume they are such a force of nature, that they will overcome all. They don’t. They die. They feel. They fail. They cry. And then in one brief moment of ecstasy, you succumb to anything and everything, and you become one with all; you become the dead, all of your worries, fantasies, fallacies, and fictions of imagination disappear; they die with you just as you died with despair. The release of everything is, in itself, liberating. Unpleasant and occasionally painful, the beauty of the void is evident, and all the more terrifying” - A.E.G. 40

Mystery in Space By Breana D. Sanchez

Watercolor

“Symbolism” By Joyce Segura

When Louise Mallard is left alone in her room after her husband has just been reported dead due to a railroad incident, she looks out towards the sky only to see a whole new life beyond the window of her home. As Mrs. Mallard describes the glimpse into her newfound freedom, the reader is able to comprehend the literary device being used in the short story—symbolism. In “The Story of an Hour,” Kate Chopin uses the symbolism of the heart trouble, the armchair, the open window, and the representation of hardship women faced in that period; Mrs. Mallard has been placed to illustrate the theme of oppression in not only marriage but for women in that century. The first thing we learn about Mrs. Mallard is her heart trouble, which we soon learn symbolizes the hardship she goes through with herself and her newly gained freedom. The first sentence of the story mentions Mrs. Mallard’s heart trouble and exactly how fragile it is— especially since the news of her husband's death will be broken to her shortly, great caution happened to lessen the damage (Chopin). When she [Mrs. Mallard] is alone in her room trying to compose her thoughts, and soon realizes she is now free from her marriage, her body reacts in a concerning way: “[H]er pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body” (Chopin). The readers just learned of her heart trouble, so learning what her body was doing is giving hints to what will happen to her in the future. At the end of the story, Louise walks back downstairs only to discover her husband is alive walking through the door, about which, after Mrs. Mallard dies, the doctors said she died of heart disease, due to her being extremely overwhelmed by seeing her husband. However, that was not the case. The symbol of her heart trouble is her sudden loss of freedom from her marriage, not because her newly-widowed broken heart became instantly overjoyed that her husband was ultimately alive. Second, as Mrs. Mallard goes into her room, the way she describes which direction the armchair is facing and how the armchair makes her 42

feel is very important because it symbolizes freedom from the oppression she is going through. When she sits down on the armchair, she feels “pressed down by a physical exhaustion” but also describes the armchair as “comfortable” and “roomy,” which is a symbol of the social expectations of being a woman and having to stay stuck in a marriage that makes her feel trapped (Chopin). In that period, women had almost no choice but to stay with their husband unless their husband left or she became widowed, and since Mrs. Mallard thinks her husband is now dead, she is happy about becoming free from the social norms and expectations she had to uphold as a married woman. And lastly, the direction the armchair is facing is toward an open window, the window being a symbol of freedom. As Louise sits down on the chair, she faces an open world, free of oppression and obligation from her stuck marriage. Third, the symbol of the open window Louise sits in front of is the beauty and life of the world she desperately desires to be in. Chopin notes that “she could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air”, which indicates that the spring air is a brand new start at life for Louise. While viewing the world beyond her window, Chopin also says, “In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.” These descriptions she notes are her seeing all the beauty of the new life she is about to embark on, something she looks forward to enjoying and having the freedom to do anything and everything she has dreamed about. Another symbol of looking through the open window is the patches of blue sky she sees. The sky is covered in clouds, blocking the sun from shining, but she is able to get glimpses of some blue sky, which represents the hurt she is feeling from her husband’s death. She is able to see the freedom and hope at the end of the tunnel—the tunnel being the blue patches of sky. Fourth, Mrs. Mallard herself is a symbol of the issues women went through in her time. Back in her time, it was much more difficult to become anybody else other than a housewife and a mother. There were hardly any opportunities to have a career and especially to leave a marriage, which is Mrs. Mallard’s most stemmed problem. She feels trapped inside her marriage, unable to divorce or to have the freedom she craves. In the short story, Louise realizes something that would happen now that her husband, her prison guard, is dead—she will be 43

free from him, from a life-long commitment; “[b]ut she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome” (Chopin). In conclusion, the symbolism in “The Story of An Hour” written by Kate Chopin is more than just a story about a woman with a heart issue who just became a widow, only to die in the end because her heart was overwhelmed with her husband walking through the door; it is a story about an oppressed woman, who happens to have a heart issue, and was able to see the brightest light on the other side of life, and it showed the readers that by the symbols of Mrs. Mallard’s heart trouble, the armchair she sat in, the open window she looked out of, and the oppression women went through during that period. Works Cited Chopin, Kate. “The Story of An Hour.” Short Stories and Classic

Literature, americanliterature.com/author/kate-chopin/shortstory/the-story-of-an-hour.

Medusa By Lewis Morse

Acrylic and Watercolor on Paper

Empty By Dina Guzman

Photograph

“Time” By Juliana Castaneda

Everyone says I should’ve Or I would’ve But now the past Is something that can’t last Appreciate this time It might be a sign To say those last words To clean off those germs Set some terms Before something occurs Make this world yours In a matter of minutes or hours For one day you’ll be glad You lend a hand Or if everything came out as planned One day you’ll understand.

Tree Covered Peaks By Helena G. Cavazos

Photograph

“”Bianca” By Sierra Araiza

Bianca is as beautiful as her name, Her hair so big and bright red. She towers over you, Not to intimidate, but to protect. Bianca grew up a quiet child, Unsure of her place in the world. She stumbled and fell through the years Her legs so long and head so strong, She wondered how it was no one would notice her. Till one day, It rained. Feelings of hope and joy poured over her, Like the cool and refreshing raindrops. She finally let go of her inner worries, And suddenly the rain stopped. The clouds in the sky cleared. The sun came out once again, Only something shined brighter. It was a rainbow Bianca saw, Her first rainbow she’d ever seen. Still filled with joy and hope, She chased the colors in the sky. Her legs stretched over miles of land, And so her journey was coming to an end. She could see something at the end of the rainbow, Something much smaller than herself. 49

As she leaned to the ground she noticed, It had little feet and soft cheeks. It was a beautiful baby girl, It was her baby girl. Amazed at this miracle she discovered, Bianca felt instant love for her. The baby so small and frail, Needed someone as great as Bianca.

In that moment she knew, The name for the baby would be, Lluvia. Lluvia to remind her of the rain, To resemble the clarity, That she felt thanks to the earth. She now knew her purpose in the world, To nourish and love for Lluvia. To make sure Lluvia may never question her place, Or stumble or fall.

We now look to Bianca for strength of acceptance, We admire her patience in the plan, The plan the universe has for us.

This epic poem was written for acknowledgment and admiration of my mother, Bianca. Here I am telling a fictional story, based off her real life and how she came to have her first daughter and my older sister, Lluvia. This poem is meant to replicate ancient epic poems of heroic and great characters or gods, who were recognized for shaping the universe after them.

“Little Light of Mine” By Delicia Garza

My little light Shines so bright My little light Is just right My little light

Is just a year old My little light Is so beautiful and bold My little light Saved my life My little light Is my life

Untitled By Jacquelyn Salgado

Acrylic and Gold Leaf

“The Forced Transition” By Christina Rosas

I feel as if I am not supposed to have fun anymore Like moving to an enjoy-free zone One minute I am in the plains full of lavender where life is simple Then the next, I am forced to move into a jungle If you don’t move fast enough, the leopards will get you If you don’t know how to hunt, you will starve If you don’t know what plants are safe to eat, you will be poisoned to death If you mess with the wrong monkeys, they will not let you go so easily If you want water, the starving alligators will consume you If you don’t watch your step, you will fall into a steep rocky cliff As time passes in the new world of kill or be killed, You will not be the softie you were once living in the plains Reality will hit you hard and turn you into a beast Who only knows survival Say goodbye to the world of the uncomplicated

Love By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Photograph

“Vessel of Life” By Christina Gloria

Before I brought you home you sat there full of beauty. Full of life, green and shiny as an emerald. You sat there asking for nothing, in your bed of moss. Your leaves fluttered like a butterfly with each passing. You brought comfort and hope to a room that was at a loss. You beamed like a proud child with every compliment. I vowed to keep your spirit alive, but again I have failed you. Oh, my vessel full of life.

You sit there never asking, never showing, never missing. You are a reminder of the pain. Still your leaves raise up to the heavens. Each leaf sprawls out like fingers on a hand. The scent is like the earth and life. You continue to shine like a sparkle of an eye. But your brown, lifeless, crinkled tips tell me otherwise. I have neglected you. I have ignored your thirst. Your need for attention. Oh, my vessel full of life. You remind me daily of my loss. But you also remind me daily about life. You remind me with your small, fresh leaves. As they sprout from the dry bed you lay. Through all the neglect you continue to thrive. Through all the tears you continue to give hope. You have the will as strong as the delicate earth you sprout from. Oh, my vessel full of life. You are the reflection of my soul. So please raise your wilted arms. Shine once again as you did before. Show me how you go on. Oh, my vessel full of life. 55

Alternate Point of View By Dina Guzman

Photograph

“Gone with Time” By Viviana Saenz

You came to me in a dream And told me things weren’t how they seem I’m moving fast you cannot count The time is ticking in this house I’m gone I’m gone I’m gone, you tell me I lived inside a house in trees You found me accidentally Now we are sipping maple leaves I don’t want you to leave But I’m gone I’m gone I’m gone, I tell you We went on an adventure I thought it would last forever I’m happy as can be I have you with me And now I’m gone You’re gone We’re gone, it’s true I am happy I found you

Smoke in the Mountains By Helena G. Cavazos

Photograph

“June Done up in Ribbons” By Jocelyn Spear

I start the braid slowly, keeping each of the three smooth and untwisted. Strands pass, under and through, under and through, and it feels like rowing, almost. Here we sit, cresting over the middle of summer. The heat from her neck is barely felt under the steady buzz of the heavy evening, but I feel it all the same. She's good at getting braided, sits real still, neck solid as marble. June snorts and shakes her head, moving over to the next patch of grass. The rubber corner of my boot sole taps under her ribs, and we lurch forward, each step a twinned shift and sway. A breeze comes in, all mesquite and fresh hay. It whips through my hair and the parts of June's mane that are not yet done up. We make a fine pair together, June and Jo, summer and shining. I tell her about my grandfather, the storyteller. My tongue stumbles over the story of the Wind Horse, but she does not seem to mind. Her ear flicks away the wind and heat struck flies. She listens as I talk about my grandfather's interpretation of the story. When I cried about the deaths at the end, he would tell me to not feel sad because the Wind Horse didn't feel sad about dying. It was love that killed it and love that kept bringing it back, so it didn't mind this cycle of life, death, and rebirth as its story was started, ended, and told anew by the next person. The sun begins to set and takes with it the season. June buckles her front legs, and I slide off her left flank. Sweat has soaked through the inseam of my jeans. The rough, wet denim rubs at my thighs as I 59

bend my right leg under my left. When I lean against June, her flank is also damp. It heaves with each breath, each lung lifting up the weight of the world in tandem. We watch as the fiery streaks of sunset fade against the cool incoming of dusky blues. Stars show up one-by-one as the dirt beneath us loses heat. Down here, surrounded by saguaro and starlight, I start to finish weaving June's braids. The silk runs out before her mane is fully captured, so I rip the frayed cuff of my jeans into strips. She lays her head on my lap. Her nostrils flare and relax, her eyes set on the bright moon. I finish as Ophiuchus rises to the stage. June, done up in ribbons, breathes her last breath, and now I am alone.

Naturally Pink By Geraldine Correa Morin

Photograph

“Hometown” By Maya Sepulveda

¿Cuál sería y dónde está mi ciudad natal? Am I allowed to even ask that? How to define and identify, The primary years that decide my hometown? Does it count as the borough I was born? Or where I’ll see a prom queen first get her crown? Or suburbs where elementary memories adorn? ¿Or el pueblo en que tuve mi primer pet? Or perhaps my first recollection of life Or where first steps were captured, yet, I’d have to say my soul only recalls nostalgia that’s fractured. So, What if I didn’t stay cemented in one place for two tenths of a century? Does that mean I'm missing an influential element, That I didn’t realize I lacked? Not spending 12 years of schooling With similar peers to interact? I've determined I don’t need an original abode Just need a place to call my homeIn this cozy little town That in the thicket of Gardenias and golden roses I have found.

Carbónita By Maya Sepulveda

Charcoal

“Sarah in the Sword Grass” By Jocelyn Spear

After traversing thigh-height sword grass and slipping down slick slopes, the sight of the charred and sodden mattress served as the final trial of my journey. The blood that welled up from where the sword grass sliced at my arms was fruitless in its sacrifice; my friend was no longer here. Sorrow and regret twisted my thoughts and throbbed at my heartstrings. I feared the worst. With the often-humid environment around the creek, there were always areas that smelled deeply of decay, but now I was afraid that the usual deceased animal wasn’t the cause. Thoughts raced frantically through my head as I searched for any signs of her fate, and I wished fervently that she had taken an offer of help in the years previous. A thorough search of the area did little to assuage my worries; after all, it had been years since I had been here last. Sarah was my best friend growing up. I was lonely in my younger years, my home so far apart from the rest of civilization. Being a transient who had drifted here after being tossed from one place to the next, she broadened my horizons in a way small-town life could not. After a near poisoning, she did not accept my offer of food at first, but still taught me how to dance. Her dance wasn’t a tango or a waltz, but a wild thing, understandable only to those caught within its throes. It was freeing in a way that I had never known before. She showed me the importance of patience, sitting in the creek and using the bread from the sandwiches I had brought her to draw silvery minnows into her palm. With ease she could lift her cupped hands out of the water, the fish left swimming circles in her hold. My attempts to copy her were clumsy, the minnows would always dart away right before my fingers fully clenched, and I would throw a fit at my failure. “In the cities,” she would tell me, “People are crushed without a thought. To survive, they must be cunning and not trust others, for they themselves have violated trust for their own gain. This is the way the creek is too. To show the fish you are not a danger, you must give without expecting anything in return.” When I entered middle school, I found friends my own age and 64

stopped going to the park. I almost forgot about Sarah amidst social drama and challenging classwork. I participated in most after-school activities, but I did not go to the school dances; the dance I knew was for no one else to see. In high school, I tried talking about Sarah and her stories but was met only with disbelief. Eventually, I stopped trying to bring her up and started doubting that I had known her as well. Near graduation, before I left, I wanted to see if she was still there to say goodbye. When I arrived, I found only the remnants of her mattress, proving simultaneously that she had been there and was there no longer. I stared at the warped metal frame; the twisted, useless form seemed to perfectly embody my mind at the moment. Tears pricked at my eyes; my throat felt as if a boa constrictor had made its career as my scarf, my own albatross weighing heavily on the back of my neck. I sat down under one of the concrete pylons, my older, bigger body no longer swallowed by its shade. The sun on my shoulder was an echo of the warmth she had provided in the years previous. There was an uncomfortable bulge in my pocket from where the sandwich I had brought for her bunched up. I took it out and placed it beside me, the bread smushed from travel. Sitting here, where everything had taken place before, I found that my throat was no longer tight, my sorrow having loosened its grip on me under the current of fond memories. I thought about the hot summer days when she would stand in the creek, letting the fish nibble at her toes and laughing. I thought of the wild and free dance she had taught me, how she told me she came here because it was so quiet that you could hear the music in the wind and close your eyes without worrying about unseen dangers. I did not feel much like dancing now, but the water looked inviting. Once I had taken off my boots and rolled up my mud-encrusted jeans, I waded into the water, bread in my hand. I waited, crouched in the middle, the pastry degrading under the flow of the stream. The minnows came slowly, cautious of my unconscious movements. They tickled my palm with their delicate fins, but I did not flinch, nor close my hand too early. When I raised my clasped hands out of the water, I felt the gentle squirming of the minnow enclosed inside. I opened my hand and lightly pinched its tail so I could get a good look at its features. I felt how fragile the small thing was, its bones and organs so delicate that they could be crushed without a thought. I released the fish; it did not know the dangers of an open hand. I understood now our rough start. I hope the river took her somewhere she could dance.

River and Mountains By Helena G. Cavazos

Photograph

“The Island” By Sarah Thompson

Island of palm tree land of green, Bountiful blue with poultry run free. The smells of salt dance blissfully, Exotic tastes for all to share; Mountain views painted everywhere Shaka here braddah there, Aloha always around in the air. For thirteen years my abode it was, My youth I left behind On that island called Oahu On the map not hard to find. Now looking back I was just but a little child, Barefooted and husking coconuts, my hair frizzy and wild My innocence was prolonged I had no trouble because of my race. After all I was in Hawaii where I seemed native to the untrained. To Texas was my fated relocation, I realized too late that I was blessed to have lived in such vacation. Becoming less myself I started to beware, Of the way I looked to others who did not have the same color of hair. Beginning to think more racially, I put myself down In front of other people who I thought me a clown.

I missed the island where things weren’t complicated I missed my childhood in which I gladly dominated.

Thankfully, I now regard said racial lens as history As I learned to pride in who I am regardless of locality. Although the island is often missed The opportunity was in change. As an island is separated from the world, so was my mind adrift from reality. Overall I am glad for the escapade, For if not the mainland my eyes would remain racially scathed.

Turtle of the Sea By Vanessa Perez

Acrylic Paint

“Hasta la raiz” By Jessica Niño

Tu voz me domina Tus ojos me abrazan Tu sonrisa tan fina Me da tanta razón Me haces sentir Como un campo de flores en la primavera Llena de vida y lista para florecer El mejor tiempo para sentarnos afuera Rayos de azul, rosa, y morado llenan mi vista El cielo tiene más color Cuando tu miras hacia él Y las estrellas Más de mil Cuando las cuentas para mi

“Down to the Root” By Jessica Niño (translation by Spencer Galvan)

Your voice dominates me Your eyes embrace me Your smile so fine Gives me so much reason You make me feel Like a field of flowers in the spring Full of life and ready to bloom The best time to sit outside together Rays of blue, pink, and purple fill my vision The sky has more color When you look toward him And the stars More than a thousand When you count them for me

Pure Bliss By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Photograph

“You Cannot” By Cyrena Arredondo

“I know you say that you have been struggling recently, huh. Why? You seem just fine to me. You cannot just claim to have anxiety and depression. Where are you even coming up with these conclusions? Do not come up with your own answers; you are not a doctor. You just need to keep moving. Stop hyper-focusing on things that are just in your head. You cannot have anxiety or depression; you have a life somebody else would die for. You are privileged to have the resources that you do. You cannot have anxiety and depression. You probably need some water. Go for a walk, and you will be back to normal in no time. You need to step outside of your bubble. That is what your problem is. You say nobody understands, but your problem is that you do not know how to open up to others. You cannot have anxiety and depression. What is there to be anxious about? What do you have to be depressed about? You just need to get over this little block you are having. Stop sulking around. Put a smile on your face. Go out and meet new people. See, I told you; you do not have anxiety and depression.” “But what if I do?” asked a soft voice. “You cannot have anxiety or depression. It only affects weakminded people. You are not weak. We are not weak. It does not even exist. It is just emotions. You just need to think of happy things. You just need to stop and just be happy. The world is at your fingertips. You cannot have anxiety and depression. You have people looking up to you; stop acting this way. You need to act like a role model. You need to show them to love others. You need to show them to love themselves. You need to be an example of success. There is no room for error. There is no room for mistakes.” “But how can I teach one to love themselves when I cannot even learn to love myself?” a soft voice asked. “You need to pull it together. You cannot have anxiety and depression.” 73

Healing Heart By Jemma Tremillo

Digital Art

Ignite By Jemma Tremillo

Digital Art

“Father at My Funeral” By Rolando Guerra

Everything cried at my funeral. The Earth stopped rotating. The universe paused and mourned my passing. It wasn’t enough to sob profusely and shed tears. I saw and heard hearts cry. Red roses withered dry, turning into black ash before falling to the ground. Mourners fell to their knees next to me, their bodies shaking while they cried uncontrollably as if drowning and gasping for breath. Rain poured from the heavens as the sky wept for my loss. The sun and moon eclipsed, consoling one another. Even the stars were grieving as they burst into light, defying the sun’s command of the Earth. The wind howled in despair like a mother losing a child. The pallbearers cried with regret, knowing they would participate in a great sin by taking me to my final resting place. All who attended were like orphans desperately trying to find their place. My wife cried and smiled simultaneously. She had an expression on her face as that of a person who guards a secret. The look in her eyes spoke volumes. I knew exactly what she was thinking. I witnessed her reaction to the time I told her why I loved her. It was because she was the closest thing I had ever gotten to experiencing true love. In her smile, I felt my father’s abandonment and never saying he loved me, yet she did. In her tears, I saw my mother never protecting me, yet she did. I watched her heart and soul become calm and peaceful as she grieved for me. Tears rolled down her cheeks onto the floor below where the rose ashes lay. I could see a single teardrop reviving the roses from their ashes if they were to meet. My wife’s powerful love misses me. My best friend’s heart fell with sadness as he read my eulogy. His voice trembled with anxiety knowing he was saying his final goodbye. He spoke of the great times we had and the memories he would forever cherish. He said he lost more than a friend; he lost a brother when I passed. His shoulders dropped, and his chest folded inwards. It seemed as if he wanted to hide deep within his soul and disappear forever. 76

He needed to be held and comforted, but there was no one that could muster a bit of strength to do so. His tears drenched the paper he was reading, and he could no longer continue. He collapsed to the floor curling into a fetal position, burying his face in his knees and rocking himself while trying to console his grieving soul. Everything cried at my funeral, except for my father. He watched peacefully as I was lowered into the ground. I saw life in his eyes. His stare was welcoming, as an endless fountain of warmth. Not once did he shed a tear as my coffin disappeared beneath the Earth. My brother’s soul cried as he was being pulled away from me, not wanting to see me gone forever. He fell to the ground and held his stomach as if hit by a sledgehammer. My father laughed with love at my brother’s despair. My sister screamed at the heavens, asking God, why? My father smiled at my sister with sincerity and comfort in his eyes. My mother’s mind exited her. She had an expressionless face as that of a lobotomized person; she had no emotion or understanding of anything. My passing was too much for her to bear. My father smiled at my mother and walked away peacefully. My daughter smiles into my eyes as she feels my presence. She holds her mother and tells her everything will be okay. She knows I’m there with my father. Her love manifests into a blanket of peacefulness and tranquility to cover and keep me safe. Her love is moving, as the moment I cried uncontrollably when she was born. It was as if all my sins had washed away, and her love forgave me for everything wrong in my life. My daughter smiles with my father to reassure me that I’ll be okay. She is a guardian angel to watch over her mother and siblings. My wife and daughter say their last goodbye and leave. I could see my eldest brother’s hurt and anger. I felt his thoughts rushing through his heart as a wild river bursting through a dam. His regret ran deep. He knew he could have done more to show me his love. I witnessed his thought of us as children and the time he denied knowing me as his brother for fear of shame and embarrassment. I watched his fear of almost losing Father when the poison ran hot through his veins. The foam spewing from his mouth was as the salty waves crashing into the sand we witnessed as children. His mumble was illogical. My brother held him in his arms as a puppeteer holds his lifeless creation. A man entered the room and tried to understand the noises that were spoken by my father. My brother said his final goodbye and left. 77

Everyone began to leave the service with great anticipation. It appeared as a mass exodus; people trying to escape a God-forsaken place. People rushed to their vehicles as if impending doom was at hand. The noise quickly settled, and stillness became the atmosphere. I felt the consoling rocking of the massive willow trees above the ground. The gentle sway of the branches brought a peaceful breath to my existence. Daylight appeared as I inhaled, and darkness resumed as I exhaled. All the seasons came and went almost instantly. My father was the only one left after the funeral. He stood by the cavity in the ground that was now my home. The sun set, and nightfall came quickly. I could no longer see and hear hearts cry. The universe resumed its existence, and the earth its rotation. No one was shedding a tear for me any longer. No one was sobbing desperately because they missed me. My funeral came and went. I walked with my father into nothing and everything simultaneously. I loved my father. Everything cried at my funeral, except for him. My new home drew cold and damp. I could not see or hear a single thing any longer. My existence was bare. I was cursed with emotion for an eternity. I felt sorrow, pain, and all the wretched and horrible things life had offered. My mother loved me no more. My brother denied me again in death. My sister forgot me, and my best friend erased me from his memory. Forever I would feel the hot poison that flowed through my father’s veins. I felt my reward thundering towards me as an endless legion of demons. Fear was my whole existence. I felt my father walk away peacefully as he had done so many times before. He abandoned me one last time. He paused to see the gnashing of teeth and the endless devouring of my soul. He smiled towards me consolingly, and I could feel that he was sincere.

The Path Not Taken By Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

Photograph

“Just Imagination” By Hudson Wyatt

Silence hung in the air, filling the cavern with dread, dread and despair as the air sat, stagnant. Darkness filled the space, a darkness that not even the rays of the sun could penetrate. A darkness that threatens to swallow anyone unlucky enough to stumble in. Something emanated fear; hidden by the darkness, it trembled, alone and scared. In the dark, off past the wall of impenetrable dread, out of the circle of false security centered on the fear, something moved. Only evident by the finger-nail-on-chalkboard sound it made as its misused joints cracked. The air trembled with the sound of shuffling feet as it stepped. It paused after each step, the echo of its movements allowed to hang in the air—towards the fear. Its rasping breath was audible in the pin-drop silence, the slow tumbling breathing, echoing in the darkness, getting louder with each step, the echo growing shorter, the stagnant air growing colder. With each step, the fear grew. A chilling screech emanated from the creature as it entered the false circle of safety, the corners of its mouth twisted up in a vile ear to ear grin. Its skin was covered head to toe in patches of coarse matted fur. Inching forward, with dragging feet and dangling arms, the creature forced a skating cold laugh from its haggard muzzle. Crescendoing with a booming echo, shaking the darkness it was emerging from. It raised an arm, brownish bones covered in bits of rotting fur and flesh, pointing towards the center with a thin, shaky finger. A scream started to roll out of the circle but was quickly killed by the veil of darkness. Muffled voices froze both in place. Monster and fear, frozen, waiting. 80

A door handle squealed open. Shattering the silence, the tattered breathing ceased. A rush of warm and comfortable air quickly surged in, and the stagnant air rushed out. Light flooded the room. Pushing back the creature faster than it had emerged. Pushing the very life out of it. “Honey, you need to go to sleep, please; it's late.” A trembling child’s hand emerged from the color-filled blankets, trembling with fear as it pointed, past the piles of toys and clothes strewn on the floor towards the open closet door on the far wall. “There is nothing there, okay; please go to sleep. It's just imagination.” The light was turned off and the door closed. The creature appeared, smiling, laughing, breathing, moving. The creature appeared real. Not ‘just imagination.’

Late Night By Dina Guzman

Oil on Black Canvas

“Run Boy Run” By Jessica Niño

My toes meet the hot Arizona sand, and I can’t help but feel relief as I hear my mouth gasp for air. Air fills my lungs as my feet hit the ground running. Wind sways my hair to and away from my face, revealing the soft honey undertones that hide beneath the usual brown shade. My relief is short lived as I soon hear gunshots trailing behind me. “Great,” I huff. I run around the block, turning left. Around 3:00 p.m., this side of town gets relatively busy. I swim through the crowds forming around the weekly market, squeezing through shoulders. I can sense that my appearance is felt, hearing fruits fall, papers fly, and vulgarities directed at me. I don’t

have time to worry about anyone else but me, and if I don’t find my way out of this maze of people soon, he could catch up.

By this point, the gunshots have stopped completely. No one likes a panicked crowd, but I know he’s close. He always is. I knew what I was getting myself into when I stole it, and I don’t regret it one bit. Being chased

is a good thing, means I still have power… and people are still after it.

“Hey!” I hear him yell, disrupting my train of thought. I turn to see that tall, miserable figure of a man holding a gun towards me, sprinting. I feel my eyes widen, and I start to panic. I need to get out now. I turn to find that both streets are empty, which means no distractions or cracks for me to slither through. My only option is the bridge, so I begin to climb; he follows shortly after. Cars whistle by, warning me of their speed. I cross its width, finding myself on the opposite edge and run down its length. I notice the large body of water waiting below the following half and know it’s my only option. I begin climbing down the bridge structure, and when my toes meet the water, I let go, freeing my arms into the pool waiting below. I begin swimming, stroke after stroke. Swoosh swoosh swoosh.

I hear my arms breaking through the water, and the noise lingers in my ear. I hear a different splash behind me, knowing exactly what it is.

He's still behind me. I need to get rid of him. The water is deep, and my

arms are beginning to burn. But if I want to live, I need to make it a little longer to get back on land. My arms tense up. I begin submerging under the water with frequency, but I know I’ll see it through. 83

As the shore begins to near, my feet find rocks at the bottom, and my swimming becomes running once again. Once out, my toes meet the hot Arizona sand, and I can’t help but feel relief as I hear my mouth gasp for air. Air fills my lungs as my feet hit the ground running. “You’ll be dead before you know it!” I hear behind me. “Not if I kill you first,” I growl back. The sun is beginning to set, meaning I've been running for a few hours now. I'm exhausted. My entire body burns, and I feel like melting into the ground. But I knew thieving would fill my days of worries like this… and part of me found it exhilarating. I hear gunshots resume behind me, and the man begins to yell. “You’ll get tired soon, and then you’ll be mine. You’ll wish you never saw what you did, much less stole what’s ours. You think you’re powerful, but soon you’ll realize that’s not a good thing.” I find the old carnival grounds and slip through the gate. I'm scared now. Really scared. My heart is beating in my throat, and I'm one gasp away from throwing it up onto the dirt ground. The Ferris wheel stares at me, nodding. Voila. I take the hint and start her up, hoping there’s even the slightest chance of it working. She lights up, letting me take her by the hand. I hop in a cart and let her take me on a ride. Soon enough, I begin to sway, and in due time, those sways become violent. He’s on. I look at the other carts, but he’s nowhere to be found. Then, my eyes meet his frame… climbing the metal structure, the foundation of the ride. “There’s no way,” I whimper. In the blink of an eye, I find him standing in front of me. He’s here. “Hand it over,” he yells into my face, almost tipping my entire body over the cart door and towards the ground, waiting for me 70 feet below. “Okay,” I answer. My tears begin to swell, and I know that this is it for me. I’ve seen too much and stolen evidence of multiple crimes involving multiple law enforcement officials. I'm dead meat. I dangle the flash drive, and he gets vulnerable… reaching for it. His gun is revealed, and I swipe it away in a quick motion. He feels his empty holster and knows that he let himself get carried away. I aim it at him; now his eyes swell with tears. It's between me and him now. And I choose me. The loud bang is followed by a shift in weight in the cart, as his body flies through the air, soon to meet the ground. As my cart approaches the ground lever, I can’t help but feel relieved at the thought that my day is over. My heart is pounding, almost breaking through my chest, and I begin to wonder what I will steal next. If everything is corrupt, I might as well add to the chaos. Leaving the cart, my toes meet the hot Arizona sand, and I can’t help but feel relief as I hear my mouth gasp for air. Air fills my lungs as my feet hit the ground running. 84

Our Tenth Anniversary: A Retrospective

“Love Eternal” By Emily Gresham Spring 2012 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Linoleum Print

“Trials” By Justin Rodriguez Fall 2012 Judge’s Choice: Poetry

As I wake and the earth shakes, I look to my lover To another and another I sink back to sleep Rest my head and wonder what I am. I keep a hand on the wheel Drive to a job I hate, And learn to appreciate I fix my tie and wait to die. I open the door and wish I saw more I walk and walk 'til I hit a wall I swear I'll break them all I came. I saw. I want more . . . The phone rings, I roll my eyes wishing I never answered Say my goodbyes and wonder why I shed a tear and sigh in disbelief. I get dressed up to get messed up They pound and pound As I shutter from the sound Surely they must be hell-bound. As I wake and the earth shakes, I sleep and sleep As my life flashes before me Tears fall and bend As I wait for this earthquake to end. 87

Free Food By Luke Martinez Spring 2013 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Mixed Media

Untitled By Dercy Perez Fall 2013 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Paper and Ink Collage

Landscape View 1/1 By Dora Nieto Spring 2014 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Collagraph Print (Ink)

Evening Glow By Serina Holder Fall 2014 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Photograph

Two Birds By Melody Halsrud Spring 2015 Judge’s Choice: Digital Art

Digital Art

Waiting to Dance By Joe M. Cervantes, Jr. Fall 2015 Judge’s Choice: Photography

Photograph

“Scars on My Soul” By R. Daniel Gomez Spring 2016 Judge’s Choice: Nonfiction

It was May 30, 2007, Memorial Day for most, and we had been encountering heavy resistance and countless enemy engagements. A little sniper fire here, a few IEDs there, an ambush over there, a fellow Paratrooper killed or wounded, and an occasional suicide were all among the many realities that we became numb to and ever accepting of. Being the platoon medic, I was the combat medic in an airborne infantry platoon that my fellow Paratroopers leaned on for medical support, advice, comfort, and most importantly, life support. But even then, in those days, my strength waned, and I found myself succumbing to the stresses of an urban warzone. A letter in the mail from my wife at the time saying our marriage was over, the loss of three friends, including one of my best friends, and legal trouble waiting for me as soon as we stepped off the plane back in the states all drove me to a life altering sense that usurped my fears of death as well as my perception of life. Days earlier, our command had us cemented into the town of Senia, about twenty miles northwest of Tikrit, Iraq. We found some abandoned adobe huts that resembled stables as we waited for 2nd platoon to link up with us along with news that they were in possession of our platoon mail. Within the hour, they made it to us with mail in hand. My squad leader found me and gave me a letter that I instantly recognized with my wife's handwriting. Opening the envelope and unfolding the letter, the words “I'm sorry it had to be like this” at the bottom of the letter jumped at me, and immediately, a sinking pain in my heart enveloped my insides as I fought back my true emotional response while reading those crushing words. I never felt more alone than on that day. The next day on the way back to our Fire Operating Base (FOB), my squad leader leaned over and said, “Bravo-Six (The commander’s radio call 94

sign) is asking for you and you specifically.” I instantly recognized the omen in his words. Living in the dirt, carrying forty pounds of body armor at all times, left me dirty, unshaved, exhausted, and mentally numb, so when I went straight to my command as ordered, before they even addressed the reason they summoned me, they were scolding me for my appearance. I stood at parade rest as they informed me that several of my fellow Paratroopers had conspired to commit insurance fraud by burning their vehicles before our combat tour, and because I had unknowingly given one of them a ride from the scene back to the barracks, I was going to face charges of conspiracy along with aiding and abetting. The commander also informed me that when we got back, I'd be directly handed over to Criminal Investigations Detachment (CID) for detainment rather than approved leave like everyone else. Later, when I was wounded by enemy machine gun fire and recovering in the hospital a few months later from those wounds, I discovered that CID only wanted a mere statement on how I knew the individuals connected, and they had no intent of filing charges. Regardless of the disposition, I never fully forgave the 82nd Airborne for bestowing that upon me in those days. I sat in a ninety-degree porta-potty that night in the FOB, staring at my M-4 (weapon) for an hour, thinking, “I’m fighting here only to be thrown in a cage when I get home.” As tired as I was, I hardly slept that night. The morning came with my squad leader, Staff Sergeant Duffield (Duff), waking us to prep the gun trucks for our next patrol that was to be deep within the dangerous limits of the city of Baiji. Still heavy hearted from the events that had already taken place, Duff spoke, “Yo, Doc, check it out, man,” as he threw the Memorial Day issue of Army Times at me. “Remember those cats that got smoked last month from Scouts? There was nine of them....NINE KILLED IN ACTION.” I opened the paper, and there were several pages with faces of all that were killed in action that year. I scrolled through the faces, and there he was, Sgt. Randell T. Marshall, 23 April 2007, killed in action. I stared at his face with empty emotion and expression as I saw the other familiar names of the nine alongside of him. Specialist Jerry King, Specialist Michael J. Rodriguez, killed in action 23 April 2007, both drinking buddies I met through Marshall and had become acquainted with at barracks parties as well as off-post 95

shenanigans, but nevertheless, all dead. Seeing Marshall's face, I calmly spoke:" I know these guys." Looking back, all I can say was I knew Randall Marshall. He always talked about how his Mustang would smoke my Civic, and I always jokingly asked if he'd be mad if he found out his sister had sex with me. I remember the offensive jokes toward each other, all the ways combat brothers would express their approval of each other and validate our brotherly love. He was twenty-two, and he was my friend. About a week later, Duff and I found ourselves in the cross hairs of enemy machine gun fire during a firefight; I was severely wounded, but I was alive. On the way back to FOB Aide Station, with my head and face bleeding, I started to pray, except . . . not for life, but for death. As I bled, I whispered through the blood pouring from my nose and mouth, “Please don’t let me go home, not like this . . . please. Let me stay here, forever young, forever a Paratrooper.” Retrospectively, I find myself still searching for answers to these experiences but am always left silent with the images and the voices of those missed and those I still hold with contempt. The physical and mental scars of those years as an Airborne Medic have since calloused but forever remain visible with all my passing reflections, reflections familiar to those who made it home with many of the same scars on their souls.

All in a Day’s Work By Giselle Vasquez Fall 2016 Judge’s Choice: Photography

Photograph

Pearl By Angelia Jacobs Spring 2017 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Copper and Freshwater Pearls

Country Rooster By Diane Wilson Fall 2017 Judge’s Choice: Fine Art

Watercolor

Valencia By Brandy Guitron Spring 2018 Judge’s Choice: Digital Art

Digital Art

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“Nineties-Rosa: An Ode to Giovanni’s ‘ Nikki-Rosa’” By Emily Hawley Fall 2018 Judge’s Choice: Poetry

Childhood remembrances are always a drag If you never got to have one. You remember things like the days in your mother’s car With no dinner Or lunch Or breakfast And when you grow up You never get to talk about how content you were To have the stars as your ceiling And the pavement as your bed How nice it felt when the tank of your home Was full of gas And the entire world was at your mother’s fingertips. When you talk about your first house, No one hears the resignation Or understands that to have a house Isn’t To Be Happy They imagine the holes in your clothes And the dirt on your shoes And the salt in your hair And assume that’s all you felt too To them, a house is safety To them, a house is contentment To them, a House is a Home But they will never understand that my star roof and Pavement bed were my Home more than a house could ever be And that then, I was happy. 101

CMBYN 3 By Daniel Davalos Spring 2019 Judge’s Choice: Digital Art

Digital Art

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“Lavender and Chamomile” By Jordyn Elliott Fall 2019 Judge’s Choice: Poetry

I once wrote a poem for my husband when we first met, "To Pat, who never smiles but most certainly should." At that point I didn't know why he had reasons not to smile. But I always found them, Tucked in the corners of the laugh lines he hated so much. His aunt told me, after his father's unexpected funeral, that she was so glad he had me. She always feared how alone he was in this world. I started this poem in memory of the things I miss about my husband the most. Like the way, he'd kiss me first thing when he woke up with a scratchy red beard but left the house soft-skinned dressed in camo. How his deep voice used to vibrate my skin as he'd speak love into my collarbones. These innocent, deeply intimate moments that are just for me are all I have left of my husband. Slowly, his scent left. As did his clothes. My husband was leaving in bits and pieces, and I held onto the parts of him I had left.

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But it was no longer him. It was she. My wife. I felt so guilty for mourning the living, But so blessed to see her in her first dress. When she finally looked in the mirror and didn't hate herself for the first time in 26 years, She is beautiful. With soft skin on her collarbones that I keep whispering love into, repeatedly in case anyone says otherwise. I keep telling her that she is not just a pretty face That she is worthy of everything she ever wanted for her body. That she is wonderful, smart, and strong. To Claire, who does smile, As she most certainly should. I will still grow acres of lavender and chamomile in my heart for you to lay your head and call home.

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Plunge By Bruce Panagopoulos Fall 2020 Judge’s Choice: Digital Art

Digital Art

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Untold Secrets By Amina Jumamyradova Spring 2021 Judge’s Choice: Photography

Photograph

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Los Cabo’s Rocks By Stephanie Ocura Fall 2021 Judge’s Choice: Photography

Photograph

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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. 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-At-Large for the Southern Graphics Council International, the largest printmaking organization in the world. 108

The San Antonio Youth Wind Ensemble (SAYWE) Director of SAYWE - Dr. David Torres Principal Conductor, Roderick Leonard Flute Doryann Mueller Glenda Gilmore Haley Pickron Oboe Chloe Adams Bassoon Dylan Mireles Clarinet Peyton Braun Emma Sonnier May-Gway Tao Calista Kelner Devin Macias Sierra Parker Gabby Hernandez Josh Wall Bass Clarinet Sabrina Martinez

Alto Saxophone Josh Quezon Aryssa Zuniga Joseph Marchan Justin Valadez Jayden Lukasik Anana Tripplett Tenor Saxophone Luke Davis Amèrika Reyes Serinity San Roman

Baritone Saxophone Keith Williford Trumpet Adyana Zuniga Isiah Serenil Natalia Ramirez Ricardo Lazaro Sergio Sampayo Maritza Ramirez Madilyn Gaona

French Horn Gavin Gutierrez Robert Mueller Trombone Caroline Foster Constance Ramos Ricardo Ramirez Euphonium Marco Dominguez Tuba Esteban Santos Enrique Flores String Bass Julius Rangel

Percussion Nathanael Lara Daniel Moreno

Dr. David Torres has been teaching music for St. Philip's College since

2007. He currently teaches Music Theory, Music Appreciation, Private Guitar Instruction, and Guitar Ensemble. He is excited to work with the ensemble in making the music program grow and branch out to other areas of the college.. 109

Call for Submissions and Student Editors Fall 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: Friday, September 30, 2022

Fall 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: Sunday, October 9, 2022 Visit our Tiger PAWS Web page for more information. www.alamo.edu/spc/experience-spc/campus-life/getinvolved/clubs-and-organizations/tigerpaws/

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Tiger PAWS Spring 2022 10th Anniversary Edition

Articles inside

“Scars on My Soul” by R. Daniel Gomez

Emily Hawley

Call for Submissions and Editors

“Lavender and Chamomile” by Jordyn Elliott

“Run, Boy, Run” by Jessica Niño

Ignite by Jemma Tremillo

“You Cannot” by Cyrena Arredondo

The Path Not Taken by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

“Sarah in the Sword Grass” by Jocelyn Spear

“Hasta la raiz” by Jessica Niño (with translation

“The Island” by Sarah Thompson

“Hometown” by Maya Sepulveda

“June Done up in Ribbons” by Jocelyn Spear

“Gone with Time” by Viviana Saenz

Mine Is Gold by Vanessa Perez ………………...………………37 “Natural Light” by Maya Sepulveda

“The Forced Transition” by Christina Rosas

“Ravings of a Madman” by Andres Enrique Gonzalez Mystery in Space by Breana D. Sanchez ..…...………...………41

Love by Cassandra Nicole Perez-Herrera

“Bianca” by Sierra Araiza

“Time” by Juliana Castaneda

Jessica Niño

“My School Experience” by Sarah Casillas

Dedication

“Bearing Fruit” by Maya Sepulveda

“A Scattered Heart” by Jerry Garza

“Silence” by Torrynce Armstrong

San Fernando Cathedral by Connie Pullen

“Pepper” by Cyrena Arredondo

Cyrena Arredondo