Miambiance Volume 35 by Miambiance

Cover: Luminous Night, Jasmine Avila, Digital, 1668 x 2224

MIAMBIANCE

Edited solely by Kendall Campus’ students

Miami Dade College, Kendall Campus 11011 SW 104th Street Miami. FL 33176

Literary Adviser Rita Fernandez-Sterling

Photography & Visual Arts Adviser Tony Chirinos

www.mdc.edu/miambiance miambiance@gmail.com

Instagram, Facebook @miambiance

Editors’ Notes

“I don’t want realism, I want magic!”

- Blanche DuBois

In a world like today, we sometimes lose touch with what matters most and thrust ourselves into our work in hopes of making sense of it all.

Growing up, I often escaped into the worlds that movies created. I still remember pushing through the clothes in my tiny closet in hopes of being greeted by the faun in The Chronicles of Narnia, or that one day the train station walls would grant me access to Harry Potter’s Hogwarts. My mind has always been filled with wonders and imagination because that was my way of escaping reality.

The works in this volume are someone’s way of doing that; each one will be different because that is the gift of being human. We are unique, and the fantasies in our minds are distinct in each individual. This is my first Miambiance volume and it has quickly become a new world to which I escape. Seeing the students’ dedication at Miami Dade College Kendall Campus and showcasing it in this magazine has been a privilege. In my beginning years of college, I never thought I would stumble upon an opportunity like this, and frankly, I never want to wake up from this dream.

Still Dreaming, Aitana Salmeron

Daydreaming has always been where I feel most free. As a child, I was drawn to stories filled with magic, mystery, and far-off worlds, but I didn’t just read about them, I lived in them.

Most days, that meant diving into fantasy Roblox role-plays after school, where I could become anyone I wanted. More often than not, I was always the same character: a knight.

Those pixelated kingdoms became my refuge, a place where the weight of reality couldn’t reach me.

Years later, Miambiance has become a new version of that escape. Volume 35 holds that same kind of magic. Each piece in this magazine is someone’s world, crafted from dreams, memories, and imagination.

Some pieces whisper. Others scream. But all of them share that same spark, the longing to exist beyond the ordinary.

Working on this volume with the staff has given me that same feeling I had back then: a sense of purpose and belonging in a world built from creativity.

For a brief moment, reality can’t get to me here either. When you flip through these pages, I hope you can experience that too.

To the storytellers, the artists, the dreamers, and the knights, I raise my sword to you.

May we never stop creating the worlds we daydream about.

Joelle Worcester

Joelle W.

Daniel Albis Prose/Podcast Editor

Sara Almanzar Asst. Designer

Joan Valdes Podcast Editor

Michele Guitian Club President

Cassandra Pupo Art/Poetry Editor

Joelle Worcester Editor-in-Chief

Aitana Salmeron Editor-in-Chief

Salma Gonzalez Head Designer

Vanessa Morfa Prose Editor

Alexander Polo Poetry Editor

Carrion, Madeleine Wagshul, Digital, 2048 x 2193

Possession

by Daniel Albis

It had been years since we first moved to the City of God. Its mountains commanded the sky and towered over the sea, causing the fish to cower in their grace. The streets were filled with merchants who came from far away to sell their wares to the people of another realm even though they often would fall victim to the petty tricks and innocence of lies told by pretty faces.

But the only place conquered by the realm of our touch was the flat, which we had grown accustomed to occupying with indifference. Each night, as the angels would carry the sun off to foreign lands and the moon would take its place, illuminating us in constant shadow, my lover would smoke her final cigarette, with a great cloud and the dust exhaled from the depths of her heart. It would create a strong sandstorm that would obscure her face but never her beauty, and with that, we would skip hand in hand each night into the solemnity of a winter’s love and the peace of death.

my carcass. From their kiss, flowers would burst from my body, causing me to writhe in pain as my lover rushed to pour the nectar of her spirit into my soul. In her every movement, my lover erased the butterflies, and in her every breath, she gave me my medicine until the butterflies no longer haunted me. Then, I could rest in the stillness of a void without dreams but without pain.

Until shrouded in darkness, I was met with a voice I had not heard in decades calling me from my slumber, “Amor, amor, amor.”

Upon awakening, our words were transcribed into our minds before being said. With that, the lifetimes of discourse turned into a lifetime of quiet discoveries and care. My desires conjured offspring of our own who would dash through the stages of life and rejuvenate the vocal space, which had become occupied by the strongest of all affections and silence, but I was plagued with an ailment worse than a broken heart.

For every night when I fell asleep, the blue butterflies of desolation would come to pollinate

The voice of my lover called, intending to awaken me from the peace we had worked so hard to attain, but her voice dragged me from my sleep into the sandstorm, where I could only see the blue butterflies and the flowers growing from the open rib cage of my beloved. Her screams of pain crawled from her tongue and spoke to me in a pleading tone, begging for an escape from the ghost possessing their master and taking their words to the depths of my mind.

I began to feast on the flowers sprouting from the only woman I’d ever called home. With every bite, I devoured a memory held sacred to us both, and in this fury of passion, the skin of the butterflies began to melt and transfigure until they were no longer blue but had been manipulated to red. With every bite, the dust floating around us burned into embers until we were both engulfed in flames, burning in the eternity of a night cloaked in passion.

Flowers, Elena Lopez, Acrylic, 16 x 20

Time Is a Fickle Little Thing

by Angelina Andreu

Does time move slower when we’re looking?

When I am so patiently staring at the hands of the clock, waiting, wanting so desperately for it to turn three. I swear she can see me. We gaze into each other’s eyes, and I can see the crinkle of amusement forming. She laughs and the sound travels, yet it never quite reaches me. I swear she does anything but move quickly.

She serenades the singing songbirds; she dances with distracted passers-by; she plays with pretty places; she watches wilting flowers; she traps with tantalizing ideas; she stares at startling moments.

She finds anything to do but make the hands move faster, the inner mechanisms of the clock are confused yet amused and let the magic happen. Time is a perturbed catharsis; we should let it be.

She knows how to make the rhythm flow and the globe turn. I think time moves faster when she feels our trust in her, It is only when we resign ourselves to her will that we can feel true peace.

Time moves faster when we’re not looking.

Quiet Contemplation, Maria Belen Silva Baquedano, Digital

Your Creative Power, Melanie Vazquez, Photography

Berry Sweet, Drea Vandervlugt, Sculpture, 9 x 11 x 9

Aitana Salmeron

Stairway to Nowhere Photography

Afternoon Katelyn

Thursday

Jerkins, Acrylic, 9 x 12

Quiescence by Sabrina Lozano

Growth is quiet, And slow

Beneath the surface We bloom.

Even when the storm continues, even when the skies don’t clear, Hope is the light ahead.

American Void

by Milo Akerman

Just a few months ago, as I was going through old drawers and archived paperwork, I found an old and dried up pinecone. It sat lonely among piles of forgotten homework and mementos, just clinging onto enough structure for it to be more than a pile of dust. It was a memory. It was a cold day I spent on a Louisiana trail, without a care in the world. A deserted diner on a dusty road. Something huge that couldn’t properly be contained in something so small and yet slept comfortably inside.

In early 2021, my family went on a month-long road trip to California. To me, a very routine-oriented person, it was hard to imagine anything worse. What was there to see far West? I had everything I needed at home: a comfortable bed, a tight-knit group of friends, and a somewhat reasonable work-life balance. Worse still, it was hard to think of relaxing when I had mounting piles of homework and the ever-growing responsibility of being a teenager in the twenty-first century.

“Do not waste your time,” they told me, but I barely knew what counted as wasting time.

Yet as we began the first leg of the trip from South Florida to Texas, the long stretches of empty grasslands and occasional cow sightings started to grow on me. There was something exhilarating about having so much time to think, so much time to do nothing in peace. By the time we got to our first big stop in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I had picked up journaling. On those long drives, I imagined what I might find in those huge empty lots should I step off my car midway through the trip and simply walk out into the nothingness. Perhaps I would find undiscovered mouse species, Eldritch abominations, or the supplies of some previous explorer of the American void. The trip wasn’t so much toward the Pacific Ocean as it was toward some corner of my imagination that I’d locked away with decades of academic writing and quasiworkaholism.

One night, while trying to sleep in a terribly uncomfortable Midwestern hotel, I remember inventing dozens of words to describe things I could not verbalize. I’m sure if I dug up that journal, I’d still find them untouched by time, with

some vague memory of even writing them at all—as if it had been a distant dream. I picked up sketching on long stretches of highway, trying my best to visualize the human figure with no model save for lanky lampposts and the slouched figures of my siblings in the back seats. After all, there was a lot to do while doing nothing; I had time to try new hobbies, to sleep, and more than anything, to think.

Perhaps the strongest of my fascinations came to me while we stopped in Arizona to visit the Grand Canyon. While gazing over that massive sinkhole of a national park, I wished I could grow wings and

“Do not waste your time,” they told me, but I barely knew what counted as wasting time.

Neyman Canelo-Garcia

B&W Photography

Blackbird

fly into every little outcropping of rock. I wished I could visit the lizards and rattlesnakes and whatever natural history had taken place in that sacred ground and been unperturbed by humanity since the dawn of time. Coupled with a lifelong love for science and engineering, this pipe dream became an ambitious goal. It was not only about the fantasy of flight anymore but also about the real wonder of early airplanes and helicopters. I pestered my parents incessantly about things they did not know: “How much force would an engine need to produce to flap a pair of wings?” or “Why are pigeons able to take off and land completely vertically?”

Normally, fiery passions, like these, taper off within a week or so. But coupled with an otherwise boring odyssey and a bizarre amount of free time, this obsession with flight festered like an open wound. I began researching ornithopters, machines that emulate the flight patterns of birds, in my spare time. Robots that, in contrast to airplanes or conventional aircraft, do not fly with their wings straight but make use of wind currents like an eagle or a pelican would. Ideas gave way to sketches, which in turn gave way to curious emails addressed to ornithology and engineering professors around the country. Of the emails I got back that were not titled, “Do Not Contact

Me with Questions About Birds,” I learned about aerodynamics and drag coefficients, bone structures and kerosene engines and a million more assorted factoids.

Then one day, as I traveled through a forest, I found on the ground a little pinecone. I realized, without much thought, that I had nothing to take home that would remind me of the places I’d seen and the images I conjured, so I stuffed it in my bag, thinking little of its scaly permanence. I left, in that backpack, a beating heart of natural American glory and carried with me through that entire trip the dead body of the past.

On the trip back, we stopped at a rest stop just long enough for me to contemplate walking off and exploring the miles of flat grass that laid before me. I felt as though they were calling me, like a siren to a poor sailor. It wasn’t even three steps into the great unknown that some voice—I’m still not sure who—screamed at me to beware the rattlesnakes. In retrospect, it was something quite trivial, but there was something about nature having its own equivalent of barbed wire that shattered my illusion. Yes, there were rattlesnakes. There was hunger, there was thirst. There were poisonous berries and wild

beasts waiting for nightfall to tear me apart viciously. There was no such thing as “empty land.” The world was teeming with ants, squirrels, snakes, and worms. In a way, it did ruin this pristine idea I’d built up over the last month of the wilderness as a place for rest and meditation, a vast ocean of nothing. But it also spurred in me a begrudging acceptance of perfection not only as an idea, a place, or a time but also as a perspective.

I left...a beating heart of natural American glory and carried with me through that entire trip the dead body of the past.

When I got back home, it was hard to sleep without slouching over an imaginary seatbelt. I think the effect that trip had on me was more than just psychological; I became more outgoing, more

sociable, but, perhaps most importantly, I began filling my time with things I enjoyed doing. I realized what it meant to “waste one’s time”—not to rest, or to do something unproductive but to spend your days in much the same way. Every second of that road trip was a vivid, searing memory, and I think that stayed with me in a way few other things did. When I thought of that pinecone, the day I found it, I thought of a promise I’d made to myself. A promise to find new hobbies and new friends. A promise I’ve kept in many ways from the blogs I’ve started to the short stories I’ve composed. I find myself now changed, in a myriad of ways, by the great expanse of nothing that is the American void.

Home Sweet Home, Oscar Roquillo, B&W Photography

Grandmother Willow

by Angelina Andreu

The trees could tell me a million stories I want to hear them so desperately In lieu of the leaves speaking

The wind that rushes through them translates the swaying for me

The wind comes up to my ear and rushes through my body Suddenly

I know why the giving tree

Never stopped giving

The People’s “Princess”

by Elizabeth Villoldo

Stripped of everything that was mine. Forced into silks and rogue instead of chainmail and warpaint, wine instead of blood, tea instead of bourbon, scones instead of grenades, thread stitching up rips in my dress instead of my skin. Melodies blast in my ears instead of arrows near my heart.

Why did this happen to me?

I’m a man, but my chest poking out says otherwise. I’m a man, but my short stature says otherwise. To them, I appear a perfect bride. To me, I look like someone else. While beautiful, the woman in front of me isn’t me.

One day, I will slip away and run. I’m fast, they will never catch me. Never could… If this body can find a new host, no-

If I hadn’t swarmed this body like a fly to a rotted corpse… There never was a “Little Miss,” “Darling,” or “Mistress” in the first place. What a shame that a pretty face will be burned before their eyes, like a witch at the stake.

May the blood overflow from this chalice right onto the cold floor, hopefully, staining the white marble tile, flooding the halls and swallowing the sins of everyone who wronged me. The body of an angel with eyes of the devil. How much fun we’ll all haveor at least me.

Paint it red with their blood, not mine. I’ve already sold my soul to the devil, signed with this angel’s blood. No one will find me.

False Gods

by Jordan Andrews-Bergman

I wish the people on TV were as good as they claim Making people trust them, taking over our brains

We think we know them but we never really do

My idols, false gods

I wish the man behind the page wasn’t a fucking rapist

Filling stories with good and evil, trying to flip the script

Took his power and used it to overpower people

Hiding behind excuses, claiming to do no wrong

The fantasy writer become the villain of her story

Full of the hatred and bigotry that she put into her books

Took the magic of her world and used it to spread lies

I guess she was the real monster that laid behind the page

My idols, my false gods

Up on a pedestal they sat

I would have done anything to be like them

Gods of the page, mages with a pen

The Hanged Man, Alex de la Ossa, Color Pencil, 11 x 22

This is all just so deranged

It makes me mad, it makes me mad, so goddamn mad

All these false gods with their power and their fame

The money behind their names

Millions of fans who would do anything for them

They could choose to be better

Why, oh why

Why can’t the people I grew up loving just stay decent people

Why do they take the power we give them and use it to do horrible things

Why do we worship them like gods

Our false gods

Racks of Meat by Aitana Salmeron

1st Place, Ready, Set, Write! Fall ‘24

The animal lied grim, As did I, Too tired to get up for the sunrise, How many days has it been, Since the meat was last put in the freezer? It smelled rotten but so did I, Rotten of all hopes and dreams, Still reeling, Reeling from what I was supposed to be

The academic scholar I was called, All that praise just to take the fall, Is that how animals feel?

All that hunting and growing, Before humans take their swing, Unloading their bullets to be the king,

Now the meats are hung in the freezer, Deskinned and gutted, Hooks punctured in them and left in the cold, They were pulled in all kinds of directions, And I noticed my reflection,

The reflection of the academic scholar they expected, Bags underneath my eyes, I myself stretched thin, This is not what they would have wanted, But that’s how the system looks at me, Like racks of meat, Ready to sink their teeth.

Meatful, Madeleine Wagshul, Digital, 2048 x 1815

Shrek 2 and Eternity

by Valentina Davis

Wiping her tears, my mom handed me a copy of Shrek 2 and placed her luggage down.

She had only been gone two months, but it felt much longer. I was seven, after all – an hour was a year, and a month, eternity. My mom was the one who handled everything that had to do with me: driving to school and back, taking me to doctor’s appointments, and making all the phone calls. At that time, I was left only with my father, a functional alcoholic who was absent in every aspect of my life other than the evening meal. For the both of us, it was a lonely sixtytwo days.

As strange as it was, I knew my mom would leave. As a child, I seemed to be able to learn things I shouldn’t. I knew the spots where they hid my Christmas presents. I knew I wasn’t their biological child. I also knew that my mom was cheating on my dad.

Weeks before her absence, I found her whispering into her cell phone one night. She certainly wasn’t expecting to see me – flustered, she waved her hand dismissively and told me it was my grandmother. I asked to say hello, but she insisted that she didn’t want to speak to me and that I return to bed. They were both open and friendly, which was extremely out of character. Soon, she left.

My mom had nothing. She wasn’t meant for labor and didn’t finish her college degree. Around my age, she ran away with my dad to start a life. He was the one making ends meet, but barely. When I was a kid, her primary income source was the fifty dollars she received after cleaning my grandmother’s house and the meager sales of her antiques at the Auburndale flea market. The two of them together could barely take care of me, and we lived an incredibly impoverished life.

She came back with a single gift and a mountain of shame. Awkwardly, I took the DVD from her. It felt like an insult, almost, to have received a copy of a movie that had been out for weeks as an apology for abandoning me without so much a word. Still, I did not hate her. I also did not have the heart to tell her I had already seen it with my friends the week before.

My dad hung around in the background, watching us with an unreadable expression. I caught his eye, and his brow furrowed, carving valleys between his ungroomed brows. My dad is a man who profoundly fears betrayal and the like. To him, it was certainly not an easy thing to accept a cheating spouse back into your life. By how he looked at me, I could tell I was the main reason she was allowed back.

The following days felt joyously normal. My mom drove me to school again, and I no longer spent nights with only my books and the smell of old beer to keep me company. The worst of my dad’s drinking surfaced during the time my mom left – sixteen Bud Lights a night, some downed while he drove me to my best friend’s house. I was happy to ride in the back of my

mom’s 1995 Firebird, painted a sparkling deep blue with headlights that flipped up like batting eyelids. The two of us finally revisited Grandma and had a lunch of Greek salad and pasta with vodka sauce. We swam. We watched movies. We were a family again. Behind the velvet curtain, my father’s anger simmered.

It began with the occasional cold shoulder towards my mother and progressed to bouts of screaming into the late hours of the night. All manner of words were hurled at her: “whore,” “slut,” “liar,” “cow.” Anything to hurt her. I often lay awake at night listening to his viciousness. It went on for years, poisoning our home until we were only a family in name, not bond.

Daddy’s Home, Omar Madhar

B&W Photography

In the present day, I am still pretty estranged from them. Ironically, my mother is the only one I speak to, though only in text messages and Facebook tags. I do not speak to my father at all, for his treatment of her and dedication to cruelty and misery are destructive.

Now that I’m 25 years old and have an understanding of life and love, I feel a lot of things about her infidelity: confusion, anger, sadness, pity. Most of all, sadness. Coming back to the husband and child you abandoned after two months with some older man in Michigan must not have been easy. It’s an incredibly vulnerable thing. I might even say it was brave.

Untitled & Unapproachable by

Levi Barrenechea

3rd Place, Ready, Set, Write!, Fall ‘24

Inked by bad lighting and misplaced wrapping

Held up by thin black lines

Fragile enough to be knocked over

Strong enough to stay in place

Underneath all the imperfections

There is art

Something someone cared for

Something someone carved and sweat over

But the people viewing have emails

And messages

And songs to listen to

Drinks to drink

People to meet

I get a fraction of their time

Their time, the imperfections, the world

I can barely be seen

But what they see is still art

There’s just more

Happy Birthday to Me

Juliette Brooks

Digital, 1161 x 1459

Reflection, Emily Gonzalez

Charcoal and Cardboard, 23 x 24.5

One Mind

by Alexander Polo

3rd Place Speak Your Mind!, Fall ‘24

Once vigorous oceans, Haven for the submerged. Dented by Sapiens, Impurifying the unnerved, Leaving an everlasting poison, An undying plague closing in.

Toxins released without grasp:

Vibrant corals deprived in black, Schools forced to stay back, Turtles choke on plastic bags. Mother Earth cries in peril, Waking a crowd of several.

People in unison

Together for one reason. Cleaning the tainted sands, Gloves covering their hands. United as one mind

Swimming Buddies

Carina Irastorza Paint Markers, 9 x 11

Galactic Movement

Carina Irastorza Black Ink, 9 x 11

With Prayer

By Alexander Polo 2nd Place, Ready, Set, Write, Fall ‘24

The stars shine at night, Angels from above easing fright. Raging seas filled with anger,

A power invoking danger.

An old ship left all alone

With little to no sign of coming home.

The sailors cry to the moon

Singing together a boastful tune.

A chant of pride of joy heard on deck, With the heavy winds forever upset. It is left impossible

To escape the inevitable.

The tides are pushed back, Forming a colossal wave of wrath. Still the melody refuses to stop, Holding hands raising their voices on top, Left with no other choice as it drops. Their eyes remain closed, With the great wave feeling unopposed. Now eased sailors gone with their lives

Watch over the seas with prayer, Serenading the oceans with their cries.

My Butterfly’s Goodbye

by Michele Guitian

It’s only home when she’s here.

In the heart of my home, my mother is brushing my hair so gently, just as she always has since when I was a baby. I look up at her with the same admiration that I’ve held my whole life. She’s the reason why I have come so far. There’s a knock on my door.

“Come in!” I call out to whoever is on the other side.

“Good morning!” My sister comes in with a smile I haven’t seen in what feels like years.

I pause and look at my sister. For the first time in a long time, she looks happy and rested—she looks like her old self. It’s nice to see her like this, even if it might only last one day.

“Good morning?” I hesitate, unsure of what to make of this unexpected brightness.

“Don’t worry about taking the bus today, I’ll drive

you to school,” she still smiles, “I asked for today off and the day of your graduation.”

I frown, although half-amused, “I woke up early for no reason then.”

“So did I, to stop you from taking the bus,” she mimics my expression.

She glances around my room quickly, “I’ll go make breakfast. Finish getting ready.”

She falls silent for a moment, taking in every corner of my room. She hasn’t been in my room in a while, so I understand why she is taking everything in. Her eyes move across the innocent pink walls, the old photos of us with my mom when we were kids, the posters of my childhood shows, and the butterfly stickers. Everything mom and I put together.

“Don’t you think it’s time to change up your room a little? I know pink isn’t your color anymore,” she sighed, her fingers brushing over the butterfly

stickers as if they were delicate, living things, “It’s been over a decade since you last redecorated. Change is good.”

She continues, “Mom isn't here anymore, but you know she’s in our hearts. I’m sure she would want you to change your room.”

She exits my room quietly, leaving her words hanging in the air.

She’s still here, why don’t you see her? She’s brushing my hair, helping me get ready. She’s still here, why don’t you see her? She’s been here all this time. I wish I could tell her.

“She’s not grumpy today,” I murmur, turning to face the ghost of my mom, feeling awkward after the interaction with my sister.

“Thank God,” she replies, but her voice heavy, as if weighed by an unspoken sadness, “I wish I could talk to her again.”

A thick silence fills the room. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but full—full of memories, of love, of things left unsaid. It presses down on us so loudly in its stillness that I can hear my own thoughts echoing.

She stares at me, and I know she is thinking the same thing as I am. The quiet is almost unbearable, like it’s holding all the weight we all carry. We both want something we can never have again. But in this moment, it feels like even time itself is holding its breath, as if it too misses the sound of her voice.

“Same, mom,” I finally whisper, “but she knows you’re watching over her.”

Here I am in the car, sitting in the back seat with my mother, while my sister is in the driver’s seat. Most car rides are usually quiet, and I just listen to music and watch the world pass by through the window. This time, though, I find myself staring at mom, but she’s facing away from me. I wish I could look at her without feeling that familiar ache of guilt creeping into my chest. I wish she could look back at me, really look at me, without that same feeling showing in her eyes.

“Millie, why don’t you sit in the front?” My sister calls, her voice interrupting my thoughts.

“No, it’s okay, I’ll stay in the back.”

She gives me that look, the one she always gives when I reject her offer to sit up front. A look that

Emotional Baggage, Jazmin Mascaro, Photography

demands an answer, but I stay quiet, just as I always do. There’s always something heavy in the air after the same interaction during every ride; it’s the unspoken words that linger. She always wants an answer, but I never have one to give. Not one I can say out loud.

My hand moves almost on its own, reaching to intertwine my fingers with my mother’s. Her ghostly presence ties me to this moment, but it’s comforting. She’s the reason why I stay in the back seat. I can’t leave her here, in the space that still feels like it belongs to her. I don’t want to let her go.

The car falls into its familiar silence. This is the routine now. The lack of words and the quiet lies between the three of us like a fragile thread, ready to break at any time. My sister drives, her eyes fixed on the road, unaware of the silent exchange happening behind her. She doesn’t see me holding our mother’s hand. She doesn’t know, and she will never know or feel the weight of what’s left unsaid. I stare at my mother’s hand; my fingers clasped around hers. I wonder how long I can keep this up. How long can I stay like this before I’m forced to move on?

How long can I stay like this before I’m forced to move on?

My time at school is over, a chapter closed, and a new one that’s about to begin. It’s time to face the real world, to step into something bigger. As I am in front of the mirror, tying my hair into a messy bun, I sense my mother’s gaze behind me. Her eyes cling to me, stirring a feeling of uneasiness in me.

“You look like you want to say something,” I murmur, glancing at her reflection.

“You know I have to go,” she whispers so softly and sweetly I almost don’t hear what she says.

“Mom, what are you talking about?”

“My sweet butterfly,” she begins as a tear forms in her eye, knowing she doesn’t want to go either, “I’ve been here for almost a decade.”

“Please, don’t do this to me, Mom!” I beg, my voice cracking as I collapse onto my bed, burying my face in my hands.

She sits next to me, her touch gentle, but her words cut deep, “You need to let me go.”

“Mom, I can’t!” I sob, gripping my pillow thinking it could somehow keep her here. The tears stream down uncontrollably, and all the grief I’ve been trying to ignore hit me all at once.

“Whenever you’re ready, you will.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. the words are stuck somewhere inside, and they will never leave. I just keep crying, letting reality take over me for the first time, until sleep washes me over.

I wake to the sound of the alarm; its sound pulling me from a deep sleep. I blink and rub my eyes, trying to get a clearer vision of the silhouette of my mother, who is still staring at me.

But this time, there’s something different in her gaze, and I know what’s coming, but I’m not ready.

Graduation was a success, and it was my last time walking on stage for my school career.

I said my goodbye to everyone. It had been an emotional but joyful day — my graduation, the culmination of years of hard work. But I wasn’t ready for what was about to come next. Later, I sat on the edge of my bed, still dressed in my cap and gown. My mother stood before me. She gave me a look I knew all too well, a soft gaze that means she has something important to say. Slowly, she sits down beside me and reaches for my hands, the familiar warmth of her touch grounding me.

“Graduation was a success,” she begins, her voice low but steady. “It was your last time walking on stage, completing your school career.”

“I’ll be watching every moment of your life from above,” she squeezes my hand gently. “I’ll be watching you achieve your dreams, see your books get published, watch you get married, and have kids. Whatever choice you make, I’ll be there for it all,” she gently wipes the tears sliding down my face with her other hand. “Please continue carrying my legacy.”

She pauses, glancing at the necklace around my neck. “You also have the necklace that your father gave you,” she says, reaching out to my necklace that has a pendant of an angel, holding it so delicately. “Please rekindle your relationship with your sister

and your father. I’ve only been a part of his life, and you have been there a shorter part, but you’re his whole life to him. He had been through so much before I met him. He’s strong, but please don’t give up on him.”

“Look at yourself in the mirror, and you will see me,” she whispers as she embraces my face for the last time. “That’s how you know I’m with you.”

“I love you, Mom.”

I love you too, my butterfly.”

I watch my mother begin to fade away, her form dissolving into the light. The soft glow around her grows fainter with every second passing by, until the room is filled with nothing but a shimmer. I instinctively reach out, trying to grasp onto the last trace of her presence, but it is too late. My hand only meets the cold air. The weight of her absence settles in immediately, heavier than I had imagined.

The room feels quieter, emptier. My chest starts to hurt, and for a moment, a question that breaks me comes to me. How am I going to live in a world where she is no longer here. I sit in silence, letting it wash over me, still trying to hold onto the warmth of her final embrace. Tears stream down my face uncontrollably as I curl up on my bed, clutching the pendant of my necklace, the one she had touched just moments ago. It is cold now, but I hold it like a lifeline, as if through it, I can still feel her near me. There’s a knock on my door, but before I can answer, my sister barges in.

“Why are you crying?” she asks with concern.

“Because I know mom is watching over me and that she’s proud of me.” I freeze, looking at my hands instead of my sister.

“She’s always going to be watching over us and be proud.”

“I know things have been hard, but you have me and Dad to count on,” she continues.

I finally lift my head and look at her, really look at her, and I know she is right. We still have each other, and somehow that is enough.

Golden Butterfly, Daniel Roque Quintana-Tellez Charcoal and Acrylic, 36 x 48

The Rushing Tide

by Joelle Worcester

Ravenous and lost, Shame flows with the rushing tide— Hunger is reborn.

From the River to the Sea Adam

Digital, 2004 x 2940

Roque

Deepest Love

by Camila Caballero

The deepest love known to Earth. The bond between the sea and the moon is like no other.

As the moon rises, The tide follows.

Shadowing her every move, Admiration at its finest.

Without the tides beloved moon, He does not cease to exist.

He needs her, He cannot live without her.

She needs him, As he reflects her own beauty on his surface.

As the moon falls under the horizon, The ocean yearns for its devoted luminance.

Not any light, but only hers, As she is the only light that shines in his eyes.

Floating Juliette Brooks

Acrylic, 18 x 24

Como corre el río

by Megan Carrion

1st Place

Speak Your Mind!

Fall ‘24

It starts small

Needling

You are sitting so so still

And the tiny pin pricks start

The tinging on the thin thin roof

Of rain about to start

Con esta mano, la aguja

Con esta mano, la tela

Las palabras de ayer

No se olvidan

Ahí se quedan

First the knot to hold your place

Then the push and follow through

You ask who tore it open

The rising rumble of the rain

Remains your only clue

Cuidado con tus manos

Cuidado con error

Ni tienes idea cariño

Que es ahogarte en dolor

Cuidado con tus manos, Cuidado con los errores; No tienes ni idea, cariño

Lo que es ahogarte en dolor.

The rain begins to pound

And the lightning strikes boom

And as you finish sewing up

The life raft in your hands

The clock above the calendar

Ticks slowly to your doom

No te molestes cuando llegues, Aguanta tus quejas, Es suficientemente difícil

Controlarlo sin llorar.

You hear the door slam open

How could it be so soon

¡Que desorden!

¡Que pereza!

It howls as it flows in

Its streaming past your ankles now

You feel its icy grip

¡Qué desastre!

¡Qué humedad!

Trabajo todo el día,

¡Y no me dejas descansar!

The waters rushing faster now It throws you all around It rises past your knees

You soon can’t feel the ground

¡Qué falta de respeto!

¡Qué estúpida que eres!

No entiendes que yo soy el que decide si te mueres

The family photos on the wall

Begin to bleed and tear

Their witnessing the power of

A force that does not care

¡Inútil!

¡Desgraciada!

¡Sin mí, no eres nada!

¡Sin mí, nadie te ama!

The water fills each corner of the house

Your life raft barely rising up

Above the choppy mess

¿Cuántas mamás, Y tías, Y abuelas,

Se han hundido en el mar?

¿Cuántas primas, Y hermanas, E hijas, No les enseñaron a nadar?

Las niñas lindas calladitas

Con el agua a sus cuellos

Y ningún bote en la orilla

Ninguna luz en el océano

As you gasp a ragged breath

The rain finally stops

And slowly slowly

You start to feel

The water coming down

Mira a tu abuela, Mira a tu mamá,

Como tiemblan sus manos

Como te abrazan sin llorar

¿Cuántos años han pasado,

Con el agua a sus cuellos

Solitas en el mar?

In my home now

You can barely hear the rain

And the water can’t run up the steps

Or above the window panes

We take our wet shoes off they dry next to the door

Our daughters learn to swim

And we don’t fear the shore

Shut Up, Dionne Henriquez, Photography

They Haunt Me

Jiselle Iglesias

Digital, 8.5 x 11

Complacency

by Kathleen Libertad Roque Montero

2nd Place, Speak Your Mind!, Fall ‘24

Here’s the thing with generational curses

The links don’t break all at once

We are not all freed as one force I don’t know if we can all fit on these horses

Addiction runs in my family

Tis but one link in the chains engulfing my family tree

They run and run, and they’re never free

Addiction ran in my family until it ran into me

My father said, the first chain breaker

This was his chain to free himself from

He’d never imagine I’d fall victim to another one

Addiction ran in my family, and it ran into me

I have my own chains to break

Complacency

Not an inch of my body can stand even an ounce of it

It slips off my family’s tongues as they please

But it burns mine; it causes unease

You see I think it started long before, but all I know of is my grandmother’s lore

The only link to my ancestors I have

As I retrieve bits and pieces to try and put the puzzle together of how we ended up here, I see a little girl with no mother

Forced into motherhood while navigating childhood she couldn’t even experience her mother long enough to know how to be one

When you see no brighter days, how can you blame her, for she knew no better ways

We can sit here and contemplate for days

But when the days reach its dusk, I will not allow these chains to hold my husk

Complacency ran in my family until it ran into me

I will rebuild from the ruins of complacency

Rebuild and restore gracefully

Because if I don’t, there he’ll be waiting for me…

Complacency

Pleasure

Jaider Moreno

Photography

Wild Animals

by Daniel Albis

This was inevitable. From the moment I laid my eyes on her, I knew that we would end up where we are today. The clairvoyant premonition had haunted me from the first time we made love, scarring me with deep insomnia that took away my land of dreams and transformed me into a sleepwalker. The insomnia was not one of love but of fear that the very love I held would melt away into the ashes of a foreign time or that what I had was not love itself but a mere imitation of what I longed for most. This fear carried me throughout our affair and dragged me to where I was sitting now, a solitary couch in the apartment of the lover to whom I sold my vulnerability in exchange for a summer’s heat and the scent of lavender. Her silhouette commanded the doorway to the bedroom, and the aroma of affections and glass tears created a path to her bed. It’s the same path I followed in the life of youth, and I now follow it in the death of decay. The yellow butterflies of other times no longer lead the way and, in their stead, stand the shadows of disillusion, laughing at me with every step I take into the warmth of her cotton sheets. I begin to sob because I realize even if fate allowed us to mate like wild animals for eternity, this would be the last time we made love.

Red Room of Reflection

Thomas Morcillo

Photography

Endless Fear by Alexander Polo

The end all be all, Isn’t it sweet?

To feed your greed

And stand tall, Without defeat. Remaining all alone, Afraid of the unknown.

An endless fear, Not in present sight, Making the emerald leaves leer, A deep terror invoking fright. The critics remain loud, Invading the crowd. They scare the joyful and faithful, Pushing forward the doubtful and spiteful.

It remains for eternity, Tarnishing my sanity.

The soul yearns for optimism, Feeling ever so lonesome. It combusts in flames, Cremating the chains. Emotions controlled for good, No longer misunderstood. No more eternal fret, For the internal threat.

Several worries left unclosed, Vulnerable to the newly unchained. Will the cycle restart?

Tear my heart apart?

I may never know, Regardless of a yes or no. My head remains high, Until I die.

Why

I’m Scared of the Dark

by Sarah Juan

Missing you is nocturnal A vampire bat Enveloping me in leathery wings, Sucking my hopes for tomorrow I pray for sunrise at every sunset

Artist’s Statement: “The poem, Creature of the Night, delves into homoerotic intimacy, capturing two of my most memorable encounters of passion and desire at the time it was written. It explores the raw, unfiltered emotions of unbridled lechery and finding intimacy within. The poem came to life almost spontaneously, inspired by that night’s energy, emotions, and the music on a drive back home. I pulled over and wrote it in under 30 minutes, allowing raw feelings to flow through me and manifest themselves into the tangible world.”

Creature of the Night

F

elipe Hernández

1st Place Winner

53rd Annual Fred Shaw Poetry Contest

Spring ‘25

I cleanse my flesh, prepared for all A tribute paid to gods of night, Where lust and love entwine in flight.

The city hums, a beast alive, I feel the hunger start to rise. I seek the altar, where they lay, Four bodies swaying, bent in play.

I join their dance, my breath in tune, Beneath the watchful eyes of moons.

I kiss soft lips, indulged in sin, In heated flesh, I start to sink

In his arms, I shed my skin.

His body yields, I find my place, Our union sealed in warm embrace. Inside him, deeper, till I spill, As Eros guides me sharp to thrill.

And yet again, one more I seek, This time, the night grows soft, not bleak. His body, silk beneath my touch,

At last, I leave, beneath the sky, With ecstasy still in my eye. I am the night, I am the flame

216th Street conveys what home means to Yinimi Galego: My definition of home comes from laughter with my family. Even when things aren’t as great as they could be, together we got our smiles on. I wanted the painting to look like a memory rendering in, with those of us still here and those who have passed on in attendance as well. The location is based on the porch at the apartment my parents live in. Many sun-soaked days of my childhood have been spent on that porch. Quoted in moadmdc.org

Bloodhound, Madeleine Wagshul, Digital

Dried Up Roots of My Love

by Elizabeth Villoldo

Can you feel it?

The seasons have changed you.

Once so full, now your branches are quite sparse. I don’t like the moss hanging all around you.

Signs showcasing your endangered.

The bark is brittle and exit holes cover the branches.

I don’t want you to feel pain anymore It worsened far too quickly

You cried when we had to shave it

Your skin’s marred with bruises and spots

Your medical file keeps getting bigger

All the rangers can do is cut you down- prevent it from spreading.

Monitors are flashing and blaring I had to the pull the plug

Heart of Dog, Evelyn Salas

1st Place Winner, ACCESS Art Exhibition, Fall ‘24

Artist’s Statement: Heart of Dog explores the profound interplay between psychological trauma and disability, illustrating how they are interlocked and mutually reinforcing. Conditions, such as Complex PTSD, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Dissociative Identity Disorder, often emerge from traumatic experiences, revealing how trauma can lead to lasting disabilities that deeply affect our emotional and psychological wellbeing. At the same time, living with disabilities— such as autism—can heighten vulnerability to trauma, creating a cycle where each experience exacerbates the other. The glassless frames symbolize this vulnerability, inviting viewers to confront the reality that trauma can strip away protective barriers, leaving us exposed to the emotional scars that define our lives.

The sculptures of the dog and child further embody this somber narrative. The dog represents the emotional support we seek while the child symbolizes the innocence and safety that trauma disrupts. Trauma comes with a risk of disabilities, and disabilities come with a risk of trauma. Together, they highlight that trauma and disability are not just coexisting conditions; they are intricately interwoven, each informing and intensifying the other. Through Heart of Dog I aim to evoke a deeper understanding of these intertwined struggles, urging compassion and awareness for the invisible challenges faced by many as they navigate a world shaped by both trauma and disability.

Heart of Dog, Evelyn Salas, Sculpture

Artist’s Statement: Tony Ryals was born with arthrogryposis, a rare condition that left him unable to use his arms or legs. Tony was placed in a foster home at a very young age, where he was taught strong moral standards on how to make his own way in life. Throughout his career, he had a strong passion for painting ocean views and lighthouses because it reminded him of where he grew up, which was Jacksonville, Florida. Ryals saw disability as an opportunity to spread hope through his art while encouraging others never to give up. While creating and looking past the challenges in his path, he still carried that positive attitude that I admire and strive for.

Seeing Beyond, Wed Yacoub

3rd Place Winner, ACCESS Art Exhibition, Fall ‘24

Artist’s Statement: In my latest painting, Seeing Beyond, I explore the profound significance of eyes as windows to our shared humanity, particularly in the context of disability. The vibrant colors symbolize the diverse perspectives and experiences of individuals with disabilities.

Eyes are often seen as the primary means of perception, but they also embody deeper layers of understanding and connection. By focusing on this singular feature, I aim to challenge preconceived notions about ability and highlight the richness of emotional expression that exists within all of us, regardless of physical limitations. The vision within the gaze invites viewers to engage with the stories, struggles, and triumphs of those who navigate the world differently.

Through this work, I seek to foster empathy and awareness, encouraging a dialogue about the importance of inclusion and representation in the arts. The colors and patterns in my paintings reflect not only the individuality of each subject but also the shared experiences of resilience and strength found in the disability community. By portraying these eyes, I celebrate the beauty in diversity and remind all that true vision comes from understanding and compassion.

Ultimately, Seeing Beyond is an invitation to look deeper, to see not only the surface but also the depth of human experience. My hope is that my paintings resonate with viewers, prompting them to reconsider their perceptions and embrace a more inclusive understanding of what it means to be human.

Seeing Beyond, Wed Yacoub, Paint

Saint Dylan Rodriguez

B&W Photography

My Gentle Gentleman

by Romina Santoro Behn-Eschenburg

Oh, look at him, my gentle gentleman, A poet and a lover, the one who can, With walnut eyes as deep as the ocean, A soft smile and heart made of passion, Set my love aflame till it, burning, shine Brighter than the stars that made him mine.

Yet, in the autumn he shall go, I know, And depart for the sea he calls his home. One final kiss and a longing embrace, And then he will leave, riding the waves. The oaks in his wake shall weep auburn tears, And I’ll wait here for the passage of the years.

And when, sitting by a window in the dark, The touch of a breeze my memory sparks, I’ll close my eyes and whisper to the moon The tale of our love, born one afternoon, Till two turtledoves, upon hearing me sing, Bring him my poem, safe on their wings.

Then, two cold winters shall feel eternal Ere we meet again in love immortal. After the frost, soft spring always comes, And one day, I know, my love will come home. He will take my hand, and we’ll part no more, Hearts and lives united, one forevermore.

Oh, but let us not rush to the end, For most of our story is yet to be penned. We are two writers, loving in verse; Let the quill of the stars fill in the rest. So, look at him now, my gentle gentleman, A poet and a lover, the only one I want.

In the Clouds, Steven Almendares, B&W Photography

Draped in Desire

Yanira Martinez

Photography

To Be a Woman

by Sophia Angulo

To be a woman is to perform for others But to her, it’s life.

Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing, Drea Vandervlugt, Sculpture, 9 x 11 x 9

Fly Away, Steven Almendares, B&W Photography

Ode to Pinus Ellottii Densa

by Sarah Juan

Named for Kings, Queens, Ladies

The royalty of palmettos!

The Magic City with its magical ponytailed palms

A real magic:

Rebirth from ashes, growth from adversity!

The Dade County Slash Pine Regal yet threatened, like so many locals

Like Tequestas, Cast out by “progress”

More Miami than anything

Their branches and boughs built this city

They are found nestled between endlessly sunny skies

Where ibis soar and herons dip

And sandy soil where gopher tortoises dig dutifully

Some fly above to escape the flames

Some burrow below the inferno

Fewer still are slash pines

Burning

But burning to be better

Pointe of Pain

by Yaelis Pena

Ballet wasn’t just a hobby or a pastime for me; it was my calling, my passion, my everything. From the moment I slipped on my first pair of pointe shoes and felt the smooth wooden floor beneath my feet, I knew that I had found my true purpose in life. Every plié, every pirouette, every graceful leap was not only a movement but also a manifestation of my dedication and love for the art form. By the time I turned fourteen, I was already deeply entrenched in the world of ballet, devoting eighteen hours a week to classes and rehearsals. But for me, that was just the beginning.

It was a crisp autumn afternoon when I walked into the Intermediate I class; the sun streaming through the windows, casting a golden glow over the studio floor. As I took my place at the barre, surrounded by younger dancers, I felt a surge of excitement coursing through my veins. These were the moments I lived for—the chance to prove myself and show the world what I was capable of. The class was filled with dancers much younger than me, but I didn’t let that deter me. Instead, I saw it as an opportunity to push myself even further and prove that age was just a number. Little did I know that this class would become the stage for a moment that would change my life forever.

As the class progressed, the instructor called for a leg hold, a challenging move that required both strength and flexibility. With determination burning in my chest, I pushed myself to the limit, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in my muscles. My mind was focused solely on the task at hand—to execute the move flawlessly and prove that I belonged among my peers. But then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed. There was a sudden, sickening crack, a sound that echoed through the studio like a gunshot. Pain exploded through my leg, and I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. The room fell silent as my classmates looked on in horror; their eyes wide with shock. At that moment, I knew something was terribly wrong.

Despite the searing pain, I tried to push through, unwilling to admit defeat. But as I struggled to stand, I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me, and I knew I couldn’t go on. With tears streaming down my face, I limped to the studio owner’s office, my heart heavy

with fear and uncertainty. The paramedics were called, and I was whisked away to the emergency room, the world spinning around me in a blur of lights and sirens. The diagnosis— a severe hamstring tear—hit me like a sledgehammer, shattering my dreams of dancing and leaving me feeling broken and defeated. The physical pain was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil that consumed me. I felt like I had let everyone down: my teachers, my classmates, and most of all, myself.

As I lay in bed, my leg wrapped in a brace, I couldn’t shake the feeling of despair that threatened to consume me. How had everything gone so wrong? It was a question that haunted me day and night, tormenting me with its unanswerable complexity. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, I began to see things in a different light. This injury wasn’t just a setback; it was an opportunity—a chance to reassess my priorities, to rediscover my passion for dance, and to emerge stronger and more resilient than ever before. I delved into physical therapy with a newfound determination, pushing myself to the limit in every session. It wasn’t easy; there were days when the pain was unbearable, and I felt like giving up. But I refused to let the injury define me. I poured my heart and soul into my recovery, drawing strength from the support of my friends, family, and fellow dancers. And slowly but surely, I began to see progress. The physical pain began to subside, replaced by a renewed sense of hope and purpose. I may have been sidelined from dancing, but my love for ballet burned brighter than ever before.

Eight long months passed before I was able to set foot in the studio again; my body still bearing the scars of my injury. But as I took my place at the barre once more, a sense of determination burned within me—a determination to reclaim my place in the world of ballet, to defy the odds, and to prove that no obstacle is too great to overcome. And as I danced, the pain and uncertainty of the past faded away, replaced by a newfound sense of purpose and a deep-seated belief in the power of perseverance. For me, this injury wasn’t the end of the road; it was just the beginning of a new chapter filled with hope, resilience, and belief that no matter how dark the night may seem, the dawn will always break anew.

This injury wasn’t just a setback; it was an opportunity.

Interview by Anett Dominguez

Photography by Lubianka Baltodano

Edits by Daniel Albis

Featured Artist

Stephanie Acosta, Jubilation Dance Ensemble

Anett Dominguez: Before we get started, please introduce yourself.

Stephanie Acosta: Hello, my name is Stephanie Acosta; I am 21 years old and a professional dancer. I have been dancing since I was three years old. I did have a big turn in my dance career when I was diagnosed with scoliosis and had spinal surgery. It really impacted my whole career.

What is scoliosis?

I was born with it, and it is something you are born with where your spine is curved. Therefore, it is not normal. It is not how a spine should be, so that has really impacted my whole dance career. It is a thing, it is real, and it affects so many lives. Thankfully, dance has helped me in a big way. I had a 50° curve. I was not crooked at all, but dancing helped me to be straight. That is a big reason I was never crooked, and you would not notice that I had it.

What was going through your mind when you found out you needed to have spinal surgery?

A lot. I was 13 when they said my spine was so bad that later in life my ribs could collapse from

how crooked I was. I was always getting sick. I had pneumonia three times, and it was just really affecting me. The surgeon said, “Either she has the surgery, or she is going to, you know.” I think I would be more impacted if I did not get the surgery because of the pain I would be in. It happened for a reason, and whatever had to happen, happened for a good reason because it would have been worse if I were still crooked and dancing and doing all these things.

What was the most challenging part of healing post-op?

The recovery process was the most intense thing I have ever gone through in my life. I experienced grueling pain from the surgeon cutting my back open and putting 2 metal rods that I have right now with 26 screws. That is what has been holding me in place. Therefore, that was the most painful. I do not wish that upon anybody.

What made you choose dance as a career?

I have known since I was little. I have been on my dance journey since I was three years old. This is what I am going to do for the rest of my life. However, when that big turn hit me with

my scoliosis interfering with dance, I was scared. I asked myself, “What am I going to do? Like I have no career.” Dance is all I knew, so it was hard. It was difficult to kind of figure that out, but I just knew that it was my thing.

What do you think is the deeper meaning of dance?

The deeper meaning of dance is, I think, just telling a story. I do not really believe in dancing just to dance. I think that telling a meaningful story will touch others. I feel like I have touched others through my performances, especially this past one, “Stitched Steel”. I was telling a story, and I feel like that really touches people.

How do you hope to inspire the next generation of dancers?

Honestly, I hope my story just goes out there, and people see what I went through. Because if someone is going through that same thing, I want them to reach out to me. I just want to change this generation where people are dancing to dance and not just telling a story. Like we mentioned earlier. You know, I just want to talk to people that are going through something just to help them. That is what I would love to do!

You briefly mentioned your plans to own a dance studio? Please elaborate.

Once I finish school and kind of just get more dance experience by taking classes, I want to travel because that’s one thing I really want. Also, I want to audition more. Once I have all that, I will be ready to open my studio, so I will invest in it. I just love teaching, especially teaching dance. That is something that I see myself doing in the future.

Stitched Steel

Choreographed and Performed by

Stephanie Acosta

The Art of Dance Fall ‘24

Miambiance does not own the rights to the music on the video.

Blue #5, Daniel Albis, Photography

The Stilts

by Megan Carrion

(Dramatic news intro plays with clips of reporters and community members dispersed throughout. Lights up on both reporters sitting at their News desk. Close up on the news reporter.)

News Reporter:

Good Afternoon, I’m Dana Avilar and this is John Robertson here with Channel 10 News with the weekend update. Miami is celebrating the 10th annual Miami Palo Alto competition.

Local Miamians go all out decorating their water walking stilts and marching in the annual Palo Alto parade. Local restaurants and cafes have been decorated all week for the event with workers coming in as early as 4 in the morning to set up for festivities.

The competition was started in 2060 when walking water stilts became the norm for local Miamians after downtown flooding reached over 15 feet due to super Hurricane Whitney in 2059. But a little bit of rain never stops the party in Miami Beach!

The stilts first came into use by local Miami residents, being made out of wood or simple rebar being a quick and economical way to avoid any downed power lines or critters in the water. However, thanks to enterprising local business owners, stilts soon became a new burgeoning economic boost for this low income neighborhood.

The Stilts are mass produced on Musk Island using materials from what was formerly the Florida Keys. Talk about Eco Friendly! And tourism has never been better! The event has attracted over 50,000 people into the area with hotel and airbnb sales through the roof. Many people even get custom decorations done to make sure their stilts stand out in these colorful Miami crowds. Everyone can come have fun at this public ticketed event! Certain hotels have even started offering VIP rooftop lounges to get a better view of the procession.

Even Governor Ron Desantis Jr. attended the event with his wife and 7 children. The happy couple announced that they have another bundle of joy on the way. We have our correspondent David Rodriguez on the scene.

(Cut to a VIP rooftop with a background view of the parade. The correspondent smiles at the

camera with the governor standing across from him. The governor’s family is beside him lined up in height order. His wife is at the end in her light pink wheelchair with two babies, visibly pregnant.)

Correspondent:

Great to speak with you Governor, sir. How have you and your family been enjoying the festivities? And how are you feeling about your newest family member?

Governor:

We are so happy to welcome another life into our family. After the twins put my sweet wife in a wheelchair, we thought that was it for our family. But seeing as we had three boys and four girls, the whole family felt unbalanced without a strong male majority. And you know how important strong family values are to me and to my constituents. So I decided we would keep trying! Now we have a miracle baby alive and well growing stronger by the day.

Correspondent:

Any baby names yet?

Governor:

I’ve been thinking of maybe Christian or Jason. But I’ll

have an announcement at our Republican fundraising event next week.

Correspondent:

And we’ll see you there, sir! Back to you, John.

(Cut to the Newsdesk. Close up on News Reporter 2.)

News Reporter 2:

In other news the I-395 renovations have been pushed back once more with officials stating a new expected completion date of late 2072. Officials have claimed the delay is due to the rising cost of building materials. When asked if the mass construction worker drowning that took place 2 months ago at the Wynwood elevation site was another reason for extra delays, officials denied any influence. Our correspondent, Michael Gonzalez, spoke to one of the construction officials earlier today.

(Cut to interview clip. Construction Official stands in front of a dilapidated building with workers coming in and out behind him.)

Construction Official:

Nobody wants to work anymore. People think that now because they can fish and get food anywhere in Miami that they don’t have to work. I’ve had guys say

they can’t make it into work. “Oh, my neighborhood is flooded. Oh, my kids’ school closed down, and I have to watch them. Oh, my wife has cholera.” Mi vieja también tiene mucha cólera, but I still come to work you know?

Correspondent:

Do you know when construction will commence again?

Construction Official:

Whenever they get through all the bureaucratic tape, those desk jockeys let us get back to work, and they clean up the police tape. But how hard is it to clear some garbage out?

Correspondent:

Let’s hope that happens soon. I know I’m excited to get back on the highway to break in my 2073 Jeep Wrangler! Back to you, Dana.

(Cut to the Newsdesk. Close up on News Reporter.)

News Reporter:

Thank you Michael; I’m sure everyone is excited to get back on the roads!

In more somber news the last known Florida Panther has passed away. Its body was found waterlogged in a lake in the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge. Experts believe last night’s tornadoes were responsible for throwing the panther into the lake. It appears that after falling in, the panther was entangled in old fishing lines and was unable to swim to the surface, eventually drowning. Officials have reassured the community that a fence will be put around the lake when the area is converted into a golf course next month. Safety first!

News Reporter 2:

Sounds like that panther needed a good pair of stilts!

News Reporter:

You said it, John! Join us tomorrow for our newest segment: “Is that an alligator or a crocodile in my yard?” hosted by Sarah Maria Restrepo.

(The reporters smile at the camera as the outro music plays. Cut to black.)

Crimson Blood

by Melissa Martinez

I retreat from the butcher’s lair, forfeiting my right to eat, for his knife reminds me of the tear, your hands so dearly wished to treat.

At night, I walk away from all, from my hopes and dreams, at night, I take the fall, just to see you beam.

And I stride under storms, I swim over mountains, I pray to the Lord, tears feeding secular fountains.

Yet he never listens, well, why should he ever? He knows I’ve only bled crimson, for a love that’s merely kept me tethered.

Smiling Cures Every Ailment, Alexa Neadle Mixed Media, 8.3 x 8.3

Into the Rabbit Hole

By Alexa Neadle

Wake up

Go to work

Come home

Sleep Repeat.

A monochrome day in a monochrome life

Yet I see a smidge of color

Something new!

I hold it close, hoping to absorb its palette

To bask in its warmth in the cold reality I face every day.

Blues Reds

Yellows

A new pace brings focus

To the blurry days that pass by like seconds on the clock

A muse

Someone has finally changed the channel on the old static television.

It was my everything

My other world that made real life more bearable

All my attention surrounded it

Like a performer in the middle of a sold-out stadium

But all good things must come to an end.

Soon the thought of it loses its vibrance

Fading into the background of my reality

Tones muting as the sands in the hourglass slowly sift

Until there is nothing but monochrome once more.

Wake up

Go to work

Come home

Sleep Repeat.

But what’s that I spot?

A new set of colors.

And the cycle begins again.

Spearbearer

Madeleine Wagshul

Digital, 2075 x 1774

Untitled, Salma Gonzalez, Digital, 768 x 1366

Vol. 34 Awards

Associated Collegiate Press (ACP)

NOLA 24: Fall National College Media Convention, October 30 - November 3, 2024, at The Sheraton New Orleans in New Orleans, LA:

• Pacemaker and Pinnacle Finalist

• Pinnacle Awards

• Best of Collegiate Design-Division I-II and 2-year:

• Best Literary Magazine Spread 1st place,

• Best Literary Magazine Table of Contents 2nd place

• Best Magazine Cover 3rd place

• Best of Show Award: 1st place

65th Annual Florida College System Publications Association (FCSPA) Conference and Awards Banquet on Friday, November 15, 2024, in Ocala, FL:

• General Excellence 1st place - Magazines - Division B

• Poetry 1st place

• “El Sueño Nicaragüense” by Kathleen Roque Montero, p. 8

• “Mountains and the People Who Climb The” by Megan Carrion, pp. 5-6

• “Te Veo” by Josselin Ponce Gallardo, p. 22

• Fiction 1st place

• “Voices: Sapphic Longing and Panic at the End of the World” by Megan Carrion, pp. 41-48

• Two Page Spread 1st place

• “To Become Clean, Take a Shower” by Britney Oliva, p. 27 and “Chloe” by Elizabeth Vianele, p. 28

• Design by Salma Gonzalez

• Design 1st place by Salma Gonzalez

• Editing 1st place by Salma Gonzalez

• Cover 1st place by Salma Gonzalez

• Staff 1st place by Salma Gonzalez, pp. iv-v

• Poem 2nd place

• “To Become Clean, Take a Shower” by Britney Oliva, p. 27

• Artworks 2nd place

• “Mercury vs. Psyche” by Crystal Ortiz, p. 11

• “Reborn” by Karla Li Huang, p. 52

• “Ghost” by Natalia Cordoba, p. 55

• Contents 2nd place by Salma Gonzalez

• Nonfiction 3rd place

• “Feature Artist Interview” by Ian Nicholson, pp. 33-36

• Photo 3rd place

• “Amparo” by Lorena Marrero, p. 13

• Photography 3rd place

• “Morning Chores” by Elizabeth Vianele, p. 43

• “Drifting” by Lorena Marrero, p. 48

• “Hugging Pacha Mama” by Isabella Rojas Silva, p. 17

• Inner Circle Award (awarded to students with three or more awards)

• Salma Gonzalez

National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE):

• Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (REALM) Program awarded Superior on January 7, 2025.

College Media Association (CMA) ProCon25: Spring National College Media Convention, February 26-March 1, 2025, at the Marriott Marquis in New York, NY:

• Apple Awards: 1st Place Best Magazine, Two-Year Colleges

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) 101th Annual Spring Convention, March 19th -21st , at Columbia University, New York, NY:

• Crown Awards Finalist

• Silver Crown Recipient

• Gold Circles (Individual) Awards

• Traditional Fiction: Certificate of Merit, “Voices: Sapphic Longing and Panic at the End of the World” by Megan Carrion, pp. 41-48

• Table of Contents page: 2nd place, Salma Gonzalez

• Single Illustration, hand-drawn: 2nd place, “Mercury vs. Psyche” by Crystal Ortiz, p.11

• Single Illustration, computer generated: 2nd place, “The Bouquet” by Gabriela Perez Azocar, p.51

• Photography, portfolio of work: 3rd place, Lorena Marrero, pp. 13, 25, and 48

• Photo Illustration: 2nd place, “Reborn” by Karla Li Huang, p. 52

• Design Portfolio: 1st place, Salma Gonzalez

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 and sent to miambiance@gmail.com. The proper submission forms can be found on the official Miambiance website (www.mdc.edu/miambiance/) and Linktree (https://linktr.ee/miambiancevol35). 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 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.

Colophon

The 35th annual edition of Miambiance was designed using Windows computers with OS Windows 10. The software used in this production includes the following Adobe Creative Cloud Applications: Photoshop, Illustrator, and Indesign. Adobe Stock images were also used. Volume 35 is printed on Gloss Cover, Gloss Text, and Reich CT Clear by PF Solutions: A Print Company. Miambiance does not own the rights to the music on the video Stitched Steel.

Board of Trustees

Michael Bileca

Chair, Miami Dade College District Board of Trustees

Nicole Washington

Vice Chair, Miami Dade College District Board of Trustees

Dr. Anay Abraham

Roberto Alonso

Maria Bosque Blanco

Marcell Felipe

Ismare Monreal

Miami Dade College is an equal access/equal opportunity institution which does not discriminate on the basis of sex, race, color, marital status, age, religion, national origin, disability, veteran’s status, ethnicity, pregnancy, sexual orientation or genetic information. To obtain more information about the College’s equal access and equal opportunity policies, procedures and practices, please contact the College’s Civil Rights Compliance Officer: Cindy Lau Evans, Director, Equal Opportunity Programs/ ADA Coordinator/ Title IX Coordinator, at (305) 237-2577 (Voice) or 711 (Relay Service).