The Javelina Express Issue 4 by javelina.express

Acknowledgments

This magazine wouldn’t be possible without the support and encouragement of many. Particularly, we are grateful to Dr. James Palmer, Provost and Senior Vice President for Academic Affairs, for making it possible for us to bring this issue to you. Dr. Palmer also vigorously supported the creative writing and artwork competition with local high schools that has resulted in the robust representation of our young peers of South Texas in this magazine. Thank you, Dr. Palmer, for sharing our vision and encouraging our growth.

We are also grateful to Dr. Rosalind Alderman, Vice President of Enrollment Management, for supporting the creative writing and artwork competition winners with scholarships.

We continue to be grateful to Dr. Roberto Vela Córdova and the Department of Language and Literature. Dr. Vela Córdova has championed the magazine from its inception. He is always in the background smoothing over wrinkles and helping us overcome any challenges that may come our way.

We also appreciate the support of Dr. Dolores Guerrero, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, and her office. And we absolutely must recognize all the hard work done behind the scenes by Ms. Crystal Suarez, Administrative Assistant III for the Department of Language and Literature, and Ms. Jennifer Maria Vela, Executive Assistant II to the Provost.

Finally, we are grateful for each other because we are a community with a shared vision; we support each other, listen to each other, and when we come together, we create a thing of beauty.

From the Desk of the Editorial Advisor:

3 years ago, I got to ride along on an incredible journey begun with conviction and commitment by our wonderful students—the creation of a literary and arts magazine to publish the many and unique voices of the Javelina Nation. When we dove headfirst into this project, we didn’t know if we would have enough submissions, if we would be able to come up with the design, or if we would be able to properly print and launch the first issue. But the students were determined—they were going to create a legacy.

Now we present to you Issue 4 celebrating 100 years of Texas A&M University-Kingsville by showcasing the imagination, the talent, and the passion that our students, staff, faculty, and alumni put into their remarkable creations. And as is fitting—since TAMUK has always served its community since the day it was founded—this issue includes creative writing and artwork from students from 5 local high schools who will hopefully be Javelinas in the near future.

As you read through this beautiful issue, know that the next one is already germinating in the creative minds of our editorial board. With your love, and with the support and encouragement of the campus community, we will continue to bring you stories, poetry, artwork, and photography from the Javelina Nation for a very long time.

-AniruddhaMukhopadhyay

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.

Inaugural Creative Writing and Artwork Competition for High School Seniors

The Javelina Nation is constituted of students, staff, faculty, and alumni, and their friends and family; but also, importantly, Future Javelinas. From the day of its foundation, Texas A&M University-Kingsville has been deeply integrated into the South Texas community and has made serving that community its central mission. TAMUK exists for the young people in the region to aspire to their dreams and realize their ambitions. What better way to celebrate that commitment than to create a platform for the maturing voices of soon-to-be Javelinas in our local high schools.

So, with the encouragement of Dr. James Palmer, Provost & SeniorVice President for Academic Affairs at TAMUK, we established the inaugural creative writing and artwork competition for Senior-year students in 5 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

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 $3000, $2000, and $1000 scholarship to the university respectively, a certificate of achievement, and recognition and publication in the magazine. We are delighted to announce the following winners:

Poetry:

1st - “No One Leaves Hungry” by Colleen Fischer (Bishop High School)

2nd - “NightShift” by Mouricio Rodriguez (Kaufer Early College High School)

3rd - “Nyctophilia” by Connor Perkins (H. M. King Early College High School) & “Puentes Entre Dos Mundos” by Daniel Jimenez (Kaufer Early College High School)

Short Stories:

1st - “Did She Know ?” by Julia Marie Partain (Kaufer Early College High School)

2nd - “The Price of Resurrection” by Aaron May Gilchrist (Santa Gertrudis Academy High School)

3rd - “The Gas Station Between Worlds” by Alessandra Zavala-Sanford (Kaufer Early College High School)

Artwork:

1st - “What I Don’t See” by McKenzie Siller (Santa Gertrudis Academy High School)

2nd - “BytheBay” by Alyssa L. Sanchez (Kaufer Early College High School)

3rd - “Life of an Indoor Cat” by Zoey Unique (Kaufer Early College High School)

By: McKenzie Siller

By the Bay

By: Alyssa L. Sanchez

South Texas Culture

By: Armando Ortega

South Texas, full of heart,

A region of culture and art,

Where people surround you, with care, Everyone has something to share,

People bond together with sports and stories

Football, hunting, fishing, and creating memories

Heavenly Bodies

By: Carissa Perez

These are the people who have the Texas

I have always been a patron of the night, finding my solace in the silver shadow of my goddess, the moon, hanging overhead. The stars are my companions and like to play games with me, streaking across the inky black sky, beckoning me into the void. I cannot help but think that I am only meant for this world when it is blanketed in cool darkness. Where others find the cold to be bitter, I relish the cool breeze as it courses through my mind, tossing my hair against a backdrop of a starry sky. I am content living my life beneath the goddess’ ever changing yet ever constant phases, no matter the darkness that falls between them. I was content in the darkness until I felt her warmth. The first time I felt her light shine upon my face, I was invigorated. Her rays peaked over the horizon to bathe me in golden light, the color of the purest wildflower honey, marbled with curious iridescent blue. Her warmth was soft, yet all-encompassing; that I could not help but turn my face toward her glow like a flower in bloom, feeling as if I had begun anew. Having lived my life in the dark, I welcomed her light and allowed it to touch the farthest reaches of my heart and mind. I am the progeny of the night, ever loyal to my patron goddess, but I seek out the sun’s warmth, basking in the unyielding light she provides. So now, I turn my gaze toward to the horizon every morning to greet her and every evening to bid her farewell, knowing her light will return to guide my way.

Tales of the Taco

By: Polo Ramirez

As I walk through my neighborhood in the early hours, the scent of citrus blossoms fills the air, and the distant crowing of roosters transports me back to my childhood in South Texas—the Valley, or as we call it, El Valle. The sights, the sounds, the flavors—this uniquely cultural region where Texas and Mexico blend into friendly neighbors. Those roosters remind me of my grandparents’ backyard in the early morning, the sun rising peeking over the horizon, and my grandmother flipping fresh tortillas on the comal.

My first memory of tacos? Easy. My grandmother’s tacos de papa con huevo on homemade flour tortillas. Those warm, soft tortillas that she woke up every morning at 5:00 AM to make from scratch. She would mix flour, salt, and lard with a casual precision, kneading the dough until it was exactly right. The recipe seemed simple, but achieving that perfect texture and flavor was an art. I spent countless days trying to master it, but perfection takes time—longer than one lifetime allows. Those tortillas were not just food; they were an example of her love folded into every bite, best enjoyed hot off the comal with just a smear of

Years later, after she passed, I found her last bag of flour in the pantry. I used it to make one final batch of tortillas in her honor, serving them to our family after her funeral. They were good, but not hers. They never could be. But that’s okay—some flavors live in memories more than on plates.

Growing up near the border was not something I ever really thought about. Two cultures blended seamlessly—Tex-Mex, Tejano, Texican— we didn’t have fancy names for it back then. It was just life. I didn’t realize how unique my hometown was until I moved to Austin after graduation. Suddenly, I was explaining to people why a taco should never, ever have lettuce and shredded cheddar cheese. To me, Mexico wasn’t some faraway foreign land—it was the mercado, piñatas, mangoes with chili powder, luchador masks, and bootleg cassette tapes of cumbia music. It was a place we went to for a day trip, like how other kids might go to the mall for pizza. Only, instead of Sbarro, we had sizzling tacos al pastor straight off the trompo.

When I moved back home in my twenties, I rediscovered the joy of Reynosa. Late nights wandering El Calle del Tacos, searching for that perfect combination of bistek, cilantro, onion, and salsa. “Buen picoso,” I’d tell the taco man, as he handed me a plate piled high with tiny corn tortillas stuffed with grilled meat, charred to perfection. Even now, no matter where I go, I find myself searching for that perfect mix of an ice-cold Mexican beer and Tacos Reynosa. Because chopped carne asada wrapped in a warm tortilla isn’t just a meal—it’s a way of life.

I’ve been fortunate to eat tacos from all over—Reynosa, Nuevo Laredo, Progreso, Matamoros, La Joya, Palmview, Mission, McAllen, and even Padre Island. And let’s not forget San Antonio, Austin, and Houston, where tacos range from gas station breakfast tacos to high-end, overhyped, “elevated” versions that charge absurd prices for what is a mini taco. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t tell anyone where they should have their taco epiphany—every person should embark on their own taco journey.

But I will say this: some of the best tacos I’ve ever had weren’t from a restaurant at all. They were cooked over an open fire, glowing embers, and mesquite smoke curling into the night sky. They were at my parents’ backyard in Palmview, at my uncle’s ranch near Premont, with my brother-in-law in his bar rel pit or at the beach barbecuing with friends and family. Fajitas, simply seasoned with salt, pepper, and garlic, sizzling on a makeshift grill made from cinder blocks and a wire grate. A cold Tecate in one hand, a taco in the other. Fresh pico de gallo, made just minutes before, adding the perfect kick. There’s something about food cooked over an open flame that just tastes better—it’s the fire, it’s the company, or it’s both.

Even the barbecue pits themselves hold memories. I’ve cooked on everything from giant ¾-inch steel smokers that require an entire tree to heat up to tiny, portable grills perfect for the beach.

Weber kettles, Old Smokeys, pits made from repurposed barrels, and of course, the classic Tejano caveman setup—a simple grate over hot coals, no frills necessary. My dad and my broth er-in-law Sam swore by it. It’s primal. It’s perfect. It’s proof that you don’t need fancy equipment to make something delicious.

Being from South Texas means more than just a love of tacos—it’s a connection to food, culture, and language that blends into daily life. The Valley has a character all its own, a flavor you can’t replicate. It’s family, fire, and flour tortillas pressed by hands that have known the recipe for generations. It’s a taco, fresh off the grill, eaten standing up, with salsa dripping down your wrist.

And if you ask me, there is no better way to live.

Dowels & Angels

By: Timothy Oblad

Rust and Redemption on Highway 281

By: Leonel J. Ramirez

Some vehicles transcend their utility to become something more—a companion, a witness to a life lived fully. This is the story of one such vehicle.

“Motorcars, like men, should be worked on in the mistaken belief that they are immortal.”-unknown.

Present…

I made a mistake. My calculations had relied on a higher cruising speed. Now, I find myself behind the wheel of a tan 1988 Jeep Wrangler, crawling South on a desolate 75-mile stretch of Highway 281 between Premont and Edinburg, Texas. This Jeep, a cherished relic from my childhood, creaks under the strain of its tired four-cylinder engine and 20-year-old tires. With no top, no air conditioning, and malfunctioning headlights, it struggles to hit 60 mph as the sun dips below the horizon. POP POP—the engine backfires, a symphony of exhaustion. Cars zoom past me at 85 mph, their headlights glaring in the fading light. I really didn’t want to drive in the

Earlierintheday…

The day had started perfectly. I left work at noon, rushed to the DMV to register the Jeep in my name, and navigated the bureaucratic gauntlet without issue— though the DMV always stirs an inexplicable sense of guilt, as if I’m breaking some unspoken rule. With that errand complete, my family and I drove to Kingsville, where I had the privilege of reading my short story, Horse Adventures in South Texas, at the launch of The Javelina Express, a student-run literary magazine. Sharing my work was surreal—I never believed my writing could resonate with others.

Afterward, we headed to my uncle’s ranch in Premont, where the tan Jeep awaited. Armed with a toolkit, jumper cables, radiator fluid, Fix-a-Flat, and a tow bar, I felt prepared for anything. As I inspected the Jeep, I noticed one tire was flat. The spare was ancient—at least 30 years old—but Fix-a-Flat offered a temporary lifeline, with a warning not to exceed 100 miles. Thankfully, I only needed 80. With the tire inflated, I crossed my fingers and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Come on, old friend,” I muttered, cranking the ignition. The starter protested: click, click, click. I tried again. Click, click, click—nothing. Resting my hand on the dash, I whispered, “Come with me and live, or stay and melt into a pile of rust.” One final turn of the key and—ROAR! The engine sputtered to life, coughing like a heavy smoker. POP POP—it backfired.

Onward I went, shifting through the gears with my wife trailing in her SUV. The Jeep groaned at 50 mph, wheezing to 55 in fourth gear. By the time I hit the Premont gas station, the engine was still idling roughly. I filled the tank cautiously, mindful that the fuel gauge hadn’t worked since high school. Back on the highway, I pushed the Jeep as hard as I could, managing a shaky 60 mph on flat ground, and 65 going downhill with the wind at my back. POP POP—the backfires were relentless, but I pressed on.

This Jeep isn’t just a vehicle; it’s a repository of memories. My father brought it home when I was five years old. Together, we puzzled over its hidden gas cap behind the license plate. That Jeep towed impossibly heavy trailers and carried my brothers and me through countless adventures. We all learned to drive stick shift on it, grinding gears and pushing past its limits. Over time, it bore the scars of teenage recklessness and hard labor, its engine rebuilt more than once.

Present…

As darkness falls, I reach for the headlight switch. As it gets darker, I realize my lights are not working. Panic sets in. I flick the light switch again and again—nothing. I try the high beams—success! With my knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel, I creep forward, the roar of passing cars shaking the Jeep’s half-doors. My thoughts spiral: What if I get a flat? What if the engine fails? What if I have a major mechanical failure? But amidst the tension, I feel vividly alive. The sharp tang of gasoline and oil fills the air, the tires hum against the asphalt, and the wind tears through the open cabin. It is raw, untamed, and unfiltered life, pulsing with energy and uncertainty.

Past…

I had countless adventures in that Jeep, each one etched in my memory. One particular day stands out vividly. I was already an adult, married but not yet a parent, when I visited my dad, bringing along my beloved dog, Toby. My dad took the wheel of the Jeep, and we cruised through town, eventually stopping to visit his brother. At one point, we found ourselves chasing a group of goats, with Toby racing alongside us, his joy boundless. I turned to my dad and said, “Today is the greatest day of Toby’s life.” And at that moment, I truly believed it. It was one of those rare, unforgettable days. Both my dad and Toby have been in heaven for years now, but that memory remains a treasure in my heart.

I’m not sure where my dad’s love for Jeeps began, but I suspect it started during his time in the army. He drove a Jeep while stationed in Alaska, where it was often the only vehicle that could reach certain checkpoints. He’d always joke about keeping a six-pack of beer in the glove compartment, just in case. It was during those years that his affection for these rugged machines took root, and that love was passed down to me. Through him, I inherited a passion for Jeeps that has lasted throughout my life and will continue through my children.

When my dad passed away in 2014, the Jeep came home to me. It was a symbol of his spirit, a reminder of the man who taught me to appreciate the adventure, the simplicity, and the rawness of a life lived fully. I had the Jeep for a year, before the weight of grief was too much to bear. Sitting in that Jeep felt like sitting among ghosts, reminders of a time, and of a person who could no longer tell me how proud he was of me. Unable to keep it, I sold it, thinking I had moved on. I hadn’t. I used the proceeds to purchase a 2003 Jeep Wrangler, which I drove in off-road competitions, drove over cars with, and used to take my kids to the park. But that’s a Jeep story for another time. Years later, my father’s Jeep unexpectedly made its way back into my life. My cousin Leila offered it to me, providing an opportunity to reclaim a piece of my past, to reconnect with the memories that had once been too painful to hold. All I had to do was retrieve it from Premont. A chance for another adventure with an old friend.

Present…

And so, I continue my drive on into the encroaching darkness. Cars zoom by on my left, effortlessly cruising at 85 mph, but strangely, none of them seem impatient or judgmental. There’s an unspoken understanding in the

way they pass—almost like they know my Jeep is giving all it has, struggling yet persevering. The world around me feels more vivid than ever. I inhale deeply, tasting the wind, sensing the earthy smells of fields as I pass through pastures. Every sound, every scent is heightened as I drive, immersing myself in the world around me. I don’t feel like a passenger drifting through it; I feel as though I’m part of it. There’s nothing cocooned or insulated about this experience. Every vibration of the tires, every shift through the gears, every subtle hum of the transmission resonates through the steering wheel, through my seat, all the way to my bones. I’m not merely traveling—I’m living the journey, feeling every pulse of the road beneath me. POP POP—the engine backfires again, a sharp reminder of its struggle, but I press on. I stick my head out the window, the tire is holding air—for now. A sign looms ahead, its letters announcing, “25 miles to Edinburg.”

Ifeelcompelledtorightanepilogue.Italwaysbotheredmewhenstoriesendedwithacliffhanger.DidImakeit? Itdoesn’tmatter,thepointwasthatIgotachancetorightapastwrongandgotanotheradventurewithanold friend,andthatitselfwas“makingit”.Butyes,Idid,bysheerwillpowerandluck.

Blue Dream

By: Scott Pineda

Eyes

of enlightenment

My tears; your holy water

My words; your living testimony

My love, ever so godly

Faith that lies in your voicemail titled “I blame you”

Once upon a time this heart didn’t bleed blue

Mourned love, prayed to lose false truths

Cloudy eyes bathe with confusing clues

I lost me to find your truth

Never thought your truth could lie too

These polished eyes have a blind muse

I thought I could’ve saved you, from you

An unsent text titled ‘I love you’

Little

By: Scott Pineda

Tree Only wanted you to see the real me

Not the pictures on the big screen but the smile on my face when you tell me you miss me

Walked away with these glistening eyes

Held back tears, my freedom there lies

These lonely eyes, do you ever miss the way they couldn’t lie?

Planted those little trees that grew inside

I followed my dreams if you wondered what I did with my life

You know I could never forget those spoiled eyes

The way they held me tight at night

The way they could never say goodbye

The way they called me pretty one last time

Only wanted you to see the real me

I wanted you to grow with the plants within me but Corazón, do you feel seen?

My Beginning

By: Ellen C. Mitchem

Before I found my voice, I found you.

The echo of your laughter

The wide-eyed little sister

Tugging at your sleeve

With hope and admiration

Wanting to stay

Waiting for an invitation

I trailed behind You paved the way

Made of moments That you gave away

You handed me a paintbrush I’d color past the lines

Seeing in every stroke

Something that was mine

I am who I am

Because you were who you are

Someone worth following Steps to work toward

City Pop

By: Joseph Garza Medina

And may I reflect In all that I do

The love and admiration I’ve found in you.

Sun on the horizon

Readily available eats

The dokkaebi flock to the Riviera

No regrets for our youth

Nothing left but youth

Trust in the process

No regrets for our youth

The line does not falter

A Moment of Reprieve

By: Alyssa Bursiel

Marek and Jurica Family Heritage

By: Don Marek

Note:ThiswasanessaysubmittedbyDonMarektoafamilyhistory contestwhilehewasattendinguniversityatTexasA&MUniversity Kingsvilleinthe1990s.Hewonfirstprizeforthisessay.

Near the border of Bohemia and Moravia, which were the prov inces of Czechoslovakia, the village of Horni Cermna has existed since the thirteenth century. This is where many of my Czech ancestors lived as butchers and peasants for hundreds of years. For various historical and economic reasons, many Czech immi grants made the decision to come to America during the latter half of the nineteenth century. Roy Hranicky, in his 1954 thesis discussing the history of Czechs in Texas writes:

FollowingtheNapoleonicwarsanduntilabout1840,Bohemiaprospered,andthere wasnotthecompellingeconomicneedtoleavethecountry.In1840,therewasaterribledroughtfol lowedbycropfailuresandextremepoverty.Theseadverseconditions,addedtothereligiousandpoliticalabuses,setinmotionthemigrationfromBohemia,Moravia,andSilesiawhichlastedforabout75 yearsuntilitcametoanabruptendwiththestartofthefirstWorldWar.1

Due to the lack of any real opportunity in his homeland, my great-grandfather, Vincenc Marek, decided to emigrate to America. Once there, Vincenc faced the same difficulties that other immigrants faced such as the hardships of farming, the threat of sickness, and changes in the American economy.

Vincenc Marek came to Texas in 1881 with his wife and three children. He chose Manor, Texas as his new home. To earn money to support his family and to possibly purchase a farm, Vincenc farmed and used oxen to haul stone during construction in Austin. Eventually, he bought 340 acres of land near Granger with the help of a loan from the Taylor National Bank. While in Texas, Vincenc Marek had four more children: Charlie, Antonia, Vincenc, and Robert. The oldest of the children born in America, Charlie, is my grandfather. In July of 1887, Vincenc registered in Austin for American citizenship. In October of 1891, he applied to become an American citizen. In 1903, at the age of 54, Vincenc Marek died after contracting pneumonia.

An interesting aspect of my great-grandfather’s as well as my grandparents’ times as compared to mine is the harsh and labor-intensive nature of daily life. Up until my dad’s childhood, travel often meant riding a horse, wagon, or buggy. Cotton was picked by hand. Even though my dad’s parents are deceased, I receive some insight into daily life from my mother’s parents, Edwin and Betty Jurica. During their fifty years of marriage, they have seen farming change from mules pulling a single row plowshare to massive tractors pulling a twelve-row planter. Edwin Jurica began farming near Skidmore with a mule and single row plowshare. He raised grain, cotton, vegetables, chickens, cattle, and hogs for sale and personal consumption. Sometime in the 1940s, he purchased one of the first tractors manufactured by Ford Motor Company. Despite the mechanical convenience, cotton and sorghum were still picked by hand.

1Hranicky,Roy.“TheHistoryoftheCzechElementinTexas.”TexasA&IUniversity,1954,p.6

My grandmother, Betty Jurica, remembers when the first thresher for grain sped up threshing. Often times, one or two neighbors within a small area owned a gas-powered thresher. Everyone would take turns using the thresher, and the neighbors would help each other with the harvest.

Other hardships also complicated daily life. On his farm at Skidmore, my grandfather Edwin Jurica had to face the danger of rattlesnakes when he went to round up lost cattle. There was the danger of dying from illnesses such as pneumonia, influenza, small pox, and others because there were few medicines to treat people. My dad, William Marek, tells how his twin brother Raymond was bitten by a rattlesnake; a doctor examined him and gave him thirty-six hours to live. Luckily, Raymond survived. My grandmother Betty Jurica explains how she had a very bad case of bronchitis. To help her recover, a doctor operated on her at the family’s home on the kitchen table. Unless one has had these kind of experiences with death, illness, and hardship, it is very hard to appreciate how far medicine and agriculture has advanced in the last hundred years.

After his father’s death, Charlie Marek began farming his share of the original 340-acre farm; during the depression, he lost the farm due to low prices for cotton. Since there was little money, Charlie had difficulty paying property taxes on his share of land and still support his ten children. As a result of this loss, Charlie, his wife, and his children became tenant farmers near Granger. My dad William, who is the youngest of twelve children, remembers his years as a child when he lived near Granger. One of his favorite memories is going to the creek to swim, fish, or catch crawfish. He also recalls the hard work farming required.

In 1941, Charlie and his family moved to Robstown to continue farming. This is where my dad William grew up; he was ten at the time of the move to Robstown. He recalls traveling to Robstown by horse to see Western movies on weekends and camping with his brothers and friends by the Nueces River. In the early fifties, William joined the Air Force and became a mechanic. He spent three years of his young life on Kyushu Island, Japan, during the Korean War. After thirty years at the Corpus Christi Army Depot, he is now retired.

William Marek has four children. I am, along with many of my cousins my age, the first generation to attend a four-year college. Every time I listen to some of my past family history, it reminds of me of my roots and how my family has prospered in the last hundred years. I sincerely hope that my generation will continue to contribute toward preserving America’s prosperity and influence in the world just as my forefather’s and my father’s generation have done.

Authornotes:DonMarekwasborninCorpusChristi,Texasin1971andalifelongresidentofSouthTexas.HegraduatedfromTAMUKwithaB.S.ElectricalEngineeringin1995andcontinuedwithattainingan M.S.inEnvironmentalEngineeringin1998.Anumberofhiscousinsfrombothparents’relativesattended TexasA&Itobecometeachers,engineers,andbusinessman.HecamebacktoworkatTAMUKin2004as theLabManagerforEnvironmentalEngineeringforadecadeandreturnedin2022astheLabTechnician fortheElectricalEngineeringDepartment.Donenjoysreading,touringhistoricalsites,oldmoviesofvariousgenres,bicycling,andtheoutdoors.

The Art Wall

Maybe It Means Something

By: Alyssa

Llorona’s Anguish

By: Anjelica Cantu

Llorona’s Journey

By: Anjelica Cantu

Birth Mother

By: Anjelica Cantu

Step Mother

By: Anjelica Cantu

Foster Mother

By: Anjelica Cantu

The Gas Station Between Worlds

By: Alessandra Zavala-Sanford

Do you ever read stories? Not the ones with happily-ever-afters, but the kind whispered around campfires, passed down through generations to explain something. The kind that leaves a pit in your stomach because, deep down, you know it’s real.

Today started like any other typical day. School was a blur of math-induced suffering, bad cafeteria food, and boys who think Axe body spray is an alternative to showering. My bus ride home was uneventful. I napped, had a bag of chips for dinner, and left for work at 5 PM. Seventeen years old, working the night shift at Kwik Trip Gas Station, and surviving off minimum wage, caffeine, and Spotify playlists. Perfectly average.

At least, it was.

I walked through the doors of the gas station and got hit with the scent of Fabuloso so strong it nearly knocked me out. Every Hispanic kid knows this smell; the universal aroma of Cleaning Day Trauma. Before anything else, I go to the back and clock in on the ancient Windows 2000 PC (management never upgraded) because there is absolutely no way I’m working for free. So far, everything is fine.

Then I hear it.

Running water. Panicked whispers. In the employee bathroom.

I freeze.

Put yourself in my shoes. It’s 5:30 PM. It’s getting dark. I’m a 5’5”, 170 lbs high school girl. On the night shift. Alone. With someone whispering in the bathroom. In moments like these, I remember something my mom always says to me, “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” Someone thinks they can kidnap me? In a gas station? With my anger issues? They just won a lot of stupid prizes.

I grab the bat from the break room, grip it tight, and scream.

“Listen up, fool! You have EXACTLY five seconds to come out with your hands up! And don’t try anything stupid! I have a bat and I’m EXTREMELY VIOLENT! One-!”

The door flies open.

“Hey- HEY! Vick! It’s me!”

A mop of short unbrushed blue hair sticks out first. My heart rate slows enough for my brain to process. *Of course.* Devon Hernandez. My coworker, slushie thief, and general pain.

I lower the bat and roll my eyes. “Jesus, Devon! I thought you were a serial killer!”

He glares at me, clearly offended. “Are you serious?! I was in the bathroom! I could’ve had my pants down!”

I toss the bat back into the break room and cross my arms. “Don’t be creepy, then! What were you even doing?”

Devon holds up his uniform shirt, stained with what looks like neon green slushie. “Relax, I spilled some Sour Apple Slushie, and I was trying to get it out. You know Winston will kill me if I show up next shift looking like this.”

I toss it back. “Yeah, and he’ll also kill you if he finds out you’re stealing slushies again.”

Devon gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him with my correct accusations. “Of course, you’d say that! You would tell Winston! Oh, Victoria’s the favorite because she’s the pet!”

I drum my fingers on the counter, then get an idea. “Fine. I won’t tell him… if you do all my chores.”

Devon looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Uh, excuse me? No. Besides, I’m already clocked out.”

I smirk. “I could also mention your little smoking habit out back. You’re only eighteen, right?”

His eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might. I might not. Wanna find out?”

We stare each other down like an old Western standoff. Like Doc Holiday staring down the Cowboys at the OK Corral. I swear I can hear a harmonica. Maybe even a tumbleweed? Oops, nope, just a plastic bag blowing past the window. Finally, a car pulls up, breaking the moment.

I gesture toward it. “Hey. Car’s here. Are you clocking out or not?” Devon sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. Promise you won’t tell?” “You’re fine. Just get outta here.”

Devon disappears into the back to clock out, and I focus on the customer. Hoodie Guy.

Comes in every night like clockwork. Always buys an energy drink, a pizza, and chips. I smooth my hair and prepare for my least favorite part of the job. Actually doing it. While Hoodie Guy wanders the aisles, I start my chores. Sweeping. Mopping. Getting rid of expired stock. Everything is fine.

Devon’s attempt at cleaning left the floor sticky, so I grabbed the mop and mop bucket.

I Fetched my phone and put on my favorite cleaning music—Chappell Roan of course. As I work, I see it. A flash of something bright reflecting in the window outside of my peripheral.

Devon disappears into the back to clock out, and I focus on the customer. Hoodie Guy.

I glance outside, shielding my eyes from the fluorescent glare. At first, nothing. Just the parking lot, the pumps, the woods beyond the neon glow of the Kwik Trip sign.

Then my stomach drops.

A pair of huge red eyes peer from the trees, locked onto the glowing sign like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Hypnotized.

I step back.

Its head snaps toward me.

No pupils. No way to know what it’s thinking. But it sees me.

“Hey!”

I jump. Hoodie Guy stares at me, impatient. I force myself to breathe. I look back. It’s gone. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“That’ll be $10.65. Cash or card?”

Hoodie Guy pulls out a crumpled twenty. “Cash.”

I take it, hand him his change, and mumble, “Have a nice night.”

He barely nods before trudging out the door. Once he’s gone, I don’t waste any time. I sprint to my bag, dig out my journal, and scribble down an entry:

9/18/24

Saw red eyes in the woods. Staring at light. Possible sighting? Need confirmation.

I stuff the journal in my bag and get back to work. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can check outside. Sweeping, mopping, tossing expired junk. (I keep an expired ramen.

Expiration dates are suggestions after all.)

Then it’s time to take out the trash. Outside. With that thing. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I grab the bat. Just in case.

The moment I step out, I hear it.

Crunch.

Slow, deliberate. big.

Something chewing.

Then buzzing. Slobbering. Squelching.

I tighten my grip on the bat. My breath feels heavy.

I didn’t choose this. I want normal teenage struggles. Bad grades, summer school, sneaking out. But no one else does this. So I do.

I follow the sound, pushing deeper into the trees. The noises grow louder, bones cracking, something wet tearing. The smell of iron thickens the air.

I push back one last branch. And freeze.

Turns out, Hoodie Guy didn’t make it home. His bones and insides are spilling onto the forest floor as a grotesquely large, leathery humanoid feasts on him, tearing chunks of flesh from his body with wet, sickening crunches. The air is thick with the scent of blood.

It’s a Skinwalker. And I have to kill it.

For creatures this powerful, you need a Shaman or medicine man. I’m neither. But I do know the spell. Heart hammering, I begin chanting, soft, then loud, an ancient song of protection, the words gifted to me by friends on the ranch. My fingers tremble as I pull the turquoise pendant from my neck, blessed by a medicine man, and hold it up. The creature freezes, its meal forgotten, and slowly lifts its head. Its jaw unhinges, dripping with gore, before it lets out a howl that shreds the silence of the night.

I sing louder, terrified but determined, slowly advancing. The Skinwalker lunges, but mid-step, it recoils, hacking and convulsing as if the words themselves are burning it from the inside out.

I don’t hesitate. I grip my bat and swing with everything I have. The impact is solid and bone-jarring, sending a shockwave up my arms as the beast recoils, its shriek cutting through the night like a siren. It stumbles, limbs twisting unnaturally, but it’s not down.

Then it lashes.

A flash of claws. A searing pain. My breath catches, a strangled sound escaping my throat as something warm spills down my sleeve. My grip falters. The bat slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a dull clunk.

I stagger, blinking past the red haze at the edges of my vision. The Skinwalker is already recovering, its grotesque form twitching, snapping its jaw with sickening clicks.

My fingers fumble for my switchblade, slick with blood. Useless against something like this. That’s all I have.

The creature lunges.

I throw myself forward, my knife slamming into its chest. The blade sinks in, resistant before sliding deeper. A noise erupts from its throat, a choking shriek. Its body convulses, limbs flailing. A clawed hand grazes my face as I twist away, barely dodging another swipe meant to rip me open.

I hit the ground, pain flaring in my arm as I roll to safety. The Skinwalker staggers, its frame twitching, limbs jerking like they don’t belong to it. Its maw gapes open, dripping gore, but it doesn’t lunge. I tighten my grip on the knife, ignoring the burn in my arm. If this thing wants to dance, we can keep dancing.

Then, something terrifying happens. Its limbs crumble. Not like flesh tearing, but like earth dissolving. It stumbles forward, its grotesque form unraveling into ash. And then, lying in its place, is a man.

Breath hitching, I stagger to my feet. The man looks up at me, eyes hollow, lips trembling as he mutters something in a language I don’t understand—Diné, maybe.

I lean in. “What…?”

His voice is a rasping whisper, yet it chills me to my core. “They… will… come…”

Then, he completely disintegrates.

I can’t breathe. My vision swims. My arm throbs. I wrap my wound in my sweater. I need to think. In the morning, I’ll call the police about Hoodie Guy. It was mountain lions. Coyotes. Something they’ll believe. It’ll be fine.

I stumble back toward the Kwik Trip, the bright lights burning my retinas after the black woods. My blood-soaked sweater clings to my arm, my hands shaking as I push open the door.

“Hello?! Is there anybody here?!”

A customer (a middle-aged woman, probably a Karen) slams the service bell with impatient force. I grunt, barely managing to stay upright.

“Sorry…” I croak, gripping the counter for support.

The woman’s eyes widen in horror as she takes in my bloodied clothes, my shaking hands. She fumbles for her phone, fingers shaking as she dials. Probably calling 911.

The world tilts. My head swims. I fight to stay conscious, but it’s a losing battle. “Will that be cash or card…?” I mumble before everything goes black.

If you thought this was just a normal scary story, you’re wrong.

This is real.

Monsters exist.

Reaching People through their Pets

By: Bob Luckett

As a social work educator, I am always looking for ways to engage potential clients, and reduce stigma related to clients asking for help. There is always a concern for people who isolate themselves, and even those who do so as a preference sometimes are in need of assistance that can be provided to them, but we need to be aware of them first. Establishing contact can be one of the biggest challenges of all, whether or not their isolation is within their comfort zone, and even if so, some can lack awareness to understand whether or not their isolation is healthy. In either situation, I believe that pets can be the gateway to connecting with people in their homes.

People’s love for animals is nothing new, but new by comparison is the study of it, which researchers have been conducting under the acronym Human Animal Bond (HAB). Before COVID led to unwelcome isolation on a scale not seen before in modern history, the presence of animals in public was on the rise. This increase partly was attributed to growing acceptance of service animals. While there is some controversy over which animals are appropriate for this task, the growth of their presence is undeniable, and the right to be accompanied by animals in public has been a significant focus of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). When the pandemic impacted so much of the globe, human-to-human interaction sharply declined, and many found themselves missing contact with other living beings. Thus, animal fostering and adoption peaked. Some animal shelters actually emptied for the first time in their histories. Unfortunately, some cat and dog relationships turned out not to be a good fit, so some had to be returned. The ability of strays to reproduce soon overtook shelter space once again at the end of the pandemic.

Some may declare that the unintended COVID mass fostering and adoption campaign was not a success, but those who began a relationship with a pet for the first time, would likely disagree. Keep in mind that some only intended to home a pet temporarily, due to the ongoing lack of adoption families coinciding with the requirement to work remotely. When such living arrangements become permanent, they are affectionately referred to by animal shelters as “foster fails.” This is a rare failure in which everybody wins. Whatever the criteria one uses to determine success in new pet “ownership” (a term more accurately applied to dog adoptions than cat adoptions), it is undeniable that more pets found permanent homes during COVID, and it would be difficult to find anyone who thinks this is a bad thing.

The reduction in working remotely coincided with the gradual increase in public foot traffic, both the twoand the four-kind, with a renewed public presence of animals. The service animals have returned, the dog parks are repopulated, and some apartment rental businesses have become flexible on their pet policies, granting them residency status for the first time. Given that many with families and busy lives still consider having pets to be a necessity, and consider them family members, it follows that pets are at least as important in the lives of people who have little social contact. We know that pets can reduce stress, and even if not officially companion animals by definition, their relationships with their humans run indescribably deep.

There are universities that provide cats and dogs for students to interact with during stressful times, such as midterm and final exams. Stray cats and dogs are irresistible to students around dorms when semesters are underway. Mounted police officers find that their horses link them to children in a way that no other outreach efforts can. Service and assistant animals are now sharing the same status in the public landscape. By what mechanism could we connect people to help through their pets? Some bridges are built between people and pets in correctional facilities. In some programs, the animals are being trained as service animals by the inmates, and in some,the animals are socializing the inmates by bonding with them in a non-exploitive interaction that might be a first for both. There are social work programs in some of these facilities, and while the outcomes of these programs are ripe for study, the challenge remains beyond serving inmates, who have little ability to abandon such projects, to connect people in need with enthusiastic pets when we don’t know they exist in the privacy of their own homes.

The presence of HAB is observed in veterinary clinics. The growing specialization of Veterinary Social Work is a progressive concept that focuses on the perspective of veterinary students, and the stress they endure while immersed in the challenges of health care of animals that often ends in euthanasia. Much of the focus then shifts to the veterinary students, in addition to the people parting with their beloved animals, and the grief they face all too often. Clearly, there is great support for animal rights by “pet parents” in the veterinary profession, and People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) is an organization whose entire focus is self-evident in the organization’s title. These are among the entities concerned for the well-being of animals, including animal mental health. Research in the areas of animal intelligence and animal emotion are gaining ground.

Those who respect animals are, however, realistic about the differences between animals and people, in addition to the similarities. The philosophy of the spay/neuter movement is intended to limit or end animal suffering resulting from overpopulation. This is why professional breeders often come under attack. Approaches such as “adopt don’t shop” come to mind. While these groups accept euthanasia as a means of ending animal suffering, they also seek to eliminate shelters that use this method, in favor of creating more “no-kill” shelters. It doesn’t require being a speciesist to understand that animals feel pain and have emotions.

Is there a way to connect these like-minded people for the benefit of both people and animals? There is a great deal of shared interest, but without essential networking, how can we build awareness to create such a network? A common thread in such movements is lack of funding. Shelters are notoriously underfunded, and dependent on donations, both cash, and in the forms of food, cat litter, dog leashes, and other items needed to keep pets as healthy as possible during their stays. Programs connecting inmates to animals are not quite common, but this could be a good place to start. Imagine if shelters provided correctional facilities with companion animals, if for no other reason, than as an alternative to euthanasia. Could universities partner with correctional facilities to create such programs? Could this lead to internship programs with interested students who are social work and criminal justice majors? If in the end, we do nothing more than reduce shelter populations, wouldn’t it still be a great contribution to the Human Animal Bond?

No One Leaves Hungry

By: Colleen Fischer

Mornings start slow in our little town, where mesquite trees tangle with the wind and the air is thick with last night’s warmth. The world is quiet except for the scrape of a tortilla press, the low hum of a song Abuela half-remembers. She doesn’t need a recipe- her hands just know, years of practice measured in pinches and handfuls. I lean against the counter, watching, rolling masa between my palms the way she taught me. “No seas terca,” she laughs, reshaping my crooked dough. Her apron smells like cilantro and yesterday’s tamales, like the earth she kneels in every evening, pulling weeds from her chile plants, checking the tomatoes like they might grow overnight. I drive her to town, translate the world into words she understands, sign her name where ink is needed, order for her when menus feel foreign. She smiles, unbothered, content in the rhythm of her own worldone of simmering pots and open doors, where no one leaves with an empty plate.

Mama jokes, “She cooks for an army,” but I know better she cooks for a family as wide as the Rio Grande, for ghosts who still gather at her table, for a husband whose voice lingers in the wind. She speaks of him often, her words thick with love, her memories sweet as pan dulce. I laugh when she repeats his sayings, funny as a pig in the mud, wise as the land beneath our feet. I think of him now, watching over us, somewhere in the South Texas sky, where love never fades, where the kitchen is always warm, where family is forever.