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Miambiance Literature & Arts Magazine Volume 31

Volume 31

Literature & Arts Magazine

Miambiance

Cover: Bonaire - Giuliana Montanez - Photography

Escape - Paulina Diaz - Digital Photography

Miambiance Literature & Arts Magazine Volume 31 Edited solely by Miami Dade College students of the Kendall Campus in Miami, Florida

Copyright 2021 Miami Dade College 11011 SW 104th Street Miami, Florida 33176 Literary Adviser: Rita Fernandez-Sterling: rfernan3@mdc.edu Photography and Visual Arts Adviser: Tony Chirinos: achirino@mdc.edu https://mdc.edu/miambiance/ miambiance@gmail.com

Volume 31

Literature & Arts Magazine

Miambiance

Editor’s Note

During 2020, the world underwent a renaissance of uncertainty and lack of clarity. The present was disturbed and changed, like never before. The inspiration to thematically use the Tarot cards for this volume was born based on this period where there was pandemonium. The cards represent old and new experiences that are causing a long-term effect on our lives. In addition, they represent lessons and the ability to utilize those lessons in our favor. I believe the magazine is representing a transition into a better future; after all, Tarot cards tell the story of who we were, who we are, and who we will be.

Volume thirty-one represents the vivid example of the human consciousness from our desires to our beliefs. The vicissitudes from misery to brighter moments in our history as humans and the past year are some of the most significant examples. A myriad of emotions is embodied on these pages. I want to celebrate the infinite potential of the people. Not only can the same minds create delightful things, but also they can bring destruction into the world. Let us celebrate great minds, and as Hadestown playwright, Anaïs Mitchell, states, “To the world we dream about and the one we live in now.” Best, Izheilin Trinidad

Editor’s Note

Digital Photography

Lubianka Baltodano

III

playlist

Ripple Effect

Valentina Mannino Digital Photography

EP Music

The GreatFreeze

Hananael Amaro

Digital Photography

I Must Levitate

Lost in Thought EP Music

Scan here to stream playlist Or Search Miambiance Magazine on Spotify III 3

playlist

DOUBT DELAYS DEPRESSION LACK OF CLARITY MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

Untitled - Sabrina Arce - Mixed Media Literary Addiction

Sofia Ramirez

Literary Addiction

9 6

Literary Addiction Sofia Ramirez My hazel eyes tiredly open and stare At the spine of pages and liquid gold; my sweetest treat. I gently grab the blazing hot handle with care While opening the story that awaits me. I kick up my feet. Steaming peppermint tea in one hand And thousands of words in the other, I caress each page like grains of sand Reminding me of the times I read with my mother. Now on my own, I dive deep into stormy seas Encountering slimy sea monsters and victorious victors Proudly holding their trident with the villains on their knees Looking down in defeat for their wanted wars. For a moment, I look up and remember that while this is fiction, Life is waiting for me to step away from my literary addiction.

Cephalalgia - Paulina Diaz - Digital Photography

VIII

Entre mis raíces

En la mañana de mis llantos Me levanté pensando en ti Los lamentos no los aguanto, tampoco estar aquí Cuando pienso en mi vida los cantares son esfuerzos Las palabras son llanas porque no te tengo.

Izheilin Trinidad

VIII

Entre mis raíces

Cuban Chairs - Carolina Ricardo - Mixed Media

10 Miambiance 31

Alice, A Self Portrait - Alice Moreno - Digital Photography

XII

Hate Everything About me

I can’t stand the sight of my face. I broke a mirror in a fit of rage— Always in last place, I’m losing in this race. I can’t seem to keep a steady pace. Every second I live is a waste. I wish it would all go away. If only my life would erase. Every single choice I’ve made is a mistake. Every night, I lie wide awake. It’s like a vise is pressing on my head, with drill bits I can’t break. There’s no choice left to make. I can only feel the hate. It suffocates me like a noose around my neck. It’s a sickness that spreads and spreads. I’ve been sick for too long; there’s no hope. I’m a wreck! Kevin Dominguez

XII

Hate everything about me

Cheese - Valentina Mannino - Digital Photography

Embrace - Valentina Mannino - Digital Photography 14

Se Marchó Izheilin Trinidad Le preguntaban a la muerte, si alguna vez escuchó el sonido de la vida el día en que se marchó; que, si llevaba en las manos un cuchillo y un pincel, o solo llevaba las penas de un psicólogo y un juez. A la muerte le preguntan cuánto dura su cantar, que si se siente perdida o si odia el caminar. Le preguntan que en su mundo qué pasó, cuando la vida no estaba y en ese día se marchó. La muerte, bajo el canto de un niño que llora por el amor de un dulce soñador, dijo que sin la vida hasta la muerte perdió el color, que sus noches son más largas, y que odia caminar, que la esperanza no existe y tampoco su cantar. Que pequeña es la esperanza de una vida sin su amor, la vida se marchó y con ella se llevó todo lo que a la muerte una vez le importó. El día en que se marchó la muerte enloqueció, los pájaros morían, el cielo perdió el color y en cambio se manchó de llantos de corazones heridos por la desilusión. Oh, muerte que sola te toca caminar, perdona a la vida que se tiene que marchar, sé que tu luz se apagó y que al final del estrecho del soñar, solo la sombra se asomó el día en que se marchó. Le preguntaban a la muerte que si alguna vez escuchó el sonido de la vida el día en que se marchó, la muerte sonrió de lado y su voz se entrecortó. Entre suspiros dijo que él fue el que la mató.

The Shadows - Daniela Gonzalez -Digital Photography

Pills - Lorena Marrero - Silver Gelatin Print

16 Miambiance 31

Sweet Poison

Sarah Peniche

here’s this addiction we always crave, and it slowly leaves us rotting inside the more we allow it to consume. It looks sweet, and the mere taste of it on the tip of your tongue is so alluring. It leaves you disposable for more. You begin to crave that sweet taste despite the stinging aftermath. So bittersweet. A taste of Absinthe that’s adjustable and addicting. It’s an obsession; one you uncontrollably find yourself overdosing on, consuming more, its fatality striking softly. Burning down your throat and seeping through your veins. But there’s that pleasure in knowing it’s overwhelmed you, and you’ve consumed him. All the more satisfying to allow this affliction to carry on.

ANGUISH ILLUSION TRICKERY INSECURITY MELANCHOLY

Untitled - Joan Delgado - Digital Photography

Son of a Gun Malena De Tomas A cold, round barrel presses against my forehead as Francisco screams at me. “I bet you had no idea this whole time, is that right, niño maravilla?” Surrounded by his leering accomplices, he cocks back his gun, puts a bullet into the chamber, and points it at me again, with pure anger in his cold, dead eyes. “How could you know, with your parents in prison halfway across the world, and us abducting you? No one knows or cares that you’re gone! You’re nothing! Answer me!” he yells, spitting in my face.

know, kid, is that none of this is your fault, and none of what will happen to you is your fault. If you need anyone to blame, it should be your parents.” “They’re in prison. How could they do anything?” I hollered.

“There’s always a baby involved in my father’s battles.”

“Oye, chico, you’re better off telling who snitched. Maybe we’ll give you a proper burial,” Armando comments.

“Well, it’s a long story, but years ago, long before you were born, your parents were Francisco’s business partners. Over time, it After another slap across my face, seemed that your parents started skimming Francisco and his lackeys continue to money off the top, hiding it from him as interrogate and insult me, expecting me to rat his most trusted confidants, especially your out the man who told me everything. Why mother. Francisco didn’t like that. He knew should I when he saved me? your mother was pregnant, and she was taking the money to give the baby a better My friend, my ally, and savior, Jesús future, but when he caught her in the act…” came to me the day after I was first told what my duties would be in this cartel: to be “What happened?! What did that their mule and move their product to Chile. bastard do to her?!” He appeared out of thin air, it seemed, in “He pushed her down a flight of that grimy stash house. An unfamiliar, yet stairs. It wasn’t enough to kill her but enough friendly face. When he was sure it was safe to get rid of the root of the problem,” he once everyone else had left for the night, he answered. let me out of the zip ties and offered me a cup of café. I remember the shock I felt upon hearing the “Why are you doing this?” I asked, taking a long sip of the scalding, black drink in the Boca Juniors mug. “Francisco’s too sloppy with his kidnappings. He got lucky with you,” Jesús responded, “but you can’t be willing to work for him if you don’t know the situation you’re in.” “And what would that be?” I inquired. Once he finished drinking his coffee and washing the mug in the kitchen sink, Jesús explained, “The first thing you need to

story. I remember how hurt I was. I remember the anger that came after, the desire to give Francisco a fraction of the pain he caused my parents.

That’s how I landed myself here. I let my anger get the best of me. I tried to hurt Francisco in the only way I knew how. See, he has this daughter, Florencia. She’s sixteen, just a year younger than me, and as good looking as they come. The crown jewel of Francisco’s empire, who, as I learned

So Happy I Could Die - Valentina Mannino - Digital Photography from Jesús, showed interest in me. Even though he warned me to stay away from her, from that moment the plan was already set in motion. It was too late to stop.

“I bet you had no idea this whole time, is that right, niño maravilla?” I spent months building the foundation of my scheme. There were so many days I tried to charm her, to woo her, to tear her defenses down. Once she trusted me, our midnight dates began. We spent our time sitting in Plaza Saavedra talking about the past without ever thinking much about the future. She told me everything about her family, but she focused the most on her mother’s death. “It’s a tragedy, you know. The people that killed her were my dad’s competition in the business. They wanted to destroy him, but when he retaliated, he just couldn’t kill the baby,” she said, with a single tear rolling down her cheek. “There’s a baby involved in the war between cartels?” I asked, immediately 22 Miambiance 31

realizing what she would respond. “There’s always a baby involved in my father’s battles.” As it turned out, it was true. Francisco tried to wipe out the family that destroyed his own but could not kill the baby in the house. He took him in instead, raising him as the male heir he never got from his beloved and making him work in the cartel as the child grew older. After diving deeper and deeper into the story, she told me the name of the kid, Jesus, who was now a grown man. It made sense to me then that Jesús helped me. He knew all about me because Francisco told him, but he helped me because he, too, lost his parents to the maniac kingpin of Buenos Aires. I had to build Florencia’s trust in me to go into the next stage of the plan. I had to tell her my whole life story, sparing very few details. I told her about my parents’ arrest for theft, about growing up in foster care, about dropping out of high school in sophomore year because it didn’t teach me what I needed to know to survive, and about my stint in juvie for getting caught stealing. She felt like I was an open book, she’d tell me, as if I would

never hide anything from her.

what I did wrong.”

Several weeks later, I finally reached my goal. It was a night like any other, except this night Florencia had invited me to her apartment. As always, we talked into the late hours of the night, drinking Fernet and never bringing up the future. That was, until she, with her golden curls and alluring brown eyes, led me into her room.

“What you did wrong?! You wanna hear what you did wrong?! You son of a gun, you know what you did. You seduced my daughter, you planted your seed of lies and deceit in her. Now she has lost her mind because of you!” Francisco explodes.

It’s been five months since that night. At four months, Florencia started to show. Though she said she loved me and was happy to carry my child, she knew her father could not find out. This had become a regular Romeo and Juliet tale. Francisco did find out, however, around the same time that I finished my fifth trip across the border. Flor often wore shapewear to keep her growing stomach under control, but the night of her seventeenth birthday, she just could not fit into the slimming bodysuit. She and her father had this tradition: he would buy her the most expensive dress she could find at the store six months before the big day, but she could not wear it until they went out to dinner to celebrate at his favorite steakhouse. Six months after the purchase, she was two sizes bigger and could not squeeze into the tight dress.

A gunshot echoes through the room. When he figured out that I was the father the one who tainted the crown jewel of his empire with a bastard child, he lost it. And in Argentina, where abortion is illegal, Francisco would either have to watch my grandchild grow up or do to his precious daughter the same thing he did to my mother. I still don’t know which choice he made, but I do know that either one could have landed me here, in this cold, metal chair with my hands zip-tied behind my back and a gun to my head.

“So, what’s it gonna be, pendejo? You gonna confess your sins?” Armando sneers.

“I might,” I reply, “if you tell me

One pistol whip and three kicks in the gonads later, I break out in a fit of laughter. “Qué es tan gracioso? Is he possessed by Satanas?” one of the lackeys asks. Francisco takes the safety off his gun and shoots me in the foot, yet I keep laughing uncontrollably.

“What’s so funny?” he questions.

Once I’m able to breathe again, and the tears stop falling from my eyes, I answer, “I did it all except one thing. I did find out my parents’ story. I did take your daughter. I did get her pregnant. The one thing I couldn’t do was betray you. You shouldn’t have trusted me in the first place you sick, callous, domineering piece of shit!” This time, he starts laughing. He grabs me by the neck and while choking me states: “You know what’s funny to me? Tomorrow morning, only the people in this room will know or care that you’re dead. The newspaper won’t have an obituary for the poor Nicolas Romero, who was taken from us too soon.” There will be no funeral for you, you have no one to say goodbye to, and maybe one day you’ll be found buried six feet underground in the middle of Villa Miseria skinless and beyond recognition. Doesn’t that sound fun to you?” Francisco nods his head at Armando, giving the signal that it’s time. Armando asks me if I have any last words. “In the words of my generation, up yours.”

A gunshot echoes through the room.

Caretaker - Lorena Marrero - Digital Photography

xxvi

Eyes of the past and present

oney eyes. Face full of freckles. Coiled curls. In the middle of grocery shopping, his familiar face reminds me of the day I tried to leave behind. Leggings pulled down. Arms restrained. Hips wide. Wasted from doing shots an hour before: these are the only images that I remember from that night. The remaining memories are disturbing sounds that bring shivers up and down my spine. His grunting sounded more animal-like than human, and his heavy breathing felt cold against my bellybutton. In an attempt to be set free with no strength and no coordination due to the instability from the alcohol, I hit my head against the cement floor and passed out. The next day, I wake up with a throbbing headache in a random motel; limping to the bathroom, the dusty mirror revealed purple marks staining my neck, chest, wrists, and thighs. These bruises slowly turned acid green, then dirt brown, but soon enough faded. Their memory, however, remained painted on my mind like a tattoo. Every day from then on has been an uphill battle. With each day that passed, the hill became a little smaller until it turned into a flatland. The beeping of the cashier’s scanner brings me back to the present, and I quickly scan the aisle to spot him. No longer there I wonder if he was ever here at all; not willing to take the chance, I leave the cart full of banana puree, milk, fruits, and vegetables stranded and speed walk to my car, thankful that the sun is still out. With my doors locked, I rev the engine and head home, missing the embrace of the one awaiting me there. In record time, I make it home, and as I open the door and walk past the babysitter, I realize that that night was not the night I decided to give up hooking up with strangers and drowning my liver with alcohol. It was nine months later when those same honey eyes staring at me now, stared back at me in the delivery room.

Sofia Ramirez

xxvI

Eyes of the past AND PRESENT

Portrait - Carlos Rios - Charcoal

Title - Artist’s Name - Medium

Untitled - Lorena Marrero - Digital Photography

Uniforme - Joan Delgado - Digital Photography

La Raza

Maria Eugenia Gonzalez “Tienes que mejorar la raza”; these words are deeply ingrained in my mind. A mantra written by force between the Sulci and Gyri of my brain, always sung by a chorus of women and men. You have to improve the race; they say to me, a chant reverberating between my ears and inside my skull. The echo of its meaning barely registering, still hurting. “Love whoever you want,” they say, “as long as they are good looking. Even better if they have blue eyes. Imagínate unos hijos catires, bellos como un gringuito.” Imagine having blonde kids, beautiful like a gringo. I always stay silent while I meditate on the meaning of that phrase, “Hay que mejorar la raza.” Those five words that command my life and that of many like me. Improving the race means erasing who we are. I float in a space of self-doubt and confusion. Am I not enough? Is my skin not perfect like the color bronze and equally powerful and beautiful as the ivory one of my cousins? An ethereal enchantment to the eyes or as deeply enchanting, fascinating, and precious as the onyx skin of my grandfather, whose darkness is akin to the magic of the skies, a mystery yet to be unveiled, where celestial bodies dance and prance in an eternal rhythm. In my eyes, we are equally perfect, for hu-

manity is as deep as the sea herself and our skins are the oceanic zones but also the treasures lying deep within the waters. Our skins reek of history and wonder, of fantasy and hope. Skin tells the trained eye where we come from and who we are. Yet by “improving” our race, we become bland, a colony of uniformity, a form of unanimity where there is nothing but one identity.

“Love whoever you want,” they say, “as long as they are good looking. Even better if they have blue eyes. Imagínate unos hijos catires, bellos como un gringuito.” Imagine having blonde kids, beautiful like a gringo.” Stories lost to blood, over blood. A genetic and ideological war where crimson and scarlet ichor is not shed. Where the winner still rewrites history to their favor, without realizing that they are the last standing humans on earth. Their brothers and sisters, similar yet unique, lost to a genomic code relegated to a recessive trait. We are beings of progress and evolution,

but I do not see a world where “improving the race” towards one side or the other would make everything better. For nature is a wise mother and a caring father, and its commands push us towards what is best. Our melanin constantly adapting to our environment, invisible and secret, the melanogenesis a miracle of thousands of pigments. For we are the color of the white and yellow sand, the red dirt and the rich brown earth below, constantly blooming and multiplying.

I decide that we are all prime examples of perfection.

Odd Freckles - Laura Gonzalez - Digital Art

In awe, I look at myself in the mirror. My skin, bronzed and radiant, slightly red, that many call exotic but which reminds me of my ancestors, transporting me to a time where we worked in the conucos behind our houses, picking up corn, sweet potato, pitaya, and all which the earth provided. When we worked the maize into bread, arepas, tortillas and a thousand of different dishes. Times when we walked in the great steppes of a forgotten continent, our steps strong and powerful as we walk the lengths of the world. I am beautiful, I tell myself reassuringly, as my hands go over my soft skin, my square face, long nose, and my small hooded eyes. I sometimes brush my hair gently with my fingers. It’s thin, but abundant, jet black, and heavy on my back. A starless sky and a black hole that consumes the world around and warps reality and time in strands of infinity and rich deepness. I decide that we are all prime examples of perfection. My mom was raised hearing those same words “Tienes que mejorar la raza” and grew to repeat them and create a vicious cycle in which we are never enough. Where one must erase what we are in order to make sure that in the future our descendants will fit the mold of what others conventionally perceive as better and beautiful. But I refuse to fall into the cycle, for I am not a clockwork invention, created to repeat eternally a pattern of internalized loathing and believing one is superior to the other. Rather I am a full fleshed creature, ever growing, ever changing. Learning every day that the truth is more complex and convoluted, and that in our small differences and imperfections, we are perfect. That by being ourselves and being proud of who we are, we are not improving towards an idealized reality that silences the voices of many but instead towards power. There is no race, no looks, and no appearance to improve. Instead, one must improve the self, the soul, and the mind. For the greatest rebellion is just being while ignoring the loud voices of ignorance, fear, and prejudice.

Amor Divino Belinda Barrientos

Nunca pensé que alguna vez Te perdería Fuiste mío para siempre Nunca pensé que en otra ocasión No estarías Por las noches miro hacia al cielo Le pido a Dios que me deje verte Por última vez Solamente para poder sentirte Otra vez Nada puede separarme de ti Ni el viento Ni el cielo Ningún otro Quiero encontrarme en tus brazos Otra vez Porque tú eres Mi vida Mi sueño Mi luz Mi felicidad Cuando te volví a ver, No lo podía creer Me derretí en el suelo lloré Sentí las mariposas Sentí los arcoíris Sentí la ilusión de ser niña de nuevo Sentí dentro de mi corazón Que eras para mí Para siempre Otra vez 32

Earth Is Gone, Let’s Kiss - Veronica Silva - Mixed Media

Cuando te vi por primera vez No quise enamorarme Olí tu aliento único Vi tus ojos caramelo Sentí tus suaves manos Sobre mí

CHAOS AWAKENING REBUILDING CATASTROPHE MASSIVE CHANGE

Life of a Mask- Belinda Barrientos - Digital Photography

Period of Isolation- Belinda Barrientos - Digital Photography

Mask Reflection - Lorena Marrero - Digital Photography

Untitled - Caleb Perez - Digital Photography

Waves - Sabrina Arce - Digital Art

Blank Canvas Anthony Marino Split between two roads. A bridge I can’t uphold. The world was pen and paper, Before you showed me a canvas. Now I paint thoughts of euphoria, Feeling candid. Oblivious to the insidious life I currently live. The irreplaceable feeling Of a wholesome life.

Surrender- Emily Gonzalez- Digital Photography 40 Miambiance 31

Social Distance - Caleb Perez- Digital Photography

Pen Makers Matthew Mayer

I don’t know if I really had an opinion of

I love helping the better ones with such-

them before I started working at the pen

and-such. Compare this with the atavistic

factory. Each day, twenty or so kids with

grunts the brutes make when they need

varying grasps on reality would come into

help, and it’s a delight. Compare this with

my room, sit down, eat breakfast (it smells

Manatee (I haven’t learned his real name

worse when they eat it, for whatever reason),

yet – I really hope that’s not it), who instead

and wait for me to pass out little boxes of

of raising his hand when he’s out of pen

pen barrels, nibs, boxes, and ribbons. You

barrels, will walk over to the sink and begin

slide a nib into the barrel, put the cap on,

to fill his mouth and nose with water until he

and then wrap it up in a box and a ribbon.

begins to choke and sputter.

Simple job for simple folk, there’s something outwardly charming about it, like elves in Santa’s factory.

It’s hard to see someone with a human body but a broken

The higher functioning ones are the ones

brain involuntarily act out the

that need the least help, but they deserve the

little synapse flashes that their

most; when something’s wrong, they sit and ask, “Mr. Gomez, can you help me with suchand-such?”

snapped circuits send down to the muscles – Don’t get me wrong – the low functioning

For the most part, they have a completely

ones deserve help but in a different way. It’s

normal outward appearance – but it’s when

hard to see someone with a human body but

they start talking or look at you that you

a broken brain involuntarily act out the little

really understand that something’s up. It’s

synapse flashes that their snapped circuits

one of those oddities of the pattern-hungry

send down to the muscles – bad machin-

human mind; little quirks and behavioral

ery makes that hard impulse to swing your

failures are detected immediately and light

arms, smack the ground, holler nonsense,

up the signal for danger and worry. This can

and stamp your feet and hoot. They don’t

(and should!) be corrected with help and

say anything, or they are constantly making

understanding. The smiles they give you are

noise, humming a 55kHz sine wave into

always astonishing.

space for hours without tiring out. They sleep

Alcohol Veins - Lubianka Baltodano - Digital Photography and regain consciousness just long enough

with each other, reason, wager opportuni-

to eat food or use the bathroom, things they

ties in their head, and show mercy and fear.

enjoy and need but can’t ever understand

Domesticated or wild, you can find examples

why. When Jean asks me for “durty more ben

of a dim but graceful light burning inside

tibbs, blease” (Jean cannot breathe through

the minds of animals everywhere. Dogs

her nose), and I give them to her, she says

love us, parrots obey commands and speak,

thank you and gets back to work. When

elephants show compassion and mourn

Manatee gets the pen tips, he slaps them onto

their dead, and even the octopuses –which

the floor with one fat fist and makes a beeline

evolved its brain in a completely different

for the sink.

way than all other animals– can solve spatial

One of my higher-ups in the program, in

problems and predict the outcomes of soccer

a moment of stress, said to me that they’re

matches with 100% accuracy. Animals have

like little monsters, fucking animals. This

ghostly machinery in their minds that is

discredits animals, and it charges the punches

more simplistic than ours, but it suits them

and swings they perform with malice that

well and works perfectly for their situations.

they simply aren’t capable of.

The machinery in the minds of the mindless

Animals will hunt for food, communicate

isn’t more simplistic but is broken; the real

tragedy is that the complexity of the humanmachine is such that when something goes wrong, it really, really goes wrong. My heart goes out to the parents who had such high hopes for their children and ended up with such confusion. Our children are reincarnations of ourselves – the closest thing to a real afterlife

Solo con Amor Puedes Conquistar el Mundo - Samuel Hurtado - Canvas and Spray

we have – and parents give them both their bodies (physical reincarnation) and their ideas and traditions (reincarnation of the soul). It’s not enough to have one and not the other. One of my fears is that parents will push time and devotion into a body that cannot receive a soul and feel robbed when the product of their efforts is a mannequin that doesn’t even know what love is and cannot love them back. The machinery doesn’t spark. Nowhere in his evolutionary line did Manatee’s forefathers find it helpful to stick their heads into the water and swallow it through their noses until they passed out. Everyone has an answer as to what they would do if they have a child-like this – love them and teach them and hope for a breakthrough - is usually the answer. I don’t know that I can spend that much time watering a buried lugnut and

hoping

for an oak tree to grow. The thought of it happening scares me, and the prospect of it happening to me kills me; that it kills and scares me makes me a shame to the people that do endure it, and that wounds me even more. There is no hope here. That’s what I do here – divide out hopeful from hopeless cases. If there’s any consolation here, it’s that if all else fails, they can still make pens.

Triggered - Hananael Amaro - Digital Photography

Shopping’s a Pleassure - Hunter Glenn - Mixed Media

2nd Place: Rising Stars 55th Annual Juried Student Exhibition 48

XLIX

Vulture

Vulture, Ghastly like function, You that wade through waste, You are the son of death. Quick to snide, Bellowing towards the hearth Gliding over the soft hills. Yes, fellow glider, feathers that flare, Like the scales of tetrapod’s past You, hostile lurker, Wait for the cat’s mighty paw, The hawk’s claw, The final snap of the underjaw Le coup de grâce You wait, beset on leverage over the laborer. Still, Vulture, The bourgeois of the sky Forgive us, For we orchard-waders, Orchard-skippers, and orchard-pickers, Lack the fine refinement, That odious olfactory sense, That seeks the rotting flesh. Butcher, Be fair, you with the keen eye, That chisels the land, Patient, Waiting, Seeking, That final absolution, Steady. The corpse is ready, Feast, Feast, after the laborer, See what beauty you spin From the forgotten scraps.

Richard Wilbur XLIX

Vulture

Covid-19 Safety - Sean Lim - Digital Photography 1st Place: Rising Stars 55th Annual Juried Student Exhibition

Skull of Poverty- Hunter Glenn - Mixed Media

52 Miambiance 31

Not You, Me - Nicole Nader - Printmaking (Woodblock Relief)

LIV

Final thoughts before departing Nowhereland

What if I wrote a poem with no story, nothing to say, and no reason to say it? A poem with no artistry, no metaphors, no hidden meanings— just a paper filled with words filled with letters filled with markings that lead to Nowhere Land. Maybe there is more to the story than what I can understand. But after reading poems all my life, I know that sometimes there is no story and no time to tell it. No beginning or middle or end. No revelation or resolution. No life filled with memories and meaning— only regrets filled with stillness filled with this everlasting state of being Nowhere. I wish I had more time or a reason to want it. But there are no reasons in Nowhere. And I wish I knew where to go from here.

Veronica Silva

LIV

Final thoughts before departing Nowhereland

Portal in the Garden - Emily Gonzalez- Digital Photography

Openness innocence Adventures spontaneity strong belief

Feeling Blue - Diego Franco - Digital Photography 58

Protection - Giuliana Montanez -Digital Photography

LXI

Belief Sculptures Liberty

Liberty failed to notice the real reason why she felt oppressed. Liberty was uncomfortable and disappointed with the fact that she was not the most highly regarded intellect in the room. She felt intimidated by social hierarchy and status. She blamed other people for her insecurities. Foolish they were but maybe not to the extent she perceived them to be. Liberty feared that her history and character kindled her displacement upon the human-made cretinous scale. At the time, she assumed there was no solution. In life, she had noticed that what seemed to be true was the exaggeration of the truth. After years of painful reflection, Liberty stumbled upon a new ideology. Oppression controls the soul of those who seek it. Abolition of this beast is sculpted by belief in its extinction. The real beast was her inner thoughts. Cristen Lameira

LXI

Belief sculptures liberty

Guidance - Giuliana Montanez - Digital Photogrphy

Quiet Night - Alice Moreno - Digital Photography

Playlist

Undefined EP Music

Samuel Hurtado Pastel

0:31

-4:23

LXV

Playlist

Surveillance - Emily Gonzalez- Digital Photography

Midnight Snack - Joan Delgado - Digital Photography

LXIX

Red Light

It was all on that night Where I felt the most fright Waiting for that green light I felt out of sight While being polite She asked, “Son, are you queer?” I, filled with fear, was screaming with cheer While shedding a tear She said, “I still love you, dear.” It was all so clear

Diego Franco

LXIX

red Light

LXX

Al Desconocido que me conoce bien

Una noche te conté que le tengo miedo a caminar Title - Author’s Name - Medium

Y que no sé andar sin pisar muy fuerte Sabes bien que al hablar sin pensar Puedo romper en llanto o dejar de amarme Los lamentos de mi alma los conoces Como yo conozco que le tienes miedo a quedarte ahí Sin hacer nada. Sé que piensas que olvidar cuesta menos con amor Y yo sé que al confirmar siempre apoyas la mirada Muchas personas me decían que no sabría la verdad Pero siempre estuvo ahí como pájaro al cantar Tus manos abiertas a las opciones que al pasar carecían del soñar Y mi boca que te otorgaba sin nombre razones Para dejar de pensar. Soy la niña que una vez contó tus miedos a la luna Y que abrazó los problemas que te hacían suspirar Pero, aunque todo deje de pasar y el mundo se vaya a acabar Quiero que sepas que la luna y el mar guardan tus secretos Como yo guardo los momentos en los que sin creer en nada Pensé en dejarme llevar Saliendo así de una realidad abrumadora me quede a tu lado Y nada más.

Izheilin Trinidad

LXX

Al Desconocido que me conoce bien

Fragile Little Flame - Diego Franco - Digital Photography

LUCK DESTINY LIFE CYCLES ABUNDANCE PERSONAL GROWTH 72

Valle Viñales - Gaby Sabtalo - Mixed Media

On the Hill of the Piache Maria Eugenia Gonzalez I The people were forgetting. As oblivion became their creed, money their god, the motorboats and fishing nets altars to a religion built on greed and meaningless material gain; he watched from the top of the hill, his kind’s ancestral home, to the distant sea, where ships full with tourists were arriving, polluting and killing the spirits living in it, making the Sea Mother sick. It was sad but sadder it was that he could do naught for it, for even his people were forgetting him. Still, he had his responsibilities and his use to the world, he told himself reassuringly as he saw the woman and the priest approaching the empty cave, he had called his working place for years now, an ancestral relic of a time when his people were plenty and powerful. Nicanor picked up the rest of the plants he needed before finally descending into the cave, the sun of the dry season on his back, the leaves creaking with every step he took, and on his way down, he allowed himself to think about the reality of it all: he was old, his vision clouded by cataracts, his hands increasingly rigid and his body weaker with time. Soon his soul would part, to Hell or Heaven or somewhere else he ignored. Catholicism and the chotomaimur collided sometimes in his mind, the names of Saints replacing those of spirits and heroes of the guaiquerí, the image of the Virgen del Valle fusing with that of the Mother of the Seas. Truth was, that not even him was immune to forgetting their legends, those he was destined to share and embody. The ages where men and hebu coexisted was coming to an end; as forests were destroyed by the foreigners and locals in the name of expansion and the guaiquerí disappeared with time, their blood thinner and thinner with the years, just a few of them left, and even fewer willing to proudly label themselves as the natives from the islands. As people forgot the original names and those of the spirits, he knew it was a matter of time before even he was forgotten to the mists of progress and expansion. He entered the cave in silence, the cocuiza soles of his alpargatas brushing against the floor as the only evidence of his presence, the smell of a thousand plants, and the overwhelming scent of tobacco welcoming him. The woman and the priest turned around as soon as they heard his steps; they were standing by the end of the cave adorned with dried herbs in hanging sacs, their faces darkened by the shadows formed there, yet, Nicanor recognized the woman, Carmen, Cruz’s and Luisito’s daughter; she was from a small town in El Valle. She was short, her hair pitch black, her body oval-shaped, and her round face was turned to him, but the darkness of the cave and his poor vision made it impossible for Nicanor to read her 76

Remastered - Isha Akhtar - Acrylic Paint

La Porcelaine Delicate - Isha Akhtar - Acrylic Paint expressions or that of her companion, yet by the energies he felt, he knew it was not good news. II “Carmencita!” He greeted her, as he approached to kiss her cheeks and hug her; she smelled of warm food and sweat. “Mija, it’s been a long time since I last saw you! Dios te bendiga” “Bendición, señor Nicanor,” answered Carmen, her voice soft when she spoke. He noticed the uncomfortable pose the priest maintained, as if avoiding touching anything, regretting being there, but still, Nicanor ignored all that to extend his hand politely. “My name is Nicanor, sir, my pleasure”. “Alejandro Aguayo, I am one of the fathers from Our Lady of El Valle .” Aguayo took his hand with some hesitation, but when he did so, his grip was firm “A pleasure to meet you”. Nicanor inspected him closer, his skin pale, the color of the sand in the beaches, Alejandro was wearing the typical attire of any holy man. He liked the energy in him. “What brings you here? It is not common for the men of the church to come for me, and you Carmen, it´s been years since I last saw 78

you, you have grown into a beautiful woman!” “Yet you come every Sunday to our church” Nicanor gave him a rough stare, Alejandro recoiled, “I am sorry… not saying that you are not welcomed, it is simply… strange… to see you there knowing that you work with devils and spirits” “Well,someone’s got to do it, son,” he said, his voice polite and neutral. That was the problem with rigid norms, what people did not get, they feared and hated. “The Trinity, the saints, and Vallita take care of us from above, but sometimes my services are still needed. By doing this, I answer my call, just as you did.” “Señor Nicanor, we come because my daughter, poor Conchita, has been possessed” Carmen’s voice startled him, so broken and desperate. “Possessed? That’s something mister Aguayo can solve if I am not mistaken. I do not delve into the worlds of devils, just earthly spirits” “Yes, she has been screaming like crazy, insulting, cursing. Just the other day, she was accompanying my husband and me to check on the catch of the day, and she simply started cursing and eating the fish raw. She took a bite of a huge carite while it

was still alive and then took off the head of a pargo in the name of the devil.” The three of them made the sign of the Cross, and Aguayo went as far as to say a short prayer in between teeth. Demons, it was always demons and devils and whatnot. Were they the same as the bahana? The hebu turned evil by chance and fury; or were the Catholic creatures of nightmares something else, inherently evil and corrupted, bringing ruinous temptation? Once again, both worlds collided and fought in his head, taking the forms of monsters trying to catch his attention. “Forgive me for what I´m about to do, Aguayo,” he said while looking for some tobacco and a set of matches. He found them fairly quickly, and immediately put the tobacco in his mouth and lit it, the scent of herbal smoke so strong that made him cough, helped him clear his mind. In a matter of seconds, he felt the demons and bahana getting lost in the smoke. “That is no normal possession, not a demonic one, at least. What Conchita has might be a dead person, someone who died an ugly death at sea. I will pray for her tonight, and you all should too. You should also take some of this” He said handing her a small packet of dried leaves “prepare an infusion and have her drink it. It has some catuche to help her relax her body and ají leaves to combat whatever is in her. I shall also do a smoke ritual tomorrow if she doesn’t get better. Now go, sweet Carmencita. Mister Aguayo. Have a blessed day.” Carmen seemed tense, yet she hugged him tightly and thanked him despite the strong smell of tobacco. Aguayo said his farewell from the mouth of the cave before disappearing alongside Carmen. And so, the woman and the holy man left, leaving Nicanor alone, the scent of the visitors sticking to every place in the cave along with that of the tobacco smoke; the only proof of their presence there. III He was once again alone with his

thoughts; though he knew it was his sacred duty to stay there until night when most would be sleeping, he was aware that even when no one would dare do nothing to him, an unattended house was always an easy target for burglars and opportunistic individuals. The rest of the day went uneventful. No one else came seeking guidance or help, so he allowed himself to leave early. He descended slowly, taking on the changes of the area in the last decades: what had been a small village was already turning into a town, even more with the port of Punta de Piedras, which was also being expanded. Times were good for some, but for most on the island, times were trying and harsh. Mothers left alone to tend to their homes, their kids, and jobs, and children having to abandon the schools in the name of providing for their households. Nueva Esparta was a different universe within the country. He heard of the advances Perez Jimenez had achieved for the country: the highways, the energy plants, and the constructions, yet what they saw in the islands was nothing but the same routine, same fishing faenas, same September 8th every year, and a decreasing number of guaiqueríes and guaicoros interested in what once was the culture that unified them. He felt isolated from his people, who seemed to move along, leaving him behind, holding to a golden era that would never come for them. Nicanor held to the promise of the sun shining above the island where his people magically came back, all the costumes and culture with them, rather than the remnants he saw now; unaware that he was escaping from something deeper: loneliness, for he was the last Piache that the Hill would ever see for all eternity. And it was in his loneliness that he understood that the beasts and demons he was actively fighting were not in the waters, waiting to drown unaware people, or in the forests waiting to burn and consume. As he laid there, surrounded by the bare walls of

his small bahareque, asbestos, and zinc house, Nicanor understood that his biggest enemies were not the bahana nor the Catholic devils that taunt and tempt unaware mortals, but rather, his loneliness which manifested in the shape of tangible and more direct things he could find against: snake bites, evil spirits wreaking havoc among humans, anything that could make him visible in the eyes of a world were hunger and poverty dominated it all. There was no more chotomaimur being spoken in silence, a sign of union; there were no more rituals nor fights against the evil in their world; and there were no guaiquerí people to speak of. There was only him and him alone, with a sea of fading knowledge. He was all that was left; all the legends, rituals, and culture ever known to the guaiquerí for centuries--resided in him. Deep in the meditation of such grim realization, he fell asleep; the face of his father and uncle appeared as ghosts lost amid early

Nature Morte d’e Une Bouteille Isha Akhtar - Acrylic Paint

80 Miambiance 31

morning in the sea. They called him by his secret name, which no one but your kin know and protect. He remembered them, and he dreamed of being a kid once again. There had been a war between the big countries fighting when he was a young boy, twelve or thirteen at much, yet he remembered seeing the German submarines and thinking they were mermaids and monsters, bahana that had let themselves be seen. He remembered his wife, sweet Lucía, her pearl white skin and deep brown eyes in contrast to his bronze skin and hazel eyes. Sweet and smart Lucía! Lost to child labor with a stillborn boy. Now he was there, all alone. His family dead, and he a walking memory of a long-lost people. The world was moving in the opposite direction while the forces of the universe pulled against him, tiring him and making him frail. He was the last Piache, the last shaman of his people. As he thought of the legends and history and saw hebu and bahana, Nicanor realized in awe that they would not be remembered as great warriors like the taínos or the Caribe in northern waters nor as a great civilization like the Mayans or Incas he learned about once. They would barely be remembered through the remnants of old names they gave to things and rebranded celebrations. They were one of a million small cultures destined to be lost forever without anyone to tell their stories, to make their voices heard. For all he knew, the guaiquerí were dead to the world at that point, and no one would have known. In tears and shaking, he sighed, defeated but knowing that he could not fight God nor the water Herself in defiance. It had been decided, so he willingly gave his last breath before leaving the loneliness of the material world to join the unexpected and the fantastical beyond.

He was escaping from something deeper: loneliness, for he was the last Piache that the Hill would ever see for all eternity.

Through the Stained Glass - Isha Akhtar - Acrylic Paint

Lavender Field - Celine Bourseau - Digital Photography

Purple Katherine Castineiras and Diego Franco

Lyrics

Little boy and little girl Waiting to take on the world Cross-legged in the corridor Sharing a vanilla swirl

I, I wish I knew Everything we would become When hearts were beating like a drum

Hand in hand Side by side We formed a bond Stronger than the tide

From fights that made us grow as one I wish I knew Every single photograph Would capture a moment in time As years slipped away like dimes

I, I wish I knew

We aren’t blood, but we’re family

Everything we would become after sharing our mint bubblegum I wish I knew Every moment as we grew

So please don’t fade You’re my favorite memory Shared the very air I breathe

From fingerpainting red and blue We blended to a perfect purple hue

Please just wait Let’s take off together, cross the sea

Falcons for him and wolves for her

Best friends for a century

Entered the wilderness Learned to speak of the unknown Together found our happiness

I, I wish I knew A friendship that resembles art Hundreds of miles and weeks apart

Hand in hand

Would never separate our hearts

Side by side We found our voices As the tears dried

But now I know All of it made us who we are

Girl - Carlos Rios - Digital Art

“It was a very happy moment, feeling that close, feeling like I understood her” Rosario Huerta

10 times harder

erebral Palsy is a disability that affects the brain and creates different obstacles in a person’s daily life, such as walking, speaking, and independence. I am extremely affected because my fraternal twin sister was diagnosed at birth, and it has made me a more understanding, stronger, and conscious person. With my project, I hope to show the audience the struggles that come along with having this disability and how the simple things for you and me might become 10 times harder for a person with Cerebral Palsy. Furthermore, my hope is to show and describe in detail the difficulties of dayto-day living: the differences, the tools needed, and the good and bad days. This project has challenged me as a photographer to go outside my comfort zone with a topic that is close to my heart. I have created the best images possible that convey my story. Rosario Huerta

Scan here to stream podcast with Rosario Huerta Or Search Miambiance Magazine on Spotify

Digital Photography

Dayan Reyes

Playlist

Samuel Hurtado Spray and markers on paper Digital Photography

Emily Gonzalez

Playlist

XCII

XCII 92

EP Music

Latino Drip

Summer Sunsets

EP Music

Dance in Defiance

I Must Levitate

Ni de Cerca Ni de Lejos - Samuel Hurtado - Pastel

Contents

The Moon (Reversed)

Editor’s Note 2 Music 3 Ripple Effect - EP Music Hydration - Lubianka Baltodano The Great Freeze - I Must Levitate Untitled - Valentina Mannino Lost in Thought -EP Music Untitled - Hannanael Amaro

Untitled - Joan Delgado 20 Son of Gun - Malena De Tomas 21 So Happy I Could Die Valentina Mannino 22 Caretaker - Lorena Marrero 24 Eyes of the past and present Sofia Ramirez 26 Portrait - Carlos Rios 27 Untitled - Lorena Marrero 28 Uniforme - Joan Delgado 29 La Raza - Maria Eugenia Gonzalez 29 Odd Freckles - Laura Gonzalez 30 Amor Divino- Belinda Barrientos 32 Earth Is Gone, Let’s Kiss Veronica Silva 33

The Sun (Reversed) Untitled - Sabrina Arce 6 Literary Addiction - Sofia Ramirez 7 Cephalalgia - Paulina Diaz 7 Entre Mis Raíces - Izheilin Trinidad 8 Cuban Chairs - Carolina Ricardo 9 Alice a self-portrait - Alice Moreno 10 Hate Everything About Me Kevin Dominguez 12 Cheese - Valentina Mannino 13 Embrace - Valentina Mannino 14 Se Marchó - Izheilin Trinidad 15 The Shadows - Daniela Gonzalez 15 Pills - Lorena Marrero 16 Sweet Poison - Sarah Peniche 17

Tower Life of a Mask - Belinda Barrientos 36 Period of Isolation - Belinda Barrientos 36 Mask Reflection - Lorena Marrero 37 Untitled - Caleb Perez 37 Waves - Sabrina Arce 38 Blank Canvas - Anthony Marino 39 Surrender - Emily Gonzalez 40 Social Distance - Caleb Perez 41

Pen Makers - Matthew Mayer 42 Alcohol Veins - Lubianka Baltodano 43 Solo Con Amor Puedes Conquistar el Mundo Samuel Hurtado 44 Triggered - Hananael Amaro 46 Shopping’s a Pleassure - Hunter Glenn 47 Vultures - Richard Wilbur 49 Covid-19 Safety - Sean Lim 50 Skull of Poverty - Hunter Glenn 52 Not You, Me - Nicole Nader 53 Final Thoughts before Departing Nowhereland Veronica Silva 54 Portal in the Garden - Emily Gonzalez 55

The Fool Feeling Blue - Diego Franco 58 Protection - Giuliana Montanez 60 Belief Sculptures Liberty -Cristen Lameira 61 Guidance - Giuliana Montanez 62 Quiet Night - Alice Moreno 64 Tiempo Extra - Samuel Hurtado 65 Undefined - EP Music 65 Surveillance - Emily Gonzalez 66 Midnight Snack - Joan Delgado 68 Red Light - Diego Franco 69 Al Desconocido que Me Conoce Bien Izheilin Trinidad 70 Fragile Little Flame - Diego Franco 71

The Wheel of Fortune Valle Vinales - Gaby Sabtalo 74 On the Hill of the Piache Maria Eugenia Gonzalez 76 Remastered - Isha Akhtar 77 La Porcelaine Delicate - Isha Akhtar 78 Through the Stained Glass - Isha Akhtar 80 Nature Morte d’e Une Bouteille Isha Akhtar 81 Lavender Field - Celine Boursea 82 Purple Katherine Castineiras and Diego Franco 83 Girl - Carlos Rios 84 Portafolio - 10 Times Harder Rosario Huerta 85 Latino Drip - EP Music Mother’s Eyes - Emily Gonzalez 92 Summer Sunsets - EP Music Colores de Tarde - Samuel Hurtado 92 Dance in Defiance - I Must Levitate Beast - Dayan Reyes 92 Ni de Cerca Ni de Lejos - Samuel Hurtado 93

Meet the Staff (from left to right)

La Justice Izheilin Trinidad: Editor in Chief La Temperance Noelimary Suarez (not pictured): Poetry Editor Traite Lance Hondrade: Photography Editor La Force Veronica Silva: Layout Editor La Prudence Maria Gonzalez: President and Prose Editor Dissension Diego Franco: Design and Layout Editor Etteilla Emily Gonzalez: President and Poetry Editor Maladie Eansly Phelix: Music Editor Femme Brune Dilianis Arenas: Art Editor (Center)

Folie Tony Chirinos: Visual Arts and Photography Adviser Fortune Rita Fernandez - Sterling: Literary Adviser

Miambiance Editorial Policy Miambiance is published once a year by students currently enrolled in credit courses at Miami Dade College Kendall Campus. Submissions to the magazine are accepted only from students attending the Kendall Campus except in the case of college-wide contests. Miambiance’s mission is to provide a creative outlet for writers attending classes at Kendall Campus. Visual art students who wish to publish their photographs, illustrations and graphics are also published in Miambiance. All submissions must be attached to the proper submission form available through https://sharknet.mdc.edu/organization/miambiancekendall campus, and a copy must be sent through the miambiance@gmail.com. Submissions are logged and stripped of identifying information before judging to ensure neutral, non-biased selection. All rights, including e-rights, are reserved. Copyright for individual works both audio and print revert to the authors and artists upon publication. Opinions expressed by contributors do not necessarily reflect those of the editors or general staff. Physical copies of Miambiance are available free of charge throughout Miami Dade College Kendall Campus, and Digital copies can be accessed on our website: www.mdc.edu/miambiance/

Colophon The 31st annual edition of Miambiance was designed using iMac computers with OS XII. The software used in this production was InDesign CC 2021, Lightroom CC 2021, and Photoshop CC 2021. Tarot cards by Thomas Hueb. Cover Design by Diego Franco. Volume 31 was printed on #100 Silk (text) and #100 Silk (cover) by PF Solutions.

Board of Trustees Bernie Navarro Dr. Anay Abraham Marcell Felipe Michael Bileca, Chair Nicole Washington, Vice Chair Roberto Alonso Madeline Pumariega, President, Miami Dade College Dr. Pascale Charlot, President, Kendall Campus Miami Dade College is an equal access/equal opportunity institution, which does not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, color, disability, national origin, marital status, religion, age or veteran’s status. Contact the office of equal opportunity programs/ADA coordinator at 305-237-0269 for information

Miambiance Vol. 30 Awards Associated Collegiate Press (ACP) • The volume was selected as a finalist for the Pacemaker Award for Two-year Literary Magazine. “The Pacemaker is the association’s preeminent award,” executive director Laura Widmer said. “ACP is honored to recognize the best of the best.” • In addition, “The Phoenix” and “Mary” spread was a finalist for Design of the Year. Spread won 4th place. Gabriela Azeem-Angel, Claudia Pardo Perez College Media Association (CMA) • 2019-2020 Organizational Pinnacle Award Two-Year Literary Magazine of the Year First Place: Miambiance Volume 30, Miami Dade College Kendall Campus.

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Miambiance Vol. 30 Awards Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA)

Florida College System Publications Association (FCSPA)

• CSPA Gold Medalist Award for the College/Scholastic Literary/Art Magazine Print Critique - Miambiance (PDF)

• Awards won on January 29, 2021 at the virtual 61st Annual conference and Awards Banquet:

• Experimental Fiction 2nd Place: “What Lies Inside the Tent” Richard Dagand

• 1st place: Poetry -“Afterlife” Gabriela Azeem-Angel

• Traditional Fiction 1st Place: “Cosmonaut” Madeleine Byers • Single Illustration: Hand-Drawn 3rd Place: “Intrusive Thoughts’ Laura Gonzalez • Photography Single Artistic Photograph: Certificate of Merit (CM) “Mary” Jaritsel Peralta • Photography: Portfolio of Work 3rd Place: Jaritsel Peralta

• 2nd place: Fiction - “Cosmonaut” Madeleine Byers • 2nd place: Artworks Magazine- Various works Ana Vergara, Katherine Estrada, and Alba Olea • 2nd place: Two-page Spread-Pages 42-43 Gabriela Azeem-Angel and Claudia Pardo-Perez • 3rd place: Overall DesignGabriela Azeem-Angel and Claudia Pardo-Perez • 3rd place: Contents PageGabriela Azeem-Angel • Inner Circle: (winner of 3 or more awards) Gabriela Azeem-Angel