Tiger PAWS Fall 2016

Tiger PAWS

St. Philip’s College Volume 5, Issue 2 Fall 2016

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Tiger P.A.W.S. Personal Academic Writing Space St. Philip’s College Volume 5, Issue 2 Fall 2016

Cover Art: Two Worlds, One Dream by Henry Carter Spray Paint

Tiger P.A.W.S. is a student publication composed of original students’ works such as prose, poetry, art, and photography. The student editorial staff reviews and organizes the journal. The selected works may not reflect the attitudes or opinions of St. Philip’s College or the Department of Communication and Learning.

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Acknowledgments The Tiger P.A.W.S. staff wishes to thank the following: Randall Dawson— Dean of Arts and Sciences Dr. Erick Akins—Title III Director, Title III Grant Management Ty Williams—Chair, Communication & Learning San Juan San Miguel—Academic Program Coordinator, Rose R. Thomas Writing Center, Prose Judge Jenny Gray—Faculty, Communications & Learning , Poetry Judge Mitchell Miranda—Art Judge Dr. Audrey Mosley—Faculty, Communications & Learning Velia De La Rosa—Administrative Services Specialist, Communications & Learning The UPS Store St. Philip’s College Public Relations Department Department of Communications & Learning for funding the publication

©2016 St. Philip’s College

Selections for Tiger PAWS are printed with the permission of the authors and artists cited. Copyright reverts to authors and artists immediately after publication.

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Editorial Staff Student Staff:

Faculty Staff:

Ali Al Razy Siddiqui

Nicki Apostolow

Bianca Bosquez

Lee Ann Epstein

Josie Dawn Carrillo

Stephanie Gibson

Leatre Cooper

Jamie Miranda

Angelia Jacobs

Aurelia Rocha

Kara Lazzaretti

San Juan San Miguel

Amanda Olveda Briana Rangel Ariel Schultz Marina Uriegas

Submissions for the next edition of Tiger PAWS in Spring 2017 will be accepted through March 3, 2017. Enrolled SPC students are encouraged to submit essays, short stories, poetry, artwork, and/or photography.

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Table of Contents Two Worlds, One Dream—Henry Carter..………...……………………..

Cover

Cho no koka —Juan Crispin………………...…..……………………….……..

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“The Chronicle of a Notebook”—Kara Lazzaretti..……………

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Star Child—Lauren Estrada……...………………………………………………

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“Blue-Eyed Boy”—Oriana Skye………………..……………………….…...

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Why The Rush—Estela Puga………………………...………..……………….…

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“Soul Searching”—Destiny Morales……………...………………….....

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Beautiful Escape—Ariel Schultz……..…………………………………........

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“Lottery Ticket”—Wil Ogburn………….…………………………….…...

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My Sister’s Wedding—Ali Al Razy Siddiqui.….………..….….……….

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Up Close and Personal—Juan Crispin………...……..………………..…..

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“Happily Never After”—Marisa Davila...……………….…...……….

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A Beautiful Death—Demetrius Lino………..……...………..……………..

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Reflection—Chris Valdovinos……………….………………………………….

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“My Hero, Manuel M. Rubio”—Jesse Reyna………………...……

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Taipei 101—Moriah Richter…………..……………..………………….………

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“Nothing on the Sea”—Betty Clay…..……………….……………..…...

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Seeking Soul—Alicia Goolsbay…….…….……..…………………..…..…….

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“Detained and Analyzed”—Amanda Olveda…………………..…..

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Still Bright—Juan Crispin……......………………………………………......…

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“Plaits and Bowretts”—Leatre Y. Cooper…………………….….....

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Waiting in the Sea—Demetrius Lino………….…………….…………....…

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“Photograph”—Marisa Davila.………..……………………...……………..

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De-Part—Nenad Manvoilov………..………….……….……….……….…….

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U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds—Loyce A. Riddle.…………….………...

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Moon Child—Lauren Estrada…………………...…………………….………..

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“Learning to Love Learning: The Early Years”-Moriah Richter 40 A Splash—Nenad Manoilov……….…………………………………………....

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“Kiss the Rain”—Marisa Davila…………………………………..……..…

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Table of Contents New Beginning—Carol Oviedo..…………...…………...……………………..

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“Tony the Baker: The Best Mentor I Ever Had”—Adam Custard ……………………………………………...………………………………….……………………

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Fernweh—Estela Puga…………………………………...………………………….

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Sargent Charcoal Study—Alejandro Cabrera.………………….……...

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“Why God is My Hero”—Kimberly Caracheo..……………….…

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Through Another’s Eyes—Reshonna Rifenbury……….………….....

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“Anthem of Tears”—Kara Lazzaretti………………………………......

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Hard Work and Dedication—Demetrius Lino……………..……..…...

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“Control Your Mind”—Irene Medrano…………..……………….…..

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All in a Day’s Work—Giselle Vasquez………………...….……………….

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“My Dad, My Hero”—Iwebunor Bielonwu.………….…...……….

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Figure Facing East—Hector J. Barbosa..………...………..……………..

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Figure Facing West—Hector J. Barbosa…………………………………...

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“Love’s Unanswered Question”—LeArthur Antonio Lee...

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“I Think I Love You”—Kara Lazzaretti………….…………….………

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Athena the Greek Goddess—Alejandro Cabrera.….……………..…...

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“Writer”—Marisa Davila………………….……..…………………..…..…….

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Turbulence and Wonder—Josie Dawn Carrillo…………………...…..

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Outer Space from My Place—Henry Carter.…………………………..…

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“Can I?”—Jeremy Hawkins………………………………………...………....

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Our Judges……………………………………………………………...……………....…

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Cho no koka

By Juan Crispin

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Photograph

“The Chronicle of a Notebook”

By Kara Lazzaretti I never understood her. I regret that most of all. She poured her soul into me and told me everything, but I never understood her pain. I couldn't comprehend why she felt so deeply for her friends, her boyfriend, or her family.

She spent hours writing song and verse about her love of them, and I never knew why. She filled my pages with declarations of love, and I couldn't comprehend them. I didn't understand, for how could I? I had never felt the pain of losing the one you love.

Until the day my pages ran out, I will never forget the day she filled me. The moment her pencil wrote my ending, “and now it's onto the next.” My heart broke because for the first time, I had failed her. My one job, my only purpose, was to bear her words. I was to record her deepest thoughts, and I was done. She used me up. A year and half of glorious partnership and all of a sudden it was over. I could hold no more of her sorrow or her love. I was full.

When she set me down and stared at my last page, I saw her in a new light. For the first time since she picked me up at the store, I understood what she was trying to say. Love might end in pain, but it's worth it. The prospect of never feeling her tears on my pages or never seeing her bite her lip in concentration while she wrote killed me inside.

As she closed me and picked me up, I savored her embrace because it could very well be the last time she touched me. I was placed on a shelf among other worn journals ,and as she sighed and stared at me, I pleaded, “Will I ever see you again?” My plea went unanswered because while I knew her pain, she knew nothing of mine.

She turned away, continuing with her everyday life. All while I sat on a shelf surrounded by those who came before me and wallowed in my pain. I wondered if was truly as alone as I felt. Did my neighbors feel the same? Surely, they must. They had been there for her too. They had seen her highs and low. What stories and knowledge they must hold if only I were able to speak to them. If only I were able to speak at all, I could tell her I missed her. I could ask her to hold me again, to run her fingers through my pages. If I had a voice, I would use it to let 9her know I understand.

Days went by, and I watched in horror as a new notebook took my place. I envied its clean, crisp pages. I loathed it because I knew

it felt nothing. I knew it knew nothing of her pain and happiness. For how could it? It knew nothing of the world. It was just like I was unable to comprehend its mistress.

I watched the years go by as notebook after notebook was filled and added to our shelf. I watched her grow and develop without me. At first, I hurt when she hurt, and I hurt when she was happy. It killed me to see her write in anything else. My only relief was when she walked over to the shelf and ran her fingers along our spines. I would wait and pray she picked me up. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she didn't.

When she did, she would cradle me again. She would open me up and run her fingers along the indentations of her words. She would feel my graphite-coated pages in her hand, and she would read.

I had a new purpose in her life, not to record but to be a record. My pages took her back to a younger self. They reminded her of former hopes and dreams. I served to show her who she was and remind her who she is. It was a job I adored simply because of the fact I held a purpose again. I once more saw her, and I once more felt her tears. I was important again but in a new way. I was one among many going back for years. I was part of a set, a chronicle of her life. Without me, they were incomplete, and without them, I was alone.

I adjusted to my new life over time. I learned to be happy when she was and content with my new purpose. I still missed the days when she filled my pages and craved the days when she read my contents, but it was no longer unbearable. The sorrow subsided, and I watched happily as she continued to grow and write. I started to understand my neighbors. As I adjusted to being part of the chronicle, I became one with them because we all were one, one story about one girl. I learned of her childhood. I knew of her young, foolish dreams to become a princess and rule the world.

Things were perfect. Then she disappeared, vanished; she went out one morning and never came back. We sat there for days with worry; was she on vacation? She didn't pack anything. We sat and feared the worst. Was she truly gone? She couldn't be. She's far too young. We're unfinished; our chronicle can't be complete. She has to have more life to live.

Her sister was the first to enter her room after she disappeared. She mulled about in a zombie-like state until she saw the open notebook on the bed. The most recent addition to our chronicle laid there open and unfinished. The sister sat beside it and turned its pages. Soon her tears started to fall. She closed the book and stared up at us. Her look of utter 10 pain confirmed all our worst fears. Our chronicle was finished.

She stood shakily and walked to our shelf. She picked me at

random and thumbed through my pages, her tears soaking me. I would have cried if I could. We all would have, for how could we not?

Without our mistress, we were nothing. She filled us with herself. She taught us to love, and she was gone. But, alas, books cannot cry or bleed, but that day we did. We wept through her sister's tears. We bled her every hope and dream. We mourned her the only way we knew how.

The sister spent the day on the floor with us piled about. She read every word we held, and she cried for us. Together we grieved. It seemed our one purpose, our one love, was gone.

We were wrong. We took on a new purpose that day. She was gone, but we remained. Her chronicle became her legacy. We were more important than ever before. We were a way to connect, to reach someone who was gone. We were more than a chronicle of her life. We were her chronicle of love, a way for her to shout beyond the grave ,"I love you," and though those words were never directed to us, we loved her back anyway.

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Star Child

By Lauren Estrada

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Copic Marker

“Blue-Eyed Boy”

By Oriana Skye I once loved a blue-eyed boy, who filled my life with so much joy. My love for him would always show; of this he would soon come to know.

We would always spend our time together, but he never loved me whatsoever. He saw me only as a friend; I was so stupid to pretend. That he could ever love me so. I’m odd. I’m weird; of this I know.

Though maybe it’s for the better that me and him didn’t end up together. We’re way too different, he and I. We’re complete opposites; I know not why.

There are times when I still miss him; I think about that time when I first kissed him. Then soon after he said goodbye and never really told me why. He did say I was a good friend, but that was it then.

That was the end.

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Why the Rush

By Estela Puga

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Photograph

“Soul Searching”

By Destiny Morales

I am convinced that our souls will always find each other They will attract each other at even the darkest of places Like the deep depths of the ocean

Problem is the waves consumed me and I’m drowning I dove head on because I thought that’s where you would be I continued to search but with every minute passing by I could not breathe I hear no one down here I’m trying to reach the light I struggle, I kick and scream With all the screaming I’ve done, water starts to fill my lungs In and out of consciousness Why can’t I find you A ray of light is seen And I began to come to surface As I grasped for my first breath of air I realized You always told me you were soulless So this whole time I was searching for you You were not to be found.

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Beautiful Escape

By Ariel Schultz

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Photograph

“Lottery Ticket”

By Wil Ogburn A beautiful curvy Mediterranean, toned woman of Sicilian-Italian descent in her mid-twenties sits patiently, awaiting her rich dark chocolate toned, athletically built, French creole husband, who is also in his mid-twenties. She's an Operations Manager at a well-known regional medical contracting office. He is a struggling electronic engineer at a national aircraft manufacturing plant. They reside in a three-bedroom, ranch-style home on a quarter-acre lot, just outside Tulsa, Oklahoma, looking out onto the prairie. The husband pulls into the driveway and parks his Subaru Outback behind the Volkswagen Passat. When she hears him pull up, the wife is now impatiently waiting on the couch.

“Hello, Jemme, my queen!" the husband greets his wife.

Jemme responds, "It was a busy but pleasant day, Lefroy." This interaction is very usual for the couple, due to the extremely long hours that Lefroy works. He works hours upwards of sixteen hours a day, and Jemme works a standard eight-hour work day. This schedule has been the standard for the couple for over the past five years. Jemme has become very frustrated and lonely with Lefroy's work schedule in comparison to his earnings he brings home.

Jemme mutters gently, "Lefroy, when are we going to see any fruits of your labor and spend more time with your wife?"

Lefroy then patiently responds, "I am doing all that I can to distinguish myself from my peers. The long hours are due to I've been taking on any shifts at work and any project that management will give me. I'm doing all this to try to provide a comfortable life for you." Jemme is now annoyed and disinterested in the conversation and heads to bed.

After this conversation, six months go by and no signs of change or conversation about the job situation. As we come to the end of the six months, there is a local convention going on, and Jemme is networking around the facility. While walking and talking about, she runs into an older man in his mid-thirties. He is a Caucasian gentleman of European descent, with a chiseled face, tall slender build, with dusty brown hair, and also a very successful businessman. After their initial meeting, they continue to speak for hours at the convention. They shortly after started having meetings for business lunches, that then turned into lunch dates, until they started having romantic dinners with ‘dessert.’ This hot and steamy affair takes off strongly, Meanwhile, Lefroy is working hard at the plant and is none the wiser of the budding relationship.

17 Six more months go by when one morning as Lefroy was coming in the house from work and Jemme was on her way out, as they were

passing, Jemme sweetly says, "Goodnight, Hun!" As it is customary, Lefroy stops and looks back at Jemme and sees her normal business attire, but then his eyes catch a glimpse of the gold shoes on her feet. These weren't any old gold shoes; they were metallic gold sequined Gucci high-heels. Lefroy, now puzzled, asks, “Jemme, when did you get those expensive looking shoes?"

Jemme smiles and retorts, "I've been playing the scratch-off lottery tickets and finally hit on one!"

There was a brief pause until Lefroy chuckles out, "Okay, looks like you've done pretty good. I love you, and maybe see you later." Jemme goes off to work, and Lefroy goes to bed.

Four more months have passed, and all is normal in the home. Lefroy and Jemme are leaving for work. Lefroy is walking by the kitchen, and out of the comer of his eye, he sees his wife in what looks to be a new work suit. As he comes over to take a closer look, it is a crimson with cream pinstriped Armani suit with a matching pencil skirt. Lefroy, with a surprised look on his face, exclaims, "Whoa, Whoa! When did you get this suit? Aren't you are also a little dressed up to be going to work? Where did you get the cheese to buy a suit like that?!"

Quickly Jemme answers, "The other night I tried to tell you, but you fell asleep on me. I was playing the four ball lottery tickets and got 'two balls' right with the 'multiplier'."

"Wow! You are on some hot kind of hot streak; maybe I should play?"Lefroy grinning. Jemme just laughs it off and continues for work.

It's been approximately one year and a half from when they last spoke of his job situation and about one year of the love affair. Everything is quiet on the home front. It's a Friday afternoon, and Lefroy is supposed to be at work. Jemme gets a phone call at work, and she knows by the number it is her husband's number. She is quite perplexed due to fact he never calls from work. Nervously, she answers, "Hi, babe!"

Lefroy, overflowing with excitement, shouts, "Jemme, get your finest attire together; tonight we are celebrating at a fine dining restaurant!"

Jemme responds, "Okay, I will be finished in a few and will be home; see you soon." She hangs up the phone. Jemme is now excited, but curious to know what is going on.

Jemme gets off work at normal time and heads home.When she walks in the door, her husband, whom she has rarely seen dressed up and looking so dapper, has on a nice smoky gray blazer, with a freshly pressed pair of navy blue slacks, white polyester shirt, standard black loafers, and navy blue and gray striped tie with white accents. Before she could say anything, he hurries along to the bedroom to get ready.

She lays out her complete outfit on the 18 bed with accessories. Jemme puts out an azure Nina Camacci evening dress, lilac suede Gucci high-heels, accented with a tanzanite necklace and matching earrings.

As she is getting things together, she calls Lefroy, "Lefroy, my love, could you please come back and raise me a hot bath?'

Lefroy heads back to the bedroom, and as he comes in the bedroom door, he is gawking at the elegant and expensive spread on the bed. He then looks at his wife fussing about, takes a quick thought, and goes and starts the bath.

After Jemme finishes dawdling around, she heads for her bath. She stops suddenly with confusion, and in an annoyed tone, says, "Lefroy, why is that? You drew a bath and only put in about an inch or two of water?!"

Calmly, Lefroy states, "I didn't want you to get your 'lottery ticket' wet."

This brewed a fiery argument non-stop for at least a half hour.

Finally, Jemme says angrily, “Well, I know someone who can take care of me financially and emotionally!" and storms out, slamming the door.

Lefroy who is incensed right now, is also embarrassed and extremely hurt. He takes a few moments to get his bearings, about an hour, and as a matter of fact says, "I still have something to celebrate about, with or without her." Then he goes off to his elaborate dinner alone.

At the same time, a furious Jemme is speeding to her lover's abode.

When she arrives, she asks if she could stay with him, they would be an actual item. He agrees, and they live happily together for approximately two, not quite three, months. The businessman's company folds due to bad investments and over expenditures. This causes severe stress in their relationship, and they become sour and bitter to each other.

One day Jemme has had enough and tells her lover, "I can't take this anymore, I had better with Lefroy!" She then storms out, gets in her car, and heads towards her married home. As she is pulling in, she observes two new cars in the driveway, both Audis. She excitedly knocks on the door. An absolutely striking woman answers and politely asks, "Yes, how may I help you?"

Jemme's face goes from excited to upset, and she loudly says,''Who in the hell are you? Furthermore, why are you in my house?"

The woman calmly responds, "My name is Lila...."

Lefroy interrupts, "What is all the hullabaloo about?! Oh, it's you, so I'm assuming that since you are here, you haven't been served your papers yet. The woman you are disrespecting is my fiance. We are scheduled to wed in about eight months with a nice getaway honeymoon. That would be thanks to my promotion to Director of Operation Affairs! Well, I really wish you luck in the future with your 'lottery ticket'!"

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My Sister’s Wedding

By Ali Al Razy Siddiqui

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Photograph

Up Close and Personal

By Juan Crispin

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Photograph

“Happily Never After”

By Marisa Davila You were a true Prince Charming, I must have been the Evil Queen When I let you go my heart grew cold Such a beautiful summer So innocent So pure Then came a cold winter Nothing but pain Nothing but tears Seven years have passed us by Not a day has gone without my cry I should have made you King, my King until time would end My lover likewise my truest friend I was never good as “Damsel in distress” A Knight in shining armor should never lack at what he does best Nor could I wait in a glass case for a kiss of fate Our love was once upon a time

Oh, how I wish you were still mine I must melt my heart of stone so I can move on You will live on, you have done no wrong This was never meant to be Our old love is a beautiful memory It is clear and I can see

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Sometimes happily ever after is never meant to be

A Beautiful Death

By Demetrius Lino

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Pen and Ink on Watercolor

Reflection

By Chris Valdovinos

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Photograph

“My Hero, Manuel M. Rubio”

By Jesse Reyna The word hero is defined by Merriam-Webster as a mythological or legendary figure of great strength, or a man admired for his achievements and qualities. Do you know anyone like this? I do.

The thing that saddens me most is that when my generation’s flame turns to a flicker and eventually extinguishes, so too will this man’s legacy from posterity. That man is my great-grandfather, and hero, Manuel M. Rubio.

Born October 8, 1919, in the rural West-Texas town of Langtry, my great-grandfather was no stranger to poverty and hard work. Growing up during the Great Depression, he and his family were forced to subsist by any means necessary. The programs of The New Deal offered training in many different areas, and he was excited to learn and work as much as possible. He worked on the construction of our nation’s highways, bridges, and overpasses, mined silver, was a welder, knew how to run electric and water lines, was a master carpenter and a plumber, and even knew how to shear sheep. There was literally nothing that my great-grandfather could not do.

Coupled with this tremendous skillset was the heart of a saint. There was nothing that he wouldn’t give or do for his family. He would give you his last dollar or even the very shirt from his back. One such act of selflessness that sticks with me came in the late eighties when my grandfather, his son-in-law, had been laid off from his job at the Firestone test track. Upon being made aware of the situation, he hopped into his pick-up truck, drove to the house my grandparents were renting, and began loading up the furnture. When my grandpa came out to question him, he simply responded by handing him the keys to the house which he’d worked thirty years to pay off and told him to get to work. The next day he purchased an old, run-down trailer from his brother-in-law and moved himself, my great-grandma, and all of their possessions into it. They would spend the rest of their days here, not once complaining.

25 The years continued to pass, and the all too familiar course life seems to take with elderly couples spared them no exception. My

great-grandma was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and eventually slipped into a coma after some sort of complication that I was too young to understand. The one thing that I was old enough to comprehend was this man’s unwavering love and devotion for his bride. He was a permanent fixture at her bedside, constantly praying for a miracle. From sunrise to sunset, he stood, like a sentry, by her bedside, reluctant to even go to the cafeteria for fear of not being there when she woke up.

Although the family had already come to terms with my greatgrandmother’s prognosis, he refused to accept defeat. He just kept on praying until, one day, God finally answered his prayers. My great-grandma woke up and was eventually discharged, albeit with a terminal diagnosis. They spent another year and a half together on their fifty-nine year journey together before my great-grandma finally succumbed to her illness. She passed away Sunday, November 30, 1996, and he visited her every day thereafter for the rest of his life. Today they lie side-by-side, in eternal companionship, at the Pecos County Memorial Cemetery.

Just like so many who strive to live up to the ideals of their heroes, be they real or imagined, pro-athlete or Joe Schmo, I strive to live a life like that of my great-grandpa. If, in my lifetime, I grow to be half as hard-working, generous, and loyal, then perhaps we’ll meet again someday at the pearly gates. Until then, all I can do is work hard, be generous, be loyal, and love others the way he showed me how. For these reasons, Manuel M. Rubio is my hero and a model for all of posterity to follow.

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Taipei 101

By Moriah Richter

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Photograph

“Nothing on the Sea�

By Betty Clay

There was nothing on the sea but me, surmounted on my raft.

My soul fed sheets of golden sun, My Life devoid of tasks.

It was long ago that I surrendered, with my name, memories of Mortal blight, acknowledgement of pain.

For on this aimless Journey, no identity exists, The body is suffused with warmth, the Eye of Heaven's gift.

There is no one to report to, no Time and Space to bide, no keeping up appearances, no justifying pride.

Eventually senility may take a hold my mind, But I no longer have to hear The judgements of Mankind.

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Seeking Soul

By Alicia Goolsbay

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Mixed Media

“Detained and Analyzed”

By Amanda Olveda I was being detained. I was being held against my will in a 5x5 foot plywood cubicle with scribbling on the wall from past detainees the first time I met Mr. Lopez. I was sixteen, a sophomore in high school, and had no real interest in school, waking up early, or being a straight-A student. I had committed the terrible offense of skipping class two days in a row and had rightfully landed myself in detention. There, blocking the doorway, which lead to an open-air hallway, stood a tall, built, aristocratic-looking Hispanic man carrying a black leather briefcase. Right away I could sense a distinct air about him, something not usually seen in the small backwoods town where I was raised. I could not have known it then, but this was the man whose words would later change my life.

As I watched him, Mr. Lopez spoke quietly outside the classroom door with the vice-principal, Mr. Matus, who, in my opinion, was all too happy to hand over the unpalatable task of watching over the “troublemakers.” Vice-principal Matus always had a tone of sarcasm in his voice, which resonated through his demeanor and body-language. I watched the two of them speak for a few minutes more. Then, finally, Mr. Lopez entered the room and set his briefcase down on a large, oak desk at the front of the room. He was clean and smelled of fresh aftershave and cologne. For a moment I thought, “I may be in love!” Sadly, this was not the case, and by the end of the day, I would come to both despise and appreciate Mr. Lopez.

Mr. Lopez had come to Bee County to teach at Bee County College, thirty minutes up the road from where I attended high school. After he entered the room and placed his briefcase on the desk, he proceeded to go over his long list of qualifications and multiple degrees he had received from various institutions. After about fifteen minutes, he finally decided to take a breather and proceeded to go around the room, asking each one of us, six in total, about ourselves. He wanted information, such as who we 30 were, how old we were, where we came from, what had landed us in detention, and what our plan was to keep ourselves out of

detention in the future.

When my turn finally came, I was both excited and anxious to let him know about me. Here he was, this dashing, articulate, and bold 20-something year old man, asking me about me. I, on the other hand, was just a poor, coy, country-girl with no real motivation in life. I had no desire to be in this class or any class for that matter, and when my time came to speak, I asked for a bathroom pass. It was my only way out of this uncomfortable and overwhelming situation in which I had no idea what to say. He politely obliged and informed me that when I returned, I would need to give him an answer. “Use this break time to think about your response,” he said as I walked out the door and into the crisp, October air. What would I say to him?

I walked back into class to find everyone laughing and joking with Mr. Lopez, unlike any detention scene I had ever seen before.

I quietly made my way back to my plywood cubicle and hoped that maybe he had forgotten that I owed him an explanation for my imprisonment. Unluckily, this was not the case, and no sooner than I had reached my chair, there he was standing before me, his face demanding an answer to his question. “You haven’t given me your name,” he said.

“M-m-my name is Amanda,” I blurted like a bumbling fool.

“OK, Miss Amanda, have you anything to say?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” I said as I attempted to coil myself down into my desk, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

“Okay,” he said as he walked over to his desk at the head of the class and pulled out a notepad and pen from his briefcase. He jotted something down on his legal pad, tore it out, and made his way back in my direction with haste. “If you have nothing to say, then you can write it down for me,” stated Mr. Lopez as he handed me the yellow piece of legal paper. On the sheet was an assignment: a five-page handwritten essay to be due by then end of the day, along with all my other assignments, telling him all about me and my plans to stay out of detention.

I was flabbergasted!! “Mr. Lopez,” I chimed. “How am I supposed to get this done by the end of today? I have at least four other class assignments to complete by this afternoon. There is no way I am going to have enough time to complete all this.”

31 “Have you already given up before you’ve begun, Miss Amanda?” he said with a snide look in his eye.

“No, Mr. Lopez, I just think this is a bit excessive; don’t you?” I rebutted.

“Get to work, Amanda; you have a lot to do yet!! Now I can plainly see why you’ve probably ended up here,” he said as he made his way back to his desk.

I was in complete shock and very embarrassed. Not only had he called me out in front of the entire class, but he had made me feel like a quitter. This day was turning out to be even worse than I had expected.

I soon got busy on my work and was able to complete all my assignments that day, including the five-page essay Mr. Lopez had requested that morning. As I walked up to his desk to hand in the paper at the end of the day, I had a chip on my shoulder and a great sense of accomplishment. I would hand in my essay and prove to Mr. Lopez that I would not let his words phase me. I handed in my paper and proceeded to walk toward the door, but as I made my way toward the hallway, Mr. Lopez called me to come back and speak with him. “Amanda, do you know what I do for a living?” he asked.

“No, I don’t,” I explained.

“I am an analyst. I analyze people for a living, and do you know what I see in you? I see great potential trapped behind fear. Don’t ever let fear guide you. Take control of your own life, and you can go anywhere and do anything,” he said. He then proceeded to take the five-page, handwritten essay I had spent at least three hours on and tossed it into the trash. “I didn’t need that for me,” he said. “I needed it to show you what you are capable of.”

That day I left Mr. Lopez’s class a bit confused and still very angry. It was not until years later, after I had dropped out of high school and decided to go back and obtain my GED, that I finally understood Mr. Lopez’s message. I had sat by idly for so many years, too afraid of failure to understand that I was allowing fear to lead my life. In April of this year, I determined I was just going to go for it. I decided to schedule my GED exam and passed every section of the test with ease. It was then I realized I was actually smarter than I had given myself credit for all those years. Soon after, I began studying for my college entrance exams, and after a math refresher, here I am. If it had not been for Mr. Lopez’s message all those years ago, I believe I would not be where32I am today. Thank you, Mr. Lopez, for believing in this poor, shy, country-girl even when she did not believe in herself.

Still Bright

By Juan Crispin

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Photograph

“Plaits and Bowretts�

By Leatre Y. Cooper

Momma, do you love me?

Yes, dear, I love you.

Momma, do you love me?

Yes, dear, I love You. Yes, dear, I Love You, Every time I comb your hair, Every plait I put in your hair, Every bow I place on top Every plait.

Momma, Yes, dear, You must really Love Me; There are so many!

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Waiting in the Sea

By Demetrius Lino

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Pen and Ink on Acrylic Paint

“Photograph”

By Marisa Davila

“Come! You will learn from this”, they say But she would not go, yet she could not stay So she sits, holding a small picture frame “How did you do it?” she asked him once more Upon his face a distant smile he wore “What is the secret, my dear?”

No response was ever made, still his bright smile stayed She kissed paper lips for the millionth time A small chill ran up her spine “Please tell me my dear, what is the secret? I must hear!”

His eyes kept delighted as he keeps his secret in silence Never did he waver nor did he cave when her tears began to fall and fade “Tell me where did I go wrong?” she asked in plead “I must know, baby, please!”

There was no response beyond a smile A small reflection keeps her company for a while “Come”, they said “his feelings are dead.”

One more kiss then a sigh broke through her lips As they lead the way she turns to him to say, “I would tell you, if only I could, The secret is never forget, Always move on I will grow from this, Wait and see You will never have the best of me.”

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De-Part

By Nenad Manoilov

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Photograph

U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds

By Loyce A. Riddle

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Photograph

Moon Child

By Lauren Estrada

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Copic Marker

“Learning to Love Learning: The Early Years”

By Moriah Richter At the age of six, while my young peers were hopping on the school bus for the first time to begin the twelve-year journey we have come to call an American education, I sat alone in my bedroom, as alone as could be expected in a homeschooled family of nine. My twin sister sat quietly across the room, book in hand. Meanwhile, Mom was in the “school room” drilling my older brothers in the fundamentals of arithmetic. Tall book cases lined the walls of the several rooms between us, shelves well-stocked on topics varying from archaeology to early church history to classic poetry, as well as the occasional dictionary or thesaurus. Looking back, I have often wondered about those early years. I wondered how I had learned not only to read and write by the age of four but had come to love those things almost as dearly as life itself without the slightest intervention by systemic education. I have come to realize that the role my mother played in my early education was not that of an instructor, per se, but through consistency and love, she became to me an enabler of the good and the great things that I would accomplish, a cornerstone of the dreams I would build.

Growing up in the 2000s, the world around me was changing at a more rapid pace than ever before, which meant that my mother's input in my life would be even more crucial. With the dawn of the “Internet Age,” we suddenly had access to a ridiculous amount of information and media that most of the world was not capable of handling in a balanced way. In response to the changing times, my mother made efforts to guide my management of these resources so that I could stay focused on the things that mattered the most. As the culture around me was busy warping humor, violence, sex, and the ideas of what was important, fun, or worthwhile, my mother was writing on my heart the morals and ideals that would guide me for years to come.

Of those ideals that my mother passed on to me, one of the greatest was the importance of communication, especially as it pertains to writing, for she was the first to see that gift in me. As the Bible says in Proverbs 15:23, “How delightful is a timely word,” and again in Luke 6:45: “From the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks.” These words and many like them were copied by my mother onto index cards to be used as memory flashcards or simply book markers. However, they were engrained in me not only as words but as actions by the example of my mother who lived by them, spoke them, and never failed to pass them on to her children.

40 As an important addition to our education, my mother set aside time nearly every afternoon to read to us children. As much as I enjoyed pouring

through all our many biographies on my own, I always loved our reading time with Mom because I could close my eyes and imagine the sights and sounds of the story, listen to the fluctuations in her voice, and occasionally burst out laughing as she attempted to fake a foreign accent. Mother often told us, “Reading is education,” and nothing meant more to my siblings and I than to know that Mom wanted us to enjoy being homeschooled and that those lazy afternoons could be spent learning and having fun as a family.

One of my favorite things about being homeschooled by my mother was how my education was personalized to give me amazing opportunities for growth and the development of my individual talents. I remember days when my best friend would come over. We would write songs together, talk about politics and current events—interestingly, we were both absorbed in the elections at the age of ten—and swap our most fascinating books. My mother encouraged these mature conversations, knowing that an understanding of the factors that make our world would be stepping stones to our success. Such flexibility that Mom allowed and that homeschooling provided was the ultimate ground for mental expansion at a young age.

In spite of its humble beginnings, my love affair with words has since blossomed into one of the greatest blessings and opportunities of my life.

At the age of thirteen, I was thrilled to take on blogging, which I was then blessed to be able to continue for four years. Since then, I have written articles for several small publications as well as countless lyrics to songs I hope one day to produce. All of this was because one young homeschool mom had her children write poems on Thursdays and taught a love for learning that could not be taken away. Her support from the very beginning was my strength when I was weak. Her imagination and resilience kept me interested and motivated through those years of growth.

As I have matured, Mom has become my editor, my encourager, and my constant inspiration. The enormous investment that she has put into my education is something that I will always be grateful for. But even more so, it is something that I hope to pass on to others, including, perhaps, my own children someday. My mother's consistency and creativity laid the foundation for my future, wherever that may lead. Like a chain of love that ties generations together, the appreciation for and desire to learn, to write, and to share is something that cannot be contained but goes on forever.

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A Splash

By Nenad Manoilov

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Photograph

“Kiss the Rain”

By Marisa Davila Do you remember the day you kissed the rain?

It was a hot summer's day The sun shown bright behind the clouds We wished for rain Drop by drop we saw our wish come true O, what a happy day it was when you kissed the rain Childlike you were dancing amongst the drops You spun round and round looking up to the clouds Then you stopped for the slightest of moments While the rain splattered your face and made you smile For the first time I saw you kiss the rain I couldn't help smiling as I saw a child come to life on a young woman’s face That day when you kissed the rain How I envied you that day, and every day after Wishing that I, too, could be a child, in some way Have we really grown apart from childhood, Or is it how they say, “We put childish things away” We have grown in such usual fashion Life has carried us away Now when the drops start to fall I am reminded of that day Still longing to be a child in some way Still longing to kiss the rain

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New Beginning

By Carel Oviedo

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Acrylic Paint

“Tony the Baker: Best Mentor I Ever Had”

By Adam Custard The harsh ringing of my alarm clock woke me up in an instant. The early morning sky was pitch black. The red, electric numbers on the clock showed the time at 1 a.m. It was my first day at my new job as a baker at Naeglin’s Bakery, the oldest bakery in Texas. I arrived at work before my shift started at 2 a.m. I would finally meet my coworkers. One of them would make a profound impact on my life. After meeting my immediate supervisor, I was informed that I would be Tony’s assistant. Over the following months, Tony and I would become a great team and close friends. I would quickly learn not only of Tony’s disabilities but also his capabilities. Tony was a great mentor due to his sacrifice, his attention to detail, and his perseverance.

I shook his hand when I walked through the doors. “Morning,” he said.

“Let me show you around, and if I forget your name, just remind me. I’ll get it eventually.” I also have trouble with names, so I did not think anything of it. I soon learned that Tony meant something else entirely by his comment.

Tony is a tall, barrel-chested man who seemed to own an endless supply of bandanas. Each piece of headwear was different from the previous day.

Tony joined the Army at a young age. In the Army, he spent several years stationed in Iraq. Throughout his deployment, Tony worked hard to be a good soldier and member of his squad. Iraq was not a smooth or luxurious destination. Some of Tony’s friends were seriously injured in an IED bombing. An IED is an improvised explosive device, which is often deadly and difficult to locate. The experience had devastating effects. Tony sacrificed parts of his mental and physical health for a cause he believed in.

His service took its toll on Tony. To this day, he suffers from symptoms of PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Memory loss, blackouts, and mood swings would interrupt our day to day operations at the bakery.

Tony said he had no regrets. “Others,” he said, “have sacrificed more.” His sacrifice is an inspiration.

Despite all his problems, Tony had an incredible eye for creativity and detail. Tony taught me everything I know about baking. From the proper feel and smell of the dough to the way to manipulate the ingredients into a finished product, Tony was the master. Tony molded my early, clumsy attempts into a decent baker. Tony was an artist in the truest sense. Pies were Tony’s specialty. Together we would cut strips out of the pie dough and braid the strips into intricate weaves to be made into the crust. He helped me in my clumsy efforts into45the movements of a decent baker. Just a few days before Thanksgiving, Tony did not come to work. A migraine kept him at home. My boss came to me in the morning and said, “I need ten

Dutch pies today.” My jaw hit the floor. I had only made one or two by myself. Never ten and never when Tony wasn’t in the building. I panicked and scrambled as best I could. However, I was too slow, and the pie crust dough started to rise too early. The dough was near useless, and I was feeling terrible about it. Luckily, Tony walked through the door at my lowest moment. He had walked to work. I was frantic in my explanation of what happened. He told me to calm down. I was biting off more than I could chew. “If you can’t make ten pies at once, how many can you make?” he said.

“About three, I think.” I replied.

“OK, make three pies and do that three times.”

He was right, of course. I was so worried about the order I didn’t think my way through the problem. Tony saw the issue and pointed me in the right direction. I worked within my limitations and got the job done. The order was filled by the end of the day, and it was Tony who steered me on the right path. One of my favorite items to make at the bakery was the sausage kolaches. On the busiest of days, we would make over 350 kolaches in four different styles. Tony taught me the tricks of the trade. Tony’s professionalism and ingenuity led to Tony inventing his own pie. He called it Nana Pie. The first layer is apple filling followed by a layer of pecans and streusel. Streusel is a blend of butter, flour, and salt. On top of this is the cherry pie filling, almost to the upper edge. Finally, the pie is topped with another pecan/streusel layer. Tony was trusted enough to create his own pie.

The Nana Pie remains a fixture on the menu today. This achievement is not something all bakers can boast.

Tony’s achievements are all the more impressive when reminded of his struggles with PTSD. Often, Tony would be unable to drive due to a blackout the day before. Did he quit and stay home? Of course not. He would put on his old Army boots and hike to the bakery. The walk is about five miles.

Some mornings Tony and I would be working together when he would stop and turn to me and say, “Hey, man, I forgot your name.” He would look embarrassed when I reminded him. “Sorry. It happens sometimes,” he would say. I know, I thought to myself. We had this conversation last week.

Incredibly, Tony could remember every recipe and every technique for our work. Sweet dough, coffee cakes, Dutch pies, muffins, sausage kolaches, and many others were all his expertise. Tony has the ability to take his problems in stride. He loves working at the bakery; he says, “There is a therapeutic element to it. It’s my meditation.” Tony strives and overcomes his problems.

That is a lesson I take with me everywhere I go.

I am grateful for my time at the bakery. The money was good, and the free food was fantastic. However, the true worth of the experience was meeting and learning from Tony. The sacrifices he made for his country were touching. His skill, attention to detail, and creativity are top notch.

46 Tony’s ability to take his problems and vanquish them was awe-inspiring.

All these reasons and more became a reason I loved my job. Tony taught me lessons I was happy to learn.

Fernweh

By Estela Puga

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Photograph

Sargent Charcoal Study

By Alejandro Cabrera

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Charcoal

“Why God is My Hero”

By Kimberly Caracheo Do you have someone in your life you consider to be your hero? I do.

God is my hero for several reasons: he has never left my side, and I am eternally grateful to have him as my Lord and savior.

First off, I would like to start off by elaborating on what exactly He has done for my life and how He has had such a tremendous impact on me in every state of my life and mind. He has always blessed me through the good times and the bad times in my life. Even though some things in my life seemed dark, uncertain, and unfair, God has always had a way to see me through it all.

Growing up as an orphan without a constant role model or parent figure to guide me through life was very difficult and hard to understand. Birthdays and holidays were not the same for me as they were for other kids. I grew up angry in the system of forgotten children and government greed.

My first years of life before being picked up by the state were also very troublesome and chaotic. My biological mother was 19 years old with 5 kids, and my father was deported to a town in Mexico called Celaya in Guanajuato. My birth and existence never really stood a chance in that family.

God helped me through the nights I cried myself to sleep wondering if I’d ever see my mom and brothers and sisters again. Once I gave my heart to God at age 9, I knew that somehow some way, everything was going to be okay even if I had to stay at this place till I was 18.

God came into my young confused mind and gave this amazing sight from one day to the next, and I held my head up high and helped my former foster brothers and sisters deal with the pain of abandonment.

After foster care, I pursued my education, and my freshman year of college, I became a first-time mother. The birth of my son came as a complete shock. I never imagined I could have such an amazing life when God decided to bless me with my son, Elijah. The third month of my pregnancy was difficult; I started to have complications. My boyfriend at the time, who is now my husband, thought it would be best to head to the ER to make sure my son was okay.

Upon arrival to the hospital, I was seen right away and tagged with a red bracelet with my information.

49 I had the scare of my life once the main physician on call evaluated my chart and ran a few tests. Once that was all processed, the doctor came back with a devastated face and

explained in such a sad and soft tone that I was having a miscarriage. He asked me to take these four white pills and said it would help speed the process.

My heart was crushed. As soon as the doctor walked out to get my release papers, I ran out of the hospital, pulled out the IV from my hand, and cried all the way home to my husband. As soon as I told him the news, he also cried, held me, then said, “Calm down, babe; it’s going to be okay. Doctors don’t always know everything.” He put his hand on my belly and held my other hand and prayed with me. I never forgot his prayer that day. He said, “God, please look over our baby; please let him be okay and alive and healthy, and please help her stop being so mad at me.” The last part made me smile; I remember my smile made him smile, too.

That whole night I was emotional, and he was so sweet; he just fed me everything in his mom’s house. God helped me relax and believe in His amazing love by blessing me with a good man who also loved and believed in Him for the times that I was hopeless.

Then a whole month later, the most amazing God-given miracle happened. A previously set up appointment call was sent as reminder for an upcoming appointment with my obstetrician. I knew I had to be strong and confront my fears and just see what the doctor had to say.

As we walked over to the office from the parking lot, I could feel how nervous my husband was; his hands and mine dripped with sweat as we held hands getting into the building elevator. He looked right at me with a hopeful face then kissed my head. As soon as we were called back to a room, my doctor introduced herself and started to set me up for a sonogram. In moments, my heart and his dropped; there he was, my little baby boy moving around with the strongest, loudest heartbeat. Never did I imagine I would be able to pull off the role of a mother to this amazing little blessing who just lights up my life. My baby boy is now 3 years old today, healthy and a handful, all thanks to God’s amazing grace.

Finally, and most importantly, without God, I would not be even half of the woman I am today or have the life I’ve been given. He shows me His unfailing and unconditional love even when I don’t deserve it.

That is why God is my hero.

A lot of people thank God for their answered prayers, but I thank God for everything, even the unanswered ones. Without God as my hero, I can’t imagine how my life would have been. I know now that his plan for my life is bigger than anything I’m going through in my life, and 50 I trust him 100%.

Through Another's Eyes

By Reshonna Rifenbury

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Photograph

“Anthem of Tears�

By Kara Lazzaretti

There is no saving those singing the Anthem of Tears No happy song or kind words can reach their ears They can stay in that hopeless embrace for years Chained to their misery by their darkest fears There is no saving those singing the Anthem of Tears Only they can cast off the shackles of their fears They have to decide when to end the mourning years Only they can decide when the music clears

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Hard Work and Dedication

By Demetrius Lino

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Pen and Ink

“Control Your Mind”

By Irene Medrano Save your life, don’t lose your sanity to your pride, Put your childish ways aside and be that person in control of your mind,

That’s more of a fight.

Trying to battle darkness so u can stand in the light In the end it’s for a good cause, you don’t want to live your life trapped in a place, where excuses are made Hope lost and problems never faced But then more create You seem to be running from place to place only to find that you’ve gone insane I can’t just see any one the same Drowned by the streets looking for faith Gasping for sanity as I feel every wave Choking on peer pressure when I’m so deep that all I can see is the darkness I’m fighting

hoping for one strike of lightning risking my chances of ever living Burned by the ones who said I couldn’t Stabbed by the ones who said I shouldn’t Heart in despair Wondering why do people54stare

I look in the mirror and see a glare then find myself yelling in terror But when I wake up it was just a nightmare, wasn’t true, Guess I was sleeping I looked around weeping I wasn’t dreaming this is real I think in my mind Look on my arms I see the scars and realize it’s time to move forward leaving the past behind

Like I did my mind Living life right Staying out of old friends’ sight Environments changed adjusting is hard but it all starts in your heart You control your mind tell that person put drugs aside we only have one life and it’s time to live in the light for wen u open your eyes no more darkness can hover you because only light will shine bright All because you decided to control your mind.

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All in a Day’s Work

By Giselle Vasquez

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Photograph

“My Dad, My Hero�

By Iwebunor Bielonwu Do you have a hero? I do. My hero, my dad, Mr. Patrick Bielonwu, was born on October 4, 1958, in Ubuluku, Nigeria. He was born into a family of low economic background and raised by a single mother. Unfortunately, he dropped out of school at Grade 4 for economic difficulties. He got married to my mother, his only wife, on October 10, 1978, and their marriage was blessed with six children—three boys and three girls. My dad is my hero for several reasons: he is a great farmer, a leader, and a responsible father.

Firstly, my dad is a very successful farmer. He practices farming on a small scale. He uses crude farm implements, such as cutlasses, spades, hoes, etc. My father specializes in food crops, such as yams, cassava, maize, and vegetables. His farming operation is determined by two seasons: the rainy season and the dry season. At the onset of the rainy season, he prepares the soil for planting because the rainfall is the only source of water for the crops. Crop harvesting is done mostly in the dry season. Based on this, his farm products are seasonal. Though he operates farming on a small scale, he is able to produce a surplus harvest for his family and some quantity for sale.

Most importantly, during festive periods like Christmas, New Yam Festival, etc., he takes some of his finest produce from each crop to the church as thanksgiving to God and gives some to his less privileged neighbors.

Secondly, he is a good leader. My dad, though without formal education, has chaired many leadership positions in the church and the community. He is a leader who leads by the principles in the revealed word of God, the Bible. As an uncommon leader, he leads by example. In the Catholic Church where he worships, my father has headed different committees. When he chaired the Harvest Committee, his team was able to beat the set goals of the expected year. In his community, he headed the disciplinary committee where issues of discipline were reduced to the barest minimum, and some nagging conflicts were settled amicably. He strongly advocates for peace as an ingredient for progress and development.

57 Finally, my dad is the epitome of a good father and a great mentor. With great love and compassion, he always provides for our

family needs. Despite his busy schedule, my father is always available for the family and encouraged his children to acquire a western education as the way out of poverty. With his little income from his farm produce, he was able to sponsor his children to the university level. He taught us to love God and fear Him only.

As my father always reminds us, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom� (Proverbs.9:10). The most important lesson that Dad has taught me is to be disciplined and to work hard.

These two things are the key ingredients to achieve success in life.

As my hero, his great qualities are evidenced in the success of his children in different endeavors. I will always and forever be grateful for having my dad, who most emphatically is my hero.

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Figure Facing East

By Hector J. Barbosa

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Sienna Ink Water Brush

Figure Facing West

By Hector J. Barbosa

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Sienna Ink Water Brush

“Love’s Unanswered Question”

By LeArthur Antonio Lee

Is it love, or is it mingled with mango and peach flavored lust?

Is it pure without added sugars, or is it never sweet enough? Can I survive without knowing her, yet my soul is what she's touched?

Maybe I'm out of tune with this new age way of dating, but my brain is updating.... Updated.

New “old school” ways to woo and capture the painted

picture of the blessing that I'm getting better for.....

Nothing's wrong with preparing for The arrival of what's meant to be.....

Maybe what I seek existed beyond the timelines of future tense in the present time.....watching the clocks rewind to a place I missed while chasing mirages, while sitting in a

garage of tainted dreams.....

Oh, don't mind me. Just on my diving board inside of my head, reading over love letters I forgot to say.....

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“I Think I Love You”

By Kara Lazzaretti I told him today And he had nothing to say Besides “Shit” That one word hit He looked at me and realized his blow “No, it's not like that; I'm just bad news, you know?”

I sighed; I had said it in a joking way It was a causal confession that could be laughed away I shook my head and surprised him with my reply I scoffed, “You're an ass. I said I think, wise guy.”

He recoiled, cheeks red, and mouth stammering I tried to resist the stupid urge to start apologizing Instead I joked, “See, I take your breath away.”

He laughed; I'm right. He had no clue what to say He grinned and turned to me; I felt my insecurities rattling in their cage While I still could, I explained, “You’re not bad news; you just got a shitty front page.”

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He laughed then sadly shook his head.

“I like you, but it only ends in bloodshed.”

I nod and tried not to crumble I said "I understand" my voice refusing to fumble I stayed there under that tree Just pretending I did agree Now I'm home, free to cry Entirely free to wonder why Free until tomorrow Then I'll hide my sorrow I'll sit in the same place And wear the same face Just like before I started dreaming of his kiss Turns out “Shit” is the perfect word to describe this

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Athena the Greek Goddess

By Alejandro Cabrera

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Charcoal

“Writer”

By Marisa Davila Writer I am the keeper of words, with them I control the way one feels I hold the power to convert and manipulate one’s mind I can make them believe in everything and disagree with anything I want Beauty is my religion Ugly is a fault that hangs over my head To conceive is my nature To lie, second nature I’ve traveled in time seeing things no one has I am a holder of keys that unlock secrets Love is a consequence Hate, a distraction To wreak havoc on one’s heart brings me joy Sleep deprivation becomes my nightly routine Obsession, my best friend Remorse and euphoria are inspirational Death is never feared, but life always is This newfound power becomes relentless Words that I once held now hold me captive Obsession, my enemy, cages me from the world Reality is lost Remorse is more significant Euphoria is beyond my grasp Hate consumes me Self love becomes self loath Love is missed 65 Death is now feared Life is longed for…

Turbulence and Wonder

By Josie Dawn Carrillo

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Photograph

Outer Space from My Place

By Henry Carter

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Spray Paint

“Can I?�

By Jeremy Hawkins

I think more than you dream and dream more than you thought.

I concluded that joy is easier found than bought.

I change my mind but I don't mind the change.

To be truly happy is to be truly deranged.

I fall in love and I love the fall.

I picked up the grail but I dropped the ball.

I plead for the day and rage for the night.

I cry out loud before it all fades to white.

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Our Judges Prose: San Juan San Miguel is the Coordinator of the Rose R. Thomas Writing Center at St. Philip’s College. He is also an Adjunct Instructor in the Communications and Learning Department. He has a Master’s Degree in English Literature from UTSA and a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English from St. Mary’s University. He enjoys traveling, cooking (and eating,) cycling, reading and writing but most of all basketball! He is currently in pursuit of his lifelong ambition to be an NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Coach.

Poetry: Jenny Gray, MA, has a Bachelor’s of Arts in English and

Theater from Texas Christian University and a Master’s of Arts in English and Communications from Our Lady of the Lake University. She has been a guest poetry editor for The San Antonio Express News. In addition to being a tenured English instructor at St. Philip’s College since 2002, she is the mother of a seven-yearold boy and the owner of a Pomeranian whose only talents are spinning and licking. Her husband also teaches English, and their home is filled with books.

Art & Photography: Mitchell Miranda is an award-winning artist, photographer, and graduate of St. Philip’s College. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in Studio Art and a Bachelor of Science in Cultural Anthropology from Baylor University; he received a Master’s Degree in Middle Eastern & Eastern Mediterranean Archaeology from University College London’s Institute of Archaeology and is currently a doctoral student at Reading University in England. His artwork has been exhibited at Baylor’s Martin Museum of Art and the Hill Country Arts Foundation where he was named a Texas Emerging Artist. When abroad, he FaceTimes his pet gecko, Little Man.

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