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VOICES The Artists and Authors of Santiago Christian School

Volume One

Artwork Miguelina Sosa Artwork byby Miguelina Sosa - 1111

“Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way.� Artwork by Albert Park - 6

-Edward de Bono



INTRODUCTION 2018-2019 has been a year full of literature and art. This magazine is composed of many of the works of talented students who used their skills to create masterpieces. We hope you enjoy! Special thanks to our English, Spanish, and Art teachers. Thank you as well to our artwork photographers, Pablo Pimentel and Ramon Vila. Artwork by Jimena Guzmรกn - 11


Almanzor Vila


Paula Bencosme


“He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart...” Ecclesiastes 3:11


od is a creator. He spoke and created an entire universe

teeming with life and diversity. He is also an artist. He made his creation full of beauty – mountains, oceans, animals, plants, and humans. God also made man in his image – and as his image-bearers we have the ability to appreciate the beauty of the world around us and to create works of beauty. Students at SCS are learning to appreciate the beauty of God’s creation and the beauty found in the creative works of others. Sometimes art brings joy, other times it brings sadness as it reflects the pain we bear as fallen creatures affected by sin. We are able to understand more of both the joy and pain of the human experience as we learn to appreciate how it is expressed through the creative arts. Voices is an effort to provide such a venue for SCS students – a place to share their reflections and works of beauty. It is a testimony to their personal experiences, their artistic talents, and the ways that they are growing as young artists. Above all, it is a way to bring glory to God through their gifts and talents. We hope that this will be the first of many editions of Voices and hope that you enjoy the works inside.

Dr. Owen Davis Assistant Executive Director 3

Streets in the Urban Jungle (Garden of Eden) by Amadeus Johnson - 11

“City” by Pablo Pimentel - 12

The sounds of nature incite my ability to write The sweet sounds of horns and sirens The sweet smell of the smoke The tall city filled with its own trees I want to see nature just as it was The man-made Garden of Eden Filled with its own temptations Living in harmony with my sisters and brothers Living under the man-made sky Makes me feel alive

“Recyclart” by María José Tejada - 12

San Valentín por Vera Sofía Cereghino - 8 Llega el esperado día, El del amor y la amistad Pensando en su admirador sonreía Y cómo la capturó su amabilidad. En su cabeza solo esta su enamorado Y su dulce ser ensimismado Su presencia anima a cualquier malhumorado.


El sentimiento en su cara puedes ver El romance está en su alrededor Todo es un mar de rojo y rosado Él, de su corazón el raptor.

Shoot, commander: shoot! by Manuel Báez, Karla Sánchez, Priscilla Cedeño - 12 I saw his face, I saw his face, a child in despair. And in his eyes I saw my daughter Grace. I saw my daughter Grace in the middle of the war.

Iraq War from the perspective of a U.S. army veteran

The child was only 5, but he already had scars, and these scars will not heal. He’s being overpowered and does not know how to feel.

Artwork by Harold Portilla - 10

By the Sea by Ramón Paulino - 11 Right by the sea We see the sea And the wind comes by Like love comes to me

“Swan Love” by Gabriela Mena - 6


Peter Pan by Emma Saldaña - 8


ello, my name is Captain Hook. You may know me from the story Peter Pan,

and you probably think I’m the bad guy of the story. However, you’ve only heard the story from Peter’s perspective. Practically the tale says is that Peter took 3 kids from their home to Neverland just for fun. Then they run into me, Peter’s rival, and apparently, I kidnap the kids and the Lost Boys. Tinker Bell, the fairy; whom you’ve probably heard of, tells Peter, then he has to save the kids, blah blah blah, he’s a hero and I get eaten by a crocodile. What you don’t see is how the story is biased, and instead I was just trying to save those 3 kids! You’ll understand when you hear my side of the story. In reality, the real reason Peter takes kids is because the guy’s always lonely. I mean, the poor kid wears leaves as clothes and is an immortal human who never grows old, it’s really sad when you think about it. The Lost Boys are some random kids hoping for a better life. But the thing is, he never lets these poor kids go. He targets orphans, people the world has forgotten, and takes them, forever! Nobody ever notices, but me. So, when I caught wind that he kidnapped more kids I got angry, not only that, but he kidnapped kids with a family, a girl too!

Artwork by Alice Park

That was the final straw for me. I know I’m a pirate, but I do have a heart! And I also know when someone’s crossed the line. Ugh, what a creep! So, of course I had to do something about it. What I did was I went to Peter’s little hiding place and did something I’ve never done before, I offered the kids some gold. As a result, they immediately ran over to my ship, not caring about their safety at all. I promise I wasn’t going to do anything but ask the kids questions about Peter and answer theirs. Then the girl told me something very important. She had been giving Peter a medicine for a wound I recently had given him. Me, being the genius I am, figured that putting poison in his medicine would be the best option to kill Peter, sneaky but efficient. So, I sent my best men over to ruin Peter’s day.


What I didn’t realize at the time was that sneaky little Tinker Bell was listening to my poison plan the whole time! She flew over to warn Peter and made sure he didn’t drink the medicine anymore so the creep wouldn’t die.

VOICES: THE ARTISTS AND AUTHORS OF SCS As I was telling the kids the brighter side of my plan, which was to give the orphans real homes and return the kids Peter recently kidnapped, Peter appeared. Since I was busy Peter took the opportunity to push me off my boat, into the jaws of the animal I hate the most, crocodiles! All I wanted was justice... now you see how the stories are different? Peter is the villain here, a creep, I was just trying to save some children, and this is what I get? Writing my story inside a crocodile’s stomach? Poor kids, they’ll never be saved now.

Artwork by Sara Farré - 12

Artwork by Laura Contín - 11 7

White Canvas by Inha Cho - 11 I looked around for any red lines Many which I’ve unwillingly drawn white In a bold manner Stood between my eyes The empty space between my artwork Displayed a crimson statue The closer I approached The faster the colors faded The red paintings I loved To protect I departed The lonely white canvas I despised No longer existed Now filled with beautiful lines The red canvas I touched Lost its livingness and turned white.

Artwork by Valeria Grullón - 8 New Life by María Blanco - 8 Long beaches and green mountains, Concho cars are scurrying around like rats, The sun goes to sleep on the Caribbean Sea in the distance. Speaking in Spanish and I can’t understand A Jewish girl in Sosúa. Helping mother cook, remembering Just weeks ago, we were persecuted, Taken away to concentration camps. We were threatened with guns. Pneumonia and frostbite were everywhere, Grief floods my mind Helping to cook, a simple job But white rice and red beans, Mashed plantains called Mangú Soup with beef and rice Avocadoes with fried chicken This is not what I imagined 8

I go outside and take a look at the town Churches everywhere, Catholics everywhere Yet I question if they actually believe Necklaces with a cross on the end Pictures of Jesus and Mary But no two-triangle star After the food is ready, everyone gathers for dinner Everyone is tired from the day’s work My family works hard to make ends meet We run a business called Sosúa Making butter and cheese Maybe things will get better soon.

Jewish refugees’ experience when arriving to the Dominican Republic

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12 Artwork by Victor Pou - 6

Leading Us to Death by Rafael Ulerio - 11 We were in a group In the forest She leads the troop I felt the forest Calling to me Run Run! It said From the evils that await you! The Leader has said That death will go to you!

Artwork by Daniela Lajud - 5

I screamed in horror Oh Leader, you shalt lead your students to death No more shall I bear To see her lead her students with no care I saw them cross the bridge Nature called to me again Don’t cross death’s bridge! I stopped, terror hit me like a train, The Queen of death took at me through the bridge, She said: Cross the bridge! The bridge is death! The bridge! Oh, the bridge! I called out to nature, “Nature help me!” And nature obliged. Now it is only me. Only me.


Artwork by Jimena Guzmán - 11 No todo es lo que parece Artwork by Johanna Caraballo- 12


por Rocío Abréu - 8 abía hace una vez, una hermosa princesa llamada Ariquelmis. Ella era la princesa de

un reino lejano, y por toda la tierra la conocían por su amabilidad y lo dulce que era ella. Todo el mundo la adoraba tanto que habían creado una tradición: todos los febreros, durante el día San Valentín le mandaban regalos de flores y tarjetas solo para verla sonreír. Pero unos días antes del catorce, la princesa misteriosamente desapareció, llevándose toda la felicidad del reino con ella. La gente quedó devastada, habían perdido su princesa y no tenían ni la menor idea de cómo recuperarla. Los reyes ofrecieron una recompensa para el caballero que pudiera encontrar a su hija, no solo tendría garantizada una vida de lujo en la corte del palacio, sino que, si él lo deseaba, tendría la bendición del rey para casarse con su hija. Dada la belleza de Ariquelmis, todos de personalidad y de físico, cientos de caballeros salieron del reino, en busca de la bella dama. Lo que no sabían y estaban a punto de descubrir era que esta doncella estaba atrapada en una torre, bajo el cuidado de un dragón feroz, listo para destruir a quien sea que lo moleste a él y su nueva amiga. La princesa había escapado de su hogar, porque se sentía increíblemente sola. Todo el mundo la amaba por su belleza, pero nadie la conocía, no realmente. Así que, ella salió al bosque, sola y sin comida, y terminó encontrándose con una familia de lobos. Si no fuera por el dragón, se la hubieran comido. El dragón era gigantesco, rojo y rosado, pero también era callado, y solo iba al cuarto de Ariquelmis para traerle comida, y aun ahí apenas la miraba. Ella en cambio estaba muy sentimental. Había sido secuestrada poco antes de su día favorito: San Valentín. Pero sin importar lo triste que se sentía, siguió siendo tan dulce y amable como siempre. Cada vez que él iba a su cuarto ella le hacía preguntas: “¿Cuál es tu nombre?”, “¿Tienes familia?”. No solo quería saber más sobre quién la había secuestrado, también quería saber si era posible hacerle su amigo. Pasó casi una semana después de que el dragón por fin le respondió y cuando lo hizo lo único que dijo fue “de nada”. Después de esto, empezaron a llevarse mejor. El dragón empezó a traerle regalos a Ariquelmis, cajas llenas de chocolates o ramos de rosas y claveles. El dragón y ella empezaron a hablar con la condición de que ella no le preguntara sobre sus orígenes o le preguntara su nombre. Esto creó una extraña amistad entre ellos, Ariquelmis empezó a sentirse menos sola y 10 por fin sentía que alguien la escuchaba, que podría ser feliz, y el dragón había conseguido a una amiga, la primera en años.

Ya después de unos días, llenos de regalos, sonrisas y conversaciones que duraban hasta tarde en la noche, se oyó un ruido afuera de la torre. El dragón le dijo a la princesa que no se moviera y hasta le dio una pequeña daga en caso de que algo pasara, de inmediato salió a investigar. Afuera encontró a un hombre joven y arrogante quien demandó al dragón “liberara a su futura esposa”. Cuando aquel trató de explicar que no la había secuestrado, que ella se había quedado por su propia voluntad, el joven lo interrumpió, declarando que eso era imposible porque Ariquelmis amaba a su reino. El dragón no supo qué responder, pero eso no importó y en pocos segundos el joven caballero le disparó con una flecha. El dragón voló hacia él, no quería hacerle daño pero tampoco podía dejar que lo mataran. Ariquelmis se quedó dentro de la torre, sentada en su cuarto, llena de miedo. Solo escuchaba partes de la conversación, así como sonidos de flechas y fuego que hacían que su corazón no parara de latir. Finalmente oyó un choque tan fuerte que no pudo resistirse y salió a ver lo que pasó. Lo que vio rompió su corazón. El cuerpo del dragón se hallaba sobre el suelo inmóvil. Ariquelmis se lanzó por las escaleras, desesperada por salvar a su amigo. Cuando llegó al suelo el joven trató de abrazarla, pero ella lo empujó, corriendo hacia el único ser en el mundo que la había tratado como una persona y no como una muñeca. Las lágrimas no paraban, y sus piernas temblaban tanto que ya no pudo quedarse de pie. Pero no tenía que, porque su mejor amigo justo en frente de ella yacía inconsciente. Ella sintió como si le hubieran arrancado el alma y la hubiesen tirado a la basura, pero sentada ahí, al lado de él se dio cuenta de algo. Esta criatura, este callado, amable y cariñoso dragón era el único ser en conocerla realmente y ella ni siquiera sabía su nombre. En lo que consideraba esto se dio cuenta de una línea dorada tatuada en la piel del dragón. La línea era solo una palabra: Cupido. El dragón se llamaba Cupido, el dios del amor y el romance. Le quedaba el nombre, dado lo cariñoso que era por lo

Artwork by Alexsa Irusta - 12 que, al saberlo, eso la entristeció más.

Entonces, alguien aclaró la garganta detrás de ella. Era el Joven, el monstruo que había matado a su mejor amigo…


—¿Por qué lloras?, le preguntó el Joven a Ariquelmis, —¿No ves que eres libre? —¿Libre?, pregunto la princesa, su mirada tan cruel y feroz como un dragón, todos menos Cupido, el ser más gentil jamás conocido, —¿Piensas que me has librado? VOICES: THE ARTISTS AND AUTHORS OF SCS


—Sí, su majestad, la libré de esa bestia y ahora podremos ir juntos a su castillo y yo recibiré mi recompensa por haberla salvado, podré casarme con la mujer más bella de todos los reinos. —¿Ah, sí?, respondió Ariquelmis con una mirada fría como el hielo. Miró la daga que Cupido le había dado y después al Joven. Una sonrisa reemplazó sus lagrimas y ella se levantó del suelo, dejando atrás al pobre Cupido. Miró al caballero directo a los ojos y dijo con la voz más intensa que le era posible: —El problema, mi querido caballero, es que no siempre se nos da lo que queremos. Nadie nunca pudo encontrar a Ariquelmis o a Alfonso II, uno de los caballeros que se había dedicado a buscarla.

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12

Artwork by Alex Ng Ng - 6



14 de febrero por John Torres - 7 El 14 de febrero estabas con un sombrero recuerdo que te vi en un ascensor desde entonces soy tu admirador.

Desde ese día tú siempre serás mía me gustan esos labios rosados nosotros estamos enamorados.

De ti estoy enamorado por eso te doy este regalo te lo envuelvo en un forro de corazones hoy te doy muchas felicitaciones.

Tú tienes una linda nariz por eso vivo muy feliz siempre te veo en el banco con tu elegante traje blanco.

También te di preciosos claveles aunque te quería dar rosas mi estómago se llenó de mariposas.

Hemos cultivado la amabilidad no cambiaría nada de nuestra amistad haciendo esto me puse sentimental.

Eres muy dulce, por eso te doy mucho cariño y también… este anillo recuerdo cuando nada más éramos amigos contigo quiero tener hijos .

Artwork by Amelia Baez - 8

As Infinite as the Sky by Annette Jiménez - 11 Looking to the sky It seems like a Never-ending blue As infinite is My love for you Your love makes me warm Your love makes me new The sun is bright But boy, so are you.

Nature within Us by Christina Taveras - 11 Some people think nature is what we see Not all see what is truly natural What is truly beautiful Is what inside of a pure heart. A pure heart is what nature reflects. When I see nature, Breathe in love, Exhale world. 13

Artwork by Cole Williams - 5

Bumping Bucket by Joy Jung - 5 “Help!” I called out. I could hear Mom and Dad gigging and saying, “Look at her!” It was 2013 and I was in Hawaii. It was a hot summer when I found a bucket and wanted to try it on my head. The sky was bright blue and clouds were fluffy like cotton candy. It was a day I would not forget. “I don’t think that bucket will fit on your oversized head. Don’t do it!” Mom suggested. “I really want to try it on my head,” I declared. So, I tried to press the popcorn bucket on my head. I could smell the sweet popcorn from the bucket! I pressed the bucket hard, then heard the “Thump!” I could see darkness, but nothing else. “Oh my,” I gasped, “I can’t see anything!” I sniffed popcorn and butter, but I didn’t know which way I was going! That’s when I heard my parents chuckling and whispering, “Look at her!” I was kind of angry and started to hurry toward my parents. But when I did, I tripped and knocked over boxes! Also, I bumped into walls and hurt my head! I could feel pain. Some of the things I touched made me feel weird. I shouted, “Help me Mom, help me Dad!” When my parents saw that I was getting hurt and was asking for help, they hurried over to help! They tried to yank the bucket off my head. Later, after a few minutes, they took the bucket off. Finally, I


could see light! Even though I could not sniff the sweet popcorn, I was glad to see light. Afterward, Mom felt sorry for me, so she brought me an ice pack for my head. But I did not say ‘Thank you’ to Mom! When I look back on this, I realize how stupid I was! This experience taught me to never place a bucket on my head. When I remember this I think about Mom, because she laughed at me. Even though she gave me an ice pack, I can’t forgive her. This taught me to always listen to my parents. Now that I am older, I know that popcorn buckets are useless for kids who want hats! Next time, I’m going to make sure to buy a gigantic bucket, so it can fit on my head.

“French Fries” by María Matilde Pérez - 11

Artwork by Alejandro Peña - 5

Artwork by Andrew Reyes - 11

Artwork by Angel Reyes - 11

Iraq War from the perspective of a U.S. army veteran What are we to them? By Sebastián Lilavois, Johanna Caraballo, Stephania Núñez, Alexsa Irusta - 12 The bright sun rises, The farmer heads to his green fields. Or is it just a slaughterhouse? Using pesticides to protect what to them belongs. Animals dying from the poisoned air, And as long as the crop grows all year long The farmers do not care. No benefit, no empathy. Because at the end of the day, They are all just animals. 15


Artwork by Isabela Fernández - 10


Cinderella by Vera Sofía Cereghino - 8 veryone has heard the story of Cinderella at least

once in their lifetime. It’s a classic! It’s any little girl’s dream of a perfect fairytale. Everyone believes it was pure magic when the fairy godmother came to her rescue, or incredible fate that made her shoe fall off as she ran down the stairs and have the prince search across the land just to find her. This story was written from Cinderella’s point of view, but as I write the occurrences from the way I saw it, hundreds of years of tradition will change. You may ask yourself who am I to change this story. Well, I am the prince. It all started the day my father and I were coming back from our business trip to a nearby village. We were in our carriage on our way back to the castle when something had caught my attention. Or should I say someone. An old lady was about to cross the busy street when a beautiful young woman had protectively grabbed her forearm to prevent her from going any further. The

girl had medium length hair, that in the shine of the sun looked strawberry-blond, and sky-blue eyes. Her baggy clothes and ragged skirts made her appear humble. As she saw the royal carriage, she immediately tried to smooth her dress and stood a little taller. She had caught my eye and had left me curious to know her story. I had been so caught up in thinking about her, I didn’t realize we had already arrived at the castle. As I got out of the carriage, I called James, the chief guard of our palace. “Yes, sir?” he asked. “I will need your help with something, James” I described this girl, who at the time I didn’t know the name of, and asked him to find out everything he could about her. She had distinctive features, so it would be easy to find her in a British village of only brown-eyed brunettes. “Yes, your majesty, my men and I will do everything in our power to find out more about this young lady and will let you know as soon as we encounter any further information.” I thanked him and went on my way to find my mother, whom we had left sick and in bed before we went on our business trip. I went up to her room to find a maid coming out. As she came out, with tears in her eyes she told me, “She just woke up from a nap, she is very fragile, and we have to keep a close eye on her.” When I entered the room, I went up to her and kissed her forehead. “Hello mother, how have you been? We had a very successful trip and we expect the economy to rise, so we will be able to get the best doctor in London for you.” She smiled but was too weak to say anything back. I looked at her with a pain in my eyes. She was very weak indeed, I couldn’t imagine my life without her, so we couldn’t give up hope. The rest of the day, to take my mind off my mother’s situation, I helped the guards in the search for the blond girl and we had made some progress. We found a few documents of blond girls in the village, but only one that had blue eyes. Her name was Cinderella. It said she lived in a mansion, which was odd because I had seen her with ragged clothes that were only used on servants. After looking further into the papers, we found out she lived with her stepmother and her two stepsisters. Her father had died when she was a toddler and her

mother had died during Cinderella’s birth, making her an orphan. I immediately felt sorry for her, imagining what it would be like to lose not one, but both parents. The next day, as we were brainstorming ways to get to know more about her, an idea popped into my head. The royal ball was coming up and the most important and powerful families of the kingdom were invited. Amongst that list of families was Cinderella’s family. The day the guards went out to deliver the invitations, I went disguised as a guard to see if I could catch a glimpse of Cinderella again. When we arrived at the mansion, the stepmother answered the door. “Hello gentlemen, what can I do for you?” “Ma’am,” one of the guards said, “we are here to deliver the royal invitations for the annual Ball at the palace.” He handed the woman four envelopes. “Oh thanks, but we will only be needing three. Our lovely Cinderella doesn’t like attending these types of things.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure behind the stepmother. It resembled Cinderella and she was walking dimly up the stairs. She still had ragged clothes, which again, was odd because the step mother had very fine clothes. Something didn’t make sense. When we got back to the castle, I told the guards that we needed a plan to take her to the ball. After a few hours of looking for ideas, we finally had a plan, and a very elaborate one. To get Cinderella to go to the ball, we would have to wait for the stepmother and sisters to leave first. We would get their carriage ready, so they could leave as fast as possible. The next part of the plan was complicated,

Artwork by Mariannie Rodríguez - 12

Artwork by Ashly Espinal - 5

because we knew there was a magician in the kingdom but it was too expensive. We needed all the money we could manage for my ill mother. So, we went for a cheaper alternative. We hired one of the castle’s actresses to dress up as a as a fairy that claimed to be her godmother who was sent to grant Cinderella a beautiful blue dress to match her eyes and a carriage to get to the ball. We told her to use any trickery and special effects she could find because, as I previously mentioned, real magic is very expensive these days. We also told the actress to tell her she had until midnight to return home before her props and costumes disappeared because we had only rented the dress and the props for that day. Poema de San Valentín For the final part of the plan, we would put glue on the stairs, so her shoe would get stuck and I would have a reason to find her again. As the story says, everything went according to plan and we got married and lived happily ever after. In this story you can see that there are only a few things that happen by coincidence and pure luck, but if you really want something, you have to work hard to get it.


Poema de San Valentín por María Blanco - 8 Es el día de vestirse de rojo y de rosado Catorce de febrero, día del enamorado. Cupido viene a alegrar cada corazón, Con flores y chocolates, porque es la tradición. Los amigos y amigas celebran su amor, O quizá tu tengas un secreto admirador, Que confiese por ti su intenso sentimiento, Un regalo y unos claveles, para robarte el aliento. San Valentín es el día del amor y la amistad Ojalá que te llenes de mucha amabilidad. ¡O tal vez te quedes sorprendida, Si te manda saludos el amor de tu vida! Si recibes muchas tarjetas amorosas, O un par de dulces y unas rosas. Tuviste un día mejor que el mío No tengo enamorado, solo un corazón vacío.

Artwork by Jimena Guzmán - 11 Sagrario Díaz en décima

por Valeria Genao - 8

Artwork by Manuel Mena

Hoy día de la mujer Sagrario Ercida Díaz Cursaba economía Luchó hasta más no poder Contra Joaquín Balaguer Asesinada por error Es recordada con honor Dirigente estudiantil Fue una muerte juvenil Lo que causó mucho horror.

Nacida en Barahona Se mudó a la capital Y dejó su ciudad natal A sus amigos abandona Sin poder volver a su zona Para fines de estudiar Sin nunca imaginar Cómo su vida cambiaría Ni cómo reaccionaría Al ver la bala impactar.

Es conveniente aprender De lo valiente que era Que pena que se fuera Es preciso reconocer Esta increíble mujer Que su vida arriesgó Y la vida le costó Luchando para no morir Dejando su alma ir A su familia le dolió.

Disparada en la frente Con solo veintiséis años Con su cabello castaño Una mujer muy fuerte Luchaba siendo valiente Estudió hasta bachiller Sin poder volver a ver Murió el catorce de abril Sin regresar a Tamboril Sin llegar a envejecer.



The Death of an Innocent Eun Seo Jang, Eugenia Jorge, Luis Tallaj - 12 An angel gone too soon, carrier of a tender creature in her womb. The selfish feelings, murderous thoughts, her lover and his mother, an easy escape they sought. Metal sticks and bloody hands, a life was shed too fast. People prayed and people pondered, where was Emely, they all wondered. The powerless cried while the powerful stood on the side. Why do these things only occur in the underground, people only care when they are finally found. Raise our voices. Raise our hands. Open your eyes and see the dark truth. The death of the women, the innocent, the youth; An angel, gone too soon.

Artwork by Caterina Torres - 8

Artwork by Stephania Núùez - 12


Artwork by Carolina Feng - 8

La Catedral (unfinished) by Pablo Pimentel - 12

Inspired by the Ely Cathedral in Cambridgeshire and the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona


Artwork by Beymi Tapia - 7

Artwork by Sarah Mata - 7

From Europe to the Caribbean: Inside Out Poem

by Amelia Báez - 8 Greetings come with blessings Warm backs on cows and horses Splashes and shouts of joy Waves running to the shore Dry trees and round leaves Tasty fish, sticky rice A Jewish girl in the Dominican Republic

They, too, learn about God But not the way my rabbi taught No Judaism, just Christianity Spanish, French, all the same to me Except one is clearly harder than the other Another dictator Just nice enough to let us stay

Shiny necklace, like the sun Warm, delicious kosher meals Short races, always won by me Church with my parents Every week another Bar Mitzvah My country no longer mine

A bible in a flag And prayers before meals Wooden t’s, everywhere Yet no star with six ends Dunked in water at a young age The same prayer, over and over Followed by amen Monotonous voices each time

Artwork by Zachary Pedersen - 7

Artwork by William Choi - 7

Jewish refugees’ experience when arriving to the Dominican Republic

Artwork by Rogelio Álvarez - 7



Artwork by Kemel Mustafá - 11 Artwork by Johanna Caraballo - 12

Apolo y sus vencidas por Annette Jiménez, María Matilde Pérez, Christina Taveras y Emily Roman - 11


onga, al fin y al cabo, es una mujer casada, si por casada se refiere a vivir bajo el

mismo techo con un hombre al que tienes que lavarle la ropa, cocinarle la comida, colarle el café y satisfacerlo carnalmente cada vez que él lo desee, sí, estaban casados. La escasa cultura de Monga y Guananico no le permitía tener conocimiento de que para “casarse” hacía falta firmar un acta, para ellos bastaba mudarse juntos bajo la promesa de formar una familia y “no pasai jambre”. Detrás de bambalinas ese bohío era una zona de guerra, una esclavitud en todos los sentidos. Que se cuide Monga si cuando canta el gallo no está ese café colado en la mesita del comedor, o si le niega una caricia a Guananico, si le responde, si la comida le queda salada o desabrida, si se acaba el arroz, o el café, o los huevos, o la sal. Precisamente esa mañana, cuando Monga se levanta de su camita en vías a colarle el acostumbrado café a su marido, se da cuenta que en la latita donde almacenan las semillas de café no hay más que pedacitos de óxido… no es sorpresa que los últimos días el café de Guananico sabía como si estuviera mordiendo una cadena de hierro. Monga se derrumbó a llorar, sabía lo que le esperaba desde que escuchara retumbando los pies de su marido por el pasillo casi inexistente de su casa. Por dos minutos, solo sonaba el viento y el sonido de la cuchara de Monga mezclando agua con azúcar para brindarle los buenos días; este silencio se interrumpió con las zancadas de Guananico, quien, como todas las mañanas se sentó en la única silla de la casa. Observó meticulosamente el agua caliente que le había preparado su mujer, quien temblaba del miedo en la esquina de la cocinita.


Cualquier espectador hubiese observado también el agua caliente, la lata que usaban como vaso, la silla, y los puños de Guananico volar para encima de Monga. Ese era su castigo por no conseguir el café. Monga en el piso, y todos los objetos que fueron arrojados hacia ella

Artwork by Inha Cho - 11

le hicieron buena compañía hasta que Guananico se dignó a parar de golpear a Monga y marcharse hacia el conuco. Monga se levantó, se sacudió la tierra del piso de la ropa y se fue con el fin de conseguir café. A pesar de que había terminado de ser abatida, Monga salía sonriente de su casa, es como si toda la felicidad que le faltaba a ella la obtenía sacándole sonrisas a los demás. Como si nadie supiera que entre esas cuatro paredes de tablas pintadas de azul desteñido, Monga era una perfecta esclava de Guananico, pero esa era la definición de “una mujer buena”. Cuentan todos en el pueblo que Monga y Guananico se conocieron cuando Monga tenía apenas 14 años, y bastaron solo algunos meses para que Guananico “se la llevara”. Para ese momento, Monga vivía con su abuela, quien la crió ya que su mamá se había ido al pueblo de Puerto Plata a trabajar en una casa de familia, y el papá de Monga era un fantasma.

Artwork by Abby Mata - 6

… La felicidad de Tatá cuando se enteró que Monga no estaba en la casa fue tal que solo faltó que fuera el mismo Ángel Gabriel que le proporcionara la noticia. Ya con 14 años Monga era “una mujer vieja” que sabía hacer oficios y era solo una carga para la vieja Tatá, quien debía compartir espacio y alimentos con Monga. La crisis económica que arropaba a Tatá era tal que la misma se

Artwork by Gian Felipe - 7


las ingeniaba para administrar una canasta de alimentos que le donaban en Navidad y los pocos víveres que cultivaba para todo el año. Se iba Monga, y se iba una carga; pero ahora era Monga quien cargaba con Guananico. Independientemente de esto,

Tatá ama a Monga, pero en su situación, la única fuerza más grande que la del amor, era con la que se estremecía y crujía su estómago gracias al hambre que la arropaba. Entonces era justo que Monga se vaya, “Tranquila mi’ja, que e’ poi tu bien” fue el único consuelo de Tatá a la perdida y desconsolada Monga. Guananico tenía su casa propia, colosal atractivo para la familia de una muchacha ahogándose en la pobreza. Era un hombre altísimo y fuerte de tez oscura calcinada por el Sol que lo azotaba todos los días. Como el Sol, también lo azotaba la necesidad de sentirse superior a los que lo rodean. De ojos rasgados, que no veían más allá de sus intereses y nariz ancha, labios gruesísimos, Guananico era lo más similar a un zambo reencarnado desde la época de la colonización. Como zambo también actuaba, pues no conocía los buenos tratos, mucho menos hacia una dama. Todo menos un humano, eso era Monga para el Guano. Monga era la cocinera, la lavandera, el entretenimiento, pero a todo esto… Ella era la posesión más preciada de Guananico.

“Girl with a Pearl Earring” by Mariannie Rodríguez - 12

Artwork by Luisa Arias - 5

Artwork by Sara Farré - 12


VOICES: THE ARTISTS AND AUTHORS OF SCS Los vientos murmuradores relataban que la inocencia de Monga quedó en manos de Guananico, y su vergüenza también. Su primera noche de casada, sus buenos días consistieron en despreciar su única sábana tendida en la entrada de la casita que compartía con su ahora marido con una mancha de sangre enorme para que todos en el pueblo admiraran que Guananico había escrito su nombre en Monga, marcó su territorio, marcó su vida. Entendido, Monga ya no era virgen, Monga era su trofeo, Monga era su esclava, Dominga era de Guananico. Lo que en la sábana no se veía eran las lágrimas que Monga había derramado, el dolor, la presión, la pesadilla que vivía desde el primer día, y que para el asombro de Monga, se prolongaría durante toda su vida. Monga no sabía lo que era el amor, pero si de algo estaba segura, era que lo que estaba viviendo y sintiendo, podía ser lo que fuera, todo menos amor.

“Humans” by Jimena Guzmán - 11

Artwork by Marco Portela - 10

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12


Artwork by Miguelina Sosa - 11

Working Hard for Others Artwork by Pablo Pimentel - 12 by Almanzor Vila, Priscilla Robles, and Pamela Checo - 12 I work hard and it pays off. 6 a.m.: I wake up every morning before my wife makes the coffee, before my kids put on their school uniforms. 6:45 a.m.: I walk for 30 minutes to the corner of Calle Sánchez. There, I get inside the concho of my cuñado Aurelio. Beep. Beep. Impatience, rudeness, and recklessness lead the steering wheel to the long day that waits. 7:30 a.m.: the smell of tobacco leaves indicates my arrival to the zona franca. No time to talk, no time to walk, no time to breathe. 3 p.m.: I have fifteen minutes to eat. Alright, back to work. Moving the tobacco leaf in order to keep it away from my sweat drops. 8 p.m.: I sigh of relief looking at my home. My wife kisses me goodnight. Where are the children? They are already asleep. I work hard and it pays off… it pays off to cover other men’s expensive tastes.

Artwork by Andrew Reyes


Artwork by Marco Santana - 12

Artwork by Jimena Guzmán - 11

The Bipolar Dictator by Sofía Mella Cabrera - 11

All this people, I love them Bringing me joy Poisonous gas and brown smoke Some bringing hatred Some said fog others said fear It’s ok Choosing All this people, I hate them Every 4 years the same Attacking citizens Poisonous gas looking good 30 years I’ve been Shouting? Or thanking? Fear or love Fear around the city I love when they praise me Blood when no is said Some said weapons Nothing when yes Others said death None fear me Papers in the box I’m sure about that Yeses heard. They adore me Oh I hate them All this people, I love All this people, I hate I love them They all love me I want them to have No doubt, no fear A good leader 31 years I’ve been I hate them Loving these people. They are obnoxious Hating on me.

Artwork by Sebastián Lilavois - 12


A Word Several Letters Long by Ewan Cheng - 11 Since the time of Cain and Abel, A feeling has nurtured, Held in the hearts of men and women. It has been dressed, perfumed, Powdered and slicked, But the raw core of it, Still holds to be pure and true. A boy senses a glowing flicker of it, As he stands on the playground looking after a girl Who had spoken to him moments ago. Oh, how men have struggled and tried Scraped the bottoms of their brains, In search of anything, anything! That can finally capture this great emotion. Anything, a snapshot, a glimpse, with the written word. They have pranced and lunged, Wept, cried, Fought and bribed, To attempt to do the undoable, the impossible! If one solitary poet Were to reach down into the abyss of man And pin it on paper, Holding it down forever under the weight of the pen, All the others will lay down their pens in surrender. But they still scribble and scrawl on for eternity.

“Lechon” by Catalina Peña - 6

Artwork by Hannah Phares - 6


“Fireworks” by Stephania Nuñez - 11


An echo of this sentiment seems to have found residence in me. An echo? No. Tidal wave, the full force of a hurricane, Blasting away the roof tiles. Neptune’s fury against Odysseus bears little resemblance. This feeling, the uncontrollable force, Is directed solely, uniquely, And absolutely only, on a single being. Her, out of billions of others. Never has a poem, a sentence, A fragment of literature captured The gargantuan magnitude of this sentiment Love, the overused snippet of true emotion, Pales in comparison, To my utter dislike of her. One day, I’ll be on her doorstep, And she’ll hear me say: “I’ll dive into the deep ocean blue, Sail through the Indian monsoon, Abandon all that I hold dear and true, Fly and land on the moon, Just to get away from you”.

Artwork by Sara Santana - 6

“Otis” by Miguel Vila - 12

“Elephant Surrealism” by Marie Maruschke - 8



Dreams by Rena Jean Rogers - 8

nce upon a time, there was a craftsman

named Ernest who made a beautiful journal with unique designs embroidered onto it. According to Ernest this was the finest journal he had ever made, and he treasured it close to his heart. One stormy night, a grotesque figure cloaked in black knocked on his door. Curious, Ernest opened the door and let he peculiar figure inside his cozy home. The grotesque figure took one glance at its surroundings and then noticed something on the table. The journal. The stranger took out its wrinkled hands and cast an unintelligible spell onto the prized possession causing it to evaporate into thin air. Ernest reached out to the stranger, attempting to strangle it onto its feet. Instead the cloaked man vanished into thin air. He crumpled onto the ground, weeping. The journal was gone. The dismissal bell rang, sending a crescendo throughout the halls of Pearl High. Wade Maddison bustled out of his classroom with some of his other senior friends. The group of friends made their way to “Malibu’s Surf Shop” to Artwork by Marco Santana - 12 retrieve their freshly polished surfboards and jogged onto the beach. They surfed on Malibu’s waves for an hour until a pour of rain settled on the beach. They returned their boards to the shop and departed. Wade rode his bike home soaking wet. He took a hot shower, slid into his sweats, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and started his homework. The next morning puddles were everywhere, and the air was humid and misty. It was too wet for Wade to bike to school, so his dad insisted on taking him in his Kia Soul. Throughout the drive Mr. Maddison, Wade’s father, began asking him about which universities he should apply for college to become a professional surfer. Wade never seemed quite satisfied with becoming a surfer. Wade had dreams of writing non-fiction books about marine biology. He wanted to study writing and marine biology in college. The only thing preventing him of fulfilling his dreams was his dad. That afternoon, Artwork by Rubén Ábreu - 12 Wade went to check in the mailbox to see if they had received any mail. In the mailbox there was a package that wasn’t issued to anybody. He opened it to realize it was an old journal. In a clandestine manner he snuck it into the house and late at night when his father was asleep, he would begin writing stories, both fiction and nonfiction. One day he had left the journal on his desk while rushing to get to school. His father came in his room to receive his laundry when he saw the unfamiliar journal. He opened it and began reading. When 30 his son came home that night, he showed him several college applications to fulfill his dreams and to show the world what a gifted writer his son was. At midnight the journal vanished.

Artwork by Deborah Cohen - 6

Artwork by Sara Farré - 12

Freshman Molly Stanford has dyslexia. All of the students at Normandy High, Phoenix, AZ don’t quite understand what dyslexia means. Some of them think it means she’s cursed, or sentimental, and some think she’s simply odd or half alien. None of these assumptions are true, Mrs. Stanford likes to say it’s total baloney to cheer her daughter up. Molly is friends with Sarah Fillips, who loves art, and Michelle Creevy, who loves animals and fashion. Molly, Sarah, and Michelle spend most of their time together at the “Smoothie Shop” and at the park coming up with hilarious stories over random topics. Michelle is the one in charge of the character’s names and Sarah is in charge of the locations and scenes, Molly is the one who makes the story up. Her dream is to become an author and get her stories published to the world. The logical factor preventing her from doing so is her dyslexia. One late afternoon, Molly went down to the basement to find an extra chair for dinner because her older sister Sam, who was in college, was joining them for dinner. Peering through the dark foraging for the chair, she tripped over a rectangular object. Once she recovered from the fall, she retrieved the object. A thick layer of dust was on the object, so she gently brushed it off. She suddenly came to the conclusion that she had tripped over an abandoned journal. She searched for her fallen flashlight, the chair and a pen. She began drawing her stories rather than writing them as the hours passed by. When Sam arrived and asked for the whereabouts of her sister, it was unknown. She scavenged the house until she found Molly drawing in the basement. Sam asked her what she was doing, and Molly told her everything about her dreams and how they were being prevented. Her sister asked Molly to tell her a story and she began writing it all down. Molly’s stories became published with her sister’s help, and her dreams were launched. The journal, however, went missing.

Artwork by Elijah Cedeño - 6

At the dingy old Laurence house, Brian Laurence tried to receive the attention of his older brother Jay to get help on his math homework. Brian also wanted to know his brother’s opinion over The Elvis Files and if he believed Elvis truly faked his death. The only problem was that Brian was mute. He knew English, French, and Spanish and was one of the smartest kids in Harrodsburg High, but he couldn’t speak. His best friends were his elder brother Jay Kyle Laurence, and his cousin Austin Ames Laurence. They would play games together like Monopoly, Nerf, Clue and Uno. They did everything together and always had a great time despite the circumstances. VOICES: THE ARTISTS AND AUTHORS OF SCS


In order for Brian to communicate he had to write it down or try using sign language, which he wasn’t very good at. He always wanted to find out the opinions of people and dreamed of interviewing them, but his voice limited the possibility of doing so. One late night Brian went to the Supply Closet in his father’s office to get more paper for school. He had found some filled in notebooks, but there was a smaller one which was empty and had no lines. He realized it was a journal with carved in designs. He took the book and began writing down debatable topics and leaving space for answers. He included other questions to find out information about the interviewees, such as their names. Brian showed Jay and Austin the journal and wrote down what he wanted them to do in order to help them. They both agreed. Austin was going to find the people to be interviewed by Brian, and Jay was going to be Brian’s voice by asking the questions. Brian was going to record all of the interviewee’s answers. Their 11th interviewees were two college students named Wade Maddison and Molly Stanford. Wade was in his last year of College and Molly was in her first. They explained how they got to the point to where they are now in life and that it was all due to this journal with a unique cover, the same one in Brian’s hand. The journal was back in the possession of its maker. Its pages were complete.

“Daydreamer” by Tomy Han


Artwork by Luke Pedersen -8

“Mao, Valverde” by Mariannie Rodríguez - 12

Artwork by Maureen Woodley -7

Artwork by Pablo Pimentel - 12

Artwork by Sophia Torres - 5 Mi Papá por Ellenore Cheung - 12 La persona que yo admiro más es mi papá, Dennis Cheung. Mi papá es mi héroe porque el es la mejor persona que conozco. Lo que sea que él hace, siempre se esta preocupando por su familia, haciendo lo mejor posible para ellos. Son muy pocos los hombres que no piensen en su mismo ser, sino solamente en su familia. Además de eso, también siempre hace todo lo que él pueda para ayudar a los que están en su alrededor. Él tiene un corazón de oro puro. Todos aman a mi papá porque él tiene esa cualidad que provoca sentimientos de confianza y amabilidad, pero esta cualidad no solo viene del interior. No es solamente su personalidad que lo hace mi héroe, sino también su forma de ser. Estos sentimientos de confianza y amabilidad son provocados por su risa y sonrisa. Esa amable sonrisa siempre me hace sentir mejor cuando siento que jamás seré feliz. Su feliz risa hace que todos a su alrededor también se rían. Ambas son capaces de iluminar al mundo entero en los momentos mas oscuros. Sus abrazos pueden hacer que el corazón de Grinch crezca. Sus abrazos son mas reconfortantes que un fuego en las noches mas frías. Sus abrazos hacen que uno se sienta seguro. Mi papa es el padre que todos debieran aspirar a ser.

Artwork by Laura Contín - 11

Nature and Beauty by Melanie Guillén - 11 Life is beauty Light is gold Nature is beauty Hot and cold Looking up in the sky Lighting the streets I see you and you see me Come and join this time with me 33

Soaring Butterflies by Eugenia Jorge and Noelia Martínez - 12 Noisy beepers buzzing, beeping with agitated energy, elevators dinging, phones ringing. My body there, yet my thoughts had drifted into an extensively black abyss, “This way Please.” I jerked my head abruptly and plunged into my own body once again. Fefa’s Empowering grin reminding me I was strong enough to undertake my ailing. Her Supportive grasp led to the healing quarters and left me there, completely deserted. Beaming red couches, enclosed by freshly painted, pretty, pastel walls. golden rays Pierced through the eyes of the edifice enhancing all the vivid colors. Screaming silence Brimmed in the empty spaces. The quiet aided me in the unmasking of the sweet illusion That was this place. The pulsing blood in the red of the couches, the smell of illness in the fresh paint, the sorrow in the pastel walls, the eternal melancholy in the golden rays.

Artwork by Lucy Álvarez - 8

The concrete garden echoed melodies of peace. My heart was captured by a pair of Colossal brown eyes, with the strength to conquer the world. However, through those Broken gems I noticed a desperate need of a warming embrace. Five warm-hearted smiles Clenched my body. Hopeful butterflies in a sky of anguish; radiant faces and princess Pajamas. A tugging thought of departure, these new beginnings close to their end. Gleaming at the sight of a guest after prolonged solitude. Incredulous of deserving such Attention, beautiful girls granted me their love and affection. Splashing color slipped on The paper and struck the table as Chantal and I shared our favorite films and funny jokes We sung the nativity anthem for Edith in her special day and came together in prayer for God to light her way. Her mother’s gaze mirrored a joy I had never witnessed before.


Laughter and delight spread around the room and satisfaction around my heart. Dreadful Thoughts evolved into contagious positivity and promised plans for the future. A new, Unbreakable friendship sparked spontaneously yet somehow, forever enduring. My mind Was at ease knowing that butterflies overcame their wretched fear of fate, embraced Their gruesome hardships, and finally learned how to soar.

Retrato de Manuel Báez - 12 Una persona que yo admiro es Federico Ceballo, mejor conocido como “Quico.” Este humilde señor tiene décadas trabajando como portero en el colegio Santiago Christian School. Un señor de media altura, tez marrón y ojos claros y tiene un carácter de puro respeto. Cada día, veo con mis propios ojos la ancha sonrisa de un hombre hecho puramente de positividad, él cual nunca pide agradecimiento ni reconocimiento sin importar los días, semanas, meses, años por los cuales trabaja. Hay muchas cosas, las cuales quisiera aprender de este individuo, pero la razón número uno por la cual lo admiro es su positividad. Este señor, quien tiene más pasión por su trabajo que granos de arena en la playa, me sirve como ejemplo de cómo quisiera comportarme en cuanto al trabajo. Este hombre al cual hasta el mismo sol le sonríe es quien yo admiro, y deseo ser como él.

Artwork by Sara Farré - 12

Artwork by Jimena Guzmán - 11

Artwork by Ricky Choi Ten Cuidado por Adriana Peña - 8 Cuando te vi en esa fiesta Mi corazón era tuyo Me regalaste una rosa roja Solo tenía ojos para uno. Eras tan amable Solo un admirador Pero pronto no eras solo mi amigo Quería vivir mi vida contigo.

Ya no quiero ser tu amiga Entonces ten cuidado Comenzando de este día Vas estar enamorado. No quiero chocolates Ni flores ni regalos Si crees que eso es romance Estás equivocado.

Ya no quiero ser tu amiga Entonces ten cuidado Comenzando de este día Vas a estar enamorado. No quiero chocolates Ni flores ni regalos Si crees que eso es romance Estás equivocado. Me hiciste muy feliz Cuando fuiste mi Valentín Después trataste de comprarme con tu tarjeta y eso fue el fin.


Artwork by Rafelina Polanco - 5 Trees and the Sky Anonymous Trees are like the soul, Strong yet brittle, Dark as coal, Makes you feel little Sky shows greatness Glory is found We act reckless And end in the ground.

Artwork by Laura Contín - 11


The People You Meet in Heaven by Amelia Báez - 8 I arrived at my home’s kitchen where I could smell a savory sancocho on the stove. There was a huge bowl of rice cooking and an even bigger bowl of sancocho next to it. Moving around the food was a small woman with a tiny bun and a rag on her shoulder who was bickering about the mess that the kids made. She took a bit of rice, ate some, and gave the rest to the small white dog begging for food. She started to say “Markurio, Mala Maña, Ñaki” as everyone else laughed. She began to sing church songs while drinking Coca-Cola from a mug. I immediately knew it was Charo. Charo has taught me how to be patient when I want something. She has helped me wait whenever we are cooking, because if you don’t wait, it won’t be as good. Not only was she the one who taught me how to cook, but she taught me how to love it. While cooking, you have to be patient and wait so that it comes out as you want. I can apply this to my life because, sometimes, we have to be patient in order to get what we want. After all, Charo has taught me one of the most valuable lessons in life.

The New World by Adriana Peùa - 8 Virgin land everywhere Plants never seen before Clear mountains like clouds in the distance An English girl in the New World No houses or farms No shelter at all Building houses concerns them all One room huts made of thatch and wood Cover the heads of many families Providing no warmth or comfort No warm porridge or beer Instead fish and milk No more Indian, Turkish, or French Only bland vegetables and meat It seems like dirt is the only thing to eat No more school for the brothers No more private tutor for her Mothers’ lessons work as replacements But the alphabet and Bible must suffice Chores becoming a daily fight

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12

No more street mongers But men build and hunt No change for women Voluntarily enslaved with housework Blacksmiths, jewelers, and tailors are rare But cooking, cleaning, and raising are still there All constant reminders Of the precious England left behind

Artwork by Johanna Caraballo - 12


A beautifully crafted man, in his mid-twenties. handsome face, trim form. The only incongruities, his hands, brutish things liken to paws. His failure derailed him, feeling disgraced, bitterly jealous of officers. He was exiled to a POW camp, the military’s lowest station. Assigned to Omori named disciplinarian of prisoners, he arrived seething with resentment. Down the line the corporal strode, at each man barking “Name!” Louie gave his name, the corporal’s eyes narrowed. Louie dropped his eyes, the corporal’s fist rammed Louie’s head. Louie raised his eyes again came the whirling arm. Louie staggered. This man is a psychopath. He became a monster. He beat POWs every day, fracturing windpipes, rupturing eardrums, shattering teeth, tying another to a tree for days. Two things separate Watanabe from other war criminals: First: love of emotional torture, Second: inconsistency, from serenity to rage in an instant. POW looked with terror. He favored a particular type of victim. officers and high-ranking POWs, hunted them with inexhaustible hatred, intense jealousy yet Enlisted men received, the occasionally slapped face.


Watanabe locked eyes with Louie Zamperini, an officer, a famous Olympian, an inherently defiant man, no one obsessed him more.

Monster by Carolina Feng - 8

The Sun is Seen at Midnight by María Mena, Rubén Ábreu, Erin Lepley – 12 The sun is seen at midnight, Distant screams of agony are heard. Explosions! Peace? Explosions! No time to evacuate, just to hide.

Artwork by Grace Aybar - 12

How is there peace in stealing lives? How come there is no other way? A medal has no worth compared to a life. Explosions! Death. Peace?

3-foot structure made of bamboo skewers “Palos Plateados” by Pablo Pimentel - 12




Snow White by Rocío Abreu - 8 ow, everyone and their mothers know the story of Snow White. She’s known as the girl

who runs away from her evil stepmother, meets seven dwarves, finds true love, gets poisoned, and blah blah blah. Then she finds true love’s kiss, and boom, happily ever after. But what no one knows is my story. The story of a young woman who lost her reputation, her kingdom and then her life because of some little brat who had knack for lying. That’s the truth behind my story, after all, villains are victims whose story hasn’t been told. Let’s start at the beginning; cut to Regina (that’s me by the way), a young, beautiful girl from just outside the Kingdom. Digging holes with my brother, Daniel, while my mother put seeds inside them and my father carried the cart with the seed bags. We worked silently in the hot summer air, trying to keep from passing out. We didn’t have a lot of money, but what we lacked in resources we made up in spirit. My parents woke long before the sun did, working through any weather, season, time or injury. They had three children to feed and nothing to feed them with but they did what they could, keeping food on the table and clothes on our backs. Me and my brother helped when we could, and my little sister, too young to work, stayed home. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12 Artwork by Jimena Guzmán - 11 40

Artwork by Claire Pedersen -6

Early in the winter, we came home from working late in the Inn next door to a quiet house. We didn’t think Artwork by Noa Linan Sabino - 8 much of it until my mother called out for my sister… and got no response. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest, threatening to burst through my chest when I saw her lying in my bed, her head turned away from me. I felt my chest shake with relief, as I went to hug her and tell her how much she had worried me… but then, I noticed how pale she looked, and how her chest wasn’t moving along with her breaths, because she wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t remember anything but my knees hitting the floor and my cries filling the room. My sister was dead. After that, everything moved quickly. We buried her the day after and my parents no longer took me out to work, they whispered among themselves saying things like, “I can’t do this anymore” or, “She was so young”. My mother started giving me face treatments and waking me up at dawn so we could spend the day at the castle. It was a few weeks before I found out why. The king had lost his wife that winter and he was looking for a new bride. According to my mother she had mentioned me to him and how much I knew of his loss and he had been keeping his eyes on me on our visits and now finally my mother’s plan had worked; the king had just asked for my hand in marriage. Two weeks, later we were married and not long after I was queen, with a little step-daughter who seemed to be unable to stand in the same room as me for more than a few seconds. Fairly Odd Parents by Sara Farré - 12


“Carjack” by Marco Santana - 12

I understood her anger, as she thought I was taking her mother’s place, what I didn’t understand however, was how she managed to find a way to blame me for everything that came after. Less than a year after we married, King Radius died of an illness he had already been carrying for a few years, which was perfectly normal, yet given her rotten stares and hushed insults, Snow White didn’t think so. Nobody told me it was her, but I knew perfectly well, that she was the one who started calling me the Evil Queen and, more importantly, the one who spread the news of my “evil deeds”. The magic mirror? Just a mirror Radius got me as a wedding gift. The huntsman I asked to get me her heart? Just my brother trying to get his niece to come home. The poisoned apple? Okay, well that one was sort of on me, but how was I supposed to know that she was allergic to apples? Oh, and the kiss of true love was a total bust, that poor boy was lucky her reaction broke at the time it did and she was even luckier that everyone believed her when she told the story of how she lived. She spread all of those lies and naturally everybody believed her. Then everyone in the kingdom turned against me, including my parents, who knew me. That’s when I stopped correcting people. I stopped caring about the insults and the names and when they took me out to be executed, I was silent. That’s my story, the true story of Snow White, how she wasn’t brave or caring, she was spoiled and a liar and her actions ruined my whole life but no one listened, blind to the beauty of a pretty little girl.


Artwork by Albert Park - 6

A Hike? by Ewan Cheng - 11 An endless path Drownin’ And overenthusiastic teachers But perhaps the joy of this hike Or little excursion, or whatnot. Comes from solitude Is it? I tried to run ahead Lose the bumbling and the crowd Only to run into another Noisy one But I heard A symphony A great harmony The birds The leaves And the chatter Artwork Working together by Charbel In a symphony Wadih - 10 of something

Artwork by Jimena GuzmĂĄn - 11


Mi Ídolo Alguien que considero mi ídolo desde el momento que tuve conciencia es mi papa. Es un hombre ejemplar para su familia y todos aquellos que lo conocen. Siempre es muy honesto, humilde, y honorable. Es mas fuerte que un león y mas paciente que un elefante. Es el hombre mas trabajador que conozco y todo lo que hace lo hace por su familia. Siempre esta ahí para mi y no me imagino una vida sin el.

Artwork by Jimena Guzmán- 11 Artwork by Marco Santana - 12


“637A4 (Star)” by Hubery Pai


por Eugenia Jorge – 12 No hay nadie que me conozca mas que mi papá. Es increíble que a veces cuando sabe que estoy pensando cuando ni siquiera digo nada. Pienso que estamos conectados de alguna manera. Cuando vieja yo estaré, nunca me olvidare de cada detalle de mi papa. Su cabello oscuro a pesar de tener 54 años, la arruga que se le forma entre sus cejas cuando está pensando, o su barriga que esconde detrás de sus numerosas camisas blancas. Su piel es blanca como un papel, pero cuando se ríe se pone roja como un tomate. Tiene la nariz y la descendencia árabe, pero dice que es puro dominicano. Nunca sale sin sus lentes o sin estar completamente afeitado. Tengo sus grandes ojos café y la forma de sus cejas, se puede decir que saque su mirada. No es muy alto ni muy bajito, tiene la estatura perfecta. Realmente la descripción de mi papá, supera la de un superhéroe y estoy muy afortunada de tenerlo en mi vida.

Artwork by Unknown Artist

Artwork by Ricky Choi



La Vida de Wanda Rijo

por Darby Byrd y Adriana Peña - 8 Wanda Rijo, una mujer Ella era increíble Con fuerza indiscutible Claramente podían ver Que siempre quería vencer En todas las competencias Mostraba su influencias Muchos la idealizaban Competidores miraban A su poder y potencias. Durante su gran carrera Ha ganado muchos premios Tenía muchos apremios Aunque sus retos rompiera Siempre siendo la primera Levantadora de peso Después de muchos procesos Permanece adelante Es una mujer brillante que logró mucho progreso. Aunque ama a su nación También así a sus tres hijas Su esposo, la sortija Le dio con amor y pasión Entregando el corazón Para formar su familia

Artwork by Bonita Pieczara - 8

Y con sus padres concilia El amor que recibió De ellos ella aprendió De su amor por la Biblia.


Como esposa de pastor Dedicó su vida a Dios Sabiendo que juntos los dos Mejorarían el dolor Que le causaba gran temor En la iglesia son líderes Dejando de ser títeres Del mundo superficial Sintiendo paz espiritual Inspirando a mujeres.

Artwork by Gabriella Parache - 11


Artwork by Unknown Artist

“The Color at the End of the Rainbow” by Miranda Almonte - 6 The Grey Sky by Kayla Johnson - 11 Everywhere we go We are surrounded by The vastly infinite space That divided us and the heavens. It is so magnificent to see The way that it is filled With Creatures, and water. Oh heavens! You are like An ocean above my head. Everywhere I go I Am surrounded by the sky that I don’t Acknowledge

Artwork by Inha Cho - 11 45

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12


Mistakes Were Made by Gabriella Parache – 11

his is about the time I lost conscious-


ness and almost cracked my head open. Sounds fun, right? Well it sure was – for a moment. My grandfather lives in a small cabin in the mountains, so my family takes the time to visit him every Sunday. This gives me the opportunity to sit in nature for hours on end every week, listen to music and reflect on my emotions and life choices. Sometimes, I think of how beautiful the plants around me are, and how God seems to speak to me through each flower, each sun ray, and each gust of wind. Other times…I get bored. This is when I bring things with me, like my camera, something crafty to do, or a book. On the day my fate was almost sealed, I decided to bring my bicycle. An important detail you must be aware of is that in order to get to my grandfather’s home, you must go down a path that dips towards the house, like a hill. So, I started small, going around in circles in front of the cabin, at the base of this hill. Then, my cousin, Cristina, beckoned me to follow her. She walked up the hill, and demonstrated how she could ride down it on my bicycle. Seeing she escaped that type of adventure alive and well, I decided I wanted to test the waters and ride down the hill too…can you see where this is going? I began close to the bottom, while holding the brakes. I was hooked. I was addicted to the exhilarating feeling of the wind on my skin, pushing my hair back, quickly cruising through the trees. So, I rode down the hill again. And again. And again. I would go higher and higher each time, and on the last one, I decided to go down without holding the breaks. I loved how fast the bicycle went, and was enjoying it, until I began to lose control. The bicycle began to swerve left and right, and I hit a hole in the concrete. Then came the sudden realization that I was on the floor, and I heard my sister cry for help right in front of me, yet she seemed to be so far away. Then – darkness.

Artwork by Harold Portilla - 10

I awoke on a lounge chair, surrounded by my family members, with my mother holding ice to my head and my grandmother putting VaporRub on my new wounds. I winced, and I scanned my body‌two identical cuts on both hands, a slice on my wrist, a scrape the size of a golf ball on my knee, and worst of all, I seemed to have a laceration on my head. I later learned that I had a bump the size of a lemon on my temple, and that if my mom hadn’t put ice on it, my condition could have been worse. The cuts all over my body stung, and they were colored the brightest red. Then, I was rushed into the car, and we sped to the closest hospital. The motion of the car made me drowsy, like the way rocking a baby makes them fall asleep in your arms. But, my sister kept telling me to stay awake, because if I fell asleep with the risk of a concussion, I could have never woken again. So, I stayed awake, asking God to give me strength, to guide me through this accident, and to help me overcome it well. He did. He did all three. Although I was scared and felt like I had just provoked my own plausible death for being so idiotic and naive by going down the hill at full speed without breaks, and although I still have the scars on my body as a relic of my stupidity, God gave me his grace. And I am thankful.

Artwork by Gabriela Mena - 6

Artwork by Unknown Artist


Artwork by Marco Santana - 12

A mi padre por Aldo Espino - 10 En mi vida entera tĂş me has guiado y toda mi vida a ti te he adorado pero esa idea nunca me ha sobresaltado mientras yo crecĂ­a, siempre me has amado.


Artwork by Jimena GuzmĂĄn - 11


Siempre te has sentado para verme jugando y siempre me ayudaste cuando estaba trabajando es por nuestro amor que soy exitoso y si pudiera hacerlo, te daría un abrazo de oso. Tú me has ayudado a ser el hombre que soy ahora y no puede superarlo ninguna otra cosa por eso solo hay una cosa que quiero exclamar: Que nuestro amor de hijo y papá nunca va a terminar.

Artwork by Miguelina Sosa - 11 49


Persona que Admiro por María Mena - 12 Mi padre es una persona a la cual yo admiro mucho. Él es alto como un árbol. Poco pelo tiene, pero aun usa su peine. Mi papá no envejece. No tiene canas ni la cara arrugada. Solo tiene unas grandes ojeras que parecen dos cortinas. Es algo que él y yo compartimos.

Su sentido de humor a veces tiene un sabor a limón, pero aun así me parece chistoso. El mejor consejero del mundo lo tengo yo. Mi papá es muy sabio y bondadoso. Trabaja duro para complacernos lo más que puede. Admiro mucho su forma de pensar y su manera de tratar a todos con respeto. Mi papá es mi caja de secretos.

Artwork by Marco Santana - 12


Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’ Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’

Breathe by Heidi Byrd - 11

[Verse 1] I know it’s hurts That pain inside And I know it is heavy But Just keep breathin You feel the pain Down deep inside It cuts like a knife And You wanna cry

Artwork by Albert Park - 6

[Pre Chorus] Just remember darling What you’ve gotta do It’ll be alright As long as you...

Artwork by Jimena Guzmán - 11

Original Song

[Chorus] Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’ Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’

[Verse 2] You wanna scream You wanna cry This pain inside It just won’t die

You cannot hide From what You feel You have to face it and Let it heal [Pre Chorus] Just remember darling What you’ve gotta do

It’ll be alright As long as you... [Chorus] Breathe in Breateh out Don’t stop Breathin’ Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’ [Bridge] I know you’re broken inside Baby Your heart’s in two Feels like a giant wave Crashing over you I know it hurts right now Feels like your dying inside You won’t make it through the night If you keep in this down slide I know you can’t see the light Feels like it’s going to end But just keep you head up girl Cause your future is so dang bright [Chorus] Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’ Breathe in Breathe out Don’t stop Breathin’ [Last Verse] Look ahead At what’s in front of you Your future’s so bright You just have to see the light... I know it’s hard right now But it’ll get better soon Baby Just don’t you stop Stop breathin’



Collected by Paula Bencosme and Almanzor Vila Cover Art by Marco Santana

2019 | Volume One

Profile for santiagochristianschool

Voices, Vol. 1  

The literary magazine of Santiago Christian School in Santiago, Dominican Republic

Voices, Vol. 1  

The literary magazine of Santiago Christian School in Santiago, Dominican Republic