Scorpion's Quill - Issue 1

Scorpion’s Quill Issue 1

Scorpion’s Quill A Texas Southmost College Journal of Literature and the Arts

Issue No. 1

A joint venture of the Departments of Communication & Language and Arts, Music, & History

Contents © 2025. Logo design by Evelyn Hernandez.

Cover: “Luci’s First Birthday” by Valeria Salazar, pg. 16

Dedication This inaugural issue of Scorpion’s Quill is published in honor of the devoted members ofTexas Southmost College’s administration team. Without their effective leadership, drive for academic growth, and passion for TSC’s students, initiatives like this would not be possible.

We would like to dedicate this work to Texas Southmost College President Dr. Jesús Roberto Rodríguez, as well as to all TSC Board of Trustees members: Madam Chair Ms. Adela Garza, Vice Chair Delia Sáenz, Secretary Dr. Norma Lopez-Harris, and Trustees Ms. Alejandra Aldrete, Dr. Tony Zavaleta, Mr. Edgar Garcia, and Mr. Edward Camarillo. The service and support of Texas Southmost College’s leaders ensures that faculty and staff have opportunities to promote academic excellence and continually find new ways for our students to express themselves to the fullest.

Finally, we would also like to dedicate this work to Dr. Christopher Alves, Interim Dean of Arts & Sciences, for his contributions throughout the development of this project from its initial conception to its launch.

May this journal showcase not only the work of Texas Southmost College’s faculty and students, but also the vision and commitment of TSC’s steadfast leaders.

Acknowledgments We are thrilled to be able to bring all our readers and viewers the inaugural edition of Scorpion’s Quill, a literary and arts journal dedicated to showcasing the incredible talent and creativity of Texas Southmost College’s students and employees.

This first issue would not have come to fruition without the joint efforts of a large group of dedicated faculty and students. We would like to take the time to acknowledge the efforts of the journal’s 2025 editorial team: Ms. Amanda Utzman, Mr. Jonathan Baker, Ms. Kathryn O’Neil, Ms. Monica Mejia, Mr. Robert Andes, Mr. David Ransom, and Mr. David Guerra. Each of these faculty members played vital roles in planning, organizing, and preparing the journal for publication.

This issue would also not have been possible without the contributions of many TSC students, particularly our Spring 2025 Creative Writing and Painting II students, who served as our selection committees, taking the time to closely review all submissions to find excellent works to showcase. We would also like to thank Evelyn Hernandez, winner of the Fall 2024 Scorpion’s Quill logo design contest, whose lovely logo design now graces our opening page and back cover.

Finally, we would like to take the time to thank all students, staff, and faculty who submitted to the journal, giving us the opportunity to view so many spectacular works of writing, painting, drawing, and photography. This journal would not have been possible without all of you, and we cannot wait to share your works with the world.

Sincerely, The Scorpion’s Quill Editorial Team

Contents Trees by JRG..........................................................................................................1 Untitled Poem by Abbygail Hull.......................................................................2 If You Are Reading This Poem by Addie Scoggin.........................................3 Ocelot Stalking by Rick Ramirez......................................................................4 Slasher Flicks & Bodice Rippers by Simone Beaudelaire..............................5 Back Stabber by Cain Rojas...............................................................................11 Untitled by Rene.................................................................................................12 The Fallen by Eve...............................................................................................13 Beauty & Bright by Valerie Atkinson..............................................................14 It’s Your Party by Alondra Garza.....................................................................15 Luci’s First Birthday by Valeria Salazar..........................................................16 Carolyn by Evelyn...............................................................................................17 SKY by Jesus Rodriguez....................................................................................18 “En Mis Memorias, Te Encuentro” by Myriam Anahi...............................19 My First Flowers by Angel Marie Herrera....................................................29 Angel of Light by Cain Rojas..........................................................................30 Dad’s Home by Gabriela Kellam.....................................................................31 Selena Mosaic by Jaz..........................................................................................32 Vroom Vroom by Nacho...................................................................................33 Untitled by ANC................................................................................................34 Serenity by Sunshine...........................................................................................35 (N)Ever-changing by George Matthew Gutierrez.......................................36 Pineapple by F.A.C.............................................................................................37 South Padre Beach by JRG................................................................................38 “Espíritu de inocencia” by Yokebed Castro...................................................39 ArtShark by Marlen Mayorga..........................................................................43 Birth of a New Light by Bibi...........................................................................44

Contents

Slumber by Eve....................................................................................................45 Ribcage by F.A.C.................................................................................................46 I Only Know How to Sin by Mira C..............................................................47 City of San Antonio, Texas by A. Sanchez....................................................48 BeeNFlower by Alyssa Rodriguez.....................................................................49 Career Choice by Jaylyn.....................................................................................50 Nude Model by Evelyn......................................................................................52 Untitled by Moises Romero..............................................................................53 Me and My Dad by Rozie Rousseau...............................................................54 Untitled by Leon Guzman.................................................................................55 Angel of Justice by Liz.......................................................................................56 Untitled by Halle Mata.....................................................................................57 Underground Lights by Roxanne.....................................................................58 La Vuelta a la Tortilla by Roberto Vela Jr......................................................59 Untitled by Josiah...............................................................................................65 Ocelot Bathing by Rick Ramirez.....................................................................66 U.S.S. Lexington by JRG...................................................................................67 El encuentro (prosa) by Yokebed Castro.........................................................68 Bowling Green, Kentucky by Maddy Cantu...................................................70 Heart Breaker by Cain Rojas.............................................................................71 “Buffy” by Brianna Lerma.................................................................................72 The Secret Life of Teachers: Soap Wars by Jessica Carlos..........................74 Mountain Scene by Peyton Florence...............................................................80 Mustang cardon by Brandon.............................................................................81 Sacred Mind by Eve............................................................................................82 Bearkat Blv by Adaleigh Knight........................................................................83 Sunflower Trio Recreation by Valerie Atkinson............................................84

by

Abbygail Hull

“The sun had not seemed to cease complimenting his being by gifting its golden rays into curled tresses, As he radiated the familiar nostalgic warmth you’d feel sitting on the pavement after scraping your knees on a summer’s afternoon, When your skin ached from the bitter burns after kisses of heat expressed themselves too unabated, Now the daring nature of rebellious spirit that rattled from within his chest, against ribs, One had not needed to pay close attention to understand such sarcastic mirth, Though most may believe the sun sits above ever so lonesome in the sky watching endearing crowds adore his motherly counterpart, I assure, He stands right next to me glowing as radiant as known for, And let it be known, He is just as admired.”

2

If You Are Reading This Poem

by Addie Scoggin

3

Slasher Flicks & Bodice Rippers

by Simone Beaudelaire

“Welcome, participants, judges, and studio audience to Slasher Flicks and Bodice Rippers, the world’s first pulp fiction writing championship that combines the best of romance with the best of horror.” Our host, Mindy Nelson, stares into the camera, her enthusiasm vibrating her teased brown hair. Her red suit and burgundy lipstick coordinate with the scarlet and maroon of the curtains behind her that transform this barrel-vaulted great hall into a contest venue.

“In this, our final round, our five best authors in each genre will be paired together and have twenty-four hours to create a genre-blending novella suitable for transformation into a television script to be aired on Malravia1, the country’s first television network! The winners will also receive five-book contracts from Blood and Lace Publishing and a one-year authors-in-residence position at Favrier University’s World Literature program right here in Malravia City.”

I grin. This may be the only way such an isolated country could staff a literature program, which is why they’ve offered to host our show in their defunct castle.

Despite the preposterous premise, the contest is not staged, and the prizes are real.

How else could a fledgling author like myself—fresh out of graduate school—take a trip to Europe?

“I know you’ve been waiting to see how our five romance authors and our five horror authors pair up. But first, a reminder of the rules. Your finished work must be between 20,000 and 40,000 words. It must contain the elements of horror and romance. And by that, I mean we want sex and gore. Make us scream… and blush!

Additionally, our panel of judges…”

5

She indicates a table next to her where four bestselling authors sit. “…will be looking for strong characters, a solid story arc, and a satisfying ending. Contestants, are you ready?” Mindy reaches into a shining silver bowl and draws out pink and black folded papers. She pairs them and begins to read. “LaShonda Bell with Julien Christophe. Jessica Davis with Masaharu Sato. Kevin Harris with Jack Wong. Elvis Peterson with Cherie Swiftwater and Rocio Orozco with Noah Hill. Please take your laptops, find your partners, and head to your writing tables.”

Noah. Yikes.

I approach my partner, clutching my laptop in both hands—I don’t think even the thick scarlet rug they’ve laid out on the cold gray floor stones would save it if I dropped it—but I’m not sure what to say. He’s so tall, and I, at not quite five feet, feel puny beside him. Puny and shy. He’s too good-looking, with his warm brown skin and sparkly brown eyes. He grins at me.

We sit at a table near a wall hung with tapestries that show medieval scenes.

A crimson tablecloth sets the scene. We shove a bowl of dark flowers to one side and silently set up our laptops.

All the contestants have become friendly over the weeks of the competition, but Noah intimidates me. So big. So different. I don’t know how to talk to him. Only now, if I don’t get over it, I have no chance of winning.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Rocio,” he says warmly.

My face heats. I open my mouth… and close it again.

6

“Nervous? I mean, it is the final, after all.”

I nod, glad for the out, even if it is a lie. I think I could crumple up all my ex-boyfriends together, and they’d be smaller than Noah. Strapping. If this was a romance, I’d call him strapping.

But it’s not a romance. It’s a competition.

“I have to admit...” he grins again. I can see the corners of his eyes crinkle, “I’m more of a pantser. I have a few ideas, but I’m mainly hoping to riff on your foundation… or we work something up together on the fly.”

“We’ll have to be quick.” Nerves make me sound grumpy. “We have twenty-four hours to create and write it.”

His smile fades. “Okay, Rocio. You got anything to start us off ?”

Huffing, I pull up my outline. “I want to write about a bruja.”

“A wha—?”

I gesture impatiently. “A witch. In Latino cultures, the bruja practices traditional magic.”

He raises his eyebrows; his eyes are twinkling again. He looks like mischief brought to life. “I like what I’m hearing. Tell me more.”

I feel my nerves thawing in the warmth of his smile. “She goes on vacation with her boyfriend. She’s sure he’s going to propose, but instead, they get in a fight and break up. She doesn’t have the right ingredients for a Mexican love spell, so she goes to a local practitioner who teaches her a new one.”

I dare glance at him and almost lose my nerve.

7

“This is great. I’m getting a million ideas.” He lays one of his hands on mine, and the warmth sinks right into me.

Coughing, I force myself to continue. “She goes back to the castle to say the spell, but she doesn’t pronounce one of the words right. So instead of fixing the fight, she summons up some kind of monster—” “Which they have to figure out how to get rid of while at the same time fixing their relationship? That’s fantastic!”

I smile, but it feels weak. “I haven’t picked the monster yet, but I think vampires won’t work. Too obvious.”

“Let’s have zombies! The soldiers an ancient king buried under the floor stones. Maybe they can move through walls.”

I shudder. “How can the characters get it on if zombies are popping through the walls? That’s not sexy. I don’t want them to become breakfast in bed.”

“They’re in a magic vault?” He phrases it as a question. “The zombies can’t get in, but the couple can’t get out?”

I like how this guy’s mind works. No wonder he’s also a finalist. “And that’s where the dead king has hidden the secrets to their survival, but they have to untangle the clues—”

8

“Escape room!” Noah shouts. The cameras turn to us, and I have a feeling this is going to make the next episode. “That’s amazing, Rocio.” He clears his throat.

“Let me see what you’ve got on that laptop. What’s this?” Lifting his palm off mine, he points at a line of text.

“The incantation. I’ve been listening to the serving staff talk in their native language.”

He frowns. “Rocio, they speak a Slavic language here. This looks like Spanish.”

“Right. I don’t speak Malravian. I do speak Spanish, however, so I spelled the words the way they’d sound in my native language.”

“Amone. Reshid. Evotío. Crucé.” Cool. But I think I’ve heard them saying this word,” he points, “and it’s an A, not an E. Avotío. Amone. Reshid. Avotío.

Crucé.”

“I think you’re right.”

A screech echoes through the room. A skinny, loathsome creature with gray skin and glowing blue eyes crawls out from under the curtains behind the judges’ table.

The judges try to flee, but they get tangled in the tablecloth and fall all over.

The creature leaps on them, sinking fangs into Mindy’s throat. Blood sprays, soaking into the fabric.

9

Vomit rises in my throat. “What did you do?” I whisper through a hand I don’t remember clutching to my mouth.

Another monster slithers out from behind the curtain and leaps onto the struggling, screaming judges.

“I didn’t,” Noah protests. “You wrote the spell.”

“I made it up! It wasn’t supposed to do anything.” I can hear slithering behind the curtains. It sounds like a lot of… whatever these hijos de puta are. “What do we do?”

Glowing blue eyes fix on us.

“Run,” Noah grabs my arm and pulls me away from the table.

I keep my eyes locked on the eyes of the monster as Noah drags me into the echoing stone-floored hallway, where electric torches hang from ancient sconces. The walls are coated in plaster and adorned with scrolling, abstract frescoes, but there’s no time to admire them. Screams echo around us. A herd of camera operators and contestants are racing in our direction. I have no doubt they’ll mow us down, and if they don’t, the creatures are right behind them.

Noah pulls me against a wall. His hand shoots out, touching the fresco, and my support gives way as the wall opens. We tumble into the darkness.

10

It’s Your Party

by Alondra Garza

It is your party, invite me. won’t you.

Jealousy is real and madness is too Mix me in your cake mix, make me feel blue.

Let me be the candle that lights your cake, Or the balloon that you’ll throw away.

Let me be the pin in your hair or maybe your chair.

Let me be the table, I’ll hold your plates.

Let me be the floor, give me or take.

Let me be invited, let me be close.

Let me smell your hair or let me stare.

Let me count your calorie intake.

I’ll make your dresses; or maybe I’ll give you ten min.

Tell me when you’ll come or maybe I’ll go.

I know you want me there, i know you want me to stare.

All i want is a birthday cake.

All i want is your friends to not be fake.

I’ll paint your nails, I’ll do it for you.

Don’t forget me when you’re there Don’t forget me while you stare.

Party dresses, pink with roses.

Cake on your noses.

Invite me, won’t you?

15

“En Mis Memorias, Te Encuentro”

by Myriam Anahi

I take a seat in a hush; my friends will be here soon. The beauty supplies lie scattered without thought, placement careless yet familiar. The door creaks open—no need for introductions. “¿Mande?”

It’s the only sound—not the wind against the dusted and drained window, not the shuffling of the brushes scraping against pigmented palettes—just a single word. A question heard more often than not. “¿Me abrochas el vestido?”

Nothing formal—no please, more an expectation than a request, really. I don’t mind. That’s how it goes. I hear their voices in my head: The doctors say she’s like a child. She forgets. I lift the zipper without objection. “Lo haría yo sola, pero ya sabes, estoy viejita, Mi niña.” She stills, waiting for my response, and I can feel how my face softens once she turns. “¿Te gusta el vestido? ¿Todavía me miro bonita?”

There is no hesitation in my voice—I see no room for doubt. “Como si fueras a tener solo 20 años.” She smiles and laughs a soft, airy chuckle as if a statement in such truth couldn’t be any more wrong.

I get no response in return, and I wonder to myself—does she still believe it? Or when she thinks of herself in a manner of anything similar to beautiful, does she hold on to the memory of what she used to be?

19

Growing up, being a teen meant sleepovers in my very own room decorated just like the bizarre inspirational pictures saved on my parent’s phones to this day.

But before my room was really “my” room, I had to “bunk” with her. From the time I can remember, up until my siblings left the house, I only really knew her calming presence in sleep. Despite the immense amount of envy, I can’t begrudge my siblings for getting their own rooms; that bed with different sheets and dried stains from my supposed “scientific” experiments, made out of glue, shampoo, and glitter, was my safe haven. My parents down the hall, my sister across the room past the thin walls, and my brother (not yet away to college) next door... I look at the room now, and I realize how those small details—school supplies on the windowsill, nonhazardous children’s makeup, and third grade drawings of a devastatingly disfigured looking Rudolph decorating the walls—were my way of claiming space. Back then, it was just about having a corner to call my own. But now, those touches feel like the echoes of a different time. Sometimes, I feel as though I can still hear the classic Spanish bedtime rhymes and soft pats against my back in consolation.

“Cu cú, cu cú cantaba la rana,” she would softly chorus, the faint scent of lavender filling the room and the rocking chair, whose previous seat was occupied by thrown delantales and faded cotton blouses, swaying in steady motions. And when the clock hit nine on the dot, she’d pause my usual cartoons, reminding me: “Ya es tiempo para dormir, que vas hacer cuando tienes 30 años y ojeras como yo?” To that, I’d simply sigh and reluctantly turn off the TV. I wouldn’t argue; her voice was the sound of safety, the final lullaby before sleep. Every night, the same prayer: “Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada dia, le ruego por la protección de nuestra familia y que todo le vaya bien en el camino de su papa, el trabajo de su mama, la vida en el colegio de su hermano, y por su hermana y hermano, Amen.” If you were to ask me to recite this simple blessing, I could easily do so, as if it had been drilled into my mind through hours of complex memorization.

20

Even so, religion isn’t something I’d consider a huge part of who I am. But that’s me now, not the younger version of myself. I often contemplate why exactly that is, and I’m not the only who has noticed. If anything, more than family, I’d say religion makes her who she is as a whole. For her, religion isn’t just something she practices, but who she is. At the ripe age of four, when my parents were off at work and my siblings were hanging out with schoolmates, you would see me ready, clad in a flowy skirt with tights and a headband with a flower so large you could compare it to my own fist. Contrary to popular belief about what a child would enjoy, my fouryear-old mind, when given the option of going to Mass with the Jehovah’s Witnesses or staying home to play on my iPad, chose Mass every time.

Despite having only gone to the church when I was a child, I still often encounter one of the “hermanas” (our fellow church peers). “Hermanas” who, despite my horrible recognition skills, still look at me as though I’m the same little girl who used to greet everyone contentedly with an anxious hug and short kiss on the cheek. I’ve noticed it’s always the same phrase, followed by identical questions: “Ay, cuántos años han pasado chiquita? ¿No te acuerdas de mí? Siempre le pregunto por ti, a ver si un día la acompañas.”

I know it’s never meant to hurt, and yet, it stirs something in me—an echo of a past self to whom I no longer fully relate. Each time I hear it, I am reminded not just of what I’ve drifted away from, but of the uncertainty lingering in its place.

Religion has always been a divide in my family. While we were raised Catholic, she embraced something different. I often wonder how her faith, so deeply rooted in her, influenced the person I became. Catholicism has never held the same weight for me, yet I find myself searching for a place where belief and belonging can coexist, just as she did all those years ago.

21

And though I’ve never admitted it aloud—and likely never will, for fear of being brushed off—as I grew older, I found myself silently resenting her religion, a resentment I buried deep inside. It wasn’t the religion itself, but rather how it seemed to separate us, how it made me question where we all truly fit in the world, as proven on one specific day I’d waited nothing less than my whole life for.

In Mexican culture, when a girl turns fifteen, she’s officially considered a woman. Merriam-Webster defines it as “Quinceañera, a celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday traditionally observed in Latin American cultures to mark her transition to adulthood.” Essentially, a rite of passage, where every possible relative from third cousins to estranged aunts who only appear once the invitations are already sent out, is expected to show up.

For the longest time, I didn’t want this celebration. When my dad’s side of the family asked if I’d be having a quinceañera, I’d answer with a firm “No.” That is, until the “No” evolved into a hesitant “No sé,” and not long after, I found myself planning my quinceañera at 14. I had spent months planning it, “my perfect quinceañera.” But when the day finally arrived, the excitement felt distant. Instead of the joyful buzz I imagined, it was more like a heavy weight, pulling me deeper into the reality I hadn’t anticipated. That day was heavy with stress, every detail etched in my memory as clearly as a reflection in still water.

“Vamonos rápido, te ayudo en ponerte el vestido y los vamos a la iglesia en media hora. Ya nos esperan todos.”

Clad in heavy makeup, I can barely blink without my dramatic, wispy lashes obscuring half my vision. I quickly hop off the white pickup truck and speed towards the house.

22

Curls practically bigger than my head bounce up and down with each slight step, whether from joy or anxiety, I cannot clarify.

The worn-out iron door bangs against the wall frame, announcing my arrival. It’s not hectic like I thought it would be. It’s quiet. Calm.

I rush forward once more. Now closer, I can hear the wailing sirens of the news channel and catch the voice of a news reporter giving the latest changes on crime.

“A ver, déjame ver qué bonita mi niña se mira ahora que se ha maquillado profesionalmente.” She reaches out towards my face, pulling me down and landing a tender whisper of a kiss on my forehead, or at least that’s where she means to. But at 15, I’m about four inches taller than her, and her kiss instead lands on my eye rather than the planned target.

Then, when I stand, I notice she hasn’t gotten dressed yet. In that same moment, I register she hasn’t even applied a single drop of makeup. I keep silent and tell her of my experience with the makeup artist. How I think I look too different, how the makeup feels too heavy; I don’t like it.

She doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t confirm or deny. Instead, she just looks at me, and it’s almost as if I can see the thoughts shifting before she quickly backs away. She’s never been the affectionate type, after all.

“Prepárate antes de que tu mamá se estrese.” Withdrawing, I give a smile and head back to my mission of mentally preparing for the battlefield that is a 14-pound, limited mobility dress in Texas summer weather.

23

30 minutes pass. The dress is on, the car designated for taking me is decorated in delicate rosy pink ribbon and soft blush roses. Everything’s ready, perfect.

At least that’s what I thought.

At the moment, I realized I could still hear the sound of old chanclas from the mercado downtown and the news reporter chatting away with her coworker on upcoming weather conditions.

There she is, sitting in the kitchen, unbothered by the whirlwind of the day. I stand frozen, unsure if I should speak or if I even have the words to explain how much her reluctance in this moment stings. Is this her form of resistance, or has she truly forgotten the importance of what today meant to me?

I stand there, not sure what to say. In fact, I don’t think I really wanted to say anything. In the days leading up to my Quinceañera, I realize now I should’ve expected that to happen.

“Jehovah witnesses don’t practice holidays.”

I knew her faith didn’t allow for celebrations like this. As a child, I had accepted that as just another part of her, some type of “tough” love. In all my years, she’d never told me happy birthday, after all. But standing there, seeing her disinterest in my big day, a resentment I hadn’t known I harbored begins to stir.

This isn’t a holiday. This is my quinceañera. And she had been at my sister’s.

Why couldn’t she just let it go for one day? Why couldn’t she be a part of something meaning everything to me?

24

“How come she’s not ready? Is it still early, or is she getting there a bit later?”

“She’s not going.”

As if it’s such a simple concept that one of the people I love most won’t be near for my day.

I ask again, my voice trembling slightly, “What do you mean, not going?

Why?” My mind can’t process it—can’t accept that one of the most important people in my life won’t be there. It’s like my chest is tightening, and the room feels suffocating with each word. My sisters’ response, so simple and final, is a punch to the gut: “She doesn’t want to.”

I search for my mom, my heart pounding in my chest. I need her to explain it anyway, to tell me that everything is fine, and this is just a misunderstanding. But when she speaks, her words hit harder than I expect, leaving me with nothing but a hollow ache inside.

“Is it true she’s not coming?”

I’m met with the same response; however this time, it’s like I can feel my eyes burning and the stupid fake eyelashes clogging my vision.

“Ya intenté hablar con ella pero sabes que se está haciendo mayor y tu hermana dice que la demencia la vuelve necia.”

I stand there, the air thick in stillness, my heart pounding in my chest.

25

I want to stop everything, to cry, but instead, I feel a cold emptiness settle inside me. How can something that should have been joyful feel so heavy? The dress, once so full of excitement, now feels like a costume, a facade, a storm of tulle hiding the truth—one of the people I love most won’t be there, and it feels like a silent betrayal.

Reliving this moment, I could only describe what I felt as selfishness. I wanted her there, wanted her to share that moment with me, and yet, the guilt of that desire was suffocating. How could I ask her to break her own faith for my happiness?

How could I be angry when I knew that her absence wasn’t from spite but from a love for something that had always been a part of her? In wanting to make the day about me, I was ignoring the deep-rooted beliefs that made her who she was, and for that, I felt ashamed.

I had always accepted her faith as a part of who she was, something that I thought made her the person I loved so dearly. But that day, standing there in my dress, her absence felt like an unspoken betrayal. It wasn’t just the fact that she wasn’t there; it was the realization that our worlds, her devotion to her beliefs and mine to tradition, would always be divided.

It wasn’t like she didn’t care about me; I know that. However, I can’t say that it didn’t feel the exact opposite. I wanted to be angry at her, at the fact that her faith, her unwavering devotion, kept her away from me on that day. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t just the dementia that kept her from participating. It was the years of belief, the weight of her faith that had shaped her, that had shaped us both into who we were. And maybe, that was the hardest part—realizing that we were both prisoners of our paths, unable to break free and meet in the middle.

26

I sit here now, the weight of it all heavy on my shoulder as if it was just yesterday. The room, once filled with my blasting music still able to be heard even with my door tightly shut, is eerily quiet. I walk out, heading towards the kitchen, when I hear a sudden call.

“Myriam, ven!”

Urgency makes up her tone, and for a second, I worry. That is, until I walk back to find her waiting for me, wearing a subtle black polka dot dress, black tights, and comfortable low wedge heels fit with support. “¿Me abrochas el vestido?” Her question is soft and almost absent. I freeze. The words feel familiar, like a lapse in time, haunting me. It feels like a lifetime that I just stand there, as if I’m waiting for something too, except I don’t know what it is. Then, suddenly, I see it all so clearly.

The memories of my Quinceañera come rushing back, now with more clarity. The dress, the makeup, the uncertainty—it all feels so distant, like a dream I can’t fully remember. I see it again: her, sitting there in the kitchen, calm and unfazed by the storm of preparations around her. I can hear her asking, “¿Te gusta el vestido? ¿Todavía me miro bonita?”, yet it all feels too far away, like I’m somewhere else.

I didn’t understand it then—the reason for her absence, the way her faith kept her from joining in. I thought it was just stubbornness, just resistance. But now, I know it wasn’t about me at all.

All along, I hadn’t realized her devotion to her beliefs wasn’t just something she practiced; it was who she was. And I, for all my questioning and resentment, had never seen it until now. Maybe it was because I had been too wrapped up in my own need for her presence, her participation in my moment, to truly see her.

27

Now, looking back, I don’t feel the anger I once did. Perhaps it’s because I finally understand the boundaries her faith had drawn in our lives—boundaries that were always meant to protect, even if they kept us apart. Her absence, I now see, was its own kind of love. A love that existed in the quiet moments, in the lullabies, and in the whispered prayers.

“Te quiero mucho, Abuelita.”

And when I say it, I don’t expect a response back or a hug. I don’t expect anything in return but for her to know I mean it. Despite everything, the only feeling I carry for her is pure endearment.

“Yo Tambien.”

28

by

ANC

Swarms of leaves trace the wind’s path.

Longing for such momentum, as the heart is suddenly still by the vines’ grasp.

The leaves feel no fear in leaving the wise tree, for they are always changing, fleeting, and never stagnant like me.

Rising levels of the ocean persist.

Drowning in such glory, the open pores absorbing salt from within.

A mesmerizing beauty that I must resist— for the waves are never silent, restless, and ready whilst I merely exist.

To feel the winds graze through my hair, easy to lift, easy to finally fly.

Be one with the rippling waters, enclosed around my soul till eventide.

But I could never chase what the winds and waves embody.

With that resolution, I can breathe.

Take me back to when time followed nature’s current.

No need to compare water and the greens to the human simply desiring to be free.

Always thinking, trying, and limitless in every possible way.

And as the leaves blow towards the ocean, know that we each flow at the same pace.

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(N)Ever-changing

by George Matthew Gutierrez My idea of “change” is typically painted under negative lights I despised broken traditions, unwanted hellos, and worst of all: goodbyes Yet the eyes of my naive self began to close so soon In the midst of doing a daily task—cleaning my room My room was vibrant with walls of yellow and green However the stench of its filth was something obscene My epiphany, like dirty clothes on my floor, was something quite large It sat, it lingered, did nothing, and was in need of someone in charge That the idea of change, for once, can be good Made me act in a way that I never thought I could I smiled and lay my head gently on my desk The epiphany I had was the wish to be statuesque I thought of greek mythologys’ favorite sculptor: medusa How her stone gaze leaves her victims to analyze life’s minutiae To be a statue–once a curse–is now my dearest wish See change can be hard but throughout struggles there is bliss As a statue I’d watch war and the destruction it brings But so long as the earth spins I bare witness the colors in spring I’d see men throw their fists in the drury park nearby Still, in summer i’d watch blue jays flap their fluorescent wings to fly The protestors would set fire to the whole city square Now in the autumn I watch circus men set up a tent for the fare I’ll watch a shivering man in frigid cloth slumber on the bench to my right But with that sight I slowly watch oranges grow by winter’s bite Sorrow and malice are guaranteed reasons Again through that pain theres still consistent seasons Change will hurt and may damage all that may grow But through that change there’s truth in the things that I know My dirty clothes on the floor is a reminder of my lifes disarrange But my green and yellow walls are something I know will never change.

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“Espíritu de inocencia”

by Yokebed Castro

La gente siempre comenta que la etapa más difícil de tu vida es cuando tienes que dejar de ser un niño para convertirte en una persona responsable y “adulta”. Nadie te entrega un manual donde te explique cómo son los pasos a seguir para ser aquella persona responsable que todo mundo espera. Esposo, hijos, hogar, trabajo, pagos, etc. Un sin fin de responsabilidades que caen sobre ti como una avalancha de nieve que cada vez crece más y más grande arrastrando todo a su paso sin que haya fuerza humana que la pueda detener. Aún recuerdo mi infancia como si fuera ayer, esos días de alegría donde lo único que importaba era salir a jugar y disfrutar de los momentos más sencillos que te brinda la vida. Estar atiborrados de esa inocencia que no sé en qué momento de la vida se pierde.

Jamás olvidaré ese Día de Reyes que trajo a mi vida las alegrías más gratas y que cinceló en mi corazón y en mi mente esas memorias que jamás podré olvidar.

Esos recuerdos que cada vez que los traes de nuevo a tu cabeza, te hacen sentir viva nuevamente y a la misma vez te inundan el corazón de nostalgia. Te hacen volver encontrar el sentido de tu vida nuevamente y aprendes a valorar lo mucho o poco que tienes. Era una mañana de enero, todos dormían, la casa se inundada de un silencio sonoro. Afuera podía escuchar el cantar de los pájaros, el ladrar de los perros, el ruido de la ciudad en movimiento, lista para comenzar un día normal, pero algo dentro de mí sabía que ese día sería diferente a los demás, algo inesperado y lleno de magia iba a suceder. Era un día 6 de enero y como todo niño, estaba lista para levantarme y abrir mis regalos los cuales esperaba con tantas ansias desde la noche anterior y el motivo de no poder conciliar el sueño. ¿Quién podrá olvidar esos momentos, memorias que se quedan en tu vida para siempre?

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Desperté rápidamente y me dirigí hacia el cuarto de mis hermanas y contagiarles la inmensa emoción y felicidad que sentía en ese momento, pero ellas al igual que yo ya estaban despiertas e inquietas por saber que les esperaba a ellas también. Recuerdo que nos dirigimos al cuarto de nuestros padres y despertamos a papá para que nos permitiera abrir nuestros regalos; él simulaba seguir dormido y hacía caso omiso a nuestras risas y cuchicheos al intentar no despertar a mamá. Por otro lado, mamá ya estaba despierta también y sólo sonreía al escuchar el espectáculo y el intento de misterio fallido que se estaba llevando a cabo. Al llegar a la sala, debajo del pino de navidad el cual era poseedor de una estrella enorme y brillosa que deslumbraba en todo el espacio, había unos obsequios para cada una de nosotras y que para ser sincera ya no recuerdo que. Pudo haber sido ropa, tal vez, ya que la ropa es algo que a los niños les importa muy poco a no ser que sean juguetes y no me dejarán mentir.

Después, sobre el sofá de la sala, había unas cajas verdes oscuro, rectangulares, de un tamaño más grande que una caja normal de zapatos. Mi padre nos incitó a que fuéramos a abrirlas. Cada una tenía nuestros nombres escrito con letras grandes y de color negro. En ese tiempo no podíamos distinguir la diferencia porque para nosotros, los Reyes Magos eran tan reales como el sol del día y la luna y las estrellas de la noche. Ahora sí puedo confirmar que esa letra era inconfundible, la letra de papá estuvo presente cada año en cada uno de los regalos. Las cajas iban dirigidas para mí y para cada una de mis hermanas. Al abrirlas encontré un par de botas blancas, blancas como la nieve, su textura era suave y terso al tacto, desprendían un olor agradable para mi olfato, un olor no muy común, pero placentero. En ese momento no sabía de que material estaban hechas, pero escuché a lo lejos las pláticas entre mis papás y otros familiares que se habían quedado la noche anterior a dormir en casa.

Mi padre entre cuchicheos les repetía –son de piel. Nunca olvidaré esas botas, jamás volví a tener otras iguales y no creo volver a encontrar otras como esas. Tal vez no sean simplemente las botas sino la manera en que fueron obsequiadas, la fecha, el detalle. Pero ahí no termina lo mágico de ese día.

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Abrimos otros regalos los cuales contenían juegos de mesa, una muñeca de trapo con su vestido rosa, zapatos blancos y dos trenzas de color café. Tenía dos ojitos que se abrían al levantarla y se cerraban al acostarla, sus mejillas estaban sonrojaditas y sus labios tenían un sutil color carmesí. Cuando terminamos de abrir los regalos, mi papá nos dijo que nos asomáramos al patio porque en el portón había unas huellas de lodo que parecía que fueran de un animal, que no estaba seguro, pero que él podría apostar que eran de un elefante. Mis hermanas y yo salimos corriendo emocionadamanente, con una sonrisa de oreja a oreja y una alegría que no nos cabía en el cuerpo. Abrimos la puerta frontal de la casa la que dirigía hacia el pequeño patio de tierra donde mi papá usualmente estacionaba su carro y mi mamá tenía rodeado de pequeñas plantas y un árbol de buganvilia morada en una de las esquinas cerca del portón. Saliendo de la casa, nuestra cara de fascinación es algo que siempre guardaré en mi memoria. Vimos precisamente las huellas de lo que supusimos era no sólo de un elefante sino de un caballo y un camello. Las huellas estaban en forma de hilera como si los Reyes magos fueran uno detrás del otro, en dirección hacia la salida de la casa, pero listos para brincar el obstáculo que se les asomaba. También, había huellas de zapatos como tipo botas. Estas huellas guiaban hacia el portón de salida donde se veía una mancha de lodo gigante que ensuciaba parte del portón como si alguien hubiera querido salir, pero que resbaló por accidente. Todavía recuerdo las palabras de papá que nos decía – ¿Ya vieron? el elefante no pudo subir de lo pesado que estaba y se resbaló, yo creo que Melchor, Gaspar y Baltazar tuvieron que ayudar a empujarlo para que cruzara. Esto nos causó mucha gracia a mis hermanas y a mí. Nuestras sonrisitas de alegría inundaban el patio. Todos estaban estupefactos con la escena que estábamos viviendo en ese momento. Todos reían y comentaban entre ellos lo real que se veían las huellas y hasta la mancha de lodo en el portón; del esfuerzo que mi padre había hecho por hacerlo lo más real posible.

Esos son los recuerdos que se quedaron grabados en mi memoria para siempre, donde lo material sale sobrando, pero los detalles que la gente que te ama 41

es capaz de hacer por ti, jamás podrás olvidar de tu memoria y de tu corazón. Mi padre ese día nos regaló algo tan bello y tan memorable que ni todo el dinero del mundo podría comprar. Tal vez hasta ahora jamás he vuelto a tener una experiencia así y probablemente nunca más la tendré. Quisiera volver a regresar el tiempo y volver a vivir ese día una y otra vez, donde nada me hacía más feliz que disfrutar de las cosas tan pequeñas que la familia y la gente que te ama te puede hacer sentir.

Jamás imaginé que crecer y convertirte en un adulto te harían olvidar lo que realmente vale la pena. Sería mejor nunca salir de esa inocencia que nos hace disfrutar de la vida al máximo. Deberíamos de siempre mantener esa fuerza que de niños nos hacía levantarnos de cada caída y golpes que la vida nos daba. Curábamos una herida con un beso o tapábamos un raspón con un curita. No cuesta nada volver a intentarlo y que cada día sea como un juego donde los ganadores seamos nosotros mismos.

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I Only Know How to Sin

by Mira C

My love is biblical in that it is a Gluttony of emotion, Greed of your time, Wrath of childhood screams, Envy of those who can love with no bounds, Lust of my teeth in your skin, Pride in my ache, and Sloth in my healing.

God, forgive my sins Of loving so greedily; And creating an endless war.

A famine of love.

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Career Choice

by Jaylyn

During my clinicals for phlebotomy schooling, I stumbled across different job professions. Each scope of practice I came across was very fascinating to me; I was always naturally yearning and drawn to learn from each field.

My clinical experience was at a healthcare facility, specifically at a hospital which had aromas that were quite unpleasant such as the smell of fecal matter, the overwhelming scent of decaying flesh and bones, rubber gloves, and bleached scented floors. That includes the musty, saturated smell that geriatrics patients often have. I still remember the caramel-brown and washed-out green walls. The beeping EKG’s and bed alarms constantly found their way out through the underside of the wooden doors. The clicking sounds of the keyboards that the nurses were clacking away for patient logs. The Certified Nursing Assistants were constantly rushing through several different rooms extensively.

As I walked through the 2nd and 3rd floor of the Medical Center, all I could see left and right were patients wearing green/white patterned gowns. With their cries and groans pleading for help, I had this strong desire to help them to the upmost of my capability; there were times where I could and times where I could not. As a fresh student that had no prior experience in the healthcare environment, I was nervous and sensitive to what was going around. It was quite overwhelming!

Over 200 beds, adolescents, grandparents, and mothers with newborn babies were in the very hands of the many healthcare professionals. As a phlebotomist, we are to poke these already hurting patients, so I would try to make the process as painless as possible while keeping a warming interaction.

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As I went along to do my morning blood draws, I came across this one particular patient. She was in a critical state, extremely swollen from all the medications that were running into her blood stream through the IVs. She looked extremely depressed: her pitch- black eyes were heavy with sorrow as if she had given up on hope.

As an empath, I felt her soul crying out screaming, “Why am I even here, I’m better off dead. I’m a burden to my loved ones and to the workers that are at my aid.”

Even if she wasn’t moving an inch or looking at anyone’s way—that is the energy she was dispelling. Me being in her presence, I felt the sudden urge to immediately drop everything. I go to her kneeled down on the hard, cold ceramic tiled floor, held both her hands compassionately, and looked her in the eye warmheartedly as if I was telepathically telling her that she is loved, and that she is cared for. I felt her soul break away from the cage of hell that she was burying herself into. I saw the spark in her eye. It is as if that small gesture I initiated was the hope she was longing for.

She smiled so deeply, and genuinely with not a single word muttered to each other, we said just enough.

I—as a person—saw myself then and there, meaning to be within the healthcare field to help aid the weak and vulnerable and to spread love and care to people who need it the most. I am thankful for my clinical experience to further bring out that fire and passion of mine to continue to pursue the healthcare profession of nursing. This event has been meaningful to me to this day because it was the very first time I felt a fulfilling calling; I knew that I was essentially needed by a soul that had been weeping for far too long.

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Me and My Dad

by Rozie Rousseau

When I look into your hazel eyes, A window pane is found in those dejected globes, Inside, an isolated boy little boy fills the eternal silence In your dark quiet space, shivering to the icy breeze of rejection.

A hollow ring is heard in those hallows The boy’s heart’s exposed–beating B-BOOM B-BOOM His scarlet red pump slowly debilitates, Could it be shattered, ripped in a million pieces?

Why couldn’t you just keep it closed?

The faint ring escalates to a rattle, yet boy is unphased, blinded by sorrow, Slyly, a shape unravels, danger near, too close Towering above his innocence, IT’S A SNAKE; DAD SHOW FEAR! Danger, A viper, a viper, get out, get away!

It struck, it swallowed; lean muscles moved too fast, Rough but silky smooth scales, layers of coils warp around his rosy soft skin, body gone except for his soft, brown, youthful tuft of hair, I can’t look, the unbearable death, is that what is really going on inside?

Do the words emitted from my mouth really crush your little heart?

Am I a serpent squeezing your ego; soul to oblivion Sorry I didn’t mean homicide.

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La Vuelta a la Tortilla

by Roberto Vela Jr.

Part One: Ernesto & Teresa Whose Death has Affected You the Most?

April 10, 2016 was the date my beloved mother-in-law Teresa slipped away from earth, when she sprouted her wings on to a pleasant journey and ascension to reunite with her knight who gave his soul to the Lord a little over forty years ago.

This is the story of a devoted mother and a father’s perseverance, juggling life to create an opportunity for their children to be successful and providing them with whatever education they could get. In addition, Teresa’s inner awareness of what was right and wrong provided the loving atmosphere and communication needed to steer away their children from the malignant influences trying to cause harm while getting what they want.

It all started when Ernesto was mesmerized with Teresa’s presence and with a gentle touch of her hand—the love potion needed—they began a journey that both would embrace, a selfless love which will be cherished always and eternally. All this happened at a house Teresa was compelled to stay in, but when Ernesto asked her for her name, Teresa’s hopelessness and anxiety that brought her to the crossroads of her life began changing before her eyes. Teresa brought Ernesto a Cafecito-coffee, infused with her favorite rich flavor of vanilla, and formed a casual chat with him, in which he would build a connection between the two. Teresa, looking at him out of curiosity and enthusiasm, knew his uniqueness and strong character was the open door needed to lift her out of her obscurity, and with that in

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mind, she began transitioning her life into a place of significance and honor, and was ready to experience a loving evolution with the light of her life—Ernesto. After Ernesto was discharged from his obligation to the United States Army, he and Teresa merged their love, which in turn brought a greater sense of purpose to each other.

Longing to cultivate a sense of security both physically and emotionally, both concluded that they wanted to create a meaningful life, with a home that embodied a coziness and familiarity. After achieving the significant milestone of owing their own home, they were now ready for the parenting stage in life. Now, with their first-born, Teresita, and with La Vuelta a la Tortilla, their life would be changed forever…

Part Two: The Heart of the Home Teresita was now the eldest and the lucky one who introduced the new parents to new stages of development. As she grew, the family started to do so as well—about one more sibling every two years. In those years, it was a challenge to feed two children, but ten was a Herculean effort in comparison. With each child having his or her diverse role in the family, Ernesto and Teresa were up to the challenge. Ernesto was working at a local utility company, which provided most of his income, though it was not enough to feed the tribe. To make ends meet, he had to get a side hustle as a baker and washing cars on the weekends for some neighborhood clients. The couple did not let the complex reality of what was lacking overwhelm them but focused on the little things that could bring joy to their family.

While Ernesto was out for most of the day working to provide for his family, Teresa was the anchor holding the family together, and at the same time carrying a bereavement she had suffered years earlier with the loss of their sixth-month-old son Fernando. On the brink of shattering her core beliefs about the world with the loss of their seventh child, a bundle of joy and the last one came unexpectedly: a baby 60

boy, which in turn caused a stronger and interpersonal connection with her, and with La Vuelta a la Tortilla, which helped her turn something so painful into something purposeful and joyful…

Part Three: Calamity and Adjust Now with the youngest at seven years old, Ernesto had an unwelcome guest that refused to leave: it was cancer. Now the rock that provided the foundation and guidance for his family was faced with the dilemma that sharing with Teresa what began as a joyful life had led to a journey of calamity and ruin. In a matter of six months, Ernesto was gone, and unable to cope with the loss of her husband, Teresa in disbelief, went into shock. With all the struggles, frustrations, and hopelessness, Teresa was compelled to transition from a life of happiness and sorrow, to surfing the tides of uncertainty and accepting the challenges and growth the young family would meet. As with every family, as it grows it branches out. Teresita was the first to leave—getting married and becoming a teacher—before Ernesto’s death. After that, the eldest boys followed. Two got married; one became a construction owner.

The other graduated from college and enlisted in the United States Army, while the middle one collaborated with his brother the construction owner, but he did not marry. The middle girl graduated from college, became a teacher, and then got married. The younger girls followed thereafter, but in the meantime, they needed to fill in the gap caretaking for the younger siblings. Coping with the stress and having the fortitude to work through their emotional pain and suffering, Teresa and the girls were able to bounce back from their difficult life events. Finally, the youngest graduated from high school, and the younger girls found their own courtships, eventually getting married.Teresa now, and with La Vuelta a la Tortilla, was ready to begin her inspirational chapters waiting to be written…

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Part Four: Permission Granted Navigating their life’s challenges through humility and patience, the last three girls found their kindred soulmates. The oldest of the three was ready to take the next step. Being that trust and humility is the cornerstone of her identity, Yolanda found the unwavering stability she needed to commit to marriage in a man whose virtue was manifesting itself right before her eyes. Roberto, patriotically performing his duties in the United States Marines, was ready to take the next step in life, but with no binary choice between life and failure, Roberto’s generosity, prudence, and compassion were the discretion and resiliency needed for both to embark and surrender into a space neither thought to look for. It was a bittersweet moment for Teresa, but little did she know, not only did Yolanda set the date for marriage, but the younger daughters also followed with dates of their own. Now, instead of feeling a sense of loss and uncertainty about what she would do with rest of her life, Teresa’s love and contentment eased her anxiety, and she automatically stepped into the role of matriarch, in which she created a sense of unity with her sons-inlaw, which made it easier for her to navigate through life’s many challenges. Nevertheless, Teresa, having experienced a considerable number of challenges herself, felt like something was looming, as if something was going to happen. Already having a relationship with God and being a devout Catholic, Teresa at once knelt and prayed, silently engaging in a loving prayer just as she has done before. Just an experiment of life, a journey, or a phase of life with so much suffering... With the last chapter of her life and with La Vuelta a la Tortilla, she was ready to face her destiny…

Part Five: Epilogue: Life Experiment Teresa endured a minor setback for the last five years of her life; it was 62

kidney failure, but being that she had a phlegmatic temperament, her emotions did not get the best of her; Teresa just went on with life as if nothing had gone wrong.

Dialysis—a procedure to remove waste products and excess fluid from the blood when the kidneys stop working properly—was the solution; but little did she know it would take a toll on her body, causing a sense of fatigue and lots of sweating.

Something causing the blood vessels to shift in the body is not normal in itself; but left with no choice, Teresa just wanted to live a little bit longer. Now, having dialysis on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, it was part of her weekly routine.

Even though it took a toll on her body, Teresa knew that with this procedure, she had a chance to extend her life and enjoy her family as she has done all along. Dialysis was over at about five thirty or so, and luckily, her son-in-law Robert was close by, working for a local utility company. She knew one of her daughters was going to pick her up, but when her son-in-law picked her up in his shiny, black as the moonless sky El Camino—a utility vehicle with the comfort of a car and with the practically of a truck—she knew it would be something beyond transportation. Picking her up, Robert would put on her favorite song “Un Rinconcito En El Cielo” by Ramon Ayala, and take her to a local eatery called Rudy’s, to pick up her favorite turkey sandwich. This in turn made her lose her sense of connection with her immediate surroundings—dialysis—allowing her to recharge and focus, reconnecting with her well-being.

Going forward, five years passed; now slowing down and with the dawning realization that dialysis would not last forever, she started to reprioritize what was important to her. Of course! It was her children, since they were her first relationships in her life other than her husband Ernesto. Teresa shifted her focus to helping them to prepare for the inevitable. Making tamales, buñelos, tortillas, empanadas, frijoles ala charra, mole, and calabaza con pollo was how she showed how much she cared for and loved her family; it was all she had. Hoping to inspire her 63

children, especially her daughters, to master and keep their family traditions and recipes was a success. Preserving a sense of continuity was central to her personality; she wanted her children to make their own story and to continue to express themselves in fostering a sense of community. Teresa’s powerful unconditional and selfless love is what her children needed to fight away any fears of uncertainty. They knew that her unbreakable and spiritual love will be with them until the end of time.

April 10, 2016 was Teresa’s funeral, and with the Last Vuelta a la Tortilla, her final eternal destination was to be with her knight Ernesto and baby squire Fernando, hoping that one day her family will renew her strength after expecting their arrival.

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El encuentro (prosa)

by Yokebed Castro

A lo lejos te reconocí nos quedamos mirándonos fijamente sin darme cuenta perdí el sentido del tiempo. Pareciera que hubiera sido una eternidad. A pesar de haber estado siempre a tu lado, tu mirada era diferente. Podría decir que era triste, llena de miedo y desilusión; acongojada por algo que no podía entender. Te fuiste acercando lentamente hacia mí sin decirnos una sola palabra, nos fuimos caminando a la banca más cercana del parque y nos quedamos viendo fijamente al mar.

Para ser sincera el encuentro fue inesperado y la mudez lo incomodaba más.

Comenzaste recordando aquellos momentos felices que pasamos juntas en la infancia. Describías cada uno con sus detalles con tanta exactitud que me hicieron recordar como si hubiera sido ayer. Tu carita se veía tan feliz y radiante; una sonrisa cubría tu pequeño rostro. Mientras sentía como mi corazón se llenaba de una felicidad que parecía que palpitara tras mucho tiempo de estar inerte. Podía sentir esa adrenalina comenzar a correr por todo mi cuerpo. Tus memorias eran tan confortantes que al mismo tiempo sentía una tristeza al haberlas podido olvidar en lo más remoto de mi memoria. Todo era tan bonito hasta que un silencio invadió nuestro espacio. De la nada sentí como algo invadía mi corazón. Lágrimas caían lentamente por mis mejillas, llegando a mi boca, causándome un sabor amargo como la hiel. ¿Por qué te abandoné? Para ser sincera, ni yo lo sé. Sentí las palabras como si llevaran cadenas de hierro que me causaba un dolor en el cuerpo y en el alma.

Perdóname, perdóname por no haberte tenido conmigo, por olvidarte en el tiempo y esconder tu alegría, tu inocencia y tu paz y todo por caber en un mundo de adultos donde la niñez ya no tiene hincapié; donde los juegos de niños son sólo actitudes tontas que hacen ver a un adulto como una persona inmadura y torpe.

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Perdóname por cambiar las tardes en bicicleta por reuniones de trabajo. Perdóname por cambiar los ratos de sueños y mundos imaginarios por miedos e inseguridades.

Perdóname por cambiar las reuniones con tazas de té y comidas hechas de la imaginación, por cenas incómodas en lugares que muchas veces no deseas estar.

Olvidé la simplicidad de la vida, la felicidad de cada día, en el valor de cada una de las cosas que hacemos. Te cambié por pertenecer a un mundo que imaginé distinto. Quiero que sepas que te agradezco infinitamente el haberme convertido en la mujer que soy ahora. La mujer fuerte con ganas de comerse al mundo, con un deseo inmenso de seguir viviendo la vida, siempre en busca de aventuras y nuevos sueños. Sin tus experiencias y enseñanzas no sería la persona que soy hoy. Siéntete muy orgullosa de lo que has logrado en mí. Te prometo que siempre estaremos tomadas de la mano, siempre la una con la otra. Nunca volveremos a sentirnos solas, yo soy tú y tú eres yo. Caminando juntas por la eternidad. Volteé a buscar tu mirada, tu cuerpo iba desapareciendo, haciéndose cada vez más pequeño con cada una de mis palabras, hasta que tu inocente ser cabía en mi mano. Pereciera que cada palabra que salía de mi alma sanaba cada una de tus heridas. Junté mis manos, te metí cuidadosamente en lo más profundo de mi corazón y seguí caminando hacia el atardecer, hasta que el sol se perdió en el horizonte, con la dicha más grande que el universo te pueda brindar.

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The Secret Life of Teachers: Soap Wars

by Jessica Carlos

It started with a bottle of Bath and Body Works’ Firefly Forest foaming soap. The pump was still screwed down, the nozzle clear of all bubbles, unmarked, unclaimed, unowned. I looked left, then right. Some teacher from the opposite side of the school was occupying one of the six stalls in the faculty restroom. The rest were empty.

We were teachers. We didn’t get nice things. We got scratchy toilet paper, 3-inch binders, and half a lunch period courtesy of someone who just couldn’t wait to speak to us. Service before self. Don’t forget: The customer is always right.

And this was the secondary faculty restroom, not the one attached to the main office, not the one where principals, administrators, and potential deputy superintendents could wander in to relieve themselves, not the one with potpourri and plant décor and the occasional piece of artwork. No, this was the secondary faculty restroom, where we were lucky if the paper towel dispenser hadn’t jammed again and a dead roach one of the braver teachers had killed two weeks ago was occupying its own square-footage.

So, I could only stare at the green bottle. Somewhat suspiciously, I admit.

The other teacher flushed, came over to wash her hands, dried them, then exited the bathroom while shooting me a somewhat disturbed side-eye. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have been bowed over, both hands on the counter, eyes level with the shiny wet surface, studying the soap bottle like a specimen from another planet. It really shouldn’t have been that odd. After all, we taught specimens from another planet every day, and this one was really less exotic.

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Eventually, I gave up trying to wrap my head around it, washed my hands a second time with the newly Christened bottle, and left. Its maiden voyage made my hands smell like childhood, and I would visit the restroom three more times before lunch because I’d “gotten something unsavory on them” and had to wash it off.

Lucy Simmons, my academic neighbor, wasn’t at all surprised by the appearance of the fragrant green bottle. “Margarita Filipi—you know, the science teacher—she brings them,” she informed me later that day. “I’m surprised it took her this long.” It was an odd time to start, halfway through the first semester, halfway through my first semester. Mrs. Filipi added a second bottle a few days later, and I was just as happy to try Saturday Sunset out of its royal blue bottle and again later, when Firefly Forest finished, Strawberry Pound Cake, which I found to be entirely too sweet.

Thanksgiving came around, then Christmas, each with its assortment of scents, something to look forward to beyond the stale scent of sweat that lingered in my classroom every day from student athletes. The third week of January rolled around, and Lucy tossed in the garbage an empty bottle of Crisp Morning Air. “Welp, that’s the last of it.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Filipi will replace it soon,” I said.

Lucy looked at me oddly. “Haven’t you heard? Margarita retired at the end of December.”

What?! How could this have happened? Why hadn’t anyone told me? No more Japanese Cherry Blossom? No more Champagne Dream? No more Cozy Vanilla Almond?

75

“I’m really going to miss all the fancy soaps,” said Lucy, drying her hands with a soggy brown paper towel. The loud siren sound of the bell rung. “Oh, well, back to class.” She threw open the door and strolled out.

I stared at myself wide eyed in the mirror, hands still dripping in the sink, though the automatic timer had switched off thirty seconds ago. Already the stagnant water of the unused pipes was leaking up fetid wafts through the grate smack center of the floor.

Retirement? How could Filipi do this to me? What gave her the right to leave me deprived of this reprieve?

“I didn’t realize you were that close,” said Lucy after school that day. I’d been lamenting over Margarita’s untimely departure to Lucy for the last ten minutes.

“Close? I don’t even know who she is.”

She gave me an exasperated look I was sure she typically reserved for her more challenging students. “You know,” she told me, “that really tall woman who passes by my room during lunch ever day. She always has her makeup done up to the nines.”

The description did not sound familiar. “Uh…” “She wears three-inch heels and paints her nails in bright shades of orange and red.”

Nope.

76

She stared at me hard for a minute. “The one who showed up with a crop top to faculty in-service at the start of the school year.”

“Oh!” She rolled her eyes at me. “Why exactly are you upset that she’s leaving?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then snapped it shut abruptly. It sounded a bit callous even in my own head to hope a woman worked herself to death so that I simply didn’t have to miss her soaps. I tapped my fingers on the desk I was sitting on. Of course, Bath and Body Works wasn’t exactly the Garden of Eden. I smiled to myself, waved at Lucy, who was looking at me with concerned confusion, and let myself out.

At 7:30am, Lucy, Mrs. Jones, and a few others were the only teachers already in the building. I snuck into the restroom, deposited two foaming soap bottles, and disappeared before I could be caught. Four more took up residence in my closet, ready to replace their counterparts.

“How strange! I wonder who’s bringing the soap now,” said Lucy.

“I don’t know, but I sure am grateful,” replied Mrs. Jones.

“Have you seen anyone bringing them?” Lucy asked me.

I kept my face neutral. Sure, I had taken up this sacred duty, but with it came the weight of silence. To Lucy, I shrugged.

77

The bell rang, and we trudged back to our classrooms. I dubbed myself the Soap Fairy, and for the next two months, I enjoyed the delight of watching my wards brighten at the prospect of a new soap bottle with the ecstasy of small children opening gifts on Christmas morning. I’d nearly been caught once, soaps shoved up my jacket between classes when I hadn’t had time to drop them off before school.

“All right there, Elly?”

“What? Oh. Huh?” The lock to the restroom had just popped open. With one arm wrapped around my middle, pinning the cold bottles to my shirt, I mumbled, “Stomachache,” then slipped inside. Mrs. Jones was none-the-wiser.

Clinging to walls, darting through hallways, even committing the occasional ninja roll kept me entirely uncaught. And all was well... until I walked into the restroom one day after a particular trying morning with a bunch of wannabe gangbangers only to find a bottle of Kitchen Lemon cleansing gel seated beside my nearly empty bottle of Chasing Daydreams.

“Do you have any idea who’s leaving the soaps?” I asked Lucy, stalking her into the restroom later that day.

“No idea. Why?” “Just curious,” I said through gritted teeth.

How dare they? How actually dare they?! Some fool was trying to steal my title of Soap Fairy. “How absolutely dare they!”

78

“What?” asked Lucy from one of the stalls.

“Nothing,” I told her, “just talking to myself.”

I pumped out half the bottle of Kitchen Lemon straight into my hands every time I used it. Naturally, it was emptied rather quickly, and I tossed the bottle immediately. In its place, I laid out Self Care Sunday.

The next day, before even a quarter of the bottle had been used, two more gel bottles appeared, Sweet Pea and Eucalyptus Spearmint. Eucalyptus Spearmint!

As if anyone would ever want the smell of nasal congestion coating their skin.

“You know, I really like this one,” said Mrs. Jones.

I glared at her until she fled for her life. I’d rather have taken the sugary death of Strawberry Pound Cake then the scent of chest infection.

Self Care Sunday was gone before the week’s end.

My fury was fire. I drained her gels, her reminders of disease and false innocence, and filled the empty bottles with water. Beside them, I left Midnight Blue Citrus and Garden Tea Cookie, foaming soaps.

When Lucy and I entered the restroom the next morning, two things were blatantly obvious: 1. School scissors could puncture just about anything, even hard plastic, and 2. It was surprisingly easy to write “Ellie Dane better back off ” in gelled hand soap on the mirror.

“You know,” said Lucy, already turning to leave without actually having used the restroom, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

79

Our Contributors: Artists A. Sanchez - Page 48 Hi! My name is Alyssa Sanchez, I’m 17 years old and I’m a TSC student. I have completed my CNA course and I am looking to expand my education and finish my associates degree. I love taking pictures of beautiful views and capturing memories with it. Although this picture was beautiful, it does not do the view justice! This was taken on a rooftop in San Antonio.

Adaleigh Knight - Page 83 My name is Adaleigh and I am 17 years old. I love the beach and sunsets, hence the picture. I hope to become something in the marine biology field.

Alyssa Rodriguez - Page 49 I am a dual credit student at TSC. This photograph was taken during the spring. It portrays the beauty of a bee retrieving pollen.

Angel Marie Herrera - Page 29 Hi, my name is Angel Herrera and my major is Art. I have always had a passion for drawing and painting. I want to pursue Art and become an Art professor and improve my skill and inspire future artists.

Brandon - Page 81 I am a student at tsc. Also a car photographer. I want to show a little of what I do.

Brianna Lerma - Page 72 I am currently a student in TSC. I am going for my general studies associate degree.

This artwork took me around two weeks, the reason for my artwork was for Mother’s Day. Artworks I have done are simple or meaningful especially this artwork that was based on my childhood pet.

Our Contributors: Artists Cain Rojas - Pages 11, 30, 71 Hi, my name is Cain Rojas. I am a TSC student. I’m currently in general studies for one main reason. My goal is to get 30 credits so I can possibly transfer to a fashion school located in New York. I want to study fashion design and create my own clothing brand. I’ve worked on a few designs that would be a dream to create them in real life.

Sunshine - Page 35 Hi my name is Emily Burrage from Port Isabel Texas and I’m currently a dual enrollment student for TSC. I really enjoy taking pictures of nature and capturing breathtaking scenery. Having the opportunity to have South Padre Island in my back yard I am so blessed to take photos like the one I chose for this project, Serenity.

Evelyn Grace Ayala - Pages 13, 17, 45, 52, 82 I’m 19 and I’ve loved art since I was little, and that passion has only grown over the years. My goal is to become an art teacher so I can inspire others who share the same love for creativity and help them develop their skills even further.

F.A.C - Pages 37 & 46 Hi, these drawings took me about 6 or 8 hours. It was fun but tedious. Good luck to everyone!

Gabriela Kellam - Page 31 My name is Gabriela Kellam I’m a TSC student who also attends Veterans Memorial as a junior. I’ve moved around all of my life as a military child and my dad, a now disabled veteran, recently retired. I dedicated this piece to him and hope that this voices how my dad served for our country while having a family at home.

Our Contributors: Artists

Halle Mata - Page 57

I am a student a Port Isabel Early College High School and am on track to graduate with my associates degree. I plan on attending The University of Texas at Rio Grande Valley and major in political science. I enjoy taking candid pictures and exploring nature.

Nacho - Page 33 Hello, my name is Ignacio also known as Nacho by Friends and Relatives. I live in a small town in Texas called Raymondville. On my free time I enjoy gaming and looking at beautiful scenery.

Jaz - Page 32 My name is Jazlyn Longoria and I am currently a Dual Enrollment student at Texas Southmost College. I will be earning my associate’s degree this spring semester, something I have worked hard for since my freshman year. My interest in the medium of digital art sparked during the COVID-19 pandemic when I took an art class via zoom.

Jesus Rodriguez - Page 18 I am a dual enrollment student at Texas State Technical College, working to earn my associate’s degree before graduating high school. I plan to become a lawyer and am especially interested in becoming a lawyer. Music has been a big part of my life since sixth grade, and I play the bass clarinet. In my free time, I enjoy playing video games and learning about different career paths.

Leon Guzman - Page 55 My name is Leon Guzman I am currently a TSC student but attending Raymondville high school. I would like to major in music. What really inspires me is music.

Our Contributors: Artists

JRG - Pages 1, 38, 67

I am a TSC student I am currently majoring in associate in Art,I recently started getting more into photography due to me recently getting access to adobe programs here at TSC, I enjoy looking at landscape where the focus is mostly on the view rather than a subject, I get my inspiration from cinematography so I tend to try to make my photos look like cinema shots as much as possible an inspiration would be movies like “1917”and “Rogue One” that show that the background are just as important as subjects.

Josiah - Page 65 I am a student at Raymondville Early College High School. I am 18 years old, I plan to go into the medical field and become an RN. I worked on this piece for about 2 weeks.

Bibi - Page 44 I’m a creative and curious person with a passion for exploring new ideas and seeking knowledge. I’m always tackling complex problems and engaging in meaningful conversations. Balancing intellect with creativity, I enjoy exploring diverse topics and connecting with others to share insights and perspectives.

Liz - Page 56 I am a TSC student, and I’m an art major. I’ve always liked drawing, but around 2020 is when I stared practicing more on my own. Most of what inspires me is nature and any elements linked to fantasy.

Maddy Cantu - Page 70 Hello! My name is Madeline Lee Cantu. I am a senior at Raymondville Early College Highschool. I love to travel and capture beautiful moments in amazing places around the world. Photography is something I love to do and I can’t go anywhere without capturing the scene!

Our Contributors: Artists

Rene - Page 12

I’m a psychology student here at TSC. I’ve been drawing since I was a kid but started to take it more seriously three years ago. I grew up playing video games, particularly fighting games with my siblings, which inspired me through the art of titles like Street Fighter and KoF. All in all, I see myself as an artist in the making who draws purely for fun.

Marlen Mayorga - Page 43 My name is Marlen Mayorga and I am a TSC student in high school. I have been working on this art piece for a week. I have always loved ocean creatures and creating my imagination so I combined both to make my art project.

Moises Romero - Page 53 My name is Moises Romero and am a TSC student and worked on my art for around 2 weeks. I was inspired by the type of video games i play like Elden ring that have unusual monster and technology. I composed my art piece using styrofoam and wires to make the head and wrap the body.

Peyton Florence - Page 80 I am a dual credit student at tsc, and at Raymondville Highschool. My major is business, and I am aiming for my associates in highschool. I’ve been doing art since I was young, I am inspired by emotions and the world.

Rick Ramirez - Pages 4, 66 I am a TSC Adjunct Instructor, teaching General Biology I and II at San Benito High School through the Dual Enrollment Program. I have enjoyed drawing using various pencils and charcoal, as well as using other media. I enjoy depicting aspects of the natural world, especially ocelots.

Our Contributors: Artists Roxanne - Page 58 My name is Roxanna Reyes, and I am a student at TSC, working toward graduating high school with an associate degree. I have always been passionate about the arts and found a way to express myself through traditional art. For the past 15 years, I have been honing my craft. Since my parents couldn’t afford formal lessons, I taught myself by studying reality—observing shadows, textures, shapes, spatial relationships, and volume. My work is often inspired by curiosity; when something captures my interest, I explore it further through my art. I strive to create pieces that allow others to see the world through my perspective, evoking the same sense of wonder and exploration that drives my creativity.

Valeria Salazar - Page 16 and Cover My name is Valeria Salazar, I am a student at TSC and my major is Medical Laboratory Science. I worked on my painting for about one month and I have been drawing since I was in elementary but barely started getting into painting a few years ago.

What inspires me is wanting to capture a certain moment and make it my own by interpreting what I see.

Valerie Atkinson - Pages 14 & 84 Hi I’m Valerie, I’m a student at Rio Hondo High School and Texas Southmost College. I enjoy doing photography in my free time as well as doing traditional art. I also like to bake and cook for my family and friends.

Our Contributors: Authors

Abbygail Hull - Page 2

Hello, my name is Abbygail Hull! I’m currently studies my basics to have a foundation before branching out to any career degrees just yet, but aside from that, I tend to be very driven by imagination. Though drawing is the main outlet that I stick toward, I am still quite reserved rather sharing any pieces publicly. However, I am more than happy to share my poetry writings for others to read!

Addie Scoggin - Page 3 Addie Scoggin is an Instructor of English and Project Director of an AmeriCorps Texas grant at Texas Southmost College. She holds a Master of Arts in Professional Writing from Southeast Missouri State University. Addie has been writing since she was 11 years old, filling the pages of her diary with all the countries she’d fall in love with that would meet her heart’s longings.

Alondra Garza - Page 15 My name is Alondra Garza, and I am inspired by the raw emotions humans experience. The way people can feel so strongly about certain topics and experiences truly inspires me to write. I have been writing for three years now, and I aspire to continue improving the way i convey raw human emotions.

ANC - Page 34 TSC student currently working on my General Associate of Arts. I have always been interested in writing, whether it be in the form of short stories, poems, or even songs. I started because I found it easier to write out my emotions rather than saying them out loud. What continues to motivate me is seeing the progress throughout the years.

Our Contributors: Authors

George Matthew Gutierrez - Page 36

My name is George Matthew Gutierrez and I am junior attending Harlingen High School South. I am taking dual enrollment classes such as Composition 1 and U.S History and thoroughly enjoy the assignments and modules the classes have to offer.

My work is primarily premiered through the lens of an adolescent in the midst of finding who he is and who he will become. I chose to create a rhyming poem as, in a way, it reminded me of the never-changing sequence and inevitability in ever-changing things: an over-arching theme referenced in my work. I admire TSC’s efforts in making this opportunity available for any student—despite their age—to express their love and passion for literature and the arts.

Jessica Carlos - Page 74 I was born and raised in the Rio Grande Valley. Currently, I teach English at Texas Southmost College and Rivera Early College High School. I’ve been a writer for most of my life, but I usually stick to writing novels, as descriptive writing tends to be my favorite. So far, I’ve published four novels, the latest of which is the first book in my Fireflies Saga, called Sons of Thunder.

Simonee Beaudelaire - Page 5 Simon Simone Beaudelaire is the pen name of a member of the English faculty at TSC, as well as a multi-published author of romance novels. With a dedication to the centering of women in literature, my novels explore the range of female experiences from work to family to adventure and even magic. I am married to fellow author Edwin Stark, mother of four children (one grown), and has one and a half cats... well, really just one big one.

Roberto Vela Jr. - Page 59 I am a TSC student, I have been working on some poems since I took creative writing last semester.

Our Contributors: Authors

Jaylyn - Page 50

Hello! My name is Mia, I am currently a student attending TSC, doing my prerequisites for the Radiologic technologist program. I am driven towards the medical field; It has been a passion of mine since the day i started doing the phlebotomy course here at TSC. I hope to grow within the healthcare field to be able to give back to the community in aiding the sick and vulnerable!

Mira C - Page 47 Years of quiet scribbles and doodles have lead Mira into a world of creativity. Harboring inspiration from her childhood and life as a Hispanic woman trying to carve her path away from tradition, her art gives her a voice. With hopes of trying to give other creatives a home in her work, she continues to create for the community that will listen.

Rozie Rousseau - Page 54 I am originally from Canada and moved to South Texas in 2022. I love the outdoors, horses, and reading and writting. I am working on becoming an Aggies veterinarian in the near future.

Yokebed Castro - Pages 39, 68 My name is Yokebed Valdez. I have been working for five years as an Spanish Instructor at Texas Southmost College. I started writing in the fall of 2019, when I received an invitation from Mr. Juan Antonio Gonzalez as a panelist for the “Conferencia Literaria Binacional”, at Texas Southmost College. I am grateful with professor Gonzalez because he introduced me to the amazing world of literature.

Myriam Anahi - Page 19 Myriam Anahi Ramos is a TSC dual enrollment student whose writing is deeply influenced by her experiences with culture, family, and the lessons she has learned from those around her. Through her stories, she hopes to evoke emotion and leave a lasting impact on her readers. As she puts it, “I believe that every story has the power to connect people, spark reflection, and inspire change.“

Interested in applying?

Scorpion’s Quill is a yearly publication aligning with the academic year.

We open for submissions during fall semesters and publish during spring semesters. Information about how to apply will be shared with faculty, staff, and students during the upcoming Fall 2025 semester and will be announced via TSC email. Keep your eyes peeled for the opening day!

Scorpion’s Quill Editorial Team Amanda Utzman Kathryn O’Neil Robert Andes Jonathan Baker Monica Mejia David Ransom David Guerra