Miambiance Volume 33

Sunny-side Raw

Lubianka Baltodano, Photography

Lubianka Baltodano was born and raised in Nicaragua, immigrating to the United States when she was ten years old. She is an only child and lives with her mother. Her favorite foods are fritanga, carne asada, plátanitos, but she is not a fan of beans.

Lubianka has been attending Miami Dade College, Kendall Campus since 2012, graduating with both an Associates in Arts and most recently an Associates in Photographic Technology this past April. Not only has she studied photography but also she has worked for the schoolʼs Media Services as an event photographer. She is a friendly and consistent face on campus and has covered multiple Miambiance events throughout the years. Lubianka plans to travel to work on landscape photography and continue developing her art. “When you do something and you love it, it feels different,” she exclaimed.

Crab-wich was created for Lubiankas ʻLeftover Seriesʼ where she would take whatever her mother had leftover in the fridge and use it as inspiration for her photography. She has also named Irving Penn as one of her photographic influences. When interviewed, she emphasized the importance of simplicity and a white background to bring focus to the crab. For Sunny-side Raw, she was working on product photography. “I want to do messy stuff that looks clean,” she remarked. Lubianka likes to take her time with the composition and colors of her pieces. She continued, “Once I start working, the inspiration comes.”

Crab-wich | Cover

Lubianka Baltodano, Photography

A note from the

in Chief

"Anyone can cook, but only the fearless can be great." – Chef Auguste Gusteau,

Ratatouille

Food is not only nourishment but also indulgence. An amazing meal takes a multitude of love and dedication, and a menu is the map that provides smooth navigation between hunger and satisfaction. The menu was developed from the fall 2022 semester through the spring 2023 semester. My second time around as editor Miambiance has given me a deep understanding of both Gordon Ramsay from Master Chef and Ratatouille. Throughout this journey, I took a culinary approach to the magazine process that was a juxtaposition of the angry British man and the awestruck Little Chef. I found that no matter the setting, a staff works in similar ways: be it in a kitchen or in a magazine office. In addition, sometimes the need to call someone an idiot sandwich prevails.

The menuʼs cover image, Crab-wich, was the inspiration and jumping point for Volume 33. My previous volume, 32, touches upon themes of the strange and anomalous; therefore, just like food touches a plate, I want these themes to continue to be explored and developed.

During the academic year, the staff hosted two events, Speak Your Mind!, our spoken word poetry competition, and Ready, Set, Write!, our speed writing competition. These events were hosted for Kendall Campus students to participate, and the winners' pieces are sprinkled throughout the menu; I hope you enjoy consuming them as much as we did and that the hard work of our diligent staff and featured artists leaves you with a taste of what the Kendall Campus has to offer.

Before serving you our latest volume, here is a quote to savor:

“I donʼt like looking back. Iʼm always constantly looking forward. Iʼm not the one to sort of sit and cry over spilt milk. Iʼm too busy looking for the next cow.” –Gordon Ramsay

Bon Appetit, Buen Provecho, Enjoy,

Megan Carrion, Edit in Chief

Wu-HAA!

Diego Franco and Brianna Acevedo, Photography

Service with a Smile Diego Franco, Photography

COPY EDITORS

Sofia Ramirez, Christopher Rhodes, Holly Sheahan, Xiomara Arteaga, Line e Zapata

MUSIC EDITOR

Ga iela Palaci

ART EDITORS

Paul Tejeda, Allyson Castillo

LAYOUT EDITORS

J e Diaz, Suheily Alvarez

FILM EDITOR

Sean Macias

Diego Franco, Photography

VoLuMe 32 AwArDs

Associated Collegiate Press (ACP)

• Pacemaker finalists announced on October 3, 2022

• Pacemaker winner for Literary Arts Magazine announced on October 28, 2022 at Mediafest22 in Washington, DC.

• 1st for "Best in Show" in the Staff Recognition category! Announced on October 30, 2022 at Mediafest22 in Washington DC.

College Media Association (CMA)

▪ 2021-2022 Organizational Pinnacle Award

Two-Year Literary Magazine of the Year Finalist

Individual Pinnacle Finalist for Best Photo Illustration, Cameron Velez “Caro”

Announced on September 1, 2022

▪ 2nd place Pinnacle Award

Organization nomination: Two-Year Literary Magazine of the Year

▪ Honorable Mention, "Caro" by Cameron Velez

Individual nomination: Best Photo Illustration announced on October 27, 2022, at Mediafest22 in Washington, DC.

▪ 2nd place David L. Adams Apple Award Best Magazine (2-year)

Announced on March 11, 2023 at the CMAʼs Spring National College Media Convention in New York, NY

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA)

Gold Circle Individual Awards announced on April 7, 2023

• Closed (traditional) form poetry-1st place, “How” by Gaby Martinez

• Single Illustration-2nd place, “Partus” by Cameron Velez

• Portfolio Illustration-2nd place, Carmen Velez

• Photo Illustration-1st place, “Caro” by Cameron Velez

Florida College System Publications Association (FCSPA)

Awards announced at the 63rd Annual Conference and Awards  Banquet in Jacksonville, FL, on February 10, 2023

• Poem-1st place, “NB” by Gaby Martinez

• Fiction-3rd place, “To Survive” by Alexander Pinera

• Nonfiction-3rd place, “Alone and Silent in the Bedroom” by Janelly Just

• Art Work (Individual)-3rd place, “Caro” by Cameron Velez

• Art Works-2nd place, “Topless” by Cameron Velez, “Wailing” by Danielle Alvarado,and “Come Closer (I Donʼt Bite)” by Megan Carrion

• Photo-2nd place, “Oración Nocturna” by Lorena Marrero

• Design-2nd place, Staff

• General Excellence Magazine Division B-2nd place (Tie)

Cerebrum Scum

Leonardo Hernandez, Digital Art

The Per fect Dinner

by Giselle Lopez

Speak Your Mind! 1st Place Winner

Lengua Pesada by Megan Carrion

Speak Your Mind! 2nd Place Winner

Radiance by Kat hleen Roque Montero

Speak Your Mind! 3rd Place Winner

Llorandole a la Vida

by Josseline Ponce

Ready, Set, Write! 1st Place Winner

Scan QR Code to Listen!

Bored by soph (Sophia Minaya)

Starters

Sunny-side Raw | II

Lubianka Baltodano, Photography

About the Cover Artist | III

A Note from the Edit | VII

Wu-HAA! | VIII

Diego Franco and Brianna Acevedo, Photography

Staff | X-XI

Volume 32 Awards | XIII

Cere um Scum | XIV

Leonardo Hernandez, Digital Art

Music | XV

Specials

RoLa WaDi

I am Muslim | 13 Photography

Palestine is in my Blood | 16 Photography

VaLeNtInA DiAz

Bloodshot | 43 Mixed Media

Infinity Pool | 44 Mixed Media

P tal | 46 Mixed Media

Main Pla ers

The Perfect Dinner | 1 Giselle Lopez, Poetry

The Cuji (cu-HEE)Tree | 13

Sofia Ramirez, Short Story

Lengua Pesada, | 9 Megan Carrion, Poetry

Childhood’s End | 17

Christopher Rhodes, Short Story

Spilled Milk | 56

Cameron Velez, Mixed Media

Everyday | 54

Diego Franco, Photography

The Captain’s Wife and the Spaghe i Monster | 34

Veronica Silva Badillo, Mixed Media

Voices | 41 Megan Carrion, Script

Shakes

Just the Tip | 3

Diego Franco, Photography

M ning Blues | 25 Michelle Huguet, Photography

Fresh Octopus | 37

Erika Valcarcel, Photography

The oissantcible | 38

Christina Tarracino, Short Story

The Menu | XII

Diego Franco, Photography

Service with a Smile | IX

Diego Franco, Photography

Sides

Bendito | 21

Ervin Centero, Photography

L Dientes | 6

Brianna Acevedo, Photography

Makes Me Itch | 7

Aimee Salvador, Mixed Media

Collect ’s Edition | 10

Dakota Burton, Photography

Trophe | 29

Christopher Sanchez, Poetry

Pedaz | 26

Sofia Ramirez, Poetry

Psalm 150.6 | 35

Neyman Canelo-Garcia, Photography

Rotura I. / Ri I. | 40

Maikel Valdes, Poetry

The Lady at the Park | 51

Giselle Lopez, Poetry

I Am What I Eat | 55

Giselle Lopez, Poetry

Don’t Ask Me to Remember | 5

Kenza Iddir, Mixed Media

Decon-Pop | 31

Lubianka Baltodano, Photography

Handhelds

Life, uh… Finds A Way | 19 Cameron Velez, Mixed Media Sculpture

How the Sausage Gets Made | 2 Cameron Velez, Mixed Media Sculpture

ab-wich | MP*

Lubianka Baltodano, Photography

Finish Your Plate | 21 Megan Carrion, Script

The Specter of Hunger

Watches From the C ner of the Kitchen | 27 Megan Carrion, Poetry

Kitchen Reflections | 28

Daniella Tomey, Charcoal

Drinks

The Birth of the Seaman | 18

Gisselle Mestre Delgado, Mixed Media

Limetka | 12

Ariel Dos Santos, Photography

P tolkall | 30

Ariel Dos Santos, Photography

Dark Fallen Angel | 39

Yanira Martinez, Photography

First Fish in Space | 48

Erika Valcarcel, Photography

Ll andole a la Vida | 33

Josseline Ponce Gallardo, Poetry

ystal View | 52

Monica Duque Ramirez, Photography

Carbonated Trash | 53

Desserts

Radiance | 49

Kathleen Roque Montero, Poetry

Bonding | 49

Michelle Howe, Mixed Media

Flock Together | 50

Nicholas Segura, Photography

Cameron Velez, Photography

Age of Gold | 58

Carlos Ruiz, Mixed Media

*MP - Market Price

Award winning food and drinks!

Consuming raw or undercooked meats, poultry, seafood, shellfish or eggs may increase the risk of foodborne illness especially if you have certain medical conditions.

Speak Your Mind!

1st Place Winner

The perfect dinner for me

As a kid

Was to have my family there with me

And no beans.

My mother, My father, My sister, My brother, His girlfriend at the time

But now his wife, All sitting down at this long table. Jokes, Laughter, And smiles

Shared across the table.

Food prepared by my mother. Food we shared with one another.

Would I be able to bring someone else along as my plus one? Someone my mom wouldn’t approve of?

Would she not feed them equally?

I love her regardless, But I’m not shameless.

My shame can fill up all the pots of soup she made And even more as leftovers.

So, am I shameful?

Am I shameful, God?

Since that’s the only voice she listens to And takes references from, I shall ask you.

Am I shameful?

Should I be full of shame?

Can I hold someone like my brother holds his wife? His lover? His life?

Can I hold someone like that

In the comfort of my mother’s heart?

Can I hold their hand

And lead them to my house

To have a platter alongside my mother and the perfect dinner? God,

Don’t know if she feels shame for making me cry. My tears sliding down my face

As she kisses my face

And tells me she loves me

Even though she made me cry, by forcing shame on something I can’t control. My crying won’t stop.

My head down at the dinner table, Not facing my mother’s eyes Or God’s eyes Or even my father’s eyes Or whoever’s eyes I can’t or I don’t want to face, For my face is puffy

And swollen

And eyes red from all that crying. Shame is forced on me. We aren’t born with shame.

Shame is not served at the perfect dinner. Shame is thrown to you under the gleaming table without beans. It holds you down like a ball and chain Making those smiles, Laughs

And jokes

Fade to the place your pride went. Will my brother and his wife

And possibly my sister

Have to sneak crumbs to me and my love

Under the gleaming table without beans, Like we are rats?

How the Sausage Gets Made

9in x 9in x 2in, acrylic, paper, plaster, styrofoam, modpodge

Cameron Velez, Sculpture

ACCESS Art Exhibit 1st Place Winner

“Don’t ask me to remember” was a phrase my grandfather often told me before his passing. This piece is inspired by the incredibly determined and undeniably strong man I knew from my youth, my grandfather, who suffered from dementia (which later progressed to Alzheimer’s) as well as having been blind for 20 years.

I wanted to depict a portrait that reflected the way he viewed himself. Through the use of color and mixed media, a portrait of an older man is portrayed with white, almost dull, eyes. Through my vague memory of growing up around dementia, I remember a sense of frustration I felt. In its’ place is now a feeling of guilt; guilt for having ever been impatient with him. This guilt is portrayed through the roughness of the piece: the built-up paint and the rigid effects that are not necessarily affiliated with the portrait (my grandfather), but associated with my own feelings. I expressed this through the rough and patchy background as a symbol of the hardships that come with dealing with such an intense and emotionally heavy disease. My grandfather was always a man of laughter and one that would often be described as loquacious, however, throughout his experience with dementia, became a very quiet individual hence the gray tones in this piece. This is also shown through the soft and subtle color palette of his portrait. I mirrored the intensity of his memory loss with his portrait seemingly becoming blank and undone. One thing of my grandfather’s that I still owned of his was a jacket he wore when he was younger. He always remembered details about his clothes and where he used to wear them too. Therefore, I decided to incorporate that element into this piece to symbolize that although he was losing a part of his memory, he was still himself and the importance of the jacket will always have value to him.

Brianna Acevedo, Photography

Lengua Pesada

Megan Carrion, Poetry

Speak Your Mind! 2nd Place Winner

I find myself

With my tongue weighed down

As I begin to reflect On

The nasally A E I O U of The English Language

Combinations of sharp and direct letters Etched into the crevices of my brain

By the Corporation for Public Broadcasting And the immutable Public School Education

English

I can crack like a whip

The distinct tones like the tick tock Of stiletto heels on linoleum tiles

English

I am a full time operator of; licensed and unionized.

My tongue can lift and push and maneuver

The intricate mishmash of Latin Germanic Consonants and syllables

But that is not all I can make my tongue do

On occasion

En ocasión

Me da la oportunidad

A usar mi lengua para algo diferente

Para las sílabas y sonidos

Grandes y chiquitos Como se llena mi garganta Como se baja mi voz

Una combinación de dichos y conversaciones

En la base de mi mente

Puestos ahí por Cada visita de familia Peruana

Y cada instrucción y obligación de mis padres

Toda mi vida he tenido el español Pero todavía se siente prestado

A hand me down sweater

Almost in mint condition

Hand washed and stored in plastic casing Que le cabe a mis primos Pero seguro un día Quando soy más grandecita Me va caber a mi.

I want my Spanish to be perfect Necesito que mi inglés sea mejor Es lo práctico Es lo que practiqué más

Pero qué quiero?

Hablar en Español sin fallar Mover mi lengua adelante y atrás Como un baile donde sé todos los pasos Donde el ritmo es instinto

Que salga de mi boca como

Una Canción

Una Oración

Dios Bendito

Déjame

Decirle un chiste a mi tía sin fallar

Déjame

Explicarle a mi papá el arte en mis paredes

Déjame

Asegurar a mi abuela que sí, sí, sí

Otra vez la voy a visitar

Being Educated no es ser educado

Pero en este país

El inglés hace lo inhabitable

Inhabitable

And I cannot name all the fruits my family has fed me

Pero el sabor nunca se me escapa

The way Carajo

Sits poised and ready

On the edges of my canines

The way Vamos

Flies out of me like a birds call Tengo todos los pedazos de un rompecabezas

Prestado, usado

Se ve la foto pero no se completa

Es como un chiste que nunca conecta

La forma en que

Siempre me agradecen

Hablar el Español tan bien

Pero hasta ahorita

Adelante de todos ustedes

Todavía la palabra

Agradecen

No cabe en mi boca

Y en este reflejo

Con mi lengua pesada

Me encuentro

Collector’s Edition

Dakota Burton, Photography

In the humble lands of Falcon, Venezuela, there is a vast and solitary desert that seems to extend beyond the end of times. There you can smell the salty essence of the Caribbean Sea being carried by the breeze, whispering the rumors of the waves and the faraway coasts that they have met. In spite of these myths, the land is dry as if in a thousand years not a single drop of water had dared to meet the ground. This seemingly lifeless ground wears a spiky robe made out of cacti, spines, and cuji trees. Yellow and red birds perch on these plants pretending to be the flowers that they lack due to the tortuous drought.

In the middle of this desert there once was a small village. So hidden was this village and far away from the loudness of the city and its dark ambitions, that one could think of it as the first and last home to humankind. In this village, there lived a boy named José. He was a very playful child who loved his home in the desert. He would shepherd the goats, eat the dates of the cacti, and run barefoot carelessly on the ground full of spines to hunt iguanas and rabbits. The people in the village said that José himself was like a little animal, for he could happily spend all day running through the golden dunes of the desert with no real worries.

José’s teacher, however, had noticed in him a certain spark, la chispa.

José’s teacher, however, had noticed in him a certain spark, la chispa. The kind of chispa that, if exploited, could become mellifluous ambrosia that immortalized the mind and ascended it to an eternity of glory.

The Srta. Amanda, preferring not to spiral into these details, concisely commented to the boy’s mother, Margarita Ramirez, “He is a very intelligent boy. He deserves a better education. One that only the city can provide.”

The face of José’s mother froze in ecstasy at these words as if they were an esoteric prophecy or a carefully woven thread of fate not to be cut nor manipulated. After making some arrangements, Margarita returned home later that day, her face still stone, and she quietly sat down at the front of her house.

Margarita saw her youngest child, José, laugh incessantly as he tried to ride one of the goats, thinking himself to be a Don Diego de La Vega riding his noble steed Tornado although that old goat was rather a Rocinante. She watched him attentively, making sure to capture every single detail of this picture as if to pierce it permanently into her brain. Meanwhile a single tear fell down her cheek as she came to the realization that this would be the last day that her son would be hers, for tomorrow he would be stolen in a journey to a distant universe far from her.

The following day, José’s mother, who was used to seeing her child lose himself to the horizon every morning, approached him and said with a voice as sweet as dates, “Hijo, I need to tell you something.”

“Yes, Mamá?” José said.

“This village is but an island standing on a sea of nothingness, mi amor. You are set to do great things. If you stay, you will turn into dust and the dunes of this desert will eat you up. Your father will come this afternoon, and he will take you with him.”

Two little pearls escaped from José’s eyes, for instantly his whole world crumbled. Filled with pain and fear, he ran, and ran, and ran kilometers away. His feet, usually more resistant in less tormented times, began to hurt as they were covered with spines, so he decided to stop by the cuji tree.

The Cuji Tree was suddenly awoken from its slumber by José’s bitter cries, and it could not help but ask, “What is wrong, my child?”

Still crying, José responded, ¨My mamá says I must leave, but this is my home. If I leave I’ll forget the breeze, the cacti, the birds, and the sandy ground. I’ll belong to the Man.”

“Do not be afraid of a new path simply because it is unknown, for there is wonder in uncertainty.”

Two little pearls escaped from José’s eyes, for instantly his whole world crumbled.

“Dear boy,” said the Cuji Tree, in a mellow, wise voice, “your feet and your heart were shaped by the lands that you have walked. These lands have become a part of you as much as you are a part of them, so you will never forget them as long as you do not forget yourself. Do not be afraid of a new path simply because it is unknown, for there is wonder in uncertainty. Once you have lived the adventure that every route hides and you are ready to come home, this old Cuji Tree will be the bed to give you rest.”

José would have loved more time to pack, for he would have kidnapped the sea breeze in a small soda bottle that he had kept from the festivities of San José. He, also, would have hunted a couple of iguanas with his slingshot to have some snacks to eat along the way, or, more importantly, to remember the excitement of fooling creatures of such millenary wisdom; moreover, he would have grabbed a sandy handful of his homeland and hidden it under his sombrero de cogollo. Time was achingly brief, alas, so all José managed to pack was his mamá’s crimson kiss on his left cheek and the promise to return a lifetime later that he made to the Cuji Tree.

Palestine Is in My Blood

Rola Wadi, Photography

A weak breath finally escaped my lungs as I was welcomed by a metal stench stabbing my nostrils as I awoke yet again. I was finally getting close to my retribution; it had been 9 millennia since, and it would be 9 millennia hence if I were to remain marooned on this silent moon. My robes had been robbed of their color as their new red shade imposed its pungentmeaning.

I didn’t ask to be born and be made in such an image. I was cursed with an eternal flame at my command; my destiny was to burn, and burn, and burn until the imperium was but charred slag at my feet. I remember the fields of the endless sea of green in my home world. Arcadia’s grass felt like the innocent spring kiss of a blossoming romance. Its smell blanketed the years that I spent there from the forked truths of my youth. Arcadia, much like me, was unassuming. It would take a madman to figure out a child had been cursed with god-like powers. I remember that spring so sweetly since I had just been let out of the Academy and sat captured by my novel as different transports skipped overhead. It’s been so long that the book’s title has lost me as has the ability to read and my own name.

I remember being so entranced that the attention escaped me as less of the jump shipswere merchant ships coming to prepare for harvest and more were the lecherous vessels of the Imperium come to drag me to Hell. I was a mouse unaware of the serpent; a mistake I would never be able to make again. I was 9 years old, and while I may forget even my name as the stars burn in the abyssal cold, I’ll never forget what I said to the prophets as they approached my clearing.

“Have you, finally, come to help us?”

However, the discharge of their blasters answered with a resounding, no. I’ll never forget the silence that filled the canyon as I was taken on their transport. A 190 year old mass murderer informed a child that he was a threat to the empire and would serve his sentence. As I stood in the clean air of Titan for the first time, baptized a new man, I am reminded that my eternal flame is a threat to the empire, and I pray the Imperium will be like paper to my star lost wrath. I am reminded of men who cause their destiny on the path to avoid it.

I was a mouse unaware of the serpent.

The Birth of the Seaman

Gisselle Mestre Delgado, Toned paper and B&W charcoal

9in x 9in x ½ in wood, foam clay, styrofoam, acrylic, pewter, Modpodge, and paper

Finish your plate

Megan Carrion, Script

Bendito Ervin Centero, Photography

(Two women sit together at a fancy table. They are completely alone in a steel grey room. In Front of them is a silver serving tray with the lid on.)

Ruby: It’s not so bad I don’t think. I mean honestly they’re really trying their best. Right Jade? Don’t you think so? Cause I think so and it’s important to have a good attitude about these kinds of things. You know one time-

Jade: Does this story have an ending that doesn’t involve angels?

Ruby: Angels are everywhere around us Jade!

Jade: Does this story have an ending period?

Ruby: Probably! Now listen up, one time-

Jade: What if it’s a(Ruby jumps up and slams her hand down on the table.)

Ruby: Let- let me tell my story and then…then we can look! Together! (Jade stays silent. Ruby sits back down.)

Ruby: So as I was saying, one time, I went out to dinner with my grandma, but she’s allergic to everything! Nuts, cheese, fish, shellfish, coffee, chocolate, and even strawberries.

Jade: So she can eat what? Like lettuce?

Ruby: Grandma can’t stand lettuce, says it’s for rabbits. She can eat rabbits though! But back to the point we go to this restaurant and she orders plain pasta. And then asks for salt on the side, gotta live a little you know? Well anyways they bring this plate out to her and for a moment as I see the waiter carrying it over I am compelled by The Holy Spirit!

Jade (simultaneously): The holy spirit.

Ruby: So I reach up and slam my hand on the plate and it goes flying! The waiters are screaming, grandma is screaming, I’m screaming. And then lo and behold as we all crowd around the fallen remains of grandma’s dinner what do we see?

Jade: A finger?

Ruby: No.

Jade: An angel wing?

Ruby: No.

Jade: An ending to this story?

Ruby: CHEESE! Little sprinkled on parmesan that would have sent my grandma right to the grave. We left right away and we haven’t been since.

Nerve of those people trying to poison a little old lady! So now, whenever I feel unsure about something, I call up to the Holy Spirit and see what He has to say.

Jade: Have you asked him about our current predicament?

Cause I would really appreciate a little clarity if you’ve got a connect to the big boy upstairs.

Ruby: I forgive you for calling God a ‘big boy’.

Jade: And if I call him an asshole?

(Ruby gets very quiet and slowly starts to cry.)

Jade: Hey hey hey, listen I’m sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I didn’t mean to add to, to all this I’m-

Ruby: Well, that’s just it Jade! I forgive you and I’ll keep forgiving you forever and ever. However much time we have left.

Jade: How about I take the first bite this time? Since you did it last.

(Ruby stops crying. Both women look at the closed serving tray.)

Ruby: My story isn’t done yet! I must tell you what happened after and-

Jade: They’re going to come check soon. We can’t leave, we can’t fight, we’re out of options Ruby.

Ruby: They won’t do anything to us. They’re Angels!

Jade: Then why are you shaking?

Ruby: This could be a test! God’s test! Not everyone gets taken by Angels in the middle of the night. Plucked right out of bed like the Virgin Mary, really it’s very marvelous.

Jade: I got taken from my beat-up Buick at the back of a gas station.

Ruby: God works in mysterious ways.

Jade: So do Alie-

Ruby: DON’T SAY THAT WORD!

(The two women are quiet again. Jade leans over and takes the serving tray top off.

There is a live crab wriggling around, contained between two pieces of bread.

Ruby puts her head on the table and begins to pray. Jade stares.)

Jade: It’s never been alive before.

Ruby: Jade please.

Jade: I think if I bite the head first it would go faster.

And you can have the bread and maybe a leg just to be fair and-

Ruby: I’m going to be sick.

Jade: You can’t throw up. We have to eat it all.

Ruby: I know that! I know I know I know I-

(Ruby begins sobbing. The lights in the room turn red and a ticking sound starts.)

Jade: I’m going to start. Will you help me finish?

(Both women begin eating.)

Morning Blues

Michelle Huguet, Photography

Antes vivíamos en familia

Mis papás, mi hermana, nosotros cuatro

Todas las noches cenábamos arepa y un jugo de durazno

Mi hermana se fue del país finalizando el verano

De aquellos momentos solo me queda un pedazo

Antes tenía amigos

Katherine, Fanny, Yuyi, Felix

con ellos me reía de la vida y pasaba un buen rato de cada uno me despedí con un fuerte abrazo

Y de esa amistad me llevé un pedazo

Antes iba a un colegio, el Humanitas

Estudié ahí desde que tenía tres años

Pero emigré antes de completar mi bachillerato

Del Humanitas solo conservo un pedazo

Antes había un brillante muchacho

Con él podía hablar por mil horas sin descanso

Un dia lo vi irse y se me perdieron sus pasos

De mi corazón destrozado pude guardar un pedazo

Y así voy por el mundo

Aferrando estos trozos entre mis brazos

A veces trato de coser inútilmente los retazos

O intento embellecerlos con un odioso lazo

Mas cada intento termina en fracaso

Si me preguntan quién soy

Yo les respondo:

Pedazos.

Sofia Ramirez, Poetry pedazos

There is a lightness

In the way my hands run over pots

And pans

So light in my hands

So heavy on my wrists

Do not mistake the weight for a burden

It is a privilege

To serve

I have made rice and lentils

A million times

The garlic

The salt

The patience

The stirring stirring stirring

We simmer in tandem

The feeling a relief

This is my task

Paltry in comparison

To the enormity of time

But in these minutes

This task is everything

The all encompassing desire

To Feed

And be fed

There is rice

The bubbles clouding the glass cooker top Growing and changing A transformation from small and hard To soft Consumable

Shareable

The lentils have been

Seasoned and softened

Sampled

And sampled again

By every warm body

That wanders into the kitchen

When it is all done

It is heaped

Piled

Into a tower

And crowned by A fried egg

Yolk runny Liquid gold

Decadence

At two dollars and ninety cents

For a dozen

I want to feed

Every hungry mouth I find There is enough, Enough, Enough, Let it be enough

No one will be hungry today

No one will be hungry tomorrow

That is all I can promise

It is all time will let me

Snippets and seconds of warmth

Encased in reused Tupperware

Stained by every meal

It has held before And every meal

It will hold after

Megan Carrion, Poetry

Kitchen Reflections

Daniella Tomey, Charcoal

TrOpHe Christopher

Sanchez, Poetry

Food is all; as it rings true, simple plates bring lovely dates. Not a whisper that doesnʼt go unheard or a giggle that makes you tingle with joy. Nor a glass that goes left unpoured or a piece of meat that isnʼt there to eat.

We rise, we form, and we come together. Food, wine, and love uniting the souls of at least two. It doesnʼt have words or text, just unity cloaked in flavors as we forget the early morning labors.

I tell you my child, my love, my friend, my parent, eat, drink, enjoy, for there is not always tomorrow promised.

Portolkall

Ariel Dos Santos, Photography

Y en la luna me encontraba, llorando por mi vida, ¿Será este el final?

¿Acaso así termina mi historia?

¿Acaso dejare que la luna llena de hoy, destruya mis sueños, mis anhelos y mi ser? No estoy segura, pero de lo que si estoy, Es el hecho que nunca tuve tanto miedo de morir.

Desearía no haber cometido los errores que hice, Desearía no haber huido cuando perfectamente pude haber luchado contra las batallas Desearía tener más tiempo de vivir.

Y es que así me encontraba, En los últimos segundos de mi vida, Viendo y pensando en todo lo que hice, Y lo que nunca podré ser.

Una lagrima cae de mi ser, Creo que representa la tristeza de mi vida, Lo arrepentida que estoy.

Pero en este momento, siento que recordar, Siento que arrepentirme, y pensar, Es lo peor que le estoy haciendo a mi ser.

Morir es mi destino final, Y ese es el que obtendré y nada más. Hoy dos de noviembre, Todos recordarán a aquella que no vivió, Y que fue tragada por la luna llena, La luna llena de mi ser.

Y así me convierto una con la luna, Me fusiono con su belleza y su luz, Algo que nunca podré ser.

No creo que nadie conozca de mis errores, Nadie más que yo, Pero espero que esa luna, La luna que me atormenta, Les de paz e inspiración, A aquellos que apreciaron algún día vivir, Lo que nunca logré, Ni lograré.

LlorandoLe a la Vida

The Captain’s Wife and the Spaghetti Monster Veronica Silva Badillo, Mixed Media

Josseline Ponce Gallardo, Poetry

Ready, Set, Write! 1st Place Winner

Neyman Canelo-Garcia, Photography

Fresh Octopus

Erika Valcarcel, Photography

The Croissantcible opened on December 25, 1997, despite its owner, Jean Petraut, not being religious nor a baker.

When asked about the odd nature of the establishment, Petraut simply said, “What can I say; I’m a man of many sides,” and walked away, presumably home, leaving the restaurant to open without him.

Jean calls her Monday because she shows up on Mondays with the newspaper, folded and turned just so that the Featured Eateries section is front and center.

He bites the cigarette between his teeth, ashes falling on his apron, making him cuss. “Monday, this is nuts! She didn’t even talk about the food!”

Monday doesn’t look up from the sink, arm-deep in soap suds.

Jean glances at her while shuffling in place before the stovetop.

He kicks at the stained tile floor. “And I didn’t go home, either.”

Monday lays a plate on the drying rack.

Jean wipes sweat from his brow, sucking in cigarette smoke and the bitter scent of the patties.

“Wet bricks,” Monday calls them.

Crumpling the newspaper in his hands, Jean eyes the meat locker. “Y’know what? She’ll come back, that food critic—if you can even call her that. I’ll serve her something, all right. She’ll never shut up about it.”

Monday smiles.

I entered The Croissantcible for the second time one year after its opening day by the humble request of its only cook, Mara “Monday‘’ Finch. The tablecloths, once white and smooth on opening day, were now wrinkled and smeared with grease. The windows were boarded up. Needless to say, I feared this meal would be my last.

The owner himself, Mr. “Many-Sides” Petraut served me a dish he called a “deconstruction of sushi married to an American classic.” When he pulled back the cloche, what I saw was not a marriage but what can only be called an act of hatred: a whole crab between two soggy slices of white bread. I nearly wept.

“What can I say; I’m a man of many sides.”

However, upon Petraut’s vehement insistence, I took a bite out of the abomination. And, to my surprise, I was met with a symphony of flavors so wonderful and unique I thought I heard wedding bells. It shocked me to my core.

When I asked Petraut what his secret was to such an innovative and subversive dish, Petraut simply smiled and said it was “being a man of many sides.”

Dark Fallen Angel

Yanira Martinez, Photography

r outura I.

Maikel Valdes, Poetry

Imagine llorar en el ocaso, Mi alma hecha pedazos. Cuando me echó de lado Sentí que me había ahogado. Las flechas de Cupido, A mi corazón han atravesado, Dejando mi jucio nublando Con lágrimas brotando A las puertas de la muerte, He quedado.

I imagined mourning at sundown, My soul shattered in pieces. When I was cast aside I felt I was drowning. Cupid’s arrows, Have crossed my heart, Leaving my judgment cloudy Shedding tears At the gates of death, I remained.

Characters

Cory- Lipstick Lesbian, the oldest of the group, very practical. Has short hair. Always starts the game. They/them or she/her pronouns. Plays the Mom.

Jay- Butch lesbian, long hair. He/him pronouns. The youngest but the most mature. Always ends the game. Is in love with Erica, its mutual. Plays the Dad.

Lilith- Trans woman, bisexual, bratty, Makes the game more dramatic. She/her pronouns. Has known Cory for years. Plays the Daughter.

Erica- They/them pronouns. Non binary character. Makes the game more fun. Speaks no Spanish. Plays the Son.

VoIces: VoIces:

Sapphic Longing & p anic at the e nd of the Wor L d Sapphic Longing & p anic at the e nd of the Wor L d

Megan Carrion,Script

The characters will always switch names, even mid conversation for comedic effect. Every character is Hispanic and/ or Latino. This takes place the 24 hours leading up to and then during a hurricane. There are excerpts from actual Hurricane Irma news coverage included in the play. For the staging of the show the scenes with the families should be heavily dramatized with lights and sounds while the scenes with the actual family should be left more on their own. It is important that the main setting be somewhere in South Florida because of the specific Hispanic diversity and culture that comes from that area.

Scene 1: Disturbance

(Lilith is asleep on the couch. Knock at the door. Lilith stays asleep. Longer knock at door. Lilith wakes up and opens it. Jay enters with groceries very clearly from Publix.)

Cory: (offstage) Oh, Golly, you wouldn’t believe the line at Whole Foods! I barely managed to nab this bag of quinoa (key-now-ay) for my vegan arugula vinaigrette. It was ghastly! With the storm coming everyone’s all concerned and over stocking.

Jay: Almost blew out my back carrying all this for your mother. I’m not a dog Janet!

(Cory enters with even more Publix bags. )

Cory: Well, it helps to be prepared Ronald!

Jay: Did we need a 36 pack of toilet paper? I’m literally throwing my money in the shitter Karen!

Cory: You’re gonna thank me when all your golf buddies complain about having to use napkins to wipe their behinds!

Lilith: Oh, mama! Oh, papa! Don’t fight! Not in front of dolly! (Hugs wine bottle)

Cory: Oh, you’re right my sweet little angel! Oh, Connor let’s stop this silly fight!

Jay: You women! No fight in you! It’s a good thing there’s two men in the house!

(Pause for sitcom style entrance. It never comes.)

Jay: Oh, wait, fuck, is Erica still at work?

Cory: Check the group chat. They always text if they’re coming home late.

Lilith: Yeah, Erica’s super busy at the pharmacy, with the storm coming and everything. They should be home already. It’s going to hit in like 24 hours.

Jay: It’s not going to hit us. It’s gonna hit Northern Florida like it does every other year and we’re gonna get a week off work because the houses next to our apartment always flood.

Cory: You can’t know that. All the best stations say it’s going to hit us straight on. And schools have been closed since last week.

(The sky outside gets darker.)

Lilith: I hear it’s gonna be a category 5.

Jay: Who could possibly guess that.

Lilith: Twitter.

Jay: That’s your most reliable news source? You follow like 30 different make up artists and the Kardashians.

Cory: And Hozier.

Jay: We all follow Hozier, Cory; what are we, straight?

Lilith: Anyways, I refuse to watch the news. It makes me depressed. I’d rather the bad news in a tweet I can close dramatically and internalize while I swipe through tinder right after.

Cory: You’re still on Tinder?

Jay: Yeah, during a hurricane?

Lilith: What’s to stop me?

Jay: Your date being flung to Cuba by the storm on their way here.

Cory: And I thought we didn’t want men in the house. Like isn’t that a rule?

Lilith: Who says it’s a man?

Cory: Well, I mean normally-. You prefer-

Lilith: Oh, normally I prefer what?

Cory: It’s just safer if we-

Lilith: Oh, this is a safety thing?

(The door slams open and is then slammed shut. Erica has arrived, also carrying multiple Publix bags.)

Erica: Sorry I’m late guys; I got stuck at work.

Jay: You look like shit, babe. Were you closing everything down?

Erica: No! Fucking Assistant Manager Rick said if the lights are still on we have to come in!

Lilith: What? That has to be, like, illegal.

Erica: Probably, but I can’t lose this job. Sara and some of the others threatened not to come in, and they all got fired.

Jay: We’ll always figure something out; you know that.

Cory: What did you bring?

Erica: Oh, you know, the essentials: toilet paper, eggs, flour, an electric razor, Doritos, booze.

Bloodshot

Valentina Diaz, Mixed Media

Lilith: Who’s going to need the razor?

Erica: You know once we get too antsy someone’s cutting off all their hair.

Lilith: Ugh, couldn’t be me. Do you know how long this took to grow out?

Erica: Do you mean your extensions?

Jay: Oh, god not this again.

Lilith: Extensions!?

Jay: Deep breaths, Lilith.

Cory: Did you get any water bottles, Erica?

Erica: What do we need those for?

Cory: To drink from when they cut the water!

Erica: They’re not cutting the water.

Cory: You don’t know that.

Erica: Whatever. It’s not like we can do anything about it now.

Cory: But-

Erica: I’m going to go shower. Jay?

Jay: Huh?

Erica: You coming?

Jay: Lilith, Cory, pleasure doing business with you ladies, but(Erica gets chased by Jay down the hallway. Cory and Lilith are left alone. Cory starts picking up the apartment. Lilith lounges on the couch. The rain picks up.)

Lilith: Wash your hands.

Cory: Why?

Lilith: They’re dirty, and I want to hold them.

Cory: Why not hold them now? Do you think I have cooties or something?

Infinity Pool

Valentina Diaz, Mixed Media

Lilith: I said wash your hands.

Cory: Do you think they’re dirty? Why would they be dirty? Plus, we touch all the same things don’t we?

Lilith: It’s not about what you touch, it’s that you’ve touched them at all.

Cory: What does that mean?

Lilith: You grab things constantly.

Cory: How else am I supposed to live? Just not grab things?

Lilith: You could at least use hand sanitizer.

Cory: Do you have something to say to me?

Lilith: No, I just want to hold your hands, so wash them.

Cory: These disastrous hands of mine, you’re exempt from their supposed wrath?

Lilith: When you wash, them I will.

Cory: No.

Lilith: Excuse me?

Cory: I said no.

Lilith: When did you start saying no to anything?

Cory: Eat shit.

Lilith: How could you talk to me like that?

Cory: Oh, it’s easy, just watch. Eat shit.

Lilith: You’re acting like this over a simple request?

Washing your hands is so difficult?

Cory: You wash your hands.

Lilith: No.

(Simultaneously)

Cory: Then, eat shit.

Lilith: Do not tell me to eat shit. (Pause.)

Lilith: I hate that phrase.

Cory: I hate your tone.

Lilith: I hate your hair.

Cory: You love my hair.

Lilith: It makes you look like a stupid dyke.

Cory: I am a stupid dyke! I’m an absolute moron who eats pussy! Your pussy specifically! All the time! And for what?!

Lilith: Stop yelling.

Cory: Make me!

Lilith: They’re going to hear you.

Cory: Well, we’re all trapped in here for who knows how fucking long! Maybe you’ll stop being embarrassed of me in the process.

Erica (enters carrying a tiny bag of weed): Guess what I found! Are you guys ready for some family fun time? Me and Jay are gonna kick y’all asses! Prepárense!

(Jay enters with dominoes and other various shitty board games. Jay and Erica both have wet hair and goofy grins.)

Jay: I cannot confirm or deny ass kicking.

Erica: You’re my partner! We’re going to be exceptional!

Jay: It’s you and me, baby.

(Jay and Erica kiss. Cory and Lilith can no longer look at each other.)

The Portal Valentina Diaz, Mixed Media

First Fish in space

Erika Valcarcel, Photography

I always feared the sneers that tried to snuff out my hope.

When they called my name at my 6th grade graduation followed by my mother’s titular situation and my mother’s name was not preceded by lawyer, doctor, engineer but instead by Mrs., the hisses of the world came to me all at once and said, “She shall only be as much as her title.”

I knew better than that; however, the world did not. I knew my mother was light. She was the brightness that came through my family’s windows. She is the Sisyphus, pushing my family together and upwards. She is the air that fills our lungs from the moment we first cry to the last time we sigh. She is the best parts of me, and Mrs. does not capture the inconceivable radiance that she is. Mrs. does not depict the fact that she created the conscientious being before you. So no, she shall never be limited by a title, for there is no title yet to describe a woman as remarkable as my mother.

Bonding

Michelle Howe, Pen and Ink

Flock Together

Nicholas Segura, Photography

The Lady aT The park

Giselle Lopez, Poetry

Like they use to do to sinners, criminals, and no good doers— you were stoned at the park. My mother watched, a bystander watched What they did to your poor body and soul.

A lasting image in her mind.

Kisses left unspoken in the darkness of the club. Your hand would graze her soft cheek Whispering an agreement on whose place To go to.

That's how you would spend your days, Safe in the haze of all the drinks and loud Music that drown our shame.

You are visibly different. Your short hair is very telling.

In a country where colonization took place, The Spanish brought their Catholicism, And in return, we inflict pain on our own.

I wonder where you are now, If you are alive, Or

Are you buried underneath all the Rocks they threw?

Crystal View

Monica Duque Ramirez, Photography

Carbonated Trash

Cameron Velez, Photography

I am what I eat. It’s alive inside of me. I can feel it. Skittering. Side to side.

Oh, what cruelty!

It snipped open my intestines, Internal drowning.

It needs a place reminiscent of the beach.

I should have killed it before consumption.

They used to cause heat and trap rats on your stomach for torture. It would gnaw through your skin and flesh until it fled. Somehow, this is way worse.

Its shell protects itself from the stomach acid your body gives out. Your body is too weak to break down something you would have feasted upon.

I can see the imprint in your torso.

It’s alive, baby, And it’s ready to get out!

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 33rd annual edition of Miambiance was designed using iMac computers with OS XII. The software used in this production was InDesign CC 2023, Lightroom CC 2023, and Photoshop CC 2023 Illustrator CC 2023. Cover Design by Diego Franco. Cover Photograph by Lubianka Baltodano. Volume 33 is printed on #80 Silk Text and #16-PT C2S Cover by PF Solutions: A Print Farm Company.

board oF TrusTees

Michael Bileca, Chair

Nicole Washington, Vice-Chair

Dr. Anay Abraham, Roberto Alonso

Maria Bosque Blanco, Marcell Felipe, Ismare Monreal

Madeline Pumariega, President, Miami Dade College

Dr. Anthony Cruz, President, Kendall Campus

Miami Dade College is an equal access/equal opportunity institution, which does not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, colordisability, national origin, marital status, religion, age or veteran’s status. Contact the office of equal opportunity programs/ADA cordinator at (305) 237- 0269 for information.

sPecIaL Thanks

Alejandra Ruiz: Copy Consultant

Nicole Melich: Photoshop Consultant (Published in Volume 30)

Speak Your Mind! Judges:

• Dennis Edelen

• Stella Santamaria

• Clayre Benzadon

• Aileen Ochoa

• Dr. William Murphy

Ready, Set, Write! Judges:

• Dennis Edelen

• Stella Santamaria

• Patrick Anderson

• Clayre Benzadon

Alexandra Johnson: ACCESS Art Exhibition

The Humanities Edge: Event Sponsor

Michelle Grant-Murray: Artistic Director of Jubilation Dance Ensemble

Jubilation Dance Ensemble: Event Performers

Dr. Craig Titus: Chairperson, English and Communication

Bonnie Seeman: Chairperson, Arts and Philosophy

Age of Gold

Carlos Ruiz, Mixed Media

Arts and Letters Day

1st Place Poster Contest Winner