Javelina Express Issue 6, Spring 2026

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, we are grateful to Dr. James Palmer, Provost and Senior Vice President for Academic Affairs, for his continued support and encouragement. We are also grateful to Dr. Pamela K. Wright, Interim Chair of the Department of Language and Literature. We are especially grateful to Dr. Palmer and Dr. Rosalind V. Alderman, Vice President for Enrollment Management, for helping us host the Second Annual Creative Writing and Artwork Competition with local high schools.

We also appreciate all the support provided by principals and counselors at the 11 participating local high schools in helping us share the creative writing and artwork competition with their students. Thank you for your dedication to your students, your institutions, and your communities. And thank you to all our young peers from these high schools for submitting their brilliant work for the competition and for publication. We hope to continue this annual tradition for many years to come.

We also appreciate the support of Dr. Scott Anthony Jones, Interim Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. And we absolutely must recognize all the hard work done behind the scenes by Ms. Crystal Suarez, Office Administrator for the Department of Language and Literature; Ms. Elisa Guerra, Manager, Operations & Planning, for the College of Arts and Sciences; and Ms. Jennifer Maria Vela, Executive Assistant II to the Provost.

As always, we exist for our wonderful readers. We can create new worlds through literature and the arts, but we could never adequately express just how much it means to us that you are there to see what we have created.

Finally, we are grateful for each other on the editorial board because we are a community with a shared vision; we support each other and listen to each other as we come together to continue this beautiful legacy.

Note from the Desk of the Editorial Advisor

A new year brings a new issue of The Javelina Express with a treasure of poetry, short stories, and artwork. Are we too bold to claim that this magazine represents the soul of the Javelina Nation? And like any precious thing, each issue is nurtured with loving care by a talented and dedicated group of students.

Issue 6 is our longest issue yet. And along with the tradition of the magazine, we are proud to continue the annual creative writing and artwork competition with local high schools. We were delighted by the incredible response from juniors and seniors from 11 high schools in the region, and we are already planning the next competition in Spring 2027 with even more schools participating. Check out the creative talents of a host of young South Texans along with the award-winning poems, stories, and artwork. They are part of our Javelina family.

Let us take a moment to express special gratitude to a young man who volunteered for the graphic design team a couple of years ago, learned design skills using Adobe and Canva, and spearheaded the last 3 issues of The Javelina Express as lead designer. Young Thomas Perez is graduating (Javelinas do grow wings when they are ready to fly off) and looking forward to new adventures. We will miss him, and we know that he will make his mark in whatever career he chooses. But wherever he goes, he will always be a Javelina with his family here cheering him on.

General Note

We created this magazine to provide a platform for Javelinas to share their imaginations. And Javelinas have powerful imaginations that map the full spectrum of human experiences that can address challenging issues like grief, trauma, violence, etc. We recognize the courage it takes for authors and artists to share their creations, and we appreciate our readers using their judgment to decide whether to engage with the published work.

2nd Annual Creative Writing and Artwork Competition for High School Seniors

What a proud moment it is for us to be able to bring you the 2nd Annual Creative Writing and Artwork Competition with local high schools. Texas A&M University-Kingsville continues to provide a platform for young people in South Texas to aspire to their dreams and realize their ambitions. So, once again, we are delighted to share the bright new voices of future Javelinas with the creative work of students, staff, faculty, and alumni of the Javelina Nation.

With the continued encouragement and support of Dr. James Palmer, Provost and Vice President for Academic Affairs, and Dr. Rosalind V. Alderman, Vice President of Enrollment Management, we were able to expand the 2nd annual creative writing and artwork competition for Senior-year students to 11 select high schools:

• Kaufer Early College High School

• Premont Collegiate High School

• Santa Gertrudis Academy High School

• H. M. King Early College High School

• Bishop High School

• Calallen High School

• Banquete High School

• Alice High School

• Tuloso-Midway High School

• Sinton High School

• Robstown High School

Students submitted their work for competitions in the categories of poetry, short stories, and artwork/photography. The first, second, and third place winners in each category receive scholarship to the university, a certificate of achievement, and recognition and publication in the magazine.

We are delighted to announce the following winners:

Poetry:

1st - “The version that was almost me” by Savannah Webb (Kaufer Early College High School)

2nd - “How It Works” by Iris Uribe (Tuloso-Midway High School)

3rd - “Unrequited Love” by Miranda Perales (Kaufer Early College High School)

Short Stories:

1st - “The Last Bell” by Tyler Ramirez (Kaufer Early College High School)

2nd - “Licensed for Ruin” by Cate Cruz (Kaufer Early College High School)

Artwork:

1st - “The Cowboy Rides Away” by Meya Williams (Tuloso-Midway High School)

2nd - “The Small Town Dream” by Daren Davila (Kaufer Early College High School)

3rd - “Memoirs in Marigolds” by Kathryn Sharp (Alice High School)

Congratulations to all the winners!

You have made your family and friends, your high schools, and your community proud.

Table of Contents

Poetry

Sally How we used to be........................12

Mariah Boone

Midwinter........................................47

Maynard Carbajal Every Day.........................................57

Daren Davila The Small Town Dream.................16

Kayla Ryan Esquivel A Lover Akin to a Mother.............55

Micaela Gutierrez Overthinking and Fear..................17

Jason Hogue 807 Web...........................................13

Carsyn Kilgore Beast Monster Thing.......................9

Catalina Martinez How Animals Taught Me to be Human...............35

Joseph Garza Medina Friendslop.........................................7

Angelica Ortega What Makes a Champion?.............4 Korina Peña Gloomy

Miranda Perales Unrequited Love...............................4

Enrique Ramirez Seasons of Change..........................23

Ana Rysavy The earth knows where the flowers once were.....................36 Ava Suazo Nosotros Somos................................3

Maria Jose Villegas To be a Mujer.................................39

Savannah Webb The version that was almost me......1

Artwork Table of Contents

Elexia Arredondo Forever River..............................47

Jayla Clack Still Water, Silent Sky...............56

Cate Cruz A Break in the Shade..............18 Life at a Glimpse.....................20

Coraflage...................................22

Serene Moments.....................27

Daren Davila The Small Town Dream..........16

Nat Garcia Unity...............................................14 Self Portrait...................................37 The Perfect Night.......................58

Anley Gonzales My Pig Bentley............................46

David Gonzales Sunset on the Bay.......................20

JM Jaynes Smile..............................................58

Larissa Jimenez Where the World Softens........56

Genesis Macareno One Spirit....................................37

Alena Rodriguez Discipline Against the Machine...............25 Inside Your Mind..........................................25

Kathryn Sharp Memories in Marigolds................................16

Michael Thierry Early Morning Sunrise.................................36

Cody Williams College Cats....................................................19

Meya Williams The Cowboy Rides Away............................28

Short Stories

Zaiden Del Bosque Life at 16 Does Not Feel Simple.....................33

Cate Cruz Licensed for Ruin................................................29

Isaias Gonzalez The Christmas Star.............................................21

Nadia Hernandez Do You Know Where Your Children Are?.......49

Leonel J. Ramirez Cuckoo the Cockroach Presents: The Last Days of Bocho the Great.................41

Tyler Ramirez The Last Bell............................................................8

The Version That Was Almost Me

By: Savannah Webb

The version of me Who stayed

She still lives in this house With the height marks in the hallway The dent from the couch Which door is harder to open How the porch light always goes out Before it finally works

She didn’t want to be the reason The dinner table felt empty With an open chair where she was supposed To sit

There is a version of me Who heard mom say We will miss you But treated it like a warning Instead of love

Who saw my dad

Nod his head once And change the subject When I brought up moving

That version only works somewhere safe. Roads that don’t need directions. Stop at the same places Where they have her favorite

People always say “When did you get this tall?” And start to measure her with their hands

She laughs

And says “I don’t know” She tries not to think about it

How badly she wanted to be Bigger than this town

This version of me who is Leaving isn’t unsympathetic

She cries in the bathroom with the Water running so no one can hear She memorizes the way her mom looks Wondering how she looks so young Like love is something you smooth out So it doesn’t wrinkle

She notices how her father Checks the clock twice before bed Makes sure all the doors are locked multiple times

Before bed

Presses his palm to the door like he can Feel danger

She isn’t afraid the world will change She’s afraid it won’t

The almost me says You don’t have to go

The leaving me says I need to Because if I don’t, I’ll never forgive my self And neither of us are wrong.

Nosotros Somos

By: Ava Suazo

Deeply rooted in the South Texas frontier

Gente afar and gente near

Historias familiares from generations are told

Told over and over they never get old

Nosotros somos de diferentes lugares

Pero todos somos un poco iguales

No todos tienen esta oportunidad

Pero todos tenemos un sueño en la vida

Solo tenemos una vida

Nosotros somos las encargados

De hacerla maravillosa

Nosotros somos el futuro de mañana

Unidad en la diversidad

Todos juntos

Juntos podemos

Juntos somos fuerte

Nosotros somos azul y oro

Nosotros somos Jalisco

Nosotros somos TAMUK

What Makes a Champion?

By: Angelica Ortega

A true champion fights for what they earn

They grind and grind, day in and day out

Through their failures, they begin to learn

Sweat and tears, there is no doubt

For what they will do will leave a legacy that will be talked about

A champion does not come to life from the glory or fame

Not from the trophy, not from the title, not from the name

A champion is determined, to win more than the game

Giving their heart to prove they are worthy of what they aim

So the next time you see a trophy on TV

Just remember, that person worked hard for who they want to be

Unrequited Love

By: Miranda Perales

A one-sided love.

A love un-returned.

I loved you quietly, Like a song playing in my head. Close enough to feel you, Too far to belong to me. You were the only one I have ever wanted.

I built hope from small moments, A glance, a smile, small accidental touches, eye contact. I learned your favorite things. I was sick from loving you. Hoping that you noticed.

But I learned, love can grow without permission, And fade without goodbye.

Somewhere in me, I love you still. Even when I know your heart does not match mine. As my memory of you sits still, Not painful anymore, Just unfinished.

The Boy in the Bubble

By: Jathan Ten Cate

He learned the bubble slowly, the way one learns posture or prayer. No single moment announced it. It arrived in increments, a habit formed from applause and survival.

At first, it was only breathing: inhale before speaking, exhale before reacting. A softening of the face. A smile arranged for guests.

Soon it had shape. It shimmered around him, near-invisible skin stretched thin as soap film, catching light just enough to be admired. People mistook the gloss for ease.

Inside, the world came filtered. Voices reached him padded. Disappointment dulled. Anger lost its echo. Nothing struck all at once.

He floated well. He distributed his weight so no one felt burdened. He nodded at the correct intervals, laughed without cracking the seal.

Each morning became ceremony: rise, rinse the night away, step back inside himself. The bubble sealed with a soundless click. Ready again.

They praised his balance, his patience, his goodness, as though it were renewable and not siphoned slowly from bone.

Yes, he could help. Yes, he had time. Yes, no trouble at all.

The words came polished, obedient, stacked neatly in his mouth. He became fluent in reassurance, excellent at saying yes before anyone asked.

The bubble made goodness travel farther. He could carry everyone’s weather and never show the storm.

For a while, he mistook this for flight. Grades climbed. Commitments multiplied. Faces turned towards him like open hands. He stayed buoyant under the weight.

Confetti collected on the surface. Compliments clung like static. From below he must have looked radiant, a boy suspended in grace.

But air changes when trapped. At night the bubble tightened. Thoughts circled without exit. Every promise replayed, tapping the walls. Sleep arrived thin.

Exhaustion gathered quietly, sediment he tried not to stir. Some nights it reached his ankles. Some nights his knees. He learned to stand very still.

He noticed how often he apologized for things that were not his. How rest felt like theft. How being good meant being hollowed out and thanked for the shape left be hind.

The world still smiled up at him. They liked him elevated, agreeable, light. They waved. They called his name like affirmation. He waved back.

He liked them too. That was the anchor. Affection has weight. It pulls even as it prais es.

Lately the bubble has softened, warmed from the inside. He presses his hand against its curve and feels his own heat return. His breath fogs the surface briefly before clear ing. Proof of life… of cost.

He is not ready to fall. The ground waits with honest intentions, and honesty bruises. But he is tired of drifting, of smiling through dizziness, of being praised for how little space he requires.

So, he pauses. He lets the bubble hover. He stops adjusting for the view from below. Silence does what his mouth never learned: it tells the truth without permission.

This is not the moment it bursts. Not the spectacle they expect. This is the moment he understands floating was never freedom, only delay. And for now, the knowledge alone is enough to keep him steady.

Friendslop

By: Joseph Garza Medina

Twelve years, Twelve years, my friend,

Since we last played Zombies co-op on local

Since we last had Mexican food at a place that failed two consecutive health inspections

Since we last listened to old vinyl by Willie and Waylon and Merle on my dad’s old Technics.

Every day, I think of you and miss you. A statement so seemingly trite that it feels like that same poem’s been done a million times before,

And all by poets better than I, But it doesn’t make it any less true, And it doesn’t erase the tragedy of losing you.

Thinking about the times that could have beenDrinking Bitburger in Hildesheim instead of Shiner in Corpus Christi, The OSHA certification never completedI mourn, like a good poet should. But more importantly, I mourn like a true friend would.

The Last Bell

By: Tyler Ramirez

When the last bell rang on the final day of senior year, everyone started cheering. People were yelling, hugging, and recording videos like something huge just happened. I stood there for a second longer than everyone else, holding my backpack and just looking around. It felt weird knowing that I wouldn’t be back. The hallway looked the same as always—old lockers, scratched floors, lights that flickered for no reason. I had walked these halls for four years, but now it felt different. Not better or worse, just final. I’d thought that I’d feel excited, but mostly I felt confused.

Freshman year, I was nervous about everything. I didn't want to get lost or sit alone at lunch. I remember thinking seniors had life figured out. They walked around like they owned the place. Now, I was a senior, and the truth was that I still didn’t know what I was doing. Outside, my friends were already celebrating as if they had just won something. My friend Nate asked, “Are you ready”? and slapped my back. I laughed, but my mind was already somewhere else.

People keep asking what my plans are. College? Work? Future? I usually just say, “Yeah I’ve got a plan,” even though I don’t. Saying that is easier than explaining how unsure I actually feel. I also remember not too long ago I actually found an old notebook from freshman year in my room. I read some of it and laughed. I sounded so dramatic, talking about how high school was going to change my life. Some things did change, some didn’t. I made friends, lost some, passed classes I thought I’d fail, and stressed way too much over stuff that doesn't even matter now.

Graduation day was going to be hot and uncomfortable. I already knew that the speeches were going to be long, and I was hoping nobody, like my mom, would cry because then I would start crying. When I would walk that stage, it wasn’t going to feel real. It was going to be like four years boiled down to a handshake and a piece of paper.

Later, I sat in my friend's car in the school parking lot, just thinking how high school had been safe and how there had always been a schedule telling me where to be and what to do. Life after this was definitely going to be different, and that scared me. But maybe that was okay. I was probably leaving high school not knowing everything, but I was leaving knowing that I can figure things out. And as I drove away, I realized the last bell wasn’t really the ending. It was just the start of something new, even if I wasn’t totally ready for it yet.

Beast Monster Thing

By: Carsyn Kilgore

There’s something incredibly enchanting about a beast.

Having claws too sharp to touch anything, anyone peacefully. Talons crafted only to harm, to leave unforgettable scar on pure flesh. Maw soaked in crimson, eyes wide with slitted irises because the beast did not know it was a beast. It only knows its instincts. It isn’t fair, that it was born into a body meant for nothing more than the most macabre of acts.

There’s beauty in horror, though. In all of the gore, and all of the fear.

Inside of a beast with gnashing claws and bitten back snarls. Despite how much the sight of such a monster fills you with dread, you find its existence hauntingly alluring. Why is the beast a beast? And why are we no different?

There’s a touch ever so lovely about toying with something, someone that can change you irreversibly.

It’s almost as if you’re asking to be mauled. You wonder to yourself if that truly would be such a terrible thing, but the pit in your stomach makes up your mind for you.

There are already these beasts among us.

They wear our faces and live just the same as us. They use their claws and tap away at a keyboard during their 9-5 job. They use their mouths to speak and to frown and to grin, even if it will never look quite right. They are greedy and selfish and irredeemable; just like humans.

Beasts even might be capable of love.

They might be able to love something, someone so badly, they’re willing to be this creature for them.

Does feeling emotions, needs such as these, make us a beast? Does it make us human? Are we capable of such horrible things as our very nightmares?

There is a monster in this world, too.

It is in love with the idea of being human so badly, it is willing to do anything to become one. It tries to form its face to express emotions and joy and sorrow. Its skin bubbles, aches with the effort.

It tries to function like the rest of the world. It tries to cook, but the pot always falls to the ground with a deafening noise. It tries to partake in conversation, but its words feel heavy in its mouth and every syllable comes out as a jumbled mess. Its hands shake too much and its vision blurs constantly, and there is no treatment for a beast. There is no pill to swallow that will fix the beast’s failure of living.

There’s something painfully miserable about the beast that you can’t help but pity it. But the beast is still a beast, and the pot is still burning a hole in the kitchen floor, and there is nothing a human or a monster can do to stop the beast’s shaky hands.

You shouldn’t feel pity for it. It was born this way, and we were born to hate it.

“It” is not a him or her. It does not have any defining traits; only its sharp claws and gangly body and the mark of the beast. It has little purpose in this life besides being this cruel, unruly thing that we shame at every convenience.

I push my pen to this paper, digging in the ink the same way the beast, the monster, the humans dig their canines into us.

I am an amalgamation of all of these wicked creatures.

My flesh paints me as human, but my words are also jumbled, and I am unable to make my face smile the way normal humans do. I am the one who let the pot clatter and singe the floor. I am the beast monster thing who craves so, so desperately to fit in.

I cannot speak in ways that make sense. I cannot stop my hands from their tremors, and I cannot swallow a pill to make myself “better.”

But I have brown hair and brown eyes, and a functioning brain and a body that takes me from place to place. I eat and I sleep and I get sick and I have a family that loves me. I am booksmart and I am writing these words as if they are fiction, but they are not. I am in this funny little “between” of being a human and a beast monster thing.

So I’ll bite my tongue, pick up the burning pot, and form a smile with my mouth in a way that’s almost convincing.

How we used to be

By: Sally

We used to talk about everything, the big stuff and the dumb stuff, and somehow it all mattered because we were saying it to each other.

Being your friend felt easy. No overthinking. No pretending. Just us.

We had jokes no one else understood, late-night talks that made time disappear, and promises we made like nothing could ever change.

I really thought we’d stay that way.

Now it’s quiet. I still reach for my phone sometimes when something funny happens, like you’re still the first person I’m supposed to tell.

For a second, when my screen lights up, I hope it’s you. It never is.

I didn’t know missing someone could feel this heavy. Not dramatic just this constant ache that doesn’t fully go away.

It’s in the small things. The moments when I realize you’re not there like you used to be.

Losing you wasn’t just losing a friend. It was losing my safe place. My first call. The person who understood without me having to explain.

And the hardest part is the world keeps moving like nothing happened while I’m still trying to figure out how to be okay without you in it.

Maybe one day I’ll think about us and just smile. But right now, it still hurts. Because you mattered. And we mattered.

807 Web

By: Jason Hogue

It’s funny how they move away And never say goodbye to you. Neighbors now, but tomorrow they Are just an empty lot sitting next to you.

Funny that her scolding screams They never seemed to apply to you. Empty threats that wove my dreams, The gusts, forgotten, that you fought your way into.

Remember the curses, How they lost all their sting?

Your shouts tucked me into bed, Soaked into my head. An ambient anger Of perfect strangers Is silence now instead.

Take a bow, you don’t say?

Your curtain call performance is long overdue. Funny when the lonely wind Is all I have left to get me through.

The vacant yard, it lies in wait, Just taking up a space within my point of view. And funny how the wisteria Vines have lost their purple hue.

I remember the verses, But I’ve forgotten how to sing. Without a melody Of raging intensity, An imminent danger, The fictions far stranger Than the dull reality.

Want

By: Iris Uribe

One with passion, Strives with determination

A goal in mind;

A longing for improvement aids those with strong dreams

Looking back on the past, How the creative world of engineering shone so bright

The impact my soul took

Drove my creative endeavors forward

I want to create

I want to make a difference in the paths of opportunities

My dream is to take ideas within the walls of the mind

To construct them into a medium where inspiration takes all

By: Nat Garcia

Soul

By: Iris Uribe

A cheerful heart is good medicine, But a crushed spirit dries up the bones

Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him

In the sweat of your face shall you eat bread, Till you return to the ground, for out of it were you taken For dust you are, and to dust shall you return He Himself took our infirmities, bore our sicknesses

God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world

But so that the world might be saved through him

For the wages of sin are death

But the gift of God is eternal life

Through Christ Jesus our Lord

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, I will give you rest

To know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, That you may be filled with all the fullness of God

The face is the mirror of the mind, Ways without speaking confess the secrets of the heart

The eye is the lamp of the body

The Small Town Dream

By: Daren Davila

In Kingsville’s hush, a canvas bright, The Texas sky ignites the night. A fiery blush, a gentle gleam, Reflects on waters, like a dream.

The pier stands still, a silhouette, As clouds of rose and orange met. The lake’s embrace, a mirrored grace, Where time and beauty interlace.

A moment held, a tranquil scene, Where peace resides, forever keen.

In Kingsville’s heart, the colors blend, A Texas sunset, without end.

Memories in Marigold

By: Kathryn Sharp

Overthinking and Fear

By: Micaela Gutierrez

She counts the beat before the music starts, Not out loud

But in her quiet little head and the corners of her heart.

She thinks only 8 counts, Only 45 8 counts she thinks, She thinks in her head, What if I fall or mess up?

The 9 panels feel small, As her mind is loud. The lights feel bright and hot, As the thoughts are proud She thinks of every little mistake that hasn’t even happened yet.

With a big black bow in her hair, And her hair teased so high. With glitter on her face and a red lip, Behind all that, she just thinks about all the “what if’s” that could happen.

Being front and center for jumps, Her head spirals about “what if” my toes aren’t pointed or my legs aren’t straight Thinking about stunts, Her head spirals about “what if” they don’t stick.

The warmups backstage go by so fast, Only 5 minutes a mat feels like 1 minute. Standing behind the curtain before running out, Heart racing, and a panic attack starts to set in. Once the music starts, Everything in her head goes blank. A big smile crosses her face, While her body does the motions by memory.

From doing stunts, pyramid, and dance, Her body follows each motion

From the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears she has put into the sport, All she can do is be grateful for the opportunity to be where she’s at.

Once the music ends, The moment of realization and relief crosses her face. She knows she just hit a routine that she stressed over, And all she can do is smile.

As she gets up and runs to hug her teammates, She realizes the fear and overthinking were loud, But she was louder and overcame it.

A Break in the Shade

By: Cate Cruz

College Cats

By: Cody Williams

Life at a Glimpse

By: Cate Cruz

By: David Gonzales

Sunset on the Bay

The Christmas Star

By: Isaias Gonzalez

Once upon a time, in the old village of Evergreen up in the snowy mountains, Christmas was the most awaited time of the year. The villagers would gather and decorate the big tree in the town square, and every home glowed with lights and cheer. In this village lived a young girl named Clara, who had a big belief in the magic of Christmas. Her favorite tradition was the lighting of the Christmas Star, a beautiful ornament that was at the top of the village's big tree.

Legend had it that the star held the power to grant one heartfelt wish each Christmas Eve. As the holiday approached, Clara noticed something unusual. The Christmas Star, which had been passed down through generations, had lost its glow. It no longer shone as brightly as it once did. Concerned, Clara decided to find old Mr. Welt, the village historian. Mr. Welt explained that the star’s magic was powered by the Christmas spirit of giving and kindness. And over the years, the villagers had become so busy with their own lives that they had forgotten the true meaning of Christmas--sharing joy and helping those in need.

After Clara found out what was happening to the townspeople, she was determined to restore the star’s glow. So she set out on a quest. She gathered her friends and family, encouraging them to spread kindness throughout the village. They organized a food drive for the less fortunate, visited the elderly with homemade treats, and sang Christmas songs to lift everyone’s spirits. As the acts of kindness started increasing, something began to happen. The Christmas Star started flickering, slowly regaining its sparkle with each good deed.

On Christmas Eve, the entire village gathered around the tree, waiting for the moment when the star would shine at its brightest. On that day, Clara made her wish. The clock hit midnight, the Christmas Star burst into a huge glow, lighting up the night sky. The villagers were amazed, feeling the warmth of the star's magic while it was glowing. Clara’s wish was simple: that the spirit of giving and love would remain in their small village Evergreen, long after the holiday season ended. And from that day forward, the village understood the true meaning of Christmas, cherishing the joy of giving and the bonds of community. The Christmas Star continued to shine brightly each year, a ray of hope and a reminder that the magic of Christmas is not in receiving but in the joy of giving and sharing love with others.

Gloomy Night

By: Korina Peña

On a gloomy night of freezing weather

She begins to recall the lovely days

The memories of their bliss came to her

As fast as sound or as quick as sun rays

Misery filled the cold air with old tears

Bitter venting to her favorite person

She sees pity in her friends’ eyes she fears

People judge her as if she’s done arson

A light in the distance kills the dark night

No more monsters lurking in the black Monsters that masquerade as pleasant sprite

The kind of monsters that poisons attack

The light clears up the crowded fields of guilt

And a hill is seen with a house they’ve built

Coralflage

By: Cate Cruz

By: Enrique Ramirez

As winter passes,

To everyone, it’s just another year.

But to people like me,

It’s proving that we are everything we didn’t think we were going to be in the previous years

Alive and breathing, whether it be in a warm environment that helps us live and breathe or be in harsh weather that is so cold it makes breathing feel like needles stabbing you, sometimes even trapping you

It’s proving that we are alive

That we can feel

It’s a horrible feeling.

To be able to soak in the coldness and warmth of life

But that’s what makes it all the better It proves that we are alive and surviving

Spring shines down on us with its clear blue skies and warm, vibrant rays of sunshine.

With the flowers coming into bloom and the cold melting away

Nothing could ever stay the same.

Like the flowers and trees, the leaves and even the breeze.

It’s forever changing.

Adapting to whatever circumstances are given

Millions and billions of flowers are growing again.

All so similar

Growing and dying

A cycle we cannot break.

But acknowledge

We are the flowers we see

We are the earth, and everything we consume

We are living and dying.

The summer is as hot as the sun itself.

And can be freeing as a bird flying in the sky on a beach

The water can be anything

To the saltiest of seas

To the clearest bodies of water that let you see the sand

They both can still hurt us

The sand is as hard as a rock on impact

But it is fragile with its many bits and pieces.

Sharp, smooth, solid, and soft

These are the things that make up our lives.

We can always just stay on the shore, where it is safe.

Or we can choose to swim in the sea.

Soaking up everything that has ever come in contact with the never-ending body of water

We can drown and die

Or we can float and be sentient

Become part of the sea and float along with the currents and waves

Acknowledging everything that makes us “Us.”

Acknowledge the waves that have drowned and killed so many others

Acknowledging the waves that have led many ashore to safety

No matter the situation

We are swimming and drowning together. It’s a never-ending whirlpool of emotions.

The season of mixed emotions and acknowledgments

There are many days acknowledging everything and everyone we have lost

Summing up the pain and growth we have gone through throughout the year

The days can feel and be as long as the year has been

But as those long days pass by

We never appreciate the time we are given

Never appreciate the people who have seen us change

Never appreciate the person we used to be, and the person we are becoming

The trees are changing constantly due to the weather, Whether it’s hot, cold, or anything between, they show growth and decay

Same as us, it’s a never-ending cycle.

A cycle is a hard thing to break, It’s in our nature, it’s nature itself

We are living and dying every day

We just don’t notice it until our time to decompose

Till it’s time to feed Mother Earth the same way she has fed us and everyone who has come before us

And especially the ones that will come after us

Discipline Against The Machine

By: Alena Rodriguez

Inside your mind

By: Alena Rodriguez

Friday Night Measures: Sonic Soldiers

By: Michael Verderber

The lights roll on, As do their feet

Drills and drills, Get to your spot

Left, right, left, They should know how to play

Uniforms soaked in fear

These are not soldiers of war

But Soldiers of Sound

There can be a loss;

Weeks from now.

The Friday night lights

Bounce off the bells, the rims

Breathing paced

Every game is another practice

The big show is always a Saturday

Where Pigskin really matters; Flags held high, Faces drenched in sweat,

Breathing gets irregular.

Crosstown rivalry means nothing

Save who produces the best Sonic display

The Saturday comes upon them

No one can eat

The division is on the line

Our division is on the line

Hours have passed,

Performances have hit the final note

The soldiers are lined up, A kaleidoscope of colors.

A haunting voice is heard

From the pressbox,

“Lyford… Division… Two.”

A groan of pain spills from musicians

Polite, yet crushed applause

Spills from parents

Heartache, months for nothing. “Raymondville… Division… One.”

A gasp of stifled nerves erupt

Teeth clenching back joy, The directors are exuberant, But also hold that breath in “San Benito… Division… One.”

And it rolls on, but you can’t hear

Beyond your own name.

All around there are literally Thousands of musicians, enveloped In emotions they cannot handle.

Senior year’s book is closed in heartache

Every other division may not care

Cannot advance

This is for pride, musicianship, The lost classmates

This is for next year, for fish, For another shot at the next Pigskin

The season has ended for most, And the notes will never quite Sound the same.

Although it may have concluded, Others march on…

Purgatory

By: Korina Peña

I will no longer be in purgatory but in the stars shining above a graveyard filled with thousands of souls attempting to escape each day for centuries only to have a few succeed.

Those who have been freed from burden would come across the Grim Reaper. Some lucky but others soon find themselves looking back at their doom’s day exploring their minds for memories that they can read. They hope it can explain why each temptation they had bestowed upon themselves has cost them to walk down a path of misfortune.

As I witness every second of a place they call “The Between” in the afterlife, I read my book and I can recall the bliss, melancholy, abandonment, infatuation, and all the above moments that I lived through in this place called life. Life... what a strange word. Haven’t heard it in eons...

By: Cate Cruz

Serene Moments

The Cowboy Rides Away

By: Meya Williams

Remember

By: Korina Peña

Reading my novel about a boy who tries

Even when the sun falls, he tries

Making way into the world who despises him he still tries

Everything is against him especially the weather, but he tries

Maybe it’s just bad luck that cursed him

Being suffocated with his own clothes seems grim

Enough has been said and done time to turn the key

Ready to sleep he lays down and he chose to remember me

Licensed for Ruin

By: Cate Cruz

The more you fight the easier it gets to land at the top. But once I achieved number one in the fighting ring, I no longer wanted it anymore. In frustration, I kick a street rock into a wall with a sharp crack and sigh. My newest bodyguard, Enzo, scans me warily.

“So that’s it?” he calls out, cutting through the quiet street. “You beat someone half to death in the ring, and now you’re playing with rocks?”

I ignore Enzo’s taunts hoping for another person to challenge me. I can feel Enzo watching me, observing my posture. He is staring at my twitching fingers.

“You’re not waiting for just anyone,” he says suddenly, voice lower, no longer taunting.

I watch the realization hit his expression. “You’re waiting for someone who won’t fold in three seconds. Someone who’ll make you bleed.”

He takes another step forward. “And if no one comes?” he asks quietly. “What then Lucian?”

I give him an empty smile. “The world burns to bring me momentary satisfaction.”

The words hang in the air for a moment. And for once, Enzo’s speechless. He looks disturbed. After a moment, he lets out a wry laugh.

“Well damn it,” he mutters. “You really are insane, you know that, right?” Enzo lets out a small Chuckle.

“I know my issues, insanity isn’t one of them,” I say.

“Psychoanalyzing yourself, that’s a new one.” Enzo’s mind is still reeling, half-confused, half-intrigued, but he can’t deny the shiver that goes through him. He isn’t one to back down though.

“And yet you’re the one out here kicking rocks on the sidewalk.”

I ignore him as I notice another good rock and kick it into a wall.I’m standing mostly in the dark, trying to calm a storm no one else can see. Enzo breaks the silence again, still watching my every move.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice lower now—softer. “You don’t want chaos... you want control.” Enzo takes one slow step closer.”You kick the rock... because if you don’t,” his voice drops to a whisper “you might start kicking people.”

I give him an empty smile. He’s finally beginning to understand. He’s too close now, and I’m not exactly the sort of person you want to be near in this kind of mood. I’m dangerous. It’s like standing next to a lit fuse that’s one breath away from a blast. Enzo should really walk away. Yet he’s still pushing.

“And if you lose control?” he asks quietly, eyes locked on mine, “If this ‘itch’ gets too loud and the rocks don’t keep you quiet anymore. Then what the hell do you do?”

I have never seen someone push this far.

I answer, “I do my best to quiet it down. If not, I drown underneath the noise till all I can hear are the demons. But I don’t want to be the true criminal my demons yearn for. Can you imagine me behind bars? I refuse to ever let it happen.”

Enzo continues to stare, letting the weight of my words sink in. I’m sure he realizes that I’m not just dangerous, I’m a ticking bomb waiting to go off.

“You, a criminal?” he repeats, voice low. “Nah... jail wouldn’t hold you. Nothing can.”

Enzo takes a breath, then he does something extremely reckless. He steps forward closing the space between us and stares into my eyes.

“Then don’t lose control,” he says, almost daring me. “Or better yet, let me be the one to test it.”

I nearly laugh, “You may be strong enough to protect me from others but not enough to win against me.”

I watch as the words land a blow to Enzo’s ego. His jaw tightens, but he refuses to look away. His stubbornness is infuriating, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he got under my Skin.

“I don’t need training. I’m good enough as I am,” he mutters, the words clearly coming out before he can stop himself.

I sigh again, losing all interest in our conversation.

“Keep telling yourself that. Your squad can easily take you on in a one-on-one battle and win. Don’t forget you are my newest bodyguard.” With that I turn and walk away. I don’t even have to look at Enzo to know that the words hit harder than any punch I could have ever thrown.

Behind me Enzo stands frozen as I walk away. My voice, my presence, the way a void takes shape in my absence, he takes note of it all. For once, he has nothing sharp to say. I walk home knowing it’s too dangerous to drive. The city hums around me as I walk. Streetlights flicker like distant stars, my heavy footsteps pounding with something unsaid. The silence isn’t empty. It’s alive with thoughts, with tension, a quiet scream for a mind too sharp for its own good. Behind me, Enzo stays in place still fuming. He watches me disappear into the night. One thing he knows for certain: that he needs to get stronger, not to survive, but to stand beside me, when I finally break

After I leave, a spike of adrenaline hits me. No more controlled walk, I’m running now. Fast and hard like I’m chasing something. I feel the wind tearing at my clothes. The city blurs into streaks of lights and shadows as I push my body to its limit. Each footfall hammers down, focusing,working to keep this storm in my head from boiling over. I run to drown the noise. I can feel the burn in my lungs, the fire in my legs. How long can I keep myself stable? I focus on the rhythm of my own breath and the pounding of my feet against the sidewalk instead of the blurring lights around. Every breath is a reminder of the world beyond my urges, it’s the life behind closed doors. As time passes, I feel peace and ground myself once more, but I don’t stop. I keep pushing myself to my limits because I feel alive. But how far can I go before the demons start whispering again?

Once I return home, I can already feel the demons start whispering again. To calm them, I hit my punching bag till my hands are bruised and bloody. Only then do I stop and take a shower. My wounds burn, reminding me that I’m still here. I welcome the burn as a small price for keeping me from shattering. I stand there and plead, “Let this be over.” The demons inside don’t whisper. They hold their breath. I’m not asking for escape… I’m begging for peace. But peace never lasts for me. As I take my shower, the demons quiet. When I exit, I know this feeling is only temporary. I get dressed and head toward the only place my demons never follow, my art studio. I look at the half-finished canvases with still dirtied brushes. Each piece is perfect… and empty. Like they breathe, but have no soul. Masterpieces. But they’re not, at least not to me. None of them feel, scream, bleed or burn the way I do. I pick up a brush and stare at it, then toss it aside. “What are you missing?” I ask myself. But deep down, I know that all I’m asking for is to be seen. For them to look past the storm. To find someone who won’t flinch at the chaos, but join it. I pick up a brush and canvas hoping for that time to come soon. The colors clash and bleed, sharp lines cut through soft curves on the canvas. When I focus back in, my back is aching, my eyes are dry, and the sun bleeds orange across the floor over splattered paint and discarded rags. My new piece is flawless by others standards. But to me it’s like looking into a mirror of myself — a lost soul behind glass. Without a word, I drop the brush into the water can and walk away.

I’m just tired, not the kind that needs sleep, but the tiredness that doesn’t heal and waits for something or someone to finally say, “I see you.” And mean it. I leave the studio and pass the other rooms. The sounds of other people filter through closed doors. Around me, I hear soft voices with quiet footsteps as life slowly wakes up after the night. But not awake enough to fill the halls yet. I push forward on bare feet and the cold wood stings my skin. Small sounds make the house feel bigger.When I enter the kitchen, it’s dim, the morning light is still too weak to fill the corners. I move like a shadow, quickly opening the cabinets without noise, pulling out bread, jam, something easy. Because my body demands fuel and I obey. I don’t linger. I eat standing by the counter not paying attention till footsteps echo down the hall. I quickly put my dishes in the sink and vanish through a side exit before anyone can say good morning. The only evidence of my visit are my dishes. I take the long way back to my room. The halls sound the same. Every sense is hyper-aware like a silent alarm. Finally, I reach my door and slip inside away from the world I don’t belong in. Silence swallows everything in my room leaving me to my thoughts.

“My guards pretend,” I whisper to no one. “All of them act like they can stand in my storm and not be swept away. But they don’t wake up every morning wondering if today’s the day their control snaps.”

I understand how fragile everything is, how easy it would be to break it all just to see what comes after. But I don’t finish the thought. The truth settles like a heartbeat. Normal people fear chaos because they can’t control it. I fear it because I can. The worst part is how much I love that power. Suddenly, Enzo knocks. I steady myself, then let him in. He looks around before turning to me.

“Busy?” he asks.

I don’t respond.

“You look awful… but still better than all of us.”

I glance up at that.

“You act like you have everything under control.”

Something breaks inside me. Enzo puts his hand on my shoulder, not taunting, not challenging, just reassuringly. I realize my breath is shaky. I try to steady it but it only seems to get worse “If I don’t understand then make me.”

The tears come before I can stop them. Enzo embraces me as I finally fall apart. I finally found the one who sees past the storm and directly at me like I wanted.

Life at 16 does not feel simple

By: Zaiden Del Bosque

Life at 16 does not feel simple. It feels like I am living several lives at once. My alarm goes off before the sun is fully up. For a few quiet seconds, I just lie there staring at the ceiling, already thinking about everything waiting for me. Homework I barely finished. Football practice after school. My shift at the seafood restaurant. And whether my nine-month-old Rottweiler decided my shoes looked better chewed up than sitting in my closet.

People say teenagers have it easy because we don’t pay rent or work full time jobs. Maybe that is true in some ways. But some days, it feels like I am juggling more than I can comfortably carry. School, sports, work, and real responsibility all compete for my time and energy.

School takes the most out of me. Sitting in class after closing at work the night before is tough. My eyes get heavy while the teacher explains math or goes over history notes, and I have to fight to stay focused. There is this constant pressure reminding me that my grades matter. They affect college. They affect my future. They affect whether I might get the chance to play football after high school. That kind of pressure can feel heavy. But when I get a test back with a good grade, especially one I stayed up studying for, it feels worth it. It feels like proof that the late nights mean something.

After school, everything shifts to football. Practice is intense. The coaches expect full effort every single day. Some days, my legs feel worn out and my body aches from the day before. Still, I push through. One more sprint. One more rep. One more drill. Football is more than just a sport to me. It teaches me how to handle pain, how to trust the people beside me, and how to keep going when quitting would be easier. On Friday nights under the stadium lights, with the crowd cheering and my heart pounding before the snap, nothing else seems to matter. For a little while, the stress from school and the exhaustion from work fade away. In those moments, I feel completely alive.

Then practice ends, and it is time for work. The seafood restaurant is loud and busy. Dishes clank, orders get called out, and customers talk over each other. When the place gets packed, the rush feels nonstop. My feet ache from standing and my clothes carry the smell of fried shrimp and grilled fish long after my shift ends. Still, there is something satisfying about earning my own money. It makes me feel independent. Showing up on time, staying calm when it gets hectic, and treating customers with respect are lessons I know will matter later in life.

When I finally get home at night, my Rottweiler greets me like I am the best part of his day. His whole body wiggles with excitement. He does not care if I had a bad practice or made mistakes at work. He is just happy I am there. At nine months old, he is still full of energy and chaos. Training him takes patience, and sometimes I get frustrated, especially when something important gets chewed up. But when he looks at me with that loyal face, I remember that he depends on me. Taking care of him reminds me to slow down for a few minutes. To throw the ball. To laugh. To breathe.

Balancing everything is not easy. There are nights I stay up past midnight finishing homework after a long shift. There are mornings when my body begs for more sleep. Sometimes, it feels like I am growing up faster than I expected to.

At the same time, I can feel these experiences shaping me. I am learning how to manage my time and how to stay disciplined. I am learning how to push through when I am tired and how to handle responsibility even when I would rather rest. Hard work does not always feel good in the moment, but it builds something inside you over time.

Being 16 means standing between childhood and adulthood. I still laugh with my friends and enjoy simple things, but I also carry real responsibilities. It can be exhausting. It can be stressful. But it is meaningful. Every practice, every shift, every late-night study session, and every game of fetch in the yard is shaping the person I am becoming.

Life feels heavy right now, but it also feels important. I think one day I will look back at these busy and overwhelming days and realize they were the ones that made me stronger.

How Animals Taught Me to be Human

By: Catalina Martinez

I learned patience not from people, but from the quiet rise and fall of an old dog’s chest as she slept against my knee— the kind of breathing you only understand after you have sat beside a weakening sickness and stayed anyway.

I learned strength from the trembling kitten who still reached out a paw even when the world had not been kind to it. Tiny bones, fragile heartbeat, yet somehow a courage steadier than my own.

I learned compassion from the horses who bowed their heads when they sensed sadness, as if lowering themselves to make room for me to breathe again.

Animals teach in ways no lecture ever could. They speak in tail flicks and widened eyes, in slow blinks and softened ears, in the silent trust that feels heavier than any spoken “thank you.”

means holding fear in one hand and hope in the other, trying to build a bridge between the two. It means learning that healing is rarely linear, that love is rarely gentle, and that showing up is sometimes the bravest act we have. I’ve watched life leave a body and I’ve watched it return a gasp, a swallow, a heartbeat waking up under warm palms. And in those moments I understand why I am here, why I keep choosing this path made of fur, feces, breath, and fragile beginnings.

Animals do not ask us to be perfect. Only to be present. Only kind.

And so I follow again the ones who cannot speak but somehow say everything. For as long as we both go on….

The earth knows where the flowers once were

By: Ana Rysavy

What happens when you pick flowers?

Do they die?

Do you pick them with the intention of killing?

No, you pick them because they are beautiful, and because you want to cherish that beauty. You pick them, and they slowly rot. They will never grow again. They will die over and over, the more you pluck with your greedy fingers, how dare you.

You take them at face value, not accepting that they too are living. You take something away from nature itself, and it can never be returned.

Early Morning Sunrise

By: Michael Thierry

One Spirit

Self Portrait

By: Nat Garcia

By: Genesis Marie Macareno

How It Works

By: Iris Uribe

When I was younger, I wasn’t labeled. I wasn’t made aware that they’d push me away for my sex. When I was younger, I told my dreams. I wasn’t made aware of how the world worked. When I was younger, they told me I had opportunity. I wasn’t made aware of those working against me. That’s how it works.

When I was younger, I dreamed of creation. Yet no one ever told me they wouldn’t take me seriously. When I was younger, I dreamed of success.

Yet no one ever told me how I’d get slandered. When I was younger, I dreamed of learning more. Yet no one ever told me how I had a chance of getting that taken from me. That’s how it works.

As I’m older, I realize how they view me. That’s how it works.

As I’m older, I realize how little I know of the world. That’s how it works.

As I’m older, I realize they make things to divide us. That’s how it works.

As I’m older, I realize… How the world truly works.

It’s not made for us, but against us. That’s just how it really works

Its rays grazing the bars of my gilded cage as it would since memory arrived

When I was six, I wanted to grow up, to be like one of my princess dolls to cut my Medusa curls and keep them tame, pour the peroxide and stay out of the sun

but the poisoned sweet voices made me wonder when did my existence become an ancient curse to dispel?

I soon learned that there wasn’t a crayon for my stick figure but my father’s tacos dorados were the “right” shade of brown,

When I was ten, I hated pink,

I pushed away the bows and makeup that I blamed for being tied back It took me too long to learn that all white men were created equal, and their sundried

grapes meant more than my father’s sun cracked palms I’ve wished for many nights to an estrellita for dreams to come true, to soothe my papá’s calloused feet and scarred arms and take away my mamá’s tears and aches and that I became a gold-skinned taco for you to swallow me whole or spit me out once I gave what I had

Why did it take so long to understand I only hated how my wings were clipped,

fated to be a jeweled show animal for those who were deemed to be more? Will I tell my sister her fate is to never fly but to run in circles and never reach the sky of what could have been Had our last names been Jones or Smith? Or that the tongue of our blood must remain a whisper and to keep your wounds under lock and key lest we anger the wolves plucking our

Cuckoo the Cockroach Presents: The Last Days of Bocho the Great

By: Leonel J. Ramirez

Cuckoo the Cockroach lives in my backyard, and these are his adventures.

On a warm afternoon, Cuckoo sat at the edge of the garden, methodically masticating a hardened biscuit of dog food. With a small stone, he chipped away at it, breaking off only what he needed. Nearby lay Bocho the Great, an old and magnificent Pekingese whose black fur was as dense as lamb’s wool. He slept beneath the open sky, the wind stirring his fierce mane while the sun cast its authority over the land he guarded.

From the brush emerged a scorpion, his movements deliberate and haughty.

“Greetings, Cuckoo,” he hissed. “My name is Siracha the Scorpion, and I have heard of your many adventures. Today will be your last. Prepare to be my breakfast!”

Siracha lunged. Cuckoo dodged narrowly as claw then stinger cut through the air. The two circled one another, the ground between them charged with electricity. In desperation, Cuckoo hurled the biscuit. It struck Siracha’s armored back and fell harmlessly. Hope thinned. Only one would survive.

Then the earth trembled.

Bocho the Great charged forward, his massive paws pounding the earth, his dark mane gleaming in the sun. A loud crunch was heard as he ended Sirachas’ life in his massive jaws. But victory came at a cost. Siracha’s final sting struck just beneath Bocho’s eye. Bocho staggered, venom spreading swiftly, and lowered himself to the ground, breathing carefully, deliberately.

“Dear friend,” Bocho said, his voice deep but steady, “I need you to travel beyond my domain. Past the great wall, through the thick brush, across the sea to an island guarded by ducks. There you will find a magic sunflower. Bring back its nectar before two sunsets pass.”

“I will return,” Cuckoo said at once. “As you have saved me, many times, I will save you. Don’t worry, it is my turn to chase the monsters away.”

He packed a dog biscuit in a leaf pack and took his walking stick. Soon the great wall rose before him, tall and unyielding. The climb was treacherous, free solo style. Halfway up, his limbs trembled and his strength began to ebb. Fearing he might not endure, he searched desperately for a place to pause, any surface that would grant him a moment’s reprieve.

Not far to his right, he noticed a decorative metal sun fixed into the wall. He stepped onto its warm surface, and there he became aware of a presence. A large lizard watched him in silence, its unblinking gaze steady and appraising.

“I am Lucio the Lizard,” the creature said at last. “What brings you to my home uninvited?”

“I beg your pardon,” Cuckoo replied. “My name is Cuckoo the Cockroach. I have stopped only to rest. I am on a journey to save Bocho the Great.”

Lucio lowered his head. “I know Bocho the Great, and the stories of his many exploits. It would be a great loss for him to pass.” From beneath his claw, he produced a small purple stone and placed it in Cuckoo’s grasp. It was heavier than its size suggested. “Take this pebble. It will aid you on your journey.”

“You will know when to use it,” Lucio said, with quiet certainty.

Cuckoo resumed his ascent and reached the top of the wall just as the sun dipped toward the horizon. In the fading light, he glimpsed the duck island far off in the distance, encircled by a vast and restless sea. The world beyond the wall stretched wide and unfamiliar.

A sudden cry split the air.

Caw!

Cuckoo looked up to see a crow descending rapidly toward him. There was no time for calculations, no time for fear. He made a choice that was really no choice at all and leapt from the wall.

At the last instant, he fluttered his wings, breaking his fall as the dense brush below absorbed the rest. He scrambled into a narrow hollow beneath the thicket and remained there through the night, hidden from circling shadows and hungry eyes. The wall loomed behind him. He had never been on this side of the great wall.

At dawn, Cuckoo resumed his journey. He walked for hours through the thickening brush, each step more difficult than the last as the growth closed around him. Just as exhaustion threatened to overtake him, the brush gave way to an open clearing where the land ended, and the ocean began.

He paused to scan the sky for crows. Seeing none, he turned his attention to the shore. From scattered sticks and broad leaves, he fashioned a small raft, and from a discarded spoon he shaped a paddle. With quiet determination, he set himself upon the fragile vessel and pushed out onto the water.

Beneath him, tadpoles drifted lazily, small and harmless. Yet as he paddled farther from shore, they grew larger. Tadpoles became baby frogs, and frogs grew steadily in size. At first, they posed no threat. Then one passed beneath him nearly his own size, and unease crept in. With each stroke of the paddle, the water felt less forgiving, and the journey ahead more perilous.

Ahead, Cuckoo spotted the ducks clustered near the far shore. Knowing the end of the crossing was near, he paddled with renewed urgency. At that moment, a frog twice his size surged toward him, followed closely by two others even larger. Panic tightened his grip on the paddle.

Cuckoo closed his fingers around the magic purple pebble. He felt its weight steady him. This was the moment Lucio had foretold.

As the leading frog got closer, Cuckoo hurled the pebble toward the nearest duck, then overturned his raft. Floating beneath it, he held his breath as the pebble struck the duck’s beak with a sharp tap. Startled, the duck wheeled about and saw only three massive frogs advancing toward what appeared to be a drifting leaf. With a furious splash, the duck attacked.

The water churned violently as wings and bodies collided. Beneath the surface, Cuckoo felt the current surge past him. When the thrashing moved away, he righted his raft and drifted beyond the chaos. Gasping for air, he guided the raft onto the island’s edge.

He dragged himself across the barren ground. Not far ahead, rising alone against the emptiness, stood the magic sunflower—radiant, unmarred, impossibly bright. Cuckoo reached it at last. He gathered the nectar in his hands and secured it in his pack.

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, realization struck him. The light was fading. There would be no time to return. His legs gave way, and he knelt upon the sand, overcome by despair. He had failed Bocho the Great.

Suddenly, Cuckoo saw the black crow from earlier swooping down from above. He was in the open now, with nowhere to hide. Clutching his staff, he rose to his feet, bracing for a battle that could not be won by strength alone.

“Wait!” Cuckoo shouted.

The crow paused mid-air, startled that such a tiny, seemingly insignificant creature dared speak. It landed nearby, eyes sharp and calculating. “I am Charlie the Crow,” it said, voice low and wary. “Tell me why I should not eat you—and make it quick, for I am hungry.”

“If you take me home,” Cuckoo pleaded, “past the ocean, past the brush, past the wall, I will give you all the dog biscuits you can eat. Bocho the Great will allow you to eat in peace, I promise.”

Charle considered this for a long moment, then let out a low chuckle. “Your terms are acceptable. Hop on my back. And if you lie, remember—I can always eat you afterwards.”

With that, Cuckoo climbed onto Charle’s broad back, and the journey that had taken two days on foot was suddenly swift, carried by wings that cut the wind.

When they arrived, Cuckoo rushed to Bocho.

“I have returned with the magic nectar!” Cuckoo cried.

Bocho smiled faintly, his strength waning. “There is no cure,” he said, his voice deep and steady despite its weariness. “I sent you so you would learn that you are enough. That you can face walls, oceans, frogs and fear on your own. Now… I rest.”

Bocho the Great went to his long goodnight, his breaths growing slow and steady as the sun dipped below the horizon. He was laid to rest beside his brother Tobias, another loyal backyard guardian who had stood watch by his side for many years. The garden seemed to hold its breath, the wind softening, the shadows stretching gently over the earth, as if honoring the life of a dog whose courage, loyalty, and quiet strength had shaped the world around him.

The next morning, Cuckoo stood atop the great wall as the sun peeked over the horizon, painting the world in gold. His backpack, still filled with dog biscuits, rested against his side, and his walking stick was close at hand.

My Pig Bentley

By: Anley Gonzales

Midwinter

By: Mariah Boone

Signs in the street are candles

Hopepunk stories in the belly

Lamb’s bleat at meetings

Tied crosses of grain

Ewe’s milk moon but could

Corn dollies just become shoeless children in the cold

May something that nourishes Grow

Forever River

By: Elexia Arredondo

This image captures a beautiful, tranquil moment by the water. It is a river, but it looks more like a calm sea under a bright sun. The water’s surface is alive with the dance of sunlight, creating a shimmering effect that draws the eye. A wooden pier extends into the scene, providing a natural frame and sense of depth, inviting whoever views my photo to step into the serenity.

The river in the photo just keeps going, which shows a suspenseful beauty. This photograph evokes a feeling of peace, making you want to linger and appreciate the simple beauty of nature.

Peacefulness

By: JV

When I picture myself in the cloudy sky, I see it for what it is

All these years

And suddenly it’s clear I haven’t met the new me.

Beyond the dreamscapes and star lights, Beyond the hauntings and night falls, After I gave you my best

Should I just take this maroon stained hammer and shatter us? Broken glass, leaving us in ruins?

There will be peace after youBut it was there during you, I guess this is the price I pay

For my foolish paintings of the heavensI guess you gave me that.

When I picture myself under the cloudy sky, I see it for what it is

But now my body leaks cascade blues

From these wounds of despair You haven’t met the new me.

I can’t shake this pain away By villainizing you

After you gave me your best

Would you take this maroon stained hammer and shatter us? Broken glass, leaving us in ruins?

There will be peace after youBut it was there during you, I’ll leave it all behind

To create our own pathsI guess I’ll give you that.

When I picture myself above the cloudy sky, I see it for what it is

All these years

And suddenly it’s clear I think I’ve met the new me.

Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

By Nadia Hernandez

On November 1st, 1973, ten-year-old Susanna “Sue” Martinez would be found at a theme park in Santa Gloria, floating face down in the water-ride’s pond with a long gash between her neck and shoulder. When her parents heard the news, both of them broke down in tears.

“How could someone do such a thing?” they thought.

Sue was a sweet girl; the whole neighborhood knew this. Every time she would play outside, riding her bike along the crooked sidewalks, she would flash a smile to all who passed her by. She’d say things like “How do you do, ma’am,” before complimenting a young woman’s outfit and “Would you like some help, sir” before taking an old man’s groceries to his porch. However, what really drew people to her were her looks.

She had her father’s dark hair and wide nose as well as her mother’s fair skin and wavy locks. At times, it made her stick out like a sore thumb. The kids on the east side of town would bully her for looking like her father, and some of their parents would give her mother weird looks when they went out shopping. However, that didn’t stop others from seeing her as something more than a sore thumb. Her looks helped her win plenty of pageants and talent shows across Texas, even helping her go as far as to appear in a commercial for the town’s theme park. Plus, to the family’s neighborhood, she was a star.

“She’ll make it out of here,” the neighbors would whisper. “When she grows up, she’ll be in the movies or on television!”

And oh, how she’d agree with a beaming smile and a twirl of her pink skirt.

“I promise that someday I’ll be out of here! Texas won’t know what hit em!”

But Sue never left Santa Gloria. After her body was found, her commercial stopped airing. No one could see the image of a smiling child standing amidst a colorful and bustling theme park. Instead, people began to recognize her as the girl in the white princess costume who, at the theme park’s Halloween Bash, left her mother’s side and vanished into the night. And yet, despite this tragedy, nothing truly changed. Though her family, friends, and the whole neighborhood mourned the fallen star, to the rest of Santa Gloria, it was as though she never existed.

The news had shown Sue’s face, the papers spoke of how her body was found, and even her friends held a charity drive in her honor, and yet there was nothing more than that. No suspects were found, and her death was labeled an “accident.”

“She fell and cut her neck on the pier,” the police told her parents.

Mrs. Martinez had been furious, her husband having to hold her back from punching the cop. What more could be done when most of the town didn’t truly care? The east side were especially willing to shrug her off as a child who wandered off and accidentally drowned. The Martinezes lost their daughter, and with not many helping, all they could truly do was mourn.

Mrs. Martinez grieved. Almost four years had passed since then, and she still grieved. However, to make matters worse, she was no longer the only mother to be trapped in such pain. For years, other parents in Santa Gloria and throughout the county began to lose their kids too, their faces plastered on missing posters and tan brick walls, their disappearances footnotes at the end of a TV channel’s broadcast. And yet, despite the trail of missing children and teens, people still didn’t bat an eye.

“Runaways,” the faux fur-wearing, tailored-suited people would call them. “It’s common for folks like them to run away. Or maybe they got into some trouble with drugs or alcohol. Again, that’s quite common.”

And the police would agree, and that would be it.

It was one day that Mrs. Martinez would see not one, but four missing kids pop up on her television. The sight of the children, all smiling, sickened her as she sunk further into the couch. She didn’t work that day, but Mr. Martinez did, leaving her alone in their small, empty home. She didn’t do much of anything outside of her job, and in the last seven years of living in Santa Gloria, she didn’t talk too much to people regardless of what side of town they were on. So, she sat alone on her worn brown sofa, drinking lukewarm coffee, and spilling it onto her fleece nightgown as she watched TV. At least, it served to distract her from the child that would inevitably be brushed aside.

Breaking Mrs. Martinez out of her loneliness was a knock at the door. She quickly set her food down and shoved her robe on before rushing to open it a peek, not wanting whoever was there to see her in such a state.

“A-Afternoon,” she greeted. “How can I help you?”

“Janey! It’s been a while,” a man’s voice greeted back. “Could you be a dear and let me in?”

Mrs. Martinez’ eyes widened. Opening the door just a little more allowed her to see the man in full. His blonde hair was styled perfectly, his powder blue suit ironed, and even his silver eyes and shiny teeth sparkled, that same smile so similar to her daughter’s own.

“Troy?” she asked, the door now wide open. “Yeah, I’m sorry. You can come in.”

She stepped back, meekly allowing her younger brother into her home.

Troy walked past her and turned on the lights of the open dining room, his hand fiddling with his other wrist.

“Now, Jane, why are you all alone in the dark? I’m sure that’s not good for your eyesight,” he playfully scolded her. “And you’re not dressed? I hope you’ve at least eaten.”

He plopped himself down on a wooden chair, his bright ensemble sticking out amongst the muted yellows and browns of the kitchen like a sore thumb. Mrs. Martinez, meanwhile, shuffled forward towards the coffee machine, past her too-cheery brother to fix him a cup.

“I did,” she replied. “And I’m not working today. There’s no point in putting on a front.” She heard him hum passively as she went to grab the milk. “With what’s been going on recently, it’s… it’s just too much for me,” she muttered, finishing making his cup with a grimace.

It was more milk than coffee, the color of cream instead of tan, but that was always how her brother liked it. It sickened her.

Mrs. Martinez handed the cup to Troy and sat down, fiddling with her long, light brown hair as he sipped. When he finished, he looked at her with a grin.

“Ah, I’m sure those boys and girls will be found eventually,” he dismissed them with a wave. “Aren’t they from the town over? Teens run away from there all the time.”

Mrs. Martinez groaned, running a hand through her hair.

“Not every kid, Troy,” she countered.

She thought of those smiling faces on TV; two boys and two girls dressed as though they were going to church, one of them even wearing a shining bracelet with a cross. They didn’t look like kids who’d run off, but she knew full well why people would think otherwise.

“This whole county has had a problem for years and it’s like nothing is being done about it. We’ve had maybe three kids get investigated, but that’s because…,” she stopped talking, her body hunching forward. “I don’t think I have to explain further.”

Troy’s eyes twinkled as he scoffed, his hand once more playing with something on his wrist.

“Come on, Janey,” said Troy. “It can’t be that big a deal. These kids aren’t dead, just missing. In time, they’ll all come crawling back to mommy and daddy and that’ll be the end of it.”

He got up from his chair and put a comforting hand on Mrs. Martinez’ shoulder, though it lacked any sort of warmth to it.

“Trust me; the cops just know better than the rest of us,” he reassured her with a small grin.

Mrs. Martinez swatted his hand away, shooting up from her chair and slamming her hands on the wooden table.

“I thought they did too, and yet I still don’t know what happened to my Sue! People have gotten worse towards my husband, they look at me like I’m some kind of monster, and my daughter’s killer still hasn’t been found! They don’t know any better, they’re just acting like they do to make me, and all those poor mothers out there feel worse!” she ranted, her dark eyes alight with fire. “I’m lucky that my neighborhood offered to help. I’m luckier because at least my daughter was found. But those families who lost their children, they-they’re not like me or even you, so why would any of the white people in this stupid town care about them?!”

The words slipped out of her mouth, an uncomfortable truth and an even more uncomfortable silence now hanging over the siblings. Mrs. Martinez stared wide eyed at Troy, whose face seemed so blank at this moment. Gone was the blindingly radiant smile, a thin line of nothingness replacing it. Troy blinked at her, his hand once again fiddling with something on his wrist.

“I don’t think it’s as deep as you want it to be,” argued Troy. “But you just want to blame someone, don’t you? That’s why you’re going that low.”

He slowly approached her, his large, cold hands taking hers and holding them tight.

“If you want someone to blame, why not the parents? Think about it, Janey. If this is all the big problem you want it to be, then shouldn’t these kids’ parents be held accountable? They should be making sure their children don’t wander off, right?”

His smile returned, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Before Jane could argue back, he let her go and began making his way towards the door.

“I think that if it were a big deal, then sure, we’d treat it as one,” Troy still continued to smile as he opened the door, a twinkle in his dull silver eyes.

A lover akin to a mother

By: Kayla Ryan Esquivel

A lover akin to a mother.

Worms heaved down with the rabbit.

Filth ready to be what is Abel,

As Cain cautions a cradle.

Kisses strain the star of pain—

Sharp star, staked in the current.

Celadon with speckled dirt, Moles deceive like spores.

That face of yours,

Grounding like an anchor.

Glances that tether a mind made of silk.

Pointe shoes now rust, Sit heavy on the cusp—

Of a reality that dawns with you.

Poison root overgrowth in tattered tracks.

Beatrice, whose breath is a droning plague, Who hath the devotion to live each day.

Where the World Softens

By: Larissa Jimenez

In the palm of my hand rests a blushpink bloom, wide and unguarded, its petals catching the sunlight like a held breath. Behind it, the world dissolves into softness — a fountain murmuring to the trees, a solitary figure drifting along a shaded path, everything distant and dreamlike.

Still water, Silent sky

By: Jayla Clack

This photo captures a calm nighttime scene over a large body of water. A bright full moon hangs high in the dark sky, surrounded by scattered stars. Its light reflects softly across the water, creating a glowing path toward the horizon. In the foreground, a few weathered wooden posts stick up from the shallow water, adding texture and focus to the scene of the photo taken.

Overall,the image captures a peaceful,quiet moment in mother nature. It highlights the beauty of the night sky and the stillness of the water, giving a feeling of calm, reflection, and solitude.

Every Day

By: Maynard Carbajal

Wake and live

Commute and work

Educate and teach

Return home and breathe

Eat until I’m done and break

Groan and complain then work

Stare and grind then leave

Comfort at home

Sleep then repeat

Smile

By: JM Jayes

The Perfect Night

By: Nat Garcia

Contributor Bio-Notes

Poetry

Sally likes to play basketball and loves to do arts and crafts. She likes hanging out with friends and loves to bake and cook.

Mariah Boone is the MSW Practicum Education Director and a Professor of Practice in the Clinical Health Sciences Department at Texas A&M University-Kingsville. In addition to social work practicum education, she is interested in community capacity building, civil rights, and urban spatial policy.

Maynard Carbajal is currently in the EPP program at TAMUK and a semester away from student teaching. He has been writing as a hobby for a while and hopes readers enjoy his writing.

Daren Davila grew up in a small town where everyone knew each other’s names, and life moved at a slower, sweeter pace. Those simple, meaningful moments shaped their love for storytelling. Today, they capture the heart of small-town life, blending nostalgia with the dreams that keep it alive.

Kayla Ryan Esquivel is a first-generation student and English major at Texas A&M University-Kingsville.

Micaela Gutierrez is a high school junior who loves poetry and expressing her feelings through it.

Jason Hogue is Assistant Professor of Renaissance/Early Modern English Literature in TAMUK’s Department of Language and Literature. He teaches courses in Shakespeare, British Literature, Environmental Literature, and Rhetoric/Composition.

Carsyn Kilgore, a 19-year-old English Education student, is a horror fiction writer inspired by poets and authors such as Edgar Allan Poe or Richard Siken. He wrote his poem Beast Monster Thing in late high school, discussing the horrors and intricacy of being more abnormal than most.

Catalina Martinez writes from depths where silence speaks louder than words. In her poem “How Animals Taught Me to Be Human,” she reflects that humanity is not something we simply possess but something we learn. She dedicates this poem to her grandparents and parents, whose support made these experiences possible.

Contributor Bio-Notes

Joseph Garza Medina is a founding member of the Javelina Express editorial board and currently serves as a Poetry Editor for the journal. He has published numerous academic articles and book reviews in both online and print formats, and his poetry has appeared in The Soliloquist and Taj Mahal Review.

Angelica Ortega is a senior attending Kaufer Early College High School. She was fortunate to have many leadership roles, including being a role model in academics and athletics. After graduation, she will be attending TAMUK to pursue a bachelor’s degree in Kinesiology as well as participate in the Army ROTC program.

Korina Peña has been writing many different types of poems since elementary school, and it has been a quiet passion of hers for many years. She has often wondered what it would feel like to see one of her pieces published. She is proud to share her work with readers.

Miranda Perales is a senior at Riviera High School who has always found comfort and inspiration in reading and poetry. Her love for words influences her writing style and creative expression. She plans to attend Aveda Arts & Sciences Institute to study esthetics and hopes to carry her creativity into everything she does.

Enrique Ramirez is a senior at Alice high school who loves and appreciates all forms of art and see’s the world as a stage.He loves and appreciates the time he gets to spend on his art, and with the ones he considers friends/family.

Ana B Rysavy is an education major at TAMUK. She has been writing poems since 2019 and this is her first published work. She is incredibly passionate about the arts and all things creative.

Ava Suazo is a Senior who attends H. M. King High School. She enjoys poetry and music which bridges the gap between different generations and cultures. This poem is dedicated to her Honduran father. Ava’s poem is way to say thank you and continue her father’s legacy.

Iris Uribe loves music just like any other person. Music makes everyone stop and listen. Artists get their views across through their music. They hear. They give attention to it. Her creative writing is inspired by music. She feels like it’s the only way to be heard. That’s where her love for poetry started.

JV is from Kingsville, Texas. He has taken past experiences and has jotted down short poems and stories as a comfort mechanism.

Contributor Bio-Notes

Michael Verderber is a published playwright, author, and director. He has taught English courses at TAMUK, TAMUCC, and Del Mar College, among others. His theatrical work has been staged in New York City, London, and elsewhere.

Maria Jose Villegas is the eldest daughter in a Mexican-American household. She aspires to become a forensic pathologist and always seeks to express herself through different art mediums including painting, writing, singing, and fiber art!

Savannah Webb is a hardworking high school student who plans to attend Texas A&M University–Kingsville to study wildlife biology. She has a strong passion for animals and the outdoors. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with family and working, and she is determined to achieve her goals.

Short Stories

Zaiden Del Bosque is a junior at Riviera Kaufer Early College High School. He enjoys playing football, working, playing with his dog, fishing, and hanging out with friends and family. He loves the feeling of responsibility and taking on tasks that he hasn’t yet done.

Cate Cruz is a senior who has a goal of one day becoming a librarian and owner of a floral or book shop. She loves writing, drawing, and doing photography in her spare time. She is happy to share some of her work with the world.

Isaias Gonzales is a junior at Riviera Kaufer Early College High School. He enjoys playing basketball and working out.

Nadia Hernandez is a graduate student in Cultural Studies at TAMUK with experience in presenting research papers and playwriting. Nadia has a fascination with horror media, gender and sexuality, and Latinx studies and hopes to both continue research on these topics and incorporate them into new works.

Leonel J. Ramirez grew up in the South Texas Borderlands, spending much of his childhood mending fences, chasing cows, riding horses, digging holes, taking things apart to see how they worked, and building treehouses. He holds a Doctorate in Education, is neurodiverse, and has an unhealthy ob-

Contributor Bio-Notes

session with Jeeps and restoring old bicycles. Most of his career has been dedicated to working in schools, supporting students through special education programs across the Rio Grande Valley.

Tyler Ramirez is a senior in high school and loves sports, welding, hunting, and fishing. He is pursuing a career in physical therapy and looking forward to being published in the student-led literary and arts magazine!

Artwork

Elexia Arredondo is a student at Kaufer Early College High School.

Jayla Clack is a student at Kaufer Early College High School.

Cate Cruz is a senior who has a goal of one day becoming a librarian and owner of a floral or book shop. She loves writing, drawing, and doing photography in her spare time. She is happy to share some of her work with the world.

Daren Davila grew up in a small town where everyone knew each other’s names, and life moved at a slower, sweeter pace. Those simple, meaningful moments shaped their love for storytelling. Today, they capture the heart of small-town life, blending nostalgia with the dreams that keep it alive.

Nat Garcia is a student at TAMUK, majoring in Fine Arts, practicing in mediums such as painting, charcoal, and clay. She mainly focuses on ceramics and jewelry, mixing both in creating wearable art as well as creating sculptures of her favorite subjects.

Anley Gonzales is a Junior in High School from Riviera, Texas. She has been showing pigs in her local livestock show for 5 years. She loves reading, working out, and watching movies in her free time. She plans on majoring in Nursing in college.

David Gonzales is from Riviera, Texas. He likes reading and the outdoors. He is going to TAMUK to study mechanical engineering.

JM Jaynes is a student at Kaufer Early College High School.

Larissa Jimenez is 17 years old and from Kingsville. She loves drawing and recently picked up photography. She takes inspiration from artists like George B. Bridgmen and many others. She is also extremely dedicated to the medical profession and has EKG and phlebotomy certifications.

Genesis Macareno is a senior in high school who enjoys expressing creativity through art and spending time learning about animals and the natural world. Curious and motivated to explore different interests, Genesis previously took classes in EKG and phlebotomy, gaining hands-on experience in healthcare before deciding to pursue other passions during senior year.

Alena Rodriguez is a senior from Kaufer ECHS who will be pursuing as a psychology major in Fall 2026. She also has a passion for art since it’s a primary source of reflecting even the extreme emotions; her pieces are metaphors for levels of stress Alena has experienced this school year.

Ethan Sappington is a junior in high school who loves math, history, and science. He enjoys hunting, fishing, and farming. He has an older brother, a younger brother, and an older sister. He also enjoys chess and other strategy games.

Kathryn Sharp’s artwork shows the few memories she has with loved ones who have passed away. She didn’t get to have that much time with them. Her uncle, grandpa, and great grandpa all passed away when she was younger. She only has very select memories with them, which she used in this painting, like her uncle playing his guitar.

Michael Thierry is a student at Kaufer Early College High School.

Cody Williams is a wildlife photographer who is currently enrolled at TAMUK for a degree in Computer Science. He spends a lot of his free time photographing animals, and while he usually focuses on native Texas wildlife, the cats that call the TAMUK campus home are a recurring part of almost every student’s daily walk to and from their classes.

Meya Williams was inspired to create her piece by her grandpa who died in January of 2024. Growing up in Falfurrias, he was surrounded by Texas culture and considered himself a true cowboy. The drawing consists of his cowboy boots that he would always wear, along with his signature hat, his poster when he ran for commissioner, and other small details that defined who he was as a person.

Meet Editorial Team

Meet the Editorial Team:

Editorial Coordinators

Leslie Cariaga (Launch Coordinator)

Kayla Ryan Esquivel (Poetry)

Katy Erben (Short Stories)

Mia Vigil (Artwork)

Graphic Design Team

Thomas Perez (Lead Designer)

Mia Vigil (Lead Designer)

Matthias Kimmel

Marketing & Advertising

Rebecca Farias

Associate Editors:

Joseph G. Medina

Hannah Henderson

Oyindamola Ajiboye

Meet the Advisors:

Aniruddha Mukhopadhyay (Editorial Advisor)

Luis Cortes (Poetry Advisor)

Fulden Wissinger (Artwork Advisor)

The Javelina Express is available free-of-cost to the Javelina Community in digital format. If you would like to be added to the mailing list for digital distribution, please email us at javelina.express@tamuk.edu.

If you would like to support the running of the magazine with a donation, please contact Dr. Pamela K. Wright, Interim Chair of the Department of Language and Literature, at 361-593-2516 or by email at pamela. wright@tamuk.edu.

If you enjoyed the stories, poems, and artwork in this issue, and would like to write to the author, please email your letter to javelina. express@tamuk.edu clearly identifying the piece and the author. We will forward your letter after review.