The River Gull Journal First Digital Issue.

The First

T E X A S A & M I N T E R N AT I O N A L U N I V E R S I T Y ’ S L I T E R AT U R E M A G A Z I N E

THE RIVER GULL JOURNAL

Issue

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Letter from the editors We are so excited to present our first issue "bringing out ever of TAMIU’s first ever student led literature journal. Although difficult, it has the emerging voices we been the most fulfilling process. We have all know reside been able to get to know each other better and we could not have asked for a better in the people community of creative individuals, now around us." friends. Our initial goal was to create an environment capable of showcasing the ever-developing voices of our community—and we fully believe this has been accomplished. This issue includes the prose, poetry and art of our beautiful Laredo community—along with a couple international submissions. You will find that these pieces all vary in style, form, texture and emotion. We could not be any more proud of our contributors, as we know that sending creative work to a magazine of any caliber is a vulnerable and exposing process. We are likewise thankful to our editors, who have taken on the task of interacting with another artist’s work—a job we know is both tedious and delicate. To Claudia, Mariana, Juliette and Austin, thank you all so much! This could not have been accomplished without the hours of work you put in. We are also incredibly grateful for all our staff writers and their continuous entries into the portfolio of work we have continued to build. To Gaby M., Angela, Kelly, Amanda, Gabby W., Alex, Daniel and Jorge, we thank you! Our monthly newsletter would only be a dream without all of your work. We would also like to thank our members, both former and current, who have played a role in the development of our standing as a student organization. Your financial and participatory contributions have helped our repute during our first year at Texas

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A&M International University, allowing us to become known to the entire student body. Lastly, we want to thank those people who have helped our magazine become a reality, in any way, shape or form. To Xiomarra Milan, R.H. Gründ, the entire team at Laredo Border Slam Poetry, every professor who allowed us to promote our journal at the beginning of their class and to Dr. Sharity Nelson—our faculty advisor who has helped us every step of the way. To our readers, we hope this magazine carries out what we have been working towards all this time—bringing out the emerging voices we know reside in the people around us and making them known to the entire community.

Sincerely,

Ana Vara & Kaitlyn Lozano, Editor-in-Chief and Lead Poetry Editor for Issue 1

Masthead Ana Vara Editor-In-Chief Kaitlyn Lozano Co-Editor-In-Chief Lead Poetry Editor Claudia Morales Lead Prose Editor III

Mariana Ochoa Prose Editor Juliette Higareda Prose and Poetry Editor Austin Aleman Prose and Poetry Editor

Poetry

Resplendent.................................................................................01 Everything About You..............................................................03 An Ode to Sappho Fr. 1...........................................................06 Softlimbed Aubade....................................................................08 I recently moved out of my childhood home........................16 Sunday mass................................................................................18 To those who made my demons..............................................22 i float in space.............................................................................29 Faith & Fate................................................................................33 The fog........................................................................................36

Prose

Like children we bicker.............................................................02 Gays Attacks!..............................................................................04 Waiting in the Rain....................................................................10 Everything..................................................................................14 The UnLOVED Letters...........................................................19 Lobstah........................................................................................24 Just A River Away......................................................................30 To those that have lost..............................................................34 My passenger..............................................................................38 IV

Art

P-figs................................................................................Cover art I’m just thinking about it.........................................................05 Quiet Hope................................................................................13 Maker of my own evil..............................................................23 Might As Well Be A Fairy Tale................................................28 My reason for living..................................................................32

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Resplendent Nabeeha Murassar

you are an ocean of rippling waves a high tide, an inferno a blazing column in the dark smooth and soft, high and wild a tsunami of likeness a thunderstorm in its worth you are this a quick glance, a murmured word, a smile so bright it engulfs my heart something soft like the skin above your collarbone something harsh the jagged end of a nail this and that water in a cascading drought and in an endless night ablaze with the light of the sun

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Like children we bicker Angel Ramon

Like children we bickered. We argued over who could play with what toys and what colors we thought were best. Then, you showed me what it was like to share, and you taught me to play. I learned to love this routine, but I was scared you’d get bored, leaving me to play alone. So I grabbed the toys we shared and broke them. The same toys we learned to love so dearly—now smashed into a million pieces, flying into every corner of the room, behind every wall. Then your tears hit the ground, and I saw that I broke more than just some silly toy, so I ran.

I ran to pick up all the pieces and tried to fix this toy that was so dear to you. Only now, it wasn’t the same. There were small cracks where there once was a perfect surface. I tried to convince you to play, but the cracks remained. So I held onto this toy hoping one day I could show you to love it again. I held it so delicately but pieces still fell off.

Though at one point it was ours, it suddenly became yours. But you were reckless and the day came when it slipped out of your hands. Now, I don’t know if it was an accident or you simply didn’t want to hold on to something so fragile, but I still ran to pick up the pieces like I did all those years ago. Except this time when I looked up to give them to you, you weren’t there.

Like children we bicker, we cry and scream because we haven’t yet learned to talk. Now, like adults, we pretend to not want the toy we once cherished with all our hearts. Like adults, we pretend to have everything under control when really we want to scream and cry like the children we once were. It’s an endless cycle of breaking and fixing, and like a child I don’t know any better than to continue to try and fix problems that have no solution. I have very few memories of my childhood, yet the love I experienced was more than the meaningless pieces of a toy long forgotten—now seeping into the cracks of what was once broken, mending itself into my heart.

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Everything About You Reggie

Your laughter paints the day with colors bright, A tune that dances through the strings of my heart.

In every word you speak, a truth I find, Real moments I cling to that help me out the dark.

In every glance, my universe unfurls, Each detail of your being a delight.

The twinkle in your eyes, a guiding star, That illuminates the pathways of my mind.

Your touch, a gentle whisper on my skin, Ignites a fire that refuses to wane.

In every moment, love becomes the refrain, A dance where both our souls are swept within.

In you, I find a world of endless grace, A love that time nor distance can erase.

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Gays Attacks!

Jorge Espinoza

The question “Are we alone?” has always existed in the public mind. Often, little green men in flying saucers come to mind, but has our civilization been looking at the question all wrong? We seek another species capable of communicating and understanding, but can barely fathom breaking societal standards. Mankind has already created its version of an extraterrestrial. In this case, anyone who defies conventional might as well be a Martian planning to take over the world.

I do not have green skin or bulging black eyes, but I can be classified as an individual of foreign character. Laredo, Texas, also known as my home planet, is home to many wondrous customs, like those of praising toxic masculinity, fearing the educated, and shaming individuals who go against the grain. I am a firm believer in originality, which for Laredo standards has deemed me a maricon, joto, and lastly, my favorite, a faggot. Though I do not wish to cause a riot or take to the streets blasting people from above with my spacecraft, it appears I have been left with no choice.

My plan of attack is not to yet wreak havoc or draw attention. Still, as history has shown my species, humankind is quick to prey on the abnormal and destroy it before the common man is exposed to a life of unorthodox nature. Now, I am not saying I am a monster trying to expand my species by impregnating unlucky victims or a Mars inhabitant ready to blast the president and his troops. I am an individual who wants to coexist with the mundane in a world that is rightfully mine. As time passes, I have prepared myself for war and all the threats thrown against my class. I do not fear you as a creature of god, but marvel at how trouble-free it is to unroll hatred among the cosmos.

While you all galavant at your hetero-induced galas, I have been alienated from the rest of the world. In the past, you all turned your cheeks and viewed my kind as a walking virus, an elimination of patriarchal traditions, and a sin to your hypocritical beliefs. I am not an atrocity but a being who did not ask for this life. I have gained a fondness for my unique identity and will continue to nourish myself with adoration from my species. So, to answer humanity's question… You are not alone. I do not come in peace.

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I'm just thinking about it by Genesis Hernandez.

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An Ode to Sappho fr. 1 Claudia Morales

Sappho, immortality is thine But mortal, Aphrodite was your ally I plead you to to cease me and my Sorrow and pain you once had, alike Hearing my voice from afar You heed it like Aphrodite did yours Leaving where you reside, covered in gold Coming to me now or whenever best for me at all Eloquently you descend from this not so black earth With your golden lyre and splendiferous tongue To soothe my unrequited desire And to spread wisdom with a song You’re here now my Muse, ever so graceful With a physically ready expression To rhetorically ask what is my burden Patiently listening to answer my question

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My entombed heart now risen from your speech sewn in golden thread, Have you forgotten how your tongue turn rancid and your cries flowed like rivers when the calm came before the storm, my dearest?

For patience is to decide to sow at a sturdy foundation as it is to reap fruit that is ripe As for love, it is like that favorite song of yours Within it there is anticipation for that climatic bridge or chorus For ears to be enveloped in such rapturous joys That replenish the drought from your soul and boil off the mold If I am your Muse, then do as an artist of mine Use your writing implements to pass the time If who you wish to be your beloved doth not return As your ally then we recite your sorrow with a tune.

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Softlimbed Aubade Ana Vara

in this bright belief of all things that are blind of sewing into a future of it all we are the nature of these our, bodies in motion or repetition or a linen closet of all the ways to put your arms through the holes of a rhyme we say the words enough time that they turn hymn. turn. turn rhythm. turn turn of phrase rounded into psalm. oh in this bright day we must grow limbs loose with gasp or beholdened mouth we must touch these our arms that in time they turn tender they turn warm and soft they turn gooey with energy of a morning of blind geese by which i mean, with no real direction nor sense of it by which i mean, we do not need these things either here, in the body, where it is all blindingly bright the ooh and ahh of your voice has tuned to the turn and round of mine o’hara-n best of all my days

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of limbs, of course like bright ness tease through window and winded-stupid symphony into e-as-e into bite and mphs and hmphs into [ intelligible ] and having learnt what sonnets were only yesterday oh my arms so roundedly loopy i can turn it all into hope or try to i turn turn turn into a year full of wind and bright of teeth.

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Waiting in the rain Daniel Tovar Jr.

I wish I hadn’t died the way I did.

I’d been waiting.

Waiting at a bus stop in the rain. I usually hated waiting, but that’s solely because I was used to waiting in the sun and the heat. However, this time the rain was keeping me company. I’d left my glasses at home, but I could clearly see that one droplet collide with that one leaf on that one tree. It sounded so comforting, too, like how a good mother might serenade her child to cure them of headaches. I mean, I wouldn’t know. Maybe mine’d never been good at singing, but it would’ve been nice to hear her—at least once.

The fragrance of the rain was enchanting to me. It rarely rained and when it did, I spent most of the day in my room admiring it behind a glass wall. I never thought of the smell or whether or not there was one at all, but waiting in the bus station, and inside my thoughts, I tried to define it. It was something like frozen strawberries dipped in honey, in autumn, when struck by an unexpected heatwave.

That nonsensical thought made me laugh. I usually thought nonsense—even during my studies of a mathematical nature, but those didn’t give me anywhere near the entertainment or relief that the thoughts given to me by the rain did.

The bus is taking a while, I thought to myself. I had waited thirty minutes after the bus’ scheduled arrival time. By this time, the rage and impatience usually painted my blood red and mellow yellow and my hands would flex as I let out loud groans in near tantrums. But the rain—it had given me the patience that I needed. Lightning struck. It was a stunning visual distraction. Then I remembered something.

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I remembered I’d needed to think of a proposal for my math thesis, but my want for perfection had delayed me yet again, and the due date was now just a few days away. I knew imperfection was inescapable, but I thought I’d been the exception to that.

Thunder crashed. I thought the universe was agreeing with me.

I took my hand out to feel the rain. It’s not like I’d never done it in my life, but at that moment, the rain suddenly wasn’t rain. The drops felt more like melted stars—melted stars that brought with them a little piece of the universe’s secret. I tried to catch them but when I opened my hand, the water had scattered, leaving all the secrets falling to the ground.

I started to scratch my head and play around with my hair, in its constant state of disarray, since it was how I usually spent my time when I couldn’t figure out a solution to a calculus problem.

I looked at the water splashing on the pavement. It began flowing.

I was hearing the ticking of my watch, which reminded me that time did indeed exist and made me realize I was going to miss his first class, which was a shame because it was my favorite—Number Theory, where I had learned how to create silly little secret messages to the one who held my pining heart.

I turned my watch over and looked at his secret initials at the buckle “GW”. I unhooked it to reveal an inscription, “Always and forever with love, PR.” My eyes would have made you believe I’d just witnessed a horrible murder, but it was merely my dramatic heart, feeling my weak soul sulking around the memory lane in my mind.

She liked the rain. No, she loved it. Even in death she still kills me.

I’d asked her what type of meteorological event she would like to be, and I remembered thinking her response was profound.

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“Rain. Some would see me as a curse, but others would see me as a cure. I would help water their plants because I know they forgot to do it themselves. I would shed all my tears just so they could cry with me. I would give every little drop with love, forever and always.”

I nearly did the absurd thing and told her just how much I loved her. Instead, I said “I think I’d be lightning storms! I think they’re so badass!” A sharp laugh escaped me, and my palm covered my face. I put the watch back on and took a deep breath. I’d started to remember the day I taught her the shift cipher after learning about it in class.

“So, one example is giving the letters values from one to twenty-six. Once you do that, we add the number of spaces we want it to move, and we get the new value which is the encrypted letter. And if you want to decode, you basically go backwards by subtracting from the encoded message...Does that make sense?” I was never good at explaining, but I’d hoped she thought it was adorable that I tried. The bus still hadn’t yet arrived. The walk home would be disastrous, so instead I stood up and walked to the street.

I don’t think the bus will come anytime soon.

Jumping into the rain, I could feel it all on my skin. A slight breeze, too, making me go from wet to cold and back to wet. As I looked up, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was also looking up at the same sky.

I smiled and waited for the day I could ask her again. I didn’t usually like waiting--I always found it troublesome and draining. But that time, as I stood in the rain, I decided: a little wait wouldn’t kill anyone. As I walked, I played out the scenario of how it would be if she found her way back to me. But as my imagination wandered, the headlights began to drive towards me. I was petrified and I didn’t want to accept the fate that awaited me.

I did not want to die without seeing her one more time.

I was waiting until waiting I could do no more.

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Quiet Hope by Izabella Salinas.

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Everything Jose Fernandez

I watched the flame pass through the tip of our joint. Every pass never seemed to connect, nor make any sort of impression that we would be getting high. It would have annoyed me if we didn’t. I watched my friends bicker and joke. I love them but at the same time I feel as though they never really understood me. Maybe they did more than just tolerate me but our connection at this point was just a ritual. The whole thing was just one big ritual—buying, grinding, rolling. Even the struggle to get the thing lit was part of the whole ritual. Ritual, ritual, ritual, rituals. There’s patterns in everything—in every smile, in every movement, in every stutter of a word, in everything. And this ritual of struggle, of loving struggle, was just as part of the patterns as was anything else.

Despite the feeling of being alone and not alone at the same time, I desired this ritual. I felt normal. I felt normal having not normal friends. I felt at home doing things I never thought I would. I felt like I belonged, even if I felt like I didn’t. Through the eyes of someone who's never really in the moment, and in knowing the patterns and rituals, I think I learned to pretend. I didn’t see it as pretending though. I can’t even honestly describe it as pretending.

It felt more like borrowing from the parts of me I could’ve been. Borrowing from alternate versions of myself that come from alternate universes–universes where I didn’t feel alone. It felt good to “pretend”.

I felt like myself but not myself at the same time. It felt as if I was watching myself from an outside perspective–watching myself through a movie you might find recommended through a romantic, aesthetic friend.

It’s only when I think of these things consciously that I seem to find myself feeling genuine rejection at the notions. Of course I was myself. Of course I was real and present and in the moment. I think I just get in my head too much.

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Despite all this, I love my friends and I feel like I belong with them. Even if I’m just someone who passively consumes and participates. And it’s with this monologue, this analysis of my thoughts, memories, and emotions that I start to fade into myself again. I held the joint, enjoying the sense of importance it gave me, and watched as the flame stood still. The wind stopped and stared just as we stopped and stared. In the moment of silence I could hear a conversation about who’s hooked up with who, and the separate back and forth of a joke that never seemed to end–the kind of joke that you’re embarrassed to let other people know about. You know, a joke that’s only funny in the moment, but funnier in memory? I saw a picture during it all–a scene that made me happy. I was proud to be in the middle of some wild land full of trees, trying to light a joint with perfectly imperfect friends. I was happy. I was able to forget. And I was desperate to live in it for as long as I could.

“Let’s get a picture of this.”

I couldn’t tell if they saw what I saw, if they felt what I felt, if they were overcome with emotion just as I was. I couldn’t tell if they could see how much this moment meant to me. They put their hands around the joint I held, making a dome of fingers and swirls. Someone held the lighter and the scene was set. The flame sparked and the camera flashed, and this moment was forever captured eternally for as long as my phone lived.

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I recently moved out of my childhood home Kaitlyn Lozano

And by recently I mean: it’s been over a year since I’ve lived there, And it’s been half a year since I’ve been there.

Saying it out loud really cements it in, you know?

It really solidifies the fact that all the pictures I took from ages 6 to 19 Are trapped in a house I no longer live in.

A house that other people now live in.

Does that mean I have pictures of the inside of their home, or that they’re just living inside of mine?

When does it stop becoming a home?

Once you leave it?

Or once your heart no longer resides in it?

I mean, you know what they say: Home is where the heart is.

But I wasn’t raised in my heart.

I was raised inside a house.

Inside that house.

Where the people who moved in don’t know that the wooden flooring covering most of the rooms was once all carpet.

I mean, they could probably guess, When they step on the spots that rise underneath their feet.

A cheaply done floor with panels that were just never placed right, So I learned to avoid them.

I wonder if they will too.

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When my home was signed over to a group of strangers Who don’t know that I buried my carnival fish in the backyard There was a piece of my heart still left Beating behind the closets I promised my mother I had emptied out.

Or maybe I left it in the roman numeral clock hanging on the highest wall.

We needed some twelve foot plus ladder to reach it.

To reach a clock that stopped working so long ago I can't really remember if it the hands ever actually moved.

I can’t remember what time it was left stuck on.

We left it there, for the newcomers.

Will they remove it when the time comes?

Will they get rid of the last piece of me left within those walls?

It’s their clock now. It’s their home now.

Except I learned how to ride my bike with the kids in that neighborhood.

Except I learned what it meant to love and what it was like to lose.

Except it was my house, and as hard as I try I can’t stop thinking about it.

I recently moved out of my childhood home, and by recently I mean: it’s been over a year since I've lived there, and it’s been half a year since I’ve been there.

Is this the part where I say goodbye to rising floorboards, cracks in the walls, holes left by push pins that were scattered all over my walls?

Is this the part where I move on?

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Sunday mass Destiny Sanchez

Take me to church.

Where the poisoned blood turns to the lamb’s pure syrup.

Bitter and thick, sweet and warm.

Lay my hands upon the redeemer, where my life has purpose once more.

Bring me salvation that once shunned me.

Take me to the home of God, Where I pray to love.

Take me to the most deceitful place of all.

Where the followers praise, where the lamb hides the wolf.

Where the thorns that once protected me pierce my begging hand.

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The UnLOVED Letters Janessa Jaylene

Spring 2005, ________ ,Texas I remember being in high school emotionally at the end of my rope, when I first realized that maybe I needed help. The thoughts that were on constant loop in my mind were hideous and tragic; I remember feeling nothing and everything all at once, and I didn’t understand what was wrong with me because something had to be wrong. Normal girls didn’t walk around wishing they were dead, right? Certainly not ‘good, Christian’ girls who were ‘filled-with-the-Holy-Spirit’ and ‘On-Fire-for-God’.

Those girls went to school and ‘evangelized’ in the cafeteria by sitting with unsuspecting peers and talking about how much fun their Wednesday night youth group services were.

They eagerly passed out flyers for ‘Holy-Ween’ hot dog nights at the end of October, or prayer concerts in the spring. Somehow, they found time to go to school events and church events and they made friends easily and smiled often. They seemed to have it all and it all seemed to click. Nothing ‘clicked’ with me. To my credit, I tried to do most of those things; I passed out flyers, I was the president of my school’s Bible study club, and I had friends at school and at my youth group.

Even with all that I had going on, and all that I did, I remember feeling distinctly hollow.

I carried with me a sadness that never seemed to truly fade no matter how many times my mom told to “smile, mi’jita, you look so pretty when you smile.” I remember feeling caught between worlds, and never really belonging to any of them; I was too ‘Christian’ and ‘innocent’ for my school friends, but somehow not “Christian’ enough for my youth group friends, and at home, I was perpetually lost in the shuffle of all my sisters and cousins. I went to school, and my voice was lost in the cacophony of idle chatter in crowded hallways; I went home and used my voice only to nurture others so that my needs were never addressed; I walked into the church sanctuary and my voice was shouted down by clamoring instruments and frenzied worshippers.

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I could not give shape to these shadows inside me because there was never space to name them aloud, so when I tried to get the words out in the school counselor’s office, they were choked and stumbling. The counselor assured me that things would be okay. As I let tears run over my cheeks, she ushered me out of her office and back into the stream of students to let my feeble whimpering be washed out by their waves of noise.

Later that night, I discovered she had called my parents and they were now on high alert; they got my pastor involved, and set up a counseling meeting with her. The four of us- my parents, Pastor _________, and I- sat on worn, musty furniture in a small church office. I remember not knowing what to say or do, so I just cried, feeling cornered and confused.

“I just feel like I don’t belong here,” I told my parents after we had left her office and were in the car headed home. “What do you mean you don’t belong here? This is your home. We are your family,” my father responded gruffly. I think it pained him almost as much it did me to know that somewhere along the way we had lost touch. We drifted and I fell apart. What’s worse is he simply didn’t know how to fix it, how to fix me. None of us knew.

2012, Louisville, Kentucky “Hi Dad!” I chirped into my cell phone when he answered. “Hello mi’jita,” his voice resonated out through the small device, and it surprised me how overwhelmingly good it felt to hear his voice. “Happy Thanksgiving! How is everybody?” I asked.

“Oh, everyone is good. We just miss you. Everybody wishes you were here for Thanksgiving,” he said this with a small chuckle and I could hear, rather than see, the pained smile on his face. I felt my throat tighten.

“Aw, I miss you guys too, I’ll see everybody at Christmas though.” We caught one another up on our Thanksgiving festivities. My family played a game of hot potato with the phone as I made the rounds with my mom, sisters, some of my aunts and cousins.

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With each family member it was the same script: “We miss you.” “Why do you have to be so far away in all these random places?” ‘When are you coming home?” I didn’t always know how to respond. It was easy to say, “I miss you, too,” and move on, but I never really knew how to answer the questions.

They didn’t have easy answers; the reality of my need to travel, of my search for ‘home’ was anything but easy. How could I tell them? How I could tell them that the reason these places never felt strange or random is because I often saw them in my dreams? They were familiar to me because, for years, they called to me to come home. The times I spent wondering why I was the weird one, the odd girl out, had begun to feel redeemed the minute I got out of Texas, and I wasn’t about to let those feelings go. I went back after graduation thinking things would be different, thinking somehow, my family and my town had changed as much I had, but everything seemed to stay the same.

They were expecting me to wear the same roles as before thinking that I was still a passive mute, but I couldn’t be that lonely, confused girl who simply followed the crowd anymore. I wouldn’t be shuffled along the same route as everyone else, I had to forge my own path, and I had to do it even if that meant I would be deemed selfish and stubborn. I had to learn to be okay with that, and they had to learn to be okay with it as well. I was beginning to realize that I’d rather deal with a few more years of being called foolish and selfish, than live another lifetime as the invisible girl who could cry an ocean and still be overlooked.

I never wanted to be that girl again, and I would willingly live this life in exchange for hers.

I could deal with this lonely Thanksgiving night if meant I would be the freest bird in the starriest sky. Maybe I wasn’t ‘home’, but I was learning to build my nest out of whatever scraps of goodness I could find on my own, whether that was Ashley’s steadfastness, or my co-worker’s jocularity, or the wisdom of the parish priest. I was building my nest by pearls of kindness, silver-linings from cloudy days, gold-gleaming nuggets found by persistence in shitty situations, and shimmering moments of long-awaited triumph.

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To those who made my demons I. Azelin Corona

The past follows me like a ghost.

It feeds me and thrives on my anxieties.

It consumes my sadness and keeps it alive with its ordure.

I hold too short of a past and too infinite of a pain.

In creating such a monstrous creature, an amalgamation of my abusers, these perpetual memories of pain won’t let go of my hand.

Like an eternal ghost that guides me by the neck, Pricking my soul, carving demons within my bones.

A sinful creature seeming to insist on sanctifying my torturers and forcing gratefulness for my own, self-acquired resilience.

I’d love to break these engraved bones, to eat this “meat-worthy” body to its inexistence.

Yet it seems like pain, much unnecessary for such an otherwise perceived person.

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Maker of my own evil by Melissa Garza.

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Lobstah Ana Vara

I glow red like a cooked lobster the first time he sees me without any clothing. While this is usual for me, I can figure a sort of fear beneath his skin. Although the men that frequent establishments like these allow themselves the room for shame, they forget the trade off is interaction with highly real people. Real people, who do this on a daily basis, as labor, and who therefore have no attachment to their material self.

At the very least, I did not. The general Monday routine followed a string of disappointment heralded by my space's location at the very back of our location. When the first man of the day went, I didn't ever question it. I understood it to be a basic point of nature that a male abandons the potential female mate if she is not responsive to his rituals. I repeat this a few more times, letting the men—all of which but one, this particular Monday's one, weasel in through the freezer-style plastic curtain with a single raised finger—as though it's cool, as though they will not scan the width of the room before they realize what they are dealing with. Once they do, it often follows that they, aggravated and pulsing with a heady, building heat at the base of their chest, ask the question.

“Well, are you going to take those clothes off or not?” I do not expect men, majority users and newest to our program, to know the depth of what we are doing. I am not meant to take my clothes off. The space is not sterile and clinical. The dungeons of yesteryear were built for all that and we had moved past it once we had realized that they were not enough to build a fantasy. What was enough was Saintdom.

Had the hyperspecifics of kink not been fulfilled at the base of present BDSM culture?

Though it did seem so to us, at one point, it had all been reduced to a man and a woman in a room with a cross. Earnest, though it was, it was not fulfilling. Saintdom, what inventor Ray Leerie, a former Evangelical TV producer, had called the now successful chain of entertain-

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-ment show rooms, fulfilled it all. In a highly sensationalized, live entertainment environment, 24 hours and 7 days a week, men and women of all orientations could enter their desired dream space and perform as much—or as little—of their fantasies as possible, in every sense of the word. They could sit in on other user’s dream spaces and join in upon the main user’s permission, usually granted given that the running list of viewers was presented to the main user at the beginning of the dream. This was most of the appeal, to effectively run your own dream space, as though one's own producer, to join a dream space or be a spectator of it in a live-audience kind of a way. Though the word user suggests a technological front, our task was a base, rudimentary and most importantly, analog thing. The large warehouse behind every Saintdom held just about everything a dream stage would need, and when it did not, we could order it and set our client’s fantasy back a week. It never took longer than a week.

“It’s the future of kink.” Ray had said when they first asked him.

All these things would have been relevant five years ago, before Leerie let the company get bought out from under him. I had been there then, one of the original Ray girls, later known as Room girls, before we got cut short. He had jumped into the coldest part of the Hudson when he’d seen the original value skyrocket to a jejune $7.6 billion valuation. Now, we were simply “Room”. What had been the attempt to rescribe a scene of empty signifiers had gone badly enough that a forward movement had really only functioned as a hard reset. Going home, I would hear men tell their friends they’d been looking into a “Room” on the north side of town.

It did interest me, that the need to perform arose in an environment which, by necessity, was without cameras. And when this man, sanguine and bloated with age, did cut through that Monday, my question was no less answered. He was vaguely handsome, in the manner of his speaking and a small whisper of hair. He was not balding altogether, though like a long spread of margarine on the length of a piece of bread, it felt removed from him in an absurd way. After a few dreams, I began to render him in my mind as uglier than he was. We sat, and he comfortably admitted he knew the process as his "fellows had partaken in the use

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of Ray girls" and provided a lengthy education to him on just about the entire thing. He desired a sea theme, and hoped a girl may come in and blow bubbles onto the surface of the room as the sequence "ran on." These verbal quirks were things I loosely noted, because they felt rather long and therefore, old, and they struck me as charming in a way I could not admit.

He noticed my itching a few days into our now regular sessions, and I dismissed his concerns as lying in his interests as a client. The validity of my employment on the basis of my being able to perform in a dream space had come to question, now that he knew I faced a severe problem­—a chronic itch that had arisen in me from the age of 18 on, and now, a decade later, had not blown over as I imagined most things did.

I was proven wrong when he agreed to continue to our sessions, still closed to the public, having decided to move to a bigger room than the one I usually worked out of.

The routine became my favorite part of the week. I would set up the water bed, which was a long and difficult process, though altogether a rewarding and relaxing one. Then, I would run a long, cellophane-like sheet over the length of the bed. This room had a sky-light and because our sessions were in the late afternoon, a warm thing of light would pour down into the bed, turning it all sorts of colors. Later, Polly would walk in with a gallon sized container of bubbles and a large wand to blow them out of. This was around the time when he would walk in and I would change into, or rather, out of my clothes.

I imagined there was something necessary to my undressing, but after a few sessions, he asked that I remain in the clothes I wore. This was both confusing and kind, but I could not draw a word for it in whole—there remained a part of me that was unswayed by the seeming kindness of being allowed to be clothed. To be allowed at all, it seemed to me, was an exertion of his power over me he could not yet undo.

It was silly, but I often wished that he would not come in, to relinquish his final form of power over me, to give me work to do. I dismissed all my other clients shortly and began to

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see only to him. Still, he came in regularly and performed our routine—we would lay side by side on the bed, both clothed, beneath the cellophane sheet. He would speak to me, at length, about different sea creatures—something I learned was a habit he could not fall out of after years of teaching at a university I only knew by name, a few states away. I could faintly remember one of my sisters attending it but this was not a memory that came easily to me and shortly after, I began to mix his narration and my sister's Thanksgiving small talk into one amalgamation of jumbled experience.

On the twelfth week of our dream, a form I took to calling our sessions after a passing mention he'd made—"Our dream, could we revisit it next week?" he requested that I remove my shirt.

This was not, by any means, a surprise to me. It did, however, dishearten me in the belief that he may rise above these other, now dismissed clients.

That day, when we both walked into the room, I removed my shirt and he undid the light blue gloves which I had seen wrap the length of his hands for many weeks. They were large, bandaged hands, barely discernible against the sea of blue which our stage consisted of. Taking a closer look at them, I soon realized they were not regular hands but those of a lobster.

He was shy but not apologetic about them, and I did not question them much further than to wonder, out loud, how they might feel against my skin.

It occurred to me, to both of us, that I had not once made a request. So we lay quietly, as we did, on the bed. Polly came in and, to no one's surprise, spilled the gallon everywhere, running out with a stupid scream falling out of her mouth in wheezes. We would have laughed, if we could, but I smiled and moved to pull the beaded chain which turned the "Dream Stage" red light on. He let the gloves fall to the ground above a small pile of bandages.

He ran his hands, if I may call them that, over the length of my back, red and scarred. I felt them move against me and I imagine he felt this too, wanting to soothe all that I wanted to leave.

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Might As Well Be A Fairy Tale by Izabella Salinas.

i float in space Sky G.

i float in space my only company the stars among the dark abyss not a single sound not a single feeling just me and the burning stars that decorate the empty dark the stars were all i needed as company one day the stars began to disappear before my very eyes i watched as the stars i sold my soul for dimmed slowly in the empty dark as i watched, helpless. now i float in an empty dark in an abysmal space will i ever.. see again? feel again? hear again? as much as i beg and scream no one can hear me.

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Just a River Away Claudia Morales

I crossed the border again. This time, in a long time, we went by car. I didn’t think much of how I had really been deprived of my recognition of the places I've been in due to me being the one driving the car. Being aware of nostalgia still flushes through me though; remembering how it was to be on the back seat, sitting next to either of my güelitas if one of them tagged along. From my mom’s side, she crossed the border with us. From my dad’s, we picked her up after driving a bit far off from the city’s downtown area. I tried recollecting all the bits and pieces; the tiny burning rusted metal slide that left marks on my thighs in late June, the way my dad called out to the man as we were in line to make our way back home: each of us getting a garrafa de limón, I, forgetting the marks from the slide from the festival we attended—the windows lowered since the car we had at the time only blew out hot air— and it was late June.

I am remembering how the last time I went by car with my dad, my mom didn’t accompany us. It was just my dad and I, at my guelita's, each eating a tostada Siberia. Us trying to convince and encourage her to come to my quince, as it gets harder to come back here each time. Whether it’s because of the state of the city or only being able to afford the time we have to try to live a better, qualified life: glasses, retainer, extractions, eye contacts, medications that either of us had to get and bulk up with since it ends up being just a bit worth it, I am recognizing how much this side is much larger than its sister city, how it seemed fair that the river was the culprit who divided them. But I think of how before this, before I ended up driving my family, I was crossing my mom and I by foot. How much I wanted to dare to explore more but my mom being intimidated, as if she wasn’t even more now that we were driving. I couldn’t help but think about how my güelita felt. It has been longer than I have traveled this side by car, or even at all.

It’s been a little over a decade. I had wondered how she felt, even tried to sneak a peek at her reactions to what used to be family residencies.

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The 2-story structure: the first floor was the tiendita, the second her and guelito’s home.

But I was driving, barely regulating my emotions and being aware of my surroundings, trying to figure out the places we are going by the mixture of fogged memory, lack of instruction and pure intuition. Although this combination is flawed and bound for chaos, as I barely mastered how to drive downtown back home from years of me driving through streets of home, we only mistook one street because of desperation and not by intuition or fogged memory.

“Es que estaba orando…” my guelita replied back when I said I didn’t feel too nervous about me driving since she asked how I felt. I think the waves of nostalgia made me confident as to not feel like all the territory I am passing is fresh.

A week after, I finally got an answer to my curiosity of my guelita seeing her old house. She said she’d felt pretty sad seeing the house not being how it was. She was also slightly irritated at the state of the house but said that, overall, she was glad she went and that I drove pretty well the whole trip.

It just got me thinking of how much effort and decision my grandparents made.

Why my grandparents sold the house to live in the states permanently, how my grandmother didn’t sell her house but decided to live here until her last years. I couldn’t tell if it wasn’t for my mom telling me that was her house. I can’t help but think of all the intricacies that have led to this point.

It is a struggle to comprehend my grandparents or their grandparents. It can take more than a lifetime to try to accept or be informed but I am willing to, for what it’s worth. Whether my güelita’s decision making is flawed or not, whether my abuelita died with a broken heart, having to witness the burials of both children and grandchildren. What I witness is something I try to accept rather than decipher now. How different yet alike their lives turned out within just a river away. How they have interacted before my mom met my dad. Now it is I, who is an active part of those intricacies.

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My reason for living by Miguel Cabrera.

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Faith & Fate Daniel Tovar Jr. Two souls that share the same heart, both forever in mind.

Faith has always been a clever creature, following me through words of praise that my family holds to it and through words of disownment by some I hold dear. I held onto Faith because I was raised to believe it was the only correct way to live—that shying away from her would do my spirit wrong. I held her so tight she became weak to me and letting her go brought me comfort. In her absence, I realized how little I agreed with some ideas she held, mainly those of love and how one should live their life.

Without her, things seemed to hold less weight.

Fate was always a free-spirited wild child, whispering ideas of how I should pave my own path. Breaking the molds that generations before had placed, encouraging me to defy her— that was her only bliss. With her, things came easy. I could only have one life and I wished to spend it all faithfully with her. I followed her across it, feeling ready for any reward and any consequence.

With her, the weight of the world disappeared.

Until it couldn’t stop feeling heavy every day. I saw many defy Fate and I saw others embrace Faith. While Fate promised me a comforting everlasting rest, I was told that Faith came with a beautiful ending.

But I’d lie in bed with questions of what to want. I’d speak with my family feeling like a disgrace. I’d spend time with friends thinking myself a fraud.

I still held Faith close to my heart. I thought of the many times they all would have called her and she would come to my aid. With Fate, I embraced the charming contradictions of this here life.

I hold Fate within every breath my heart takes, but I hold Faith around the neck of it.

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To those that have lost Kaitlyn Lozano

I have mourned enough to know you, Grief, but it's only now that I understand you.

You have a complicated relationship with the world, with me. You are like a creature no one has ever seen before, but everyone knows of. They either fear you or endure your existence, but very few understand you. I would love to say you lurk in the shadows like a mystery we haven’t yet comprehended, but you don’t. You are all around us, all the time, all day, everyday.

You find yourself in the back of our eyes and take our sight so we don’t know what hits us.

You plant yourself in our ears, blocking out any noise, making us refuse to listen. We find you in our fists and are forced to watch as you make us destroy anything we touch. You make a home in our minds, where we fight you till you give us what we want, but you never do. Still in our minds you are there when we give up, tired of fighting, tired of begging, tired of being. But you hold us till the very last moment. You never let go until we hold you back, and you know we are ready to live again. You are the very reason we exist, and the very reason we fall. I know you better than I know myself. Picking you apart was much easier than understanding myself could have ever been.

Grief, I know you. I’ve had the pleasure, or should I say displeasure, of meeting every piece in your puzzle. I’ve gotten to know all your children personally, despite my constant refusal. I know you hate what you do, but you have to do it. We have to endure you as a test. A means to see if we are strong enough. I would ask who are you to test our strength, to test our weakness, but like I said, I know you. You are constant. The one who death never comes for despite being surrounded by it. The first and only to make a deal with the grim reaper. How could you have not? Where he goes, you follow.

You followed him when he came to visit for the first time. He was there sitting next to you in the hospital waiting area while you watched my family cry out the name of your first child,

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-but she didn’t hear us. He was there the next day when my mother and I screamed the name

of your second child at each other like somehow he could save us.

He was there when we gathered in the church, but he did not kneel with my grandmother when she silently begged for your third child to make her appearance. He was there when your fourth child broke into my home to watch my mother silently cry in her own corners.

He followed us till the moment we met your last child–we knew it was what it was and we let it be, and then he was gone till the next body turned cold.

Grief, you are my most hated enemy and I wish to never lay eyes on you again. Grief, you are my greatest friend, and I hope when we inevitably meet again you hold my hand the whole way through like how you did when I was young. Grief, don’t show my loved ones the pain you showed me, but if you do make it swift. Grief, I hope you treat them with the same kindness that you once gave me. Grief, I hate you. Grief, I love you.

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The fog Kelly Olson

To live a life in happiness I wish I could Though others tell me they are here Once I hit the ground From weakness They walk away Though others tell me to try To try/ To be happy Towards the fog I went When I needed help You couldn’t be there You wouldn’t understand/ What I went through with death isn’t easy You never see my pain

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You never see my pain What am I going to Become To you?

When I try to forget Misery comes to my door Though others think they understand When they don’t I want help but As I face those memories, Being next/ To them Rigid and fleeting It becomes too late to forget Only one thing can help Ending this life In deepest sleep You are the one to help When I needed it the most.

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My passenger Verity Driving home, a red light is the only time I have to stop and think. I turn to the right. My passenger seat.

There you are, smiling, calling out my name, the way only you do. I can't help but reach out to touch your too rough hands and I am Immediately reminded: you're not there.

This is something I know all too well.

That seat is yours. I mean, it has been since the first time we drove around together and I'm afraid it will always belong to you. I still feel your hand brush against mine, just like when we’d both try to change the music at the same time.

The smell of your outrageously expensive cologne stays embedded, locked in time within the seats of the vehicle I depend on every single day of my life. The traditional masculine aroma should seem so boring, so common, and yet, it isn't because it belongs to you. You make it special.

You're meant to be the passenger on my quests and I on yours, but you were never mine, right? Not truly, not fully. Not the way I was to you. I was supposed to be the Bonnie to your Clyde.

In my head, we were in a corner of the universe where labels weren’t needed.

We both knew deep down what and who we were to each other. You were my passenger.

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In your head, we both happened to be at the same place, at the same time. We had nothing left to do but converse with one another. I was cars behind, trying to catch up to you.

In my head, we were in a corner of the universe where labels weren’t needed.

We both knew deep down what and who we were to each other. You were my passenger. In your head, we both happened to be at the same place, at the same time. We had nothing left to do but converse with one another. I was cars behind, trying to catch up to you.

Trying to fill the void of you makes me feel as though I will always run on empty, stuck in one place forever. There's an endless list of facts about you stored in a deep dark corner of my head that I frequently visit.

You have the prettiest earth-colored eyes, eyelashes as long as my endless love for you. You have little tiny freckles, splattered all over your nose and cheeks like an artist does when creating a masterpiece.

But how could I have known about those perfectly placed freckles? I was never in the passenger seat. I was cars behind, wasn't I?

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About the contributors Joel Soto (SONA) is a traditional and digital artist based in Laredo, Texas. He currently attends Laredo College. He is majoring in business with a minor in art. His hobbies include running, reading and going to gym.

He is interested in alchemy, music and poetry. This piece "P-figs" is dedicated to SONA's late parents who are the main motivation behind his passion. A big inspiration for this piece was M.C. Escher and his work "Contrast(Order and Chaos".

Nabeeha Mudrassar is a 17 year old writer from Pakistan. She has been writing from the very moment she picked up a pen. Various old journals, poems and stories pay tribute to her work. To identify what keeps her going and giving as a writer is very difficult. It could be her books, or the rain or her best friend, whose spirit permeates everything she writes. But mostly, she thinks it’s just life and community, in a sense. Nabeeha writes for those who love but cannot explain that unrooted feeling that guides them, that blesses and inspires them everyday. That, she thinks, is her little gift to humanity.

Angel Ramon is a 19 year old Lego Batman Movie enthusiast who, in his free time, sells vintage clothing and works on classic cars. He enjoys listening to music,primarily jazz, and has only recently taken up writing as a hobby. He’s enthusiastic about all kinds of media, especially movies—his favorite one being La La Land. He hopes this piece, the first of many, will show the way he has experienced love, finding it to be beautiful. He sees love in all things, especially his faith. "Pray hands, pray hands." -Lego Batman.

Regina Sada is a 21-year-old writer currently attending Texas A&M International University. She is pursuing a bachelor's degree in English and hopes to one day be a teacher. She loves to read books and watch movies.

Her favorite movie is How To Train Your Dragon and one of her favorite books is Lightlark by Alex Aster.

She likes to write to put her thoughts and feelings into perspective, to process them better and to help her feel more at peace.

Jorge Espinoza is an 18 year old Lana-Del-Rey-listening, blush-wearing, promising young boy. He is a young man with no idea what he is doing in life, navigating the twists and turns of "being a f*ggot in South Texas."

His work is largely centered around the experiences of queer men, highlighting the process of losing and regaining one's identity­—primarily the loss of innocence that takes place in sexual encounters. Though his work is for himself, he hopes the honesty and rawness of it comes through and is able to be found by other

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-young, queer men with similar experiences.

Genesis Hernandez’s art is largely influenced by her culture, intertwining her whimsical color schemes with feminine characters at the center. The themes of her work are largely based on taking up space, letting yourself be soft, autonomy and saying no to gendered expectations. Colorful palettes, whimsical collage work and chicano culture are her sources of inspiration. Throughout her youth, Hernandez persisted in illustrating as a hobby and minored in art & design at Texas State University. Through her art courses, Hernandez realized her unique perspective and wanted to explore deeper themes of her personal experiences. From this exploration, the grain of her work was developed and she ultimately decided to redefine a modern Mexican American feminine identity. The modern identity stands in their power, asserts themselves with pride and is not subservient to anyone. A person that is bold yet soft, that exists for themselves and not for what they are expected to be. Hernandez’s work advocates for women/people that look like her, and through her illustration encourages them to embrace their duality and stand proud in it.

Claudia Morales is a 22 year-old prose and poetry writer from Laredo, Texas. She attends Texas A&M International University and her anticipated graduation is Spring 2024 with a degree in English and minor in Anthropology. Claudia dedicates her writing piece to her family, which superficially acknowledges their lived phenomena in a border town, and her attempt of using local color as a stylistic choice. She perceives her poem as an achievement of conceptualizing her family's objective of attaining a higher education by contemporizing Greek literature.

Ana Vara is a 22 year old poet & writer from Monterrey, Nuevo Leon who moved to Laredo, Texas at a very young age. She is currently studying at Texas A&M International University where she is running the school's first ever student led literature magazine, The River Gull Journal. She also occassionally writes for the school's student newspaper, The Bridge—in some mix of interrogative news and Op-eds. She is getting her Bachelor’s degree in English with a minor in Philosophy. She enjoys spending her time reading literary fiction and taking needlessly long naps. She draws inspiration from a multitude of sources but may recently attribute it to Mary Gaitskill's Secretary, Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation, orchids and Nicole Kidman's blue eyes. In this day and age, she hopes people pick up some Larkin or like...more Edith Wharton.

Daniel Tovar Jr. is a 22 year-old writer whose head is always in the clouds. He always manages to speak his mind in any situation he faces, along with rocking his favorite styles like no other. He loves watching an array of movies ranging from sci-fi to rom-coms and reading a good book when he’s not being overtaken by all the work he has as a grad student.

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-work he has as a grad student. If he could time travel to one time it would be to meet Vincent Van Gogh and let him know the impact he will make­­, temporal paradoxes be damned. He has many nicknames: Danny, Keem, and Tovar; each holding a special place in his heart. He wants to be a writer whose stories give readers an experience that is unlike no other while also showing a reflection of himself that is not always seen. He’s beyond excited to share the two pieces he’s written for the magazine’s first issue, alongside the many other cool artists and writers. This organization has been beneficial to him in more ways than one notably growing as a writer thanks to the amazing editors that he’s worked with. He’s grateful for the journal, its members (past and present), and hopes it continues for a long time.

Izabella Salinas is an artist from Laredo. As an artist, the nuance of life grasps her as she gravitates toward the peace nature provides. She is fascinated by subjects of the human heart. Through her paintings, she conveys hope despite the plight in a display to capture the crux of people. Izabella's work aims to transcend the self, contributing to humanity by fostering awareness of our environmental oversight and the emotional feats we're joined by.

Jose Fernandez is a Laredo native with an eye for detail and simplicity. His hobbies include playing guitar, writing and video games. He takes his writing inspiration from indie dramas, personal anecdotes and contemporary poets like Natalie Shapero. He is currently an English major pursuing a secondary teaching certification. His personal goal in life is to teach writing composition to future generations of students.

Kaitlyn Lozano is a 20 year old writer from Laredo, Texas. Born in early August, she was raised by two loving mothers who taught her that to express herself meant to be herself. An emotional young girl with an outlet for her feelings, turned into an emotional young woman with a passion for poetry. She has spent most of her life writing hoping her words would be enough for herself and the world. Her work is based mostly around feelings she finds are relatable, as she has only ever felt seen by poetry who shared her emotions.

Along with her love for writing, she also has a love for journaling and scrapbooking, a way to keep all her memories with the people she loves. She is proud to share her work on a published platform that she helped create.

Destiny Renee Sanchez is a 21 year-old writer born and raised in Laredo. She is an avid horror and classics reader. She has enjoyed writing ever since her father introduced her to books. One of her favorite hobbies is understanding human emotions through music, particularly classical. She is a practicing dark academic wh thrives on gothic and Reniassance literature. The human emotion of melancholy interests her the most and inspires her to create work that best portrays that emotion on paper. She hopes this piece will show how the most complex and difficult human emotions are beautiful.

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Janessa Jaylene is a Laredo native and self-proclaimed Reformed Texan as she spent too much of her youth just waiting to get out of her hometown and see the world. She's lived, loved, laughed, and worked in such far away places as Kentucky, Colorado, Washington, and even made it to Japan. During all that time she kept journals, a small WordPress blog, and even wrote several articles for a website run by some of her old college friends. Today, she's back in the 956 with a newfound appreciation for the rich Bordertown culture that has birthed fellow writers, artists, poets, and creators. She is so grateful and excited to be included in the River Gull Journal's inaugural first edition.

I. Azelin Corona is a hispanic 24 year old artist from Laredo. She writes, paints, sings and much more. She attributes her multidisciplinary creativity to ADHD. While the human mind is her main source of curiosity, music and life are her main source of inspiration. Writing is something that makes her feel alive and through sharing her words she aspires to make people feel comforted, and remember that someone out there understands their pain.

Sky Garza is a new contributor for the River Gull Journal who has recently rediscovered their love for all things literature. They have enjoyed creating their own stories, worlds and characters ever since they can remember. As they continue to work on their future novel, Sky also enjous dabbling in poetry and short stories every once in a while. Sky is not only excited to share their own work with journal readers, but they are excited to see the works of their fellow contributors as well!

Miguel Cabrera is a Mexican artist who is looking to become a animator and designer. He is someone who draws and paints what joy and love must look like.This painting is dedicated to Tomas; his dog who gave him the honor to be his owner and love him every day of his life. "Sadly there will be never enough words to explain how happy he made me and how much I love him, so with a lack of words I made a painting trying to represent the beauty of unconditional love."

Kelly Olson is an English major and staff writer for the River Gull Journal. She wants to be a middle school or high school teacher with her degree, but in the future would like to be a professor in British literature.

Some of her hobbies are reading books and painting. What she loves about writing is that you can escape a little bit from the real world to have a little bit of fun in a fantasy world.

Gabriela Martinez (Verity) is a freshman from Laredo, Texas getting her bachelor’s degree in psychology.

Her goal in life is to help people in need, whether that be in the future with her degree or through sisterhood, as a member of the loveliest organization on campus, Sigma Delta Lambda Sorority. Gabriela hopes to continue working on her writing, as it has become a safe space for her to let out her emotions. She hopes to make at least one person feels understood about the complex feelings that come with being human.

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Cover Art by SONA Created by Ana Vara Kaitlyn Lozano Claudia Morales Daniel Tovar Jr. Printed by Krista Quintanilla

The River Gull Journal is Texas A&M International University’s first ever student-led literature magazine.

Est. July of 2023.