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miambiance vol. 36

pulling, miranda hill, colored pencil & acrylic ink, 9 x 12 in.

artist statement: “This piece is a picture of my dad. He is a videographer and usually works at the University of Miami recording sports games. One day he was at a game, and I think his photographer friend started taking pictures of the guys for fun; this is one of the pictures taken of my dad. He loved it so much and thought it was really artistic and physiological. He kept saying to me, ‘I want you to draw this.’ Eventually, I did. I still have all the pictures of my process. I used the photograph to draw a sketch with pencil on paper. I usually start with colored pencils beginning with the eyes and slowly working my way out from there. The whole piece is in colored pencil — just using the techniques I’ve taught myself over the years — with acrylic ink to create fine details like the hair and some darkness and contrast around the eyes, as well as the background. This piece is special to me, and I am proud of it. I am very excited that it has been selected as the face of Miambiance Vol. 36.” —Miranda Hill

miambiance literature & arts magazine vol. 36 Edited solely by Kendall Campus’ students Copyright 2026 Miami Dade College, Kendall Campus 11011 SW 104 Street Miami, Fl 33176 Literary Adviser Rita Fernandez-Sterling Photography & Visual Arts Adviser Tony Chirinos www.mdc.edu/miambiance miambiance@gmail.com Instagram, Facebook Linktree

Scan for all things Miambiance

staff

Photography by John Izquierdo

Rita Fernandez-Sterling Literary Adviser Alexander Polo Co-Editor-in-chief

Divyasri Kadambi Social Media

Matthew Sanchez Prose/Poetry Editor Ishibella Ferretti Club President

Aleska Castillo Executive Editor

Sofia Sanchez Podcast Editor

Sophia Massie Co-Editor-in-chief

Jordan Andrews-Bergman Prose/Poetry Editor

Tony Chirinos Visual Arts/Photography Adviser

Salma Gonzalez Co-Designer

Connor Bard Prose, Poetry and Podcast Editor

Arce Silveira Prose Editor

Miguel Mardelli Prose/Poetry Editor Mario Licor Co-Designer

editors’ notes Our minds are unpredictable. One moment, we experience happiness, the next we lose and long for it. It’s trauma affected by the inflicted behaviors of those in power. The ones who have cut everyone’s wings so that they can no longer rise. These are thoughts I am grateful to help express in this volume. It has been an honor to have worked with the Miambiance staff on Volumes 35 and 36. The theme was not very clear at first, so it took some time to form. We noticed a pattern in the literature pieces that were reflective to the mind’s behavior. Each of these works expressed heartbreak, melancholy, and human nature. The artworks also told these intense stories with their imagery. A touch of vulnerability was present in the photography and visual art. Together, the artist’s messages all express their psyche. These individuals gave us a glimpse into their hearts with their words and hands. It has been a privilege to work with this team during Miami Dade College’s 2025 fall and 2026 spring terms. Being able to help encourage creativity has been a treat. Seeing their passion as well as their talent blossom through this period really impressed me. Without all of them, this magazine wouldn’t be what it is. It reflects the staff’s commitment to make the unheard voices heard in Miami Dade College’s Kendall Campus. This magazine reflects the times we’ve always lived in. It expresses the behaviors present since the beginning of time, lashing out on others for better or for worse. May these student works pull you into another’s psyche. Give you a glimpse into one of the eight billion people on this planet. Each work may melt your heart or punch your gut, but may it, most of all, wake you up! “Emancipate Yourselves From Mental Slavery” —Marcus Garvey

Alexander Polo

Dear Reader, The Arts have a special place in my heart. Becoming the Visual Arts and Photography editor-in-chief is something I have taken in stride. Seeing first-hand how many hours it takes an art student to perfect their craft well before submissions are even due is eye opening. How each student Miami Dade College Kendall Campus pours their all into their work to then have the vulnerability to trust us with their work is something I don’t take lightly. Knowing what it takes as a photographer myself, I am proud of all the work that the students have submitted. I hope that as you read Volume 36, you take the time to soak in each art and literature piece. Look beyond each page. The longer you gaze into a black and white photograph or re-read a poem a couple of times, the more you can internalize the trials and tribulations it takes as an artist to get published. This magazine is a direct reflection of the state of the world we live in. Every year it is increasingly difficult to be taken seriously in the arts. As dark times are upon us, it’s important to stop and enjoy art and literature now more than ever. Education and the ability to expand on new ideas creatively is our strongest form of protest. I want to thank the Miambiance staff. Without each of the unique skills that were brought into the class this magazine would not be possible. Every week I got to see everyone work diligently, making sure to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. Tony Chirinos and Rita Fernandez-Sterling, thank you for not only believing in me but also entrusting me as an editor. Having two advisers who continuously push me outside of my comfort zone, I have learned to accept nothing less than excellent.

Sophia Massie

Cover Artist Statement Staff Editors’ Notes

i-ii iii-vi v-vi

poetry visual art 1

Daphne, Angelina Andreu

Bound To Bloom, Elizabeth Hernandez

Pick Any Color, Alexander Polo

Support, Samantha Cabrera

Empty House, Gabriela Diaz

Preservation, Evelyn Salas

One Life, a Thousand Regrets, Aleska Castillo

Cunty, Kerry Scott

11-12

Bars From My Home, Aitana Salmeron

MOAD Open Studio No. 3, Lucia Morales

An Unwavering Beauty, Jewel Prezeau

‘Til Death, Nidia Espinoza

The Human Gift, Mario Louie

Breaking Point, Samantha Cabrera

The End, Alexa Neadle

Closer Than They Appear, Katelynn Jerkins

Rainfall Stops At Thunder, Aleska Castillo

Bait, Natalie Rebollo

Desert Choir, Amber Escarza

Camouflage, Miranda Hill

Rainbow Fish, Camila Caballero

Tainted Whistle, Alexander Polo

Dragon Teapot, Drea Vandervlugt

42-43

Red Beyond, Jenessa Cantu

Another Lost Girl, Ishibella Ferretti

Focus, Miranda Hill

Grief, Jordan Andrews-Bergman

Rib Cage, Ian Perez

Over One’s Own, Alexander Polo

Infrared, Samantha Cabrera

Banshee, Ishibella Ferretti

Head Bang, Miranda Hill

Sonnet of Hard Forgotten Labor, Alexander Polo

Memento Mori, Mario Louie

Weight of the World, Connor Bard

Softly Covered, Elizabeth Hernandez

49-52

Dear Diary, Alexa Neadle

Celine, Scarlett Simon-Darias

53-54

Undelivered, Alexa Neadle

Welcome to the Streets, Naisha Simon

First! Drinks!, Alisha Agosto

The Temple, Junior Casas

Balance in the Chaos, Roger Regueria

Goblin Army, Mario Louie

If I Could Draw Your Eyes, Rosemarie Vazquez

Time, Khaylia Sajous

If Only His Feelings Were Shared, Sofia Sanchez

Uncontrollable Urge, Miguel Mardelli

Body, Alexander Polo

Half, Aitana Salmeron

Life Beyond Death, Manuel Vazquez

The Bones, Dalilah Salgado

Little Things & Their Impact, Manuel Vazquez

Missing You, Angelina L. Coca

To Be Loved, Jordan Andrews-Bergman

The Persistence of Time, Rosemarie Vazquez

contents

prose photography

A Monster Called Language, Luis Silva

360 Light Grab, Juan Guevara

The Absolute Corruptor, Miguel Mardelli

The Trick, Juan Guevara

33-36

Featured Artist Interview, Sofia Sanchez

Beyond the Fence, Luca Lausell

17-18

65-67

Monty Python, Mario Louie

Our Last Home, Maximo Ayerdis

Forgotten Innocence, Cassandra Pupo

Soapmason, Nicholas Carey

Trophies, Sophia Massie

Featured Artist Photography, Sophia Massie

Cross Between The Smoke, Jaider Moreno

Big Ol’ Bitch, Maria Nicole Ayon

Life From Above, Ninette Portero

Pillars of Love and Hate, Ninette Portero

Dream, Angelina L. Coca

Trinket, Dylan Rodriguez

Haydee Rivera, Angelina L. Coca

La Presencia De Tu Espíritu, Angelina L. Coca

Realizations, Angelina L. Coca

Rat King, Photography, Sasha Dokova

Adam and Steve, Dylan Rodriguez

Traffic Jam, Sophia Massie

Predator, Maria Nicole Ayon

Specter, Oscar Ronquillo

Vanity, Maria Nicole Ayon

Voyeur, Oscar Ronquillo

Christmas Tree, Sophia Massie

America, Oscar Ronquillo

Por Nuestro Amor Perdido, Ishibella Ferretti

viii ix x xi

Audio Awards Colophon Special Thanks

daphne

by angelina andreu When a tree falls in the forest, Will it still make a sound, Even if no one is around to hear? If there are no people around, You cannot turn into their heart’s truest desire. Who will you be? Where there is nothing to hide behind. No one to please. You are the only tree in the forest. Do you make a sound? Do your roots twist and shape and try to break your fall, Or does your trunk resign itself and fall as easily as a leaf? If you had no people to please, Would you be a loud tree?

bound to bloom elizabeth hernandez graphite, 3029 x 3840 px

pick any color by alexander polo

Pick any color on the wheel, And see what it reveals. Match whichever suits you, From the warmest to the chilliest of hues. Don’t overthink and blunder, Filling your mind with gruesome thunder For there is no win or lose. You choose green as you glance around, Concerned with attracting the mean. Switch to red when you form a frown, Wishing to be the talk of town. Hungry for your abilities to be seen, Solely expecting everyone’s curiosity. Pick pink as you overthink, Thinking your brain continues to shrink. Yellow to captivate others and allure, Seeking only recognition and praise. Revert to pink, remaining unsure, When you want to play it safe. An inconsistent and orbiting state of mind, Not knowing what it wants, that’s so hard to find. Rational thoughts go blind, Full of second thoughts, remaining hesitant, But afraid of falling behind.

support, samantha cabrera acrylic paint on canvas, 16 x 20 in.

a monster called “language” by luis silva

At least, that’s what they say. Nobody says your dreams could be gobbled up by a monster, a monster that not everyone is willing to face. Some just turn around and go back. Others avoid fighting with such a giant, evading situations and staying in their comfort zone. But that wasn’t for me. I did want to fight. I still fight, sometimes struggling, but always with a sight of the future. The battle was, is, and always will be tough. This beast is not an ordinary one; this beast is one well known. You might be asking yourself: What is it? The answer is as simple as it is complex: “Language”. Defeating that monster means learning words and phrases; but also finding the strength to keep your identity alive. As you delve into a new culture, your background is in danger of being completely erased. I’ve been fighting for a while, facing uncomfortable situations that being a stranger has brought to me. Simple things became shameful scenarios. Something as simple as asking for a black coffee in a cafeteria could end with tea in my hands and a pair of red cheeks. I’ve been fighting for a while, working in places that I don’t like at all and doing jobs that although honest, made me feel like I didn’t belong here, not after I spent five years of my life studying in my homeland. This is something that the monster will do to you; it will keep your dreams from you until you defeat it. If you want to be a successful person here, then you will have to master the local language. I want to be a professional, but sitting in a classroom in college has been the greatest challenge of my life. Being in a college classroom far away from what I thought it would be, has been a torment. Jumping into college after I thought I had learned enough English was not fun. Sitting there in my very first classes was like a silent blur of struggle. Sitting there by the side of people who speak English in its most standardized form, a form that some dare to call “Perfect”, was the fuel for my

insecurities. The feeling of being the otherworldly guy was rapidly reinforced, and at that point, I just limited myself to listening. I was there as a decorative object. No talking, no moving, just being there, and praying that the professor didn’t ask me anything. I thought I was beating the monster, but a new dilemma arose. Maybe my fears now were not in committing errors, but in the thoughts of others about me. I was afraid of being appointed, weirdly watched, or judged by the way I speak. The feeling spread beyond the classroom. I didn’t want the people to recognize my accent. I would rather speak in Spanish than use my English with a deeply Cuban accent, but every time I spoke Spanish, I felt how the monster was devouring my dreams. An idea lived in my mind for a long time: What am I doing here? Maybe I am not cut out for this. But the life I left behind, and those who needed me–especially my mom–were the engine that kept me going. Now I have found my own voice, I have beaten my demons, and I have found my confidence. Now I talk with no fears in my heart, I talk, I talk! It doesn’t matter what they say because my accent is a mark of intelligence, a mark that shows hard work and sacrifices. It’s a constant reminder of where I came from, who I really am. It’s a mark that keeps my culture existent inside me. Before, being an outsider was a reason for shame, but now I have comprehended it as a signal of hardship, nights without sleep, sacrifices, efforts, and fulfilled dreams. Today, I don’t have to hide my accent anymore. I don’t have to feel ashamed when talking, I can now ask for that black coffee and get exactly what I want. I can sit in my classroom and talk fluently in English using my Cuban accent. Today, I don’t feel the weight of being an alien from another planet, because today my accent is proof that I overcame my challenges and defeated that monster that frustrated me in the past.

“Being the outsider never was my plan, but oppression, pain, and suppression dragged me to a new land.”

preservation, evelyn salas, charcoal, 1600 x 1186 px

miambiance | 6

empty house

by gabriela diaz 1st place ready, set, write! fall ‘25 memory is a fickle friend or maybe an enemy she shows up only to ding-dong ditch deny me her company but not her curse of “almost” and “could’ve been” I load cassette tapes that play laugh tracks and ambient voices so something might echo down these halls other than regret nostalgia is a liar but she is the only one who dials my number she winds her words around my heart like a telephone cord I wish she’d stop calling I wish I knew how to hang up but my silence longs for company other than anger who sits with me in every moon I’m in makes it impossible to breathe every room is suffocating cluttered with her presence I wish joy would come back I know I threw her out I wish she’d ring my bell, anyway and invite me out to a different house one with a party or at least other people I’m tired of this empty house cunty, kerry scott digital, 2048 x 2732 px

360 light grab, juan guevara, photography, 3,547 x 5,520 px

one life, a thousand regrets by aleska castillo

Then it seemed our memories began creeping back. Our eyes betrayed that we remembered how our connection also instilled. As we loved each other, we would hate. Overwhelming joy matched insufferable pain, and the doubt over going through it all again soon emerged in our voices. Each of us, as if awakening from a trance, began to feel simultaneously the strength of our gravity fading. the sun was breaking the cloud’s monopoly on the sky. When Angie got home the following evening, I had her favorite dinner on the table. “How were your parents, babe?” I asked as she walked in the door. “Stressed out. You know, every time I go back I’m reminded why I left in first place.” “Why? What happened?” I asked as I sat to dinner. “My mom and dad couldn’t stop fighting and bitching. It’s a wonder how they’ve stayed together so many years. Can you believe that two people who can’t stand to be one another for more than five minutes could stay together for thirty?” She put the baby in the crib.

the trick, juan guevara, photography, 4,426 x 2,794 px

bars from my home

by aitana salmeron 1st place, expression through ekphrasis, ‘25 Growing up, this was my favorite spot at home My room with a single window barred with metal bars, The metal rusting from years of this building standing still Standing still in the years of no progression, A country aging yet with no means of a new generation, That is the Cuba I left behind.

photography by john izquierdo

moad open studio no. 3 lucia morales (mdc kendall artist-in-residency summer ‘25)

So what is there to miss? The sights my young eyes behold, People in tattered clothes, the skin of old people sagging, Dogs walking along the road with bones exposed, But when I rolled the window up a bit and pressed my nose to the glass, It came rushing back. People chattering, the dominoes falling, the cars driving on the dusty road, The dust would cloud up and make its way into my open window, causing me to cough. How could I, in spite of its faults, still crave to experience it once more? Because my new room isn’t the same; I can’t feel the humaneness anymore. The men are knocking on my door, and the bars of my window are no longer there keeping me safe, I can’t stick my hand out and feel freedom but instead the shackles that were placed. But what country preys on the immigrant dream? The wonders of escape that force you to leave what you knew behind? Cuba, in its way of staying frozen in time? Or the United States, in its ideology of freedom yet promising otherwise. I grab onto the bars, not of my home, but of the van we were tossed into. This is not home, after all.

‘til death nidia espinoza white charcoal 1682 x 1845 px

an unwavering beauty by jewel prezeau

Seeking perfection in imperfection, Blurs of “beauty” pass me by. Clouding my vision, My heart’s bound by indecision. Do I live in the truth or in the lie? In this life of decaying The spirit saying, Come alive. Watching and waiting I feel like I’m fading. I don’t know where the time goes When I Waste it all. I feel myself changing. It’s commemorating To see you move When I fall You pick me up… Memories Begin fading into the distance. A vague image in my mind Turning into black and white. I’m changing, And change isn’t something new. Time just doesn’t let you stay. I’m making do with what I have today. And it’s hard to let go Of what you called home. A payment for prayer is a single breath, And it’s one I’m willing to give back to you. My unwavering beauty.

breaking point, samantha cabrera acrylic paint and alcohol marker, 16 x 20 in.

the human gift by mario louie 1st place

speak your mind!

fall ‘25

Spoken Poetry, What’s that mean to me? Words said, hanging in the air. A kite off its string, floating with no care. Vibrations reverberating in your ear. Without these drums you couldn’t hear. BANG! CRASH! POP! Onomatopoeia, it all would stop Yet do we ever pause to think Of the gratitude that allows to sink? All these words made meaningless Without what we call– The human gift

miambiance | 16

the end

by alexa neadle Sometimes I think about the last time I will ever do things. The last time I’ll eat my favorite food The last time I’ll dream The last hug I’ll ever give; the last hug I’ll ever get The last time I’ll ever see my family. In a way, I’ve reached those milestones already. The last time I ever napped after a long day at school

The last time I was ever carried by my parents The last time I ever slept over that one friend’s house The last time I ever ate school cafeteria food. I know that with growing up, my life will take turns. I’ll develop a new routine New memories that replace the old ones Like recording a new movie on a VCR tape,

beyond the fence luca lausell b&w photography 6,672 x 4,288 px

And I’ll never know that those experiences were my last time. I always thought I wasn’t afraid of death. He was just an old friend coming to visit I know that I’m afraid of how I’ll go out I cannot control when my old friend will come to pick me up Or the situation in which he does so That’s the scary part, not having control.

I always thought that my end would be by my own hand. I would have control over the epilogue of my biography But I can’t control how long the string of my life is How resistant it is to the scissors that try to cut it In a way, my need for control worked hard to unravel it And now I’m glad that my scissors were dull.

rainfall stops at thunder by aleska castillo

Sky’s flashing roots stretched but their light reached the eye first, before thunder rang.

miambiance | 19

closer than they appear, katelynn jerkins, acrylic on canvas, 12 x 12 in.

desert choir

by amber escarza Kids were jumping from the rocks that day families cheering, sunlight reflecting off the water like it had something to prove. Everyone felt alive. And then, smoke. Fire started only feet from me a grill, a spark, a thoughtless celebration. We cleared before I ever got to jump. Strange how quick joy turns to danger how beauty doesn’t warn you before it burns. That day, I learned the land breathes, and sometimes, it chokes.

our last home, maximo ayerdis, b&w photography, 1,664 x 1,064 px

miambiance | 22

rainbow fish

by camila caballero Countless missions Waking up alongside the sun Knowledge is freedom They say As I challenge my gray matter One perished tree at a time It seems as though it will never end The infinite loop to the top of the food chain Keeping my rainbow fish in mind I will push until I am proud As I sit in my squeaky desk In an arctic cold room Doodling on the corner of my paper A rainbow fish For as long as I live So will my fertile mind Repeating the image of my fish Until I am set free

bait, natalie rebollo, mixed media, 10.8 x 16 in.

tainted whistle by alexander polo

A flutist tunes her flute, Away from the surrounding brutes Who believe she’s forming a coup. Other flutists soon join her And play their parts together, To call the spurned emperor. The notes reach past rattlesnakes, And into the gold tower’s windows, Conveying ache for mankind’s sake. The lungs blow for roots to grow, But the crowned one looks below With laughter, unglossed with pretend, Gladly yelling, “Off with their heads!” Picked from their carpets pleading for help, Head after head gone by an axe who’s swinging, Not to end singing tunes, but with yelps; Attached to sticks, their heads are barely clinging. The pitch has fainted, And it lies tainted. It may remain unacquainted, But a call for love was painted. The flute’s now tainted whistle Stays shadowed by the official. These visions further bristle, Once pulled from books; They carry frightened attacks Despite their heightened cracks, It ceaselessly pushes the overlooked. The whistle to an open window for change Reaches to ones who find it strange. The road to harmony fogs hard, Harmonic ideas still char, Keeping their guard, lying jarred. For ones to themselves strongly chiseled, The flute sends their tainted whistle, Far to all artificial and superficial— But it’s unheard.

forgotten innocence cassandra pupo b&w photography 6,608 x 4,192 px

soapmason, nicholas carey, photography, 2,667 x 4,000 px

another lost girl by ishibella ferretti

I looked fearfully at the portraits. They seemed like real people regarding me severely for having trespassed into their domain. I felt the house was jeering at me and I wanted Polly. I was getting near to panic. I had the uneasy notion that I was caught and never going to get away. I was going to spend the rest of my life wandering about the house trying to find my way out. There was a door at one end of the gallery. I went through this and was in another long passage. I was facing a flight of stairs. It was either a matter of going on or going back to the gallery. I mounted the stairs; there was another passage and then …a door. Recklessly I opened this. I was in a small dark room. In spite of mounting fears I was fascinated. There was something foreign about it. The curtains were of heavy brocade and there was a strange smell. I learned afterwards that it was sandalwood. There were brass ornaments on carved wooden tables. It was an exciting room and for a moment I forgot my fears. There was a fireplace and on the mantel shelf a fan. It was very beautiful, in a lovely shade of blue with big black spots. I knewwhat it was, because I had seen pictures of peacoeks. It was a fan made of peacock feathers. I felt an urge to touch it. I could just reach it by standing on tiptoe. The feathers were very soft. Then I looked about me. There was a door. I went to it. Perhaps I could find someone who would show me the way back to the schoolroom and Miss York. I opened the door and looked cautiously in:

miambiance | 28

the absolute corruptor by miguel a. mardelli

Donnie never had much to show for himself. At least, that is how he felt after taking into account the roads that life had taken him. 45 years of bitter, unfulfilled existence. And what had he done with all that time? What had he won? Or proved? Or even just gained? These were the questions bombarding his mind as he drove down to the closest forest near his vicinity, his hunting equipment accompanying him from the co-pilots seat.

It took a while for Donnie to come up with anything to say. “Well, the name’s Donnie, and… I work. A lot.” Then came a swig from his drink. “Accounting. Lots of paperwork. Nothing meaningful, really.” He thought a bit more on whether to add anything else after that. “Don’t have much more going on beyond that. Nowadays, I don’t speak with my family and I don’t have hobbies. Sorry if that’s more boring than you expected.”

Under normal circumstances, he would have never considered trying the activity. Truth be told, he had no real interest in weaponry, and he felt a chill whenever he caught the sight of blood. However, he was not there for leisure – rather, he had a promise to fulfill.

“Hmm… That what you think?” mused the old man before finishing his drink. “Well, that ain’t right… a young man as yourself, all lost out there…” He looked at the empty glass, deep in thought, as if the answer to whatever it was that was haunting him would appear to him if he concentrated hard enough. Donnie would have begun to feel bad for being a moodkiller had the old man not started again, “Well, tell ya what! Ya do remind me of my long-gone kid, and since I ain’t using them no more… Would ya be interested in some huntin’ equipment?”

He dug in his pocket for a couple of crumpled old bills, and he ordered the house special. It had been earlier that week, another lonely night down Donnie’s favorite pub. The night crawled on as Donnie drowned his sorrows away, and it was at that point that his spending cash had disappeared into the bar’s funds, so he was about ready to head home. That is, until the man next to him put a hand on his shoulder. He stifled a burp before he began speaking. “H-Hey, leavin’ so early?” The scruffy looking old man took a closer look at Donnie before proceeding. “Woah, why the long face?” “It’s, uh, it’s none of your business,” Donnie said, caught off-guard by the questions. However, he immediately reconsidered his answers and gave it another shot. “No, sorry, it’s just that, well… I’ve no money left.” “Heh! That ain’t no problem! Here, let me buy you somethin’ nice…” He dug in his pocket for a couple of crumpled old bills, and he ordered the special of the house. “So, what’s your deal, eh?”

He never did stop to ask him for his name, yet Donnie still took everything he offered him. The guilt from that was partly what pushed him to give hunting an opportunity; after all, that old man had been so eager for him to try. It would be incredibly impolite of Donnie to not even give it a shot. Not that he had any idea of what he would do, given that he only got a change of clothes, a rifle, ammunition, and a cooler box to take a few drinks and some food along. Initially, not much was accomplished by Donnie outside of loafing around and enjoying the chilly sights of nature; things that some would consider enough, but as someone disinterested into the world of flora, Donnie could only focus on the fact that he had wasted a precious sick day on this outing. He found himself relatively deep into the heart of the forest which, on the eve of winter, was all covered with a thick sheet of snow – the status of the forest taunting the fact that he had forgotten to bring any sort of temperature protection, which made him begin to prepare to go back home.

trophies, sophia massie, b&w photography, 6,608 x 4,208 px But then, from the corner of his eye, he just barely managed to make out a figure, standing on four legs over a stray patch of green grass. One with such grace and class, it seemed out of this world. Ethereal, dreamlike, perfect, taunting, mocking. And just as he approached to take a closer look, it mouthed something to seemingly no one, and it ran off. Donnie could barely understand why, but he had to chase it down, see where it led him. However, the figure began to slowly slip away from Donnie’s vision, gracefully skipping through the snow, gradually fading away, like a phantom. With an uncontrollable urge, he desperately scrambled to find a way, any way to slow it down. His right hand limped as it held the weight of the rifle, and once he remembered that he was carrying it, he instinctively grabbed it properly and fired a shot. He had not been sure why he had done it or what he wanted to accomplish with it, but after the loudest noise he had ever heard ringed through his skills, there was a deep stillness in the air… Once he opened them, his eyes had

to accommodate to the darkness, but the figure sprawled on the floor was unmistakable. He inched closer, and only then was he able to recognize the figure as an animal. A deer, to be precise, a female one of considerable age.

Ethereal, dreamlike, perfect, taunting, mocking. And it was then that – for what felt like the first time ever – Donnie felt a rush of pure joy go down his spine. It began slowly, but then a great happiness took hold of all his body; dropping the rifle, he slowed down and acknowledged his achievement. For the first time, he was able to rise above the situation, to see life mocking him for his inability to change anything, and to strike back. He saw a small deer and a bigger deer a few miles back too, just small specks in the distance, but high off the feeling of agency. He decided to let them be free. As he left the pair to grieve, Donnie felt strong as he walked back. He felt in control of his own life. He felt as if nobody could stop him. For the very first time... he felt true power.

grief

by jordan andrews-bergman Grief is an ocean Crashing waves Surf on the swell Get knocked in Do not drown Swim back up Gasp for breath The riptide pulls you back under Swim with it Don’t fight it That will make it worse. Eventually, you’ll get to the head. The water will calm You’ll breathe easy again. Grief is an ocean. You know how to swim.

camouflage, miranda hill color pencil, acrylic ink, 11 x 14 in.

featured artist

magehela “maggie” requejo Sofia Sanchez: Maggie, tell us a little bit about yourself. What’s your origin story?

The reviews state that you are an amazing actor. Tell us when this passion began.

Magehela “Maggie” Requejo: I moved to Miami when I was six. I was born in the Dominican Republic, and that’s still home. I miss it every day, and I still consider myself a very proud Dominican. I’ve always wanted to be on stage. I was a ham from a very young age! I grew up and lived with a really big family and had a lot of attention. It was really fun, and I had a wonderful childhood. Currently, I’m pursuing an AA in Drama. Immediately after graduating from MDC, I’m going to be pursuing my bachelor’s degree as well. Hopefully somewhere on the East Coast, a conservatory style program is the goal for me.

It started with chorus and singing, and I was always in the school shows. I’ve been so blessed and so lucky that I’ve had people that believe in me along the way. I think when an adult sees something in you and they sort of take a beat to really give you the opportunity to shine. I have had amazing mentors that have guided me along the way and have helped me accomplish what I have thus far. I am grateful. As a student in the theater program, what productions have you performed in so far? I’ve been so lucky to be in many productions at the Kendall Campus. My first role was Miss Bracknell in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. I had never read anything by Wilde’s works. I dove into the role headfirst into his rich and wonderful world. The language and tone were amazing. I had to master a British accent for the first time with an FIU professor, and it’s something that still stands with me today. My latest role in fall 2025 was playing Jackie in Mauritius. It’s a modern play about two sisters dealing with family issues. It resonated with me, and I was thrilled to be able to portray someone that I felt so connected to. It was a wonderful play. How do you prepare for a role, especially if it resonates with you and is an emotional one? There’s a lot of talk out there about method acting and what it actually really means. There are definitions to things like that, that are very clear and exact. I feel like the way that I would prepare for something like that is to try and get to understand my character on a base level. The script is really for me; it’s like my Bible when I’m working on something because a good script will tell you everything you need to know about your character. Then, as an actor, it’s your job to try and figure

interview by sofia sanchez

photography by sophia massie

h ing wit s r a e h e or us Requej st of Mauriti a c Scan to view Act 1, Scene 1 of Mauritius Written by Theresa Rebeck Directed by Aaron H. Alpern Fight Choregraphy by Daniel J. Mitan

out, like the nuances of who that person really is down at their molecular level. As for emotional performances, I do tend to borrow from the things that I have experienced in my real life. However, they tell you as an actor to be very careful with that because that can create a lot of friction with your real life and a character.

I’ve experienced even though I was only diagnosed 2 years ago. But I always sort of knew, you know, I was like, I struggle focusing on school. I didn’t retain information as it came. I like dissecting things, but I also could not just sit down for the life of me to finish my homework. That was my reality. I think that the best thing that has happened to me, though, is that I was diagnosed. Yeah, because there’s a lot of stigma that’s attached to ADHD, especially for women and girls. Thank you so much, Maggie, for joining us. Of course, it was a blast talking with you. I could talk forever, but our time is running out. I think we have time for one more question. What are your influences? I think as an artist you must be willing to be inspired by everything. You must have a well of inspiration to take from because sometimes it can feel a little scarce, right, to just have one source. I love drag queens so much. Oh, my goodness! Yes, they inspire me. We actually have two Miami Queens on Drag Race right now, Juicy Love Dion and Athena Dionne, and that to me is just a wonderful example that being from Miami means something. There is a torch, you know, that we all carry, and I feel so much pride in being from Miami. Also, I am influenced by hardworking people every day who, especially in this country, get up every day, work so hard, and pursue their dreams.

Let’s talk about challenges. Within the ripe age of 24, very young, I have faced many hardships. I think sometimes it is also about your perspective on things, right, but I am not one of those people that minimizes my pain or my experience. One of my biggest challenges that I’ve had to navigate in my life has been learning how to grapple with ADHD. That’s a real struggle that

I mean, that’s inspirational! That’s all the inspiration that I need, you know, the crop-grower, the teacher, the mother, the young student, the father, the person that’s experienced loss, the person that’s going through grief, those are heroes to me. Thank you, Sofia, for seeing me and the artist in me. I’m going to cry! Sofia, thank you so much for this opportunity.

cross between the smoke jaider moreno photography 4,096 x 6,144 px

over one’s own by alexander polo

Please don’t shut the door. Over there’s a frailly crew Who trembles beneath the blue; They have no place to hide and flee, For their futures are hard to see. Bring in the ones who wither, For they no longer shimmer. Let them scatter safely in, The ma’s, the pa’s, sons, and daughters, Even the ones left with no father. Forgive the ones who’ve sinned And don’t have them skinned; Let go of thoughts you’ve pinned And throw them in the bin. But it’s far too gone, They’ve been engraved for too long; Wisdom from old has blinded you, Now you haven’t got a clue. Their pleading horns won’t move you, Your shrieking scorns remove you, For they play the same song. Strings control to daunt, For they bind and flaunt; Rationale shuts behind your door, As you insist it shows no more, For the lore that’s been sworn. And so they rot, Some hope, or maybe not. They’re far too gone, Now skelter for dawn, Left to drift like prawn. Own’s values over one’s own, Forever bows to his throne. Will karma come, Or does it lay slummed?

banshee

by ishibella ferretti The branches tremble, her rage seeks satisfaction fiercely through the night.

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big ol’ bitch, maria nicole ayon, b&w photography, 1,017 x 645 px

dragon teapot, drea vandervlugt cone 10 glaze on stoneware 14 x 8 x 9 in.

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life from above, ninette portero, b&w photography, 6,624 x 4,176 px

pillars of love and hate, ninette portero, b&w photography, 6,388 x 4,256 px

sonnet of hard forgotten labor by alexander polo

Commanded and obeying their empress, At costs among sandstorms ever raging; Still hoping some day for her warmful bless, The slaves stayed digging and pressured, aging. Dusk and dawn together held not a clue, Pushing stone, trapped are all, working too hard; She said in frustration, quite a mouthful, Cloaked by whips who startled, crackled, and scarred. Crying for, needlessly pondering on, Up on a hill where below felt malice; Recalling these things they wished were long gone, Crushed was purpose, for her adored palace. A work forever remembered, known for, But for them, never before, still no more.

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weight of the world by connor bard Crack under pressure Tear and break and don’t ruin Leave no stone unturned.

red beyond, jenessa cantu, digital, 2092 x 1907 px

dear diary by alexa neadle Dear Diary, October 26, 2024 I watched my grandfather die tonight I felt him die tonight. I felt a piece of myself die tonight. To see you like that was to be a glass vase falling from a small ledge To hold your hand through it was to feel its shards slowly break apart To feel your heart stop was to be left there on the ground without glue. To be you it must have been constant aching Your own body fighting against itself as it slowly decays To be alone while holding the door closed so no one had to see you. You waited for us to get there And for that, I thank you You were always strong But we were always stronger together I don’t know how many gallons I filled with my tears alone But I felt like I was drowning in a pool of my own making Choking on the waves as they crashed over me before I could take a breath I tried to be closer to you But you were always stubborn I was happy just to have pieces Now there will only be pieces I remember asking you to have your car. You told me it was a piece of junk, But it was a piece of junk that was yours. It was a piece of my innocence; Of my childhood I spoke to you even when you couldn’t speak back. I held your hand, An injured bird From what used to be a mighty lion I almost didn’t recognize you.

dream, angelina l. coca, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,684 px I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, Be more We’re a machine with an injured engine Picking up more weight to keep it running, But it feels like we’re on the wrong fuel. It won’t be like this forever, I know. But I hate the thought that the world keeps turning without you. It should grieve with us It should heave in with sobs It should feel like a part of it has died. Because it has. But the world is not a machine It is a system. And for what I was grateful for, I am now resentful. They asked me to find old photos of you So I searched through my camera roll. Every smiling photo I have enrages me. How dare I smile while you were suffering? How dare I enjoy the world when you could not? How dare I live without you?

trinket, dylan rodriguez, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,684 px

As I write this, I am a hurricane Thundering on the tumultuous ocean As it threatens to overtake the city below. I’ve never felt hurt like this before. All encompassing grief, And yet, I am still selfish. I wish that I still had you, Though I am glad that your suffering ended. I am forever changed By the realization that you stopped breathing. By having to call the nurse in tears. By having the family rush to your side until your heart stopped. By seeing you go cold and your last bit of color drained from you. By saying goodbye to a husk that was once my comfort. By losing a piece of me that I will never get back.

Dear Diary, October 27, 2024 I am me But I am not But I am. I am broken, But I am fixable. I am hurt, But I can feel love and that is enough.

He is relieved. He is free. And I will always feel him In my sarcastic comments In his old jacket that I wear In his home that I will soon live in In his photos that hang on the wall In my nose that looks just like his In my heart that has been altered.

haydee rivera, angelina l. coca, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,684 px

undelivered

by alexa neadle These are a collection of messages I have sent to my grandfather’s unused cell phone since his passing. October 27 - 4:03 PM I know that you’ll never see this but I love you And I hate knowing that I’ll never be able to call your home phone again and hear your grumpy voice saying hello I hate that I won’t be able to go to your house and play with legos while you sit on the recliner and watch me, no matter how old I was

October 28 - 10:52 PM You’ve only been gone for 2 days and I feel like I’m a wreck I hate that you never let me get closer to you no matter how hard I tried, but I know you loved me in the only way you knew how I don’t know if they’ll give this phone number to someone new at any point

You never answered your cell phone anyway cause you could never figure out how to use it

But I hope they don’t because I just want a little piece of the past just for me

You had a flip phone until a little while ago

These messages will never deliver just like everything I’ve written will never be said to you

la presencia de tu espiritu, angelina l. coca, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,684 px

Oddly poetic You’d hate it I know it’s stupid, but this is the best I have to talk to you again You hated talking anyway and so did I I think that’s where I got it from, my hatred of people But I loved just sitting in silence with you in the living room, even if you feel I didn’t I can’t close my eyes without seeing you leave I can’t be in quiet without hearing you in pain You were so cold I wanted your car, but it’s unfixable How did you manage to get two holes in the roof and a plant growing out of it? I feel like an idiot for spamming your number

That I will never feel the safety and love I did as a kid That I did at your house You were the strongest and coolest guy ever to me as a little girl And watching you crumble away like you were a marble stone and cancer was Michelangelo was too much to bear I barely recognized you I’m glad that you aren’t suffering anymore But a part of me hates your body for fighting against you Part of me hates that you didn’t do anything to stop it Part of me hates that you let it fester within you like a parasite, until there was nothing left to take I just wanted more time

You would call me one too

Even if it was more time that you pushed me away, it was time that I knew you were here

I don’t even know who has your phone

Just one more birthday card

But I’ll lie to myself and think that somewhere, some way, you’re reading these

One more christmas together

I hate crying, you know I do

If I knew, I would have framed that last card you gave me

But I can’t manage to go more than a few hours without doing it

Memorized your handwriting so it would never fade

In a way, maybe I’m doing this because it was hard to reach you before

But now I’ll never get the chance

Maybe I’m selfish Maybe I just hate the thought that without you, my childhood has truly left me

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, grandpa I love you

realizations, angelina l. coca, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,684 px

if i could draw your eyes by rosemarie vazquez If I could draw your eyes I’d draw them deep I’d make them shine Like the sun on the beach And when you’d cry I’d find beauty Like a waterfall, rolling strong and steep I’d draw your eyes in mine With the reflection that’s seen I’d draw them about to blink Like an eclipse at its peak I’d trace the words that you said That your mouth couldn’t speak

Or the feelings instead That they arise in me Like a telephone wire Leading back to the phone I’d draw the line from your eyes Leading back to your soul I’d draw your eyelashes thick And the rims they line too I’d draw the crease of your lids Each crevice arched and smooth I’d draw the night when it’s lit Leaving your eyes shadow and moon And to end add the glint Uniquely and perfectly, you

time

by khaylia sajous The time of my life passed as I realized that it waits for no-one I’ve learned that anything can happen at anytime As many people noticed my happiness had died My time wasted over many years Time after time Like pages in the book of my life story People may concur that time is a precious joy in their life Love has been lost in my own time For how different artists sing their songs to those they’ve loved or lost An ex-relationship teaches us That when love is lost Your whole but not time But my love is my happiness and joy Broke my heart through a text so for weeks all I did was cry But I’ll turn that feeling into confidence Too much time under these circumstances Living in fantasy to run from reality, Yet my heart was broken, But I still love you immensely I thought I couldn’t love again But you came along Reminiscing love scenes of creating happiness Held in the heart like a favorite movie My whole everything changed Made me feel happy and at peace Never thought loving you was going to end as a goodbye But it didn’t end us as a couple, time wasn’t preparing us for the start to the finish line Still love you I don’t want to end our story but the timing wasn’t right until now Our story hasn’t ended I feel like I’m constantly battling my emotions now I keep thinking that we’ll have a redo But what if this is our breakthrough I can’t stop thinking about us or our love

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rat king sasha dokova photography 1,250 x 915 px

adam and steve, dylan rodriguez, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,502 px

if only his feelings were shared by sofia sanchez

I wanted to prepared myself for that. It was a greater matter of concern to me than the King’s visit. There was a small enclosed rose garden at Hever- a favorite spot of mine. There I felt at peace. I would sit there for hours and think of the past and wonder about the future and how my father would act when he realized I was set in my determination not to be forced into marriage. On this afternoon I went there. It was a warm spring day, I remember, and quite windless in the garden. I sat on the wooden seat contemplating the pond with the little figure of Hermes poised above the water, trying to rehearse what I would say when my father brought up the subject of James Butler. And as I sat there, I heard a footfall, and through the gap in the hedge there came a figure. I gasped and felt my heart begin to beat very fast. There could be no mistaking him. He seemed bigger than I remembered. Perhaps he was a little more corpulent than when I had last seen him. His padded coat, reaching only to his knees, so that the well-formed calves of which he was so proud were displayed in all their glory, was puffed and barred with elaborate applique so that it made him look very wide. It was of deep purple velvet, his waistcoat of purple satin, and there was a design of roses- Tudor, of course- embroidered on it; on his head was a hat with a curled feather of pale yellow. I could see the jewels glinting on his garments. He was a scintillating and splendid figure. I myself was most simply clad. My father would have been most put out if he could have seen me thus. I was wearing a red gown, open from the waist to the hem to show a satin petticoat of a lighter shade of red which toned perfectly. My hair was loose about my shoulders. Apart from the long hanging sleeves which I always wore and which gave a certain style to the gown, I might have been a simple country girl. Half embarrassed to have been caught thus and half amused, I felt more than a little mischievous and I determined to play a trick on him. He liked to disguise himself so that people should not know he was the king until he surprised them with the news. Well, I would pretend to know who he was. He stared at me and came towards me. I remained seated until he was close. I think he was expecting me to fall on my knees. Instead I said coolly: Tell me, are you of the court He was obviously taken aback for I saw him start. Then his lips twitched slightly. I learned afterwards that it was not difficult to judge his moods by his expression. I supposed he usually felt he had no need to cloak his feelings since his will was law. In fact, I was to see a look reduce people to terror.

focus miranda hill color pencil acrylic ink 11 x 14 in.

uncontrollable urge by miguel mardelli It lights up inside, Ashes are all I can see— Death takes hold of me.

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traffic jam, sophia massie, b&w photography, 6,608 x 4,224 px

monty python by mario louie

Slithering silently through the swampy landscape was a hungry python named Monty. He was a Burmese python far from his native home of Myanmar. In fact, Myanmar wasn’t even really his home, but the place his grandparents were originally from. In truth, Monty knew little of Myanmar and had only ever really known two places he called “home” in his lifetime: the Florida Everglades and the breeding center where he was born and raised. He did, however, remember a brief time spent in a place that was less a home and more a clear box in a cramped room. This small, transparent cell sat in the corner of a messy studio apartment where a young college student lived—if one could call it living.

...a cacophony of sounds filled the air— buzzes, hums, and chirps, a symphony of swamp life. Monty rarely saw the boy; between the parties and the hangovers, Monty sometimes went weeks without being fed. One day, without warning, Monty felt his enclosure lifting into the air. “What’s going on?” he wondered. He slithered frantically from one side of the container to the other. The boy carried the enclosure to his car, tossed it inside, and drove off with Monty sitting on the passenger seat. After about thirty minutes, the boy finally stopped the car. He stepped out, opened the passenger door, and lifted Monty’s container under his arm. He looked around cautiously as he approached the swamp’s edge, checking for witnesses. When he felt sure no one was watching, he ripped off the lid and flung Monty out of the opening.

Monty had never been so close to flying as he was that day—soaring through the air and landing in the muddy swamp water below. Before he could regain his composure, the car was already speeding away. He never saw the boy again. That was over ten years ago now, and the memory had faded. His time with the boy had been brief— far briefer than his time at the breeding center with his siblings. Now the swamp and marshy wetlands

rib cage, ian perez oil on stonehenge paper 22 x 15 in.

of the Florida Everglades were his home, and ever since his release here, life had been good. The environment and climate were perfect.

the canals, and alligators—large, clumsy beasts that hollowed dens beneath the swamp floor, their hidden lairs ready to swallow any misplaced step.

And the food there was all you could eat.

Among all these creatures, Monty sat near the top of the food chain. Few predators hunted him, yet he was an expert hunter of the myriad small animals that filled the Everglades—mice, rats, opossums. Before long, he had quadrupled in size. He grew to over fifteen feet long and weighed

At least, in the beginning, it was. When Monty first arrived, the ecosystem was brimming with life in all shapes and sizes: deer that roamed the forests, otters that swam belly-up in

infrared, samantha cabrera mixed media, 2223 x 2825 px

more than two hundred pounds. When he first arrived, a cacophony of sounds filled the air—buzzes, hums, and chirps, a symphony of swamp life. But lately, it seemed that the fat lady had sung. The once deafening chorus had quieted. The ecosystem that had once thrived was slowly dying. Monty was slowly dying. It had been a long time since his last meal. If he didn’t find food soon, he would be in real trouble. Just then, he spotted a mouse scurrying inside a cooler lying on its side, with a single opening at one end. Normally Monty’s instincts would have warned him that something wasn’t right, but hunger overpowered intuition. He coiled his body, preparing to strike. He lunged, biting down—but the opening slammed shut behind him. Monty released his prey and pushed desperately at the hatch with his snout. It didn’t budge. He was trapped. Moments later, the cooler was lifted into the air and tossed into the back seat of a pickup truck. The engine rumbled to life. Monty heard the man who captured him speaking to a boy in the passenger seat. “See? Ain’t nothin’ to it—python huntin’. Half the time the traps do all the work for you!” the man said. “But why are we hunting these pythons anyway, Papa?” the boy beside him asked. “Because these here are what we call an invasive species,” the father replied. “Their kind’s gotten outta control. They’re eatin’ all the food and breedin’ uncontrollably, and now the ecosystem’s gettin’ messed up. So we gotta round ’em up and

bring the python population down to restore balance.” The boy sat quietly for a moment. “But Papa... if this isn’t the snake’s native home, then how’d it get here?” “Well,” the father said, “people here in Florida started buyin’ the snakes as pets from places like Asia. But when the snakes got too big, or the owner didn’t want ’em anymore, they dumped ’em out here in the Everglades. With no natural predators, the snakes flourished, and now they’re threatenin’ the ecosystem. So we hunt ’em to restore that balance. Understand, son?” The boy didn’t respond. “Something wrong?” the father asked. “That’s not fair,” the boy said. “Oh? What’s not?” “The snakes. It’s not fair. It’s not their fault they’re here. They didn’t ask to be here—and a lot of them were born here. How is this not their native land if they were born here? They get all the blame, when humans are the ones who brought them here in the first place. The snakes didn’t throw the ecosystem off balance. We did. Why can’t we find a way for the snakes to coexist with the environment instead of hunting them down?” The father hesitated, unsure what to say. “Don’t worry,” he finally replied. “We’re huntin’ ’em down so we can ship ’em back to the country they came from. This is good for everyone.” “You promise, Dad?” “Yes, son. I promise,” the father said. He kept driving toward the leather worker’s house—where a fresh pair of snakeskin boots was already being planned.

“But why are we hunting these pythons anyway, Papa?“

predator, maria nicole ayon, b&w photography, 1,003 x 647 px

body

by alexander polo The eyes, scarred with ordeals, The bones, whipped by appeals; These lies, marred in duality, These tones, stripped from reality.

Quiet pupils, widened from disruption, Worn hearts, beating in dread; Riot’s people, cried with eruption, Torn parts, depleting in red.

Many arms, reaching in frustration, Closed hands, praying for salvation; Wealthy alarms, slaying our ears, Disposed commands, preaching better years.

Noses, scraped from rubble, Their soles, not turning behind; Poses, not yearning in trouble, The soul, raped by its mind.

head bang, miranda hill color pencil & acrylic ink, 9 x 12 in.

half

by aitana salmeron I picked up the half milk from the fridge. Half is what you liked, because being whole made you uneasy. In every aspect really. You drove us in half, You divided your work and personal life in half, Terribly I might add, And I ask myself, is the other half of me that’s hurting still attached? Oh but the other half, The half when you loved me, Made love to me, How could I ever say no to you? Hell, I sympathized with you. Poor you, diving yourself in half to support us, And when you really did love me, why would I want to leave? Because I still grieve. Grieve the parts of me I left behind in the arguments, Half of my body out the door, Just to drop like a whore. And I now pour the glass of milk half empty, Because that’s how you made me feel.

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specter, oscar ronquillo, b&w photography, 4,000 x 2,636 px

miambiance | 73

a life beyond death by manuel vazquez

smooth beast we have become lost, with a ghost’s horns. I will lock myself in the house again– the Death inches closer. Darkness, a clump of threads, we clench– exposed to flame “The extermination of humanity, a priest’s words flicker from the streets, where earlier he dressed the children. Soon the soft sun will rise. Will I be sick? I burgher. We the peasants. A light invades my dreams, like England. I awake– the cool, candid breeze chases a flea.

the bones

by dalilah salgado

I woke up this morning in a body not of my own. My body is weak. If it were mine, my heart wouldn’t pound, my mind wouldn’t race, my hands wouldn’t tremble. No, this body was not my own. But within it stirred a will to live, a need to give voice To the soul beneath the skin. So I began to write. And you were the bones. Yes, you were the bones.

vanity, maria nicole ayon, photography, 3,456 x 5,184 px

little things & their impact by manuel vazquez Imagine if you will, a clear and solemn lake within a cool summer morning; You cast a stone to be skipped across the still surface. Breathe the crisp air of the lakeview as you stand at its bank, the freeform air and how it fills your lungs and how it is expelled shortly after. Taste the fresh aroma of the crisp lake air, the scene’s light fragrance, and the quaint complexity of the lakeview. Plant your feet on the lake’s bank, the brushing of grass as the blades come into contact with your shoes. Move yourself to throw the stone, the freeform motion of your body as your arm thrusts forward. Feel the way it leaves your hand as you shoot it towards the open water, the smoothness of the surface as it touches and then leaves your fingertips. See the motion of the stone as it glides through the silent air, the invisible atmosphere that is pushed by the stone as it flies outward. Observe the glistening light as it bounces off the stone’s matte surface, the shadow it casts over the water, darkening the crystalline image lying beneath the water’s surface. As it hits the water. Hear the sound of the stone as it collides with the water’s surface, the small sounds of water as they drop back into the serene pool of the lake. Look toward the ripples of the water that disturb the once stagnant surface, the little waves that move the surrounding water away from the center. Notice the fish as they scurry away from the site of the ripples, their hasty movements that propel them into hiding amongst the tall reeds. Examine the movement of the stone as it skips across the water, the preceding waves it creates as it continues to surf across the water and air. Fall toward the soft ground of the lake bed, the gentle hug of the grass, the cushioning of the earth. Take in the moving blanket of the sky, the vibrant blues coupled with the floating clouds, and the veil-like hug of the sun’s warmth. Close your eyes and dream, the flowing current of sleep and how its drift carries you to the next day. It’s all of this and so much more that I find in you, for it’s the little things in life that harbor the greatest impacts. No matter how small an exchange is, word or action, its echo rings for an eternity. It plants itself within space and time, immortalized in our memories, constantly circling in and out of our minds. There are so many facets to life that it’s difficult to avoid getting lost in the complexity of a single moment or an entire day, for that matter. But regardless, it never hurts to stop and take the time to appreciate those intricacies, all of the components that make up the bigger parts of our lives. It’s a wonderful feeling to simply to take time. For what it’s worth, I hope you find this jumble of mismatched words to have as much of an impact on you as the time we spend together has on me; it’s the smallest thing to just say this, but it’s something I truly do hold near to my heart.

voyeur, oscar ronquillo b&w photography, 2,490 x 3,820 px

memento mori, mario louie, oil on stonehenge, 8 x 10 in.

por nuestro amor perdido by ishibella ferretti Querido corazón, Te quisiera preguntar algo sencillo. ¿Por qué me has abandonado? No entiendo qué pudo haber pasado con nosotros. Puede que haya hecho algo para perderte. Te has olvidado de los momentos que pasamos en silencio con solo nuestro amor para arroparnos. Puede que te haya alejado como a todos los demás. Tal vez te alejé solo porque tenía miedo de lo que podría haber sido. Te fuiste sin darme razones para odiarte, entonces me quedo aquí extrañándote. Me siento sola en esta vida que hemos construido, en esta casa que llenamos con cariño y alegría. Me dediqué a algo que nunca fue diseñado para durar, sintiendo esos momentos perdidos tan pesados. Estaban llenos de mentiras escondidas por los dos, en un intento de vivir una vida que no nos pertenecía. Hablaste de anillos que nunca fuimos a ver y de niños que nunca debieron ser. Cada palabra tejía una red de engaños, que me hacía sentir lo suficientemente segura como para bajar la guardia. Le regalaste flores a mi madre y encantaste a mi padre haciéndolo reír, mientras me hacías quedar como una tonta amándote. Disipaste todas mis dudas con palabras bonitas y acciones vacías, haciéndome sentir ridícula por cuestionarnos siquiera un segundo. Me permití imaginar envejecer contigo, mientras te quedabas conmigo por conveniencia. Al final, después de años que han pasado reviviendo algo que no valió la pena, espero que hayas aprendido lo que es amar plenamente, de la forma en que dediqué yo tanto tiempo en amarte. Con amor, La Mujer que pensó que eras el Amor de su Vida

softly covered, elizabeth hernandez 2b/4b pencil, charcoal, and blenders, 25.5 cm x 19 cm

celine, scarlett simon-darias, ceramic, 5 x 5 x 5 in.

missing you

by angelina l. coca I don’t know if you’re out there, Abuela. Somewhere in the air—or in the smoke of my cigarette. I don’t know if maybe you’ve turned into a piece of the moon or maybe a leaf on a tree. But I miss you. I miss the comfort of your perfume, of your laugh, of your yells. I miss the hugs you used to give me. I like to think the cold air that hits my cheek is a kiss from you, or the sweat that drips down my forehead in the heat is a pass of your finger on my skin. I always think of you. I always miss you.

christmas tree, sophia massie b&w photography, 6,606 x 3,914 px

Celebrating America 250

“Patriotism is not short, frenzied outburst of emotion, but the tranquil and steady dedication of a lifetime.” —Adlai Stevenson

1st place winner

moad’s mdc student art contest, spring ‘26

welcome to the streets, naisha simon, multi-media

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artist’s statement: “The spirit of Miami is found in its neighborhoods where languages, cultures, and people overlap every day. This piece represents the energy of those streets: the movement, noise, and life that connect the city. It shows how Miami’s identity comes from its mix of tradition, cultures, and voices, especially in the spaces that hold community history.” Quoted in moad.mdc.org

to be loved

by jordan andrews-bergman “To be loved is to be changed.” I am an amalgamation of everyone I have ever loved, in any sense of the word. When do we stop being ourselves and start being the ones we have loved? I’ve taken bits and pieces of people, glued them together. I am a collage. Never the same as I was. Left different after loving. To love is to be broken down and built up over and over again.

first! drinks! alisha agosto, oil on canvas, 24 x 36 in.

america, oscar ronquillo, photography, 2,780 x 1,800 px

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the persistence of time by rosemarie vazquez

This morning, I finally remembered how to tell time I cut my finger on the reflection it was lurking behind Where once at first it was blurry The lines became fine On a face like a clock From Dali’s paint in his prime What seems so unexpected and all of a sudden Was always the direction that the channels were flooded And if I trace the whole map, it would lead me to someone With fault lines still untapped and roads undiscovered Though the outside has changed, the seeds still are planted I am still the answered prayers that my ancestors chanted I am grateful for the weather and each breath I’m granted.

the temple, junior casas, charcoal, 24 x 18 in.

balance in the chaos, roger regueira 1st place winner, access art exhibition, fall ‘25

artist statement: “I chose to explore a concept that’s always fascinated me: being at war with oneself. Bipolar disorder isn’t just about mood swings. One day you’re burning with life, the next you’re fading into the quiet corner of your room. It’s the tension between a spectrum of extremes that follow you throughout life, affecting everything from work to love, to the little things like the way you look at yourself in the mirror.

I wanted to make the unseen seen and shine a light on how difficult it can be to find balance in the chaos. The blue portrait reflects isolation and depression, while the red portrays anxiety and anger. The orb is the constant that connects the highs and lows. It ties both portraits together, trying to ‘find balance in the chaos’. You can’t have the light without the dark, and you can’t tear one away without losing the other.”

Music

Hey Stranger by Adrian Morales I’ll Change, I Promise by Gian Gavidia

Podcasts Hosted by Sofia Sanchez Sit Down with Salma Ready, Set, Write! Contest Winners Speak Your Mind! Contest Winners

goblin army, mario louie, cone 6 glaze on stoneware

vol. 35 awards Associated Collegiate Press (ACP) and College Media Association (CMA) MediaFest 25: Fall National College Media Convention, October 16-18, 2025, at The Grand Hyatt Washington, Washington, DC: • Pinnacle and Pacemaker Finalist • Pinnacle Awards • Literary Magazine of the Year-Two-Year Colleges, 1st place • Best of Collegiate Design-Two-Year Colleges: • Literary Magazine Spread, 1st place • “The Rushing Tide” by Joelle Worcester, p. 37 • “From the River to the Sea” by Adam Roque, p. 38 • Designed by Salma Gonzalez • Literary Magazine Cover, 1st place • Podcast Honorable Mention • “Miambiance with Megan Carrion”, QR on p. 76 • Portrait Honorable Mention • “Shut Up” by Dionne Henriquez, p. 45 • Best of Show Award, 1st place 66th Annual Florida College System Publications Association (FCSPA) Conference and Awards Banquet on Friday, November 15, 2025, in Ocala, FL: • General Excellence, 2nd place-Magazines-Division B • Poem, 1st place • “Como corre el rio” by Megan Carrion, pp. 43-44 • Fiction, 1st place • “My Butterfly’s Goodbye” by Michele Guitan, pp. 33-36 • Artworks, 1st place • “Quiet Contemplation” by Maria Belen Silva Baquedano, p. 4 • “Floating” by Juliette Brooks, pp. 41-42 • “Smiling Cures Every Ailment” by Alexa Neadle, p. 84 • Photo, 2nd place • “Blackbird” by Neyman Canelo-Garcia, p. 12 • Photography, 1st place • “Stairway to Nowhere” by Aitana Salmeron, pp. 7-8 • “Working Mother” by Jaider Moreno, p. 43 • “Careful, She’s a Hero” by Thomas Morcillo, pp. 77-78 • Cover, 3rd place • Design by Salma Gonzalez • Staff Page, 1st place • Art by Madeleine Wagshul • Design by Salma Gonzalez and Sara Almanzar, pp. iv.-v National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE): • Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (REALM) Program awarded the highest distinction of First Class on January 22, 2026.

photography by john izquierdo Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) 102nd Annual Spring Convention, March 19-21, 2026, at Columbia University, New York, NY: • Crown Finalist • Silver Crown Recipient • Gold Circle Awards (Individual) • Closed (traditional) form poetry: 1st place, “With Prayer” by Alexander Polo, p. 32 • Humor: 2nd place, “The Stilts” by Megan Carrion, pp. 81-82 • Non-fiction interview: 3rd place, “Featured Artist-Stephanie Acosta”, by Daniel Albis, Lubianka Baltodano, and Salma Gonzalez, pp. 74-75 • Use of typography on one page or spread: 3rd place, “Pointe of Pain and Ribs” by Salma Gonzalez, pp. 71-72 • Single illustration, hand-drawn: 1st place, “Reflection” by Emily Gonzalez, pp. 27-28 • Single illustration, computer generated: Certificate of Merit, “Quiet Contemplation” by Maria Belen Silva Baquedano, pp. 4 • Portfolio illustration: Certificate of Merit, “Carrion,” “Meatful,” “Bloodhound,” and “Spearbearer,” by Madeleine Wagshul, pp. 1, 22, 57, 86 • Photography-portfolio of work: 1st place, “Careful She’s a Hero,” Red Room of Reflection,” “All Eyes on Me,” “Celebration,” by Thomas Morcillo, pp. 77-78, 51, 61, 81-82 • Photo illustration: 1st place, “Emotional Baggage,” by Jazmin Mascaro, p. 34 • Design multi-page presentation: Certificate of Merit, “American Void,” by Salma Gonzalez, pp. 11-14 • Design portfolio: 1st place, Salma Gonzalez MDC Kendall Campus’ Student Life Excellence Awards Ceremony, April 16, 2026, at the Miami Marriott Dadeland, Miami, FL: • Most Outstanding Event-Miambiance Vol. 35 Launch Party • Organization of the Year-Miambiance • Adviser of the Year-Professor Rita Fernandez-Sterling

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 36th annual edition of Miambiance was designed using Windows computers with OS Windows 11. The software used in this production includes the following Adobe Creative Cloud Applications: Photoshop, Illustrator, and Indesign. Volume 36 is printed on

board of trustees Michael Bileca Chair, Miami Dade College District Board of Trustees Roberto Alonso Vice Chair, Miami Dade College District Board of Trustees Jose Felix Diaz Marcell Felipe Ismare Monreal Juan Segovia David J. Smith

special thanks Madeline Pumariega, President of Miami Dade College Malou C. Harrison, PhD, Executive Vice President and Provost Dr. Bryan Stewart, President of Miami Dade College, Kendall Campus Cristina Mateo, Sr. Director of Campus Administration Dr. Craig Titus, Chairperson, English and Communications Bonnie Seeman, Chairperson, Arts and Philosophy Karen Ramirez, Student Life Director Leo Alvarez, Director of Media Services Amanda Neto, Director of Campus Services Jennifer Diptee-Martos, Director of Learning Resources Michelle Grant-Murray, Artistic Director of Jubilation Dance Ensemble Alexandra Johnson: ACCESS Art Exhibition Ariel Rubalcava, MDC TV Executive Director Black History Month Committee Arts & Letters Day Committee Kendall Campus Art Gallery Jennifer Basile Terrie Goldstein Speak Your Mind! Judges: Megan Carrion, Dennis Edelen, Dr. William Murphy Ready, Set, Write! Judges: Megan Carrion, Dennis Edelen, Anthony Moreno

Museum of Art and Design (MOAD) / Freedom Tower Gisselle Mestre Delgado Angela Chaine Performing Arts & Industries Department Aaron Alpern Linda Alvarado Stermer Missy Bermudez Jubilation Dance Ensemble: Event Performers Turntable Sharks Rich Auntie Staff Not Pictured: Pietra Romano Manuel Vazquez Matthew Hernandez

back cover: satellite tribute, evelyn salas, mixed media

Alumni Consultants: Megan Carrion, Aitana Salmeron, Josselin Ponce