MOSAIC MOSAIC MOSAIC
Faculty Advisors
Christen Barron
Brittany Ham
Design Team
Naomi Aguilera
Ch’Bree Butler
MoRanda Dawson
Hector Espino
Angelynna Fonseca-Puente
Martina Garcia
Tristan Govea
Cassidy Lynn Lomas
Alaura Mermea
Kyra Rangel
Catherine Richard
Editing Team
Abcdee Caudillo
Mick Conrad
Kacy Croughen
Noa Hemphill
Grey Johnson
Dani Jones
Grant Kelly
Chelsea Prieto
Jonathon Rodriguez
Monica Rubalcaba
Lillian Vickers
Mission Statement
Mosaic is a student-led literary journal publishing fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and visual art created by undergraduate students at Texas A&M University-San Antonio. The journal celebrates diverse perspectives, experiences, and creativity and offers students a space to express themselves as artists. Mosaic will do more than entertain; it will shape the culture of undergraduate lives on campus and will inspire students to write and create honestly and fearlessly.
Acknowledgments
Mosaic would like to recognize the following organizations and individuals who generously contributed their time, resources, and expertise to make this project possible:
2026 Guest Faculty Mentors
Professor Robert Cavazos
Dr. Scott Gage
Professor Laurie Ann Guerrero
Special Thanks
Dr. Katherine Bridgman and the staff of The Writing, Language, and Digital Composing Center (WLDCC)
Dr. Jack Ayres, Julie Hebert, and The Department of Language, Literature, and Arts (LLA)
The University Library at Texas A&M-San Antonio
Gemini Ink
Letter From the Team
Dear Readers,
Journey with us into the Mosaic issue 003 universe. Here, you’ll float through the hustle of the mundane, visit a home transformed by childhood memories, skateboard like no one’s watching, and contemplate the vastness of the cosmos before finally joining the glittering dance of acceptance at a community dive bar. Within the pages of this issue, we hope you can discover a place to belong. Or, at the very least, find a piece of yourself, your community, and your loved ones.
The entire Mosaic team is deeply grateful for the mentorship of Professors Christen Barron and Brittany Ham, who guided our team of first-time editors and designers on the third issue.
Thank you to our friends and colleagues on the individual design and editing teams. You fiercely advocated for the writing, art, and creative direction that appears in this issue. The third issue exists because of your tireless dedication and thoughtful collaboration.
We also extend our thanks to you, the readers. Your support for our magazine makes the hours of work put into this project meaningful. Finally, thank you to our contributors and everyone who has submitted and continues to submit their creative work to Mosaic. Without your submissions, whether they be prose, poetry, sculptures, digital art, or paint on canvas, we would not be able to produce this magazine each spring. Thank you for trusting us with your words and your art.
Sincerely,
The Mosaic Team Spring 2026
Undergraduate writing featured in Mosaic has been edited as lightly as possible to honor the artistic voices of our contributors. The opinions conveyed in Mosaic are those of our contributors and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, staff, faculty, administrators, or Texas A&M University-San Antonio.
The creative work featured in Mosaic contains mature themes, imagery, and language that may be upsetting or distressing to some readers. Please take care when reading. If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org.
My Soul to Keep
Vanessa Rangel, 2024, Paper Collage
Caution
Nicholas Maddox Solis, 2025, Digital Collage
Children Hands
Asenath De Leon, 2024, Drawing
Hustle
Brianna Paredes
Start your day at four in the morning and rub the exhaustion out of your droopy, gray eye bags; down a cup or two of bitter, black coffee, and don’t forget to add the five packs of sugar to spike your glucose levels; skip breakfast if it means finally sorting through the pile of laundry pushed against the wall and your bed; internally dread your 9-5, but romanticize your days with a trending clean girl Pinterest outfit; become so glued to your office chair that your joints ache to unfold; lock your eyes to the computer screen until you feel your vision blacking out from the corners in; ignore the empty turning of your stomach until you’ve been productive long enough to reward yourself with a meal; fight the hunger away a couple more hours with a Bloom energy drink; you can binge-eat the stress away later that evening; oh, and make sure you buy your own car by 18; make sure you buy your own house at 21; don’t forget to find time to run a marathon in your 20s; be a slave to every ticking minute of your day; don’t take naps unless you want to be a bum; break out of the belief that you need eight hours of sleep to function; get 10,000 steps a day; settle for a maximum of four hours of sleep; get fueled by the conviction that you’re behind in life and need to play catch up; let the calendar of “to-do’s” serve as the blueprint for your life; don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve done enough; chase more and more, and make sure the whole world sees you doing it; erase the concept of work/life balance from your adulthood; I won’t be able to make it to your quinceañera; I won’t be at Christmas this year; sorry, I have to work; and no, I don’t have time to date; apologize to your family for missing birthdays, but promise to spoil them when you become rich; normalize responding to work messages outside of work hours; operate by working, planning for your future, and saving the world all at once like a superhuman; work overtime to be the best; become so infatuated with the idea of no one but yourself; forget that breaks exist; in fact, add a second or third job if it means making more money; try to be a little more welcoming to the
migraines that visit you daily; like your brain is splitting in two with a handshake; even when it all builds up, believe that therapy is a sign of weakness; this is how to never lose; this is when it is appropriate for you to feel satisfied; this is the amount of free time you can allocate for yourself without procrastinating; this is how you pretend to have a social life; this is how many Tylenol you can take a day for your fatigue; this is how seriously you can commit to someone before you become too dependent; this is how you can determine that you’re successful in life; this is how you don’t end up useless; this is how to find pleasure in the constant chaos and endless grind; this is how to distract yourself from your problems; this is how to live 10 different lives and alternate between them for the chase of it; this is how to become your own competitor; this is how you become acquainted with never-ending deadlines; this is how you accept a life of unrealistic standards; this is how to come to terms with a finish line that only exists if you stop; you can sleep when you’re dead.
Peter PEZ Mask
Christy Slape, 2025, Sculpture
Third Eye
Joelin Smith, 2025, Digital Illustration
Generational Mama
Veronica Pusateri
I grew up wearing sisters’ old clothing staring into my mother’s eyes while I combed her hair growing from my scalp.
Innumerable the talking points I’ve recycled, themes I did not understand from old books above my reading level. Words, dust beyond my years.
Each of us cleverer than the last, I like to think— not as an insult to those before, but with respect to countless nights spent talking over each other around the dinner table. Everything but the kitchen sink reused and built upon: Nearly-intellectual debates, perfect recitations of favorite movie scenes, a smart family’s fodder for training its young.
Dental visits delayed, seats at the 50-yard line, pasta more than once a week, third servings, three months late. A mother’s cry as her boy goes long. Hail Mary, full of bread.
Our own brand of cynical humor, dry wine, tri-fold boards purchased the night before the fair— ever-presence cured over generations, sauce simmering when I get off the bus.
A life spent in hand-me-downs, thrift shops, wetting frayed shoelaces to force them through their eye. Childhood counted in Sundays: Sunday school, service, cookies, and juice. Mothers chattering as children grow restless.
Compliments to the chef, hair, shoes, a nose nail-biting, late-night reading passed down cured reused for my temporary enjoyment.
Tin Pot
Mel Cordero, 2025, Sculpture
A Big Day for Zeus
Emily Grace, 2026, Paper Collage
Gone by Now
Carolina Coutino, 2025, Graffiti Drawing
Old Pearsall Nights
Dominic Rojas
In January 2020, the trees had shed their leaves and days were filled with bursts of cold winds. Back then, I couldn’t wait for school to be over each afternoon so I could eagerly read a text from Crystal: “Okay I’m ready you can pick me up now.” I’d hurry to her place in my ‘02 Mitsubishi Lancer with my skateboard in the back seat. During those times we always wore our favorite Vans, blue jeans, and pullover hoodies.
Crystal was about five foot three with light skin and straight brown hair that passed her shoulders. She was kind, sweet, and considerate—someone who carried a charm that I believed many either envied or took for granted, judging by the stories she shared of her past. Her smile and laughter were always the light in the room, and just being around her made things feel a little less heavy.
When I would arrive at her home, I’d help Crystal put her board in the backseat before we’d drive off and wave goodbye to her mom. The car ride usually started with something mellow like Tame Impala’s “Love/Paranoia” playing just low enough through the speakers that we could still make small talk on our drive.
Turning onto Old Pearsall Road, I would feel the excitement in myself begin to rise. Pearsall Park felt grand with the main attractions like the playgrounds, skate park, basketball courts,
and pavilion being centered and surrounded by the hills of the park. We’d stumble out of my car and hear the laughter and shouts coming from the kids at the playground with background music coming from the multiple parked ice cream trucks.
Crystal and I would get on our boards and skate along the sidewalks, weaving through the park until we reached the back of the skate park where we had our own spot to practice our ollies, nollie shove-its, and dipping from the bowl. Even though she wasn’t the one who introduced me to skating, she’s the reason I stayed with it. Her energy made skating feel less like something to master and more like something to enjoy in the moment. Sometimes, I’d feel intimidated by the more experienced skaters, but Crystal’s words always reassured me: “Everyone starts somewhere. No one cares how good we are.” And I believed her. I could tell she meant it. Her body language on a skateboard showed no signs of fear even when she would tumble onto the cold concrete floors. Seeing Crystal fall gave me the confidence I needed to let loose on a skateboard, even if at times I probably looked like a fool attempting a trick every now and then.
After Crystal and I would finish our skating session, we’d walk across the park to the tallest hill left of the main entrance. Once at the top of the hill, we would choose the bench with a
dome cover for the best view of Lackland Air Force Base and the San Antonio skyline. We would sit and talk about school, friends, family, and much more as we watched different planes from the base get ready to take off from the airstrip into the starlit sky. As time slipped away, we would run back down the hill to the Lancer and drive home before curfew to have the chance to do it all over again the next day.
Now, years later, when I pass by or visit Pearsall Park, I still see us there: two kids riding around on our chipped-up boards, falling and laughing as if we had the whole place to ourselves. As if no one cared how good we were. It’s strange how those memories still feel so recent and vivid even when the moments are long gone. But some places keep a hold on you like that, and some people do too.
Palimpsest
Vanessa Rangel, 2025, Photograph
Y la Quiero
Sabrina Fedorick
Our newly formed quartet. We had found our sound, our groove. We were the Mexican Beatles.
Then curly hair, wife beater, and black sweats. Since their first collaboration, her hands have been woven into his vocal cords.
I can only speak to him when his brain is floating the upper diatonic scale.
Outside of this state, he’s only a percent of the man I love.
Our quartet is on hiatus. Our lead singer, my father, muffled by Yoko Ono.
Golden Carolina Coutino, 2025, Sculpture
The Shed
Audry Traugott, 2025, Drawing
Home is Where the Memories Are
Esmeralda Olivares
My first memory of Jesús María, México must’ve been when I was three years old. My mom urged me up the stairs as I cried, desperate to go back home and not be in this strange place. The stairs of Abuelito’s house were steep, the tiles a terracotta orange flecked with white and cracked in a few places. The pipe-like metal railing reeked of rust on the left side, and the pale pink walls were faded and chipped where the humidity seeped through. I lay on the worn-out couch, hands over my face stifling my cries, the unfamiliar yet soothing scent of Jabón Ariel entered through my nostrils. The soft and gentle words of someone filtered into my ears, my fingers opened to catch a peek. My Abuelito sat on the edge of the coffee table, his smile never faltered as he waited for mine. “Mermelada.” I finally caved and gave him a broken smile.
It was the same lecture every summer. “Don’t waste water if you’re going to play in the lavadero, it’s too precious. And please be careful, don’t climb the roof.” We took the wise advice about the water once we learned how my Abuelito used to fetch water when he was young. But the roof was a tempting challenge. As soon as my Abuelito settled for his 3 p.m. nap, time was of the essence. My mom was out with my sister for some errands, and I had the patio to myself. Being the rebel child, I took a hold of the forbidden ladder, able to lean it against the brick wall despite my small stature. The music from my iPod motivated
me as I took careful steps, alternating hands and feet along the coolness of each rung. Finally, I leapt onto the roof. I was on top of the world.
The air rushed against my earbuds, and I basked in the warmth of the sun while my hair blew across my face. The town square was visible from where I stood, the old stone church tower stood tall and proud, the iconic landmark of Jesús María. The people on the street below chatted, going about their daily routines. I made sure to take it all in. Remember it. That was the moment I knew I wouldn’t stop going up to the roof. Every time I did, it became a precious memory etched into my mind.
Ten years. Hell, it’s been over that. I haven’t stepped foot inside the house I considered home in so long, it almost paralyzes me going in now. My Abuelito has passed and the house now belongs to my Mom and Tía. The creaky metal door is replaced with gray wood, gray metal finishings, and fogged glass. So modern and chic, it seems out of place from the rest of the town. The stairs are wider, longer steps, more than two people can fit now. The railing is gone and the walls are an off-white, contrasting the ashy brown wood of the stairs. The layout of the house is similar, but the living room is now smaller. Another set of stairs lead up to the laundry room. The patio and laundry room used to be on the other side, but
that area is closed off now, a wall blocking it instead of the glass door. A different house. So separated instead of being a part of something homey. At least the balcony is still there, a more accessible aluminum sliding door in place of the metal and glass one that took a team of two to even move. The kitchen is frozen in time. The same countertops with flimsy plastic, and the yellow-aged backsplash tile lining the walls. The cabinets have the same warped film on them, hiding secrets and stories kept within. Down the hall are the rooms.
I don’t dare to go into my Abuelito’s old room, but still catch a whiff of clean, fresh linens and citrus. The same smell of his detergent. Jabón Ariel and Jabón Zote. Something so uniquely him.
I reach the room I always claimed as mine. It is oddly shaped, five walls instead of four, with a view of the corner of the street. It was the biggest room of the house, and the only one I was able to sleep in. Was it always this small? Or did I see it in the eyes of a child who found home in a strange place they once feared?
Her House
Audry Traugott, 2024, Drawing
Fluoxetine and Gabapentin
Victoria Rivera
Each daybreak begins with the sharp insistence of a buzzing phone alarm and fire coursing through my veins. My nerves scream for the routine relief of morning’s treatment— two pills, small, white, and unsympathetic, taken despite the weight of resistance, the taste of surrender sharp under my tongue.
How can something so small reshape the course of my conduct? What do I lack that I try to find in these pills? Is my body so unwilling to trust its reserve that my mind spins in circles I cannot break?
This dance between comforting mind, body, and pain leads me to study the undercurrents of my being, the language of neurons and synapses, the chemistry of my despair, the choices I make without knowing why I act. And expertly tell the difference between genuine and medicated.
Lying here, I question my career, whether this knowledge makes me an expert or simply a student in the art of survival. Do I understand myself better through my studies? Or has psychology become a means to dissect my decay? Am I building a map to save myself? Or just documenting the edges of my undoing?
The hours drift unnoticed, time slipping through the cracks of a fogged mind. Noon’s harsh light pricks through my tired consciousness, reminding me I am still here, still waiting. A phone alarm relentlessly buzzes again, My nerves suddenly screaming alongside, a reminder I can’t escape— it’s time for the next dose.
Dreamer
Travis M. Arguello, 2025, Digital Collage
Spilt Tea
John Venir, 2026, Sculpture
She always eats last
Athena Lankford
Our mother reeled in the biggest fish in the lake. She slid her sharp knife under their skin along the slippery scales that sparkled blue, green, crimson in the sunlight. She plucked out each bone until every fish was skinned and gutted. She cooked the remains of the fish over the flame, and we greedily snatched the scorching pieces with our chubby hands. We ate and ate and ate until our stomachs threatened to burst— until only the tiniest piece was left
Teeth
Jocelyn Wasicek, 2024, Painting
Self Made
Joelin
Smith, 2025, Digital Illustration
Don’t Look At Me
Alexis
Diaz, 2021, Digital Illustration
Queerly Beloved
Emily Grace
I stand at the pearly gates every weekend, sometimes Wednesdays too, presenting my identification and wondering how cement gets sticky as my shoes let out a squelch.
Just like that—I’m in. Absent of vows and doctrines. I take a seat on fragile metal and watch my Dyke trek along the aisle. He leans over the bar and orders truth abundantly served over ice. I raise my glass to liberation for all, not the chosen few.
The sweetness of grenadine overcomes me with a bitter chaser of all that has been and will be lost. We are all keepers of this space. Bright lights and a familiar hum of royalty lull me. Our worship is not contained; it is flowing and plentiful.
Our Queen sermonizes to us all, collectively and solely. Our offerings are accepted with mutual adoration. We yearn for one more moment in the eyes of an angel, dancing with joy and fleeting liberty. Clouds of smoke envelop sequins and brush against the cool night air surrounding these walls.
Piss in the sink, on the toilet seat, stilettos stomping on the plywood stage, and I am affirmed.
I am nestled among bears who nibble on red hot ears and dolls who weave stories of resilience with discount fabric and hyper-pop when my Dyke beckons me forward to light my cigarette. I let my eyelashes kiss one another and draw my breath in slowly, taking stock of heaven.
Financial Restraint
Fernanda Vargas, 2025, Painting
One in a Million (19)
Crystal Torres, 2025, Paper Collage
Travis M. Arguello
Mel Cordero
Carolina Coutino
Alexis Diaz
Sabrina Fedorick
Emily Grace
Athena Lankford
Asenath De Leon
Esmeralda Olivares
Brianna Paredes
Veronica Pusateri
Vanessa Rangel
Victoria Rivera
Dominic Rojas
Christy Slape
Joelin Smith
Nicholas Maddox Solis
Crystal Torres
Audry Traugott
Fernanda Vargas
John Viner
Jocelyn Wasicek