Interstice
Every year the South Texas College community comes together to create a literary and arts journal, and you can be a part of it.
Interstice is a literary arts journal printed annually by South Texas College. It is open to students, staff and faculty of STC, as well as residents in the surrounding communities, the state of Texas, the United States and beyond. We publish poetry, short fiction and visual art.
Want to get your hands on a free copy of Interstice? Send us an e-mail to receive your copy. Many different volumes are available.
Plus get requirements & important details on the submission process.
Entries accepted beginning March 1, 2023
Deadline: Sep. 1, 2023
2019 Interstice Contributors
Andres Sanchez, Brandon Marlon, Carla Cherry, Carroll Grossman, Christian Martinez, Chuck Taylor, Donna Snyder, Edward Vidaurre, Elisa Baker, Hector Gomez, Joe Luera, John J. Trause, John Sheirer, Joseph Mills, Julieta Corpus, Katie Frankel, Kirby Wright, Kimberly Rullo, Laura Amaro, Laura Lee Garza, Laurinda Lind, Liza Libes, Marcy McNally, Maria Garcia, Marlene Chavez, Matt Dube, Michael Gerleman, Robert Alvarez, Stephanie Garza, Susana Case, Toribio Palacios, Vernon Carlson.
Contact Interstice
Isaac Chavarria, Managing Editor
956-872-5613
ichavarria@southtexascollege.edu
Juan Ochoa, Associate Editor
956-872-2073
Poetry Committee
- David Moyle (Chair)
- Erika Garza-Johnson
- Collen Brooks
Prose Committee
- Juan Ochoa (Chair)
- Silvia Herrera
- Christopher Carmona
Art Committee
- Rene Martinez (Chair)
- Liana Andreasen
- Patrick Garcia
Book Review Committee
- Silvia Herrera (Chair)
Literary Selections
Distrust/Water One Memory Wrong Number
Distrust/Water
I crave water like a dying woman, mouth dry, thirst unslaked— you’d think I was diabetic. And then I’m picky: Pellegrino, not Perrier, sparkling, not sink. But then, there was the almost-drowning, no one watching; I was a child who could hardly swim, taking in too much water, arms thrashing the menacing surround, the too-deep wet. Standing under your shower, the wetness coursing over me, an unfamiliar soap, I worry about the water flow in old New York apartments, if the hot will suddenly rise and burn me, water in the risers making this room too warm. I’m closed in behind this curtain. I’m thirsty again. And you don’t know me at all.
Susana H. Case
Bio:
Susana H. Case is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Erasure, Syria from Recto y Verso Editions, 2018, as well as four chapbooks. She is a Professor and Program Coordinator at the New York Institute of Technology in New York City.
One Memory
The wet sun and salt distilling from my father’s shirts In the air Under the house On the chair In the van Emanating from his death bed Has me here, With him again
Maria Garcia
Bio:
Maria Garcia is a semi-retired bilingual teacher and aspiring writer.
The Visitation Room
As I walk through the metal detector a ring of sirens goes off, throbbing my eardrums, taking me back to 1994, where blue and red sirens surrounded the apartment complex, Stagnated by the occurrence, watching our mother be taken away Long, dreadful months passed by with no word of our mother Not even a letter to proclaim her existence Until, finally, we were there, walking inside the state prison “Clank!” an ominous reverb, brings me back to the present I am cleared and the steel gray door opens approving my entrance I pass a row of gray abraded lockers, that will never be used, a heartbreaking truth, She was a victim in a tale of beasts, Her cries and pleads were never heard, What did the system expect her to do? Live or be killed? She had no other choice, Live or be killed? She fought back for her life for our life “Clank!” the sound of the present, once again, approves my final entrance to the inmate visitation room: 8 booths 3 enclosed rooms A bitter, lifeless scene Vividly recreating that first visit There we were, los tres traviesos, Finally, in that visitation room My grandmother scolding us to stand still, but how could we, our excitement was too much We held our hands tightly together, Lifting some of the anxiety off built over the long wait As the jail door opened, the sirens went off, in a single file, the inmate women marched in, like a brigade of soldiers, in their orange jumpsuits with handcuffs, raising their shoulders to display their barbaric characters yet, with pale and dry looks, as if they had been to hell and back And there she was, our heroine, our mother, looking at her in real time There was a rigid transformation in her eyes yet, as she approached the booth, with a slight smirk, we encrypted the code She was still there, in silence, our nurturing mother, resilient to stay alive “Clank!” again, the sound awakes me,
And here I was, in this enclosed visitation room with an air of melancholy Hastening through my bones looking through the glass, a faded me reflected on the other side, a divider between my client and I. And there he was, in front of me, in real time tired and fragile wearing a striped black, white jumpsuit, handcuffed and no where to go, but here. With poise and certainty, I looked into his hopeless eyes and with a deep breath, I begin to explain his legal case Then…. a rush of sadness begun to crimple my body immobilizing my tongue “¡Mama, te extrañamos!” with tears on our faces, we can no longer contain our mix emotions we place our little hands against the glass, the divider between our mother and us, yearning her touch and warmth her tiny treasures who can no longer endure the separation “Hijos, los amo, pero tienen que ser fuertes, son mis guerreros, que cuando salga, todo va a cambiar” Her words of consolidation and hope A short visit, indeed, but, one of strength and survival. “¿Señorita, me escucha, que me estaba diciendo?” Echoes from my client, that divert my memories to the present And here I was in this visitation room looking through the glass, a faded me reflected on the other side, a divider between my client and I. I clear my throat, Infused salvia in my tongue To recover its movement, And look directly into his eyes, eyes that now shed a sign of hope for himself, Recalling why I am here, in this visitation room.
Wrong Number
While in graduate school, Sally paid the bills for a year by working part-time at a weird little fast-food restaurant at the local mall. They specialized in french fries, so the place was called the "French Fry Factory.” For uniforms, they wore bright yellow T-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the glowing orange words, "French Fry Factory.” (Just for fun, the "o” in "factory” was shaped like a cog.) In the fluorescent mall lighting, that yellow and orange combination was almost enough to cook the fries by itself.
The place had a small dining area with six tables and an open food-prep area so that anybody walking by could stare at Sally while she worked. She was often alone, taking orders and operating the cash register with her right hand and reaching back to run the fryers and the grill with her left.
John Sheirer
Bio:
John Sheirer lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, and has taught writing and communications for 26 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he serves as editor of Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). His books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography.
Don Pedrito and the Devil Wind
The job paid minimum wage, and Sally got one free sandwich and all the fries and drinks she wanted during each shift. All in all, it wasn't a bad deal. Each day, she skipped breakfast and lunch, then snacked on fries and iced tea while she worked. When her shift ended, she would settle down for a leisurely burger and do some reading for her night classes. She hardly ever bought groceries that year, even stopping in for free fries on her occasional days off, and she actually lost fifteen pounds because the work kept her too busy to eat much.
Within a couple of weeks, Sally got "promoted” to "opener.” There was no extra pay, but she got to come in at 9 a.m. and open the place—a much better job than "closer” at 10 p.m. Mornings were quiet at the mall, and she was able to develop a routine that made the job easy. She enjoyed having a couple of calm hours of light duty before the lunch rush began.
When she'd been there for about three months, Sally's morning quiet was interrupted by a phone call at precisely 9:30.
"Hello, French Fry Factory!” she sang out in her cheeriest voice. An elderly sounding woman on the other end of the line said, "I would like to speak to Marion, please."
"I'm sorry, ma'am,” Sally replied. "There's no one here by that name. I think you might have the wrong number."
The woman recited the phone number and again asked for Marion.
"That's the right number,” Sally said, "but this is the French Fry Factory. We're a restaurant in the mall, not a residence."
"Marion said I should call her at this number," the woman continued, sounding frustrated.
"I'm really sorry,” Sally said, "but there's no Marion here."
The woman abruptly hung up. Sally shrugged and sent the woman a silent wish that she would find her Marion, and then got back to work.
The next morning, the phone rang again at 9:30.
"Hello, French Fry Factory!"
"I would like to speak with Marion, please." The same voice.
"I'm sorry, but this is the French Fry Factory again."
"Marion said she'd be there." This time, there seemed to be a hint of panic.
"I'm really sorry, ma'am. Do you have a last name for Marion? Maybe I could help you look up her number."
"She said she would be there," the woman snapped and hung up.
For months, these calls continued—not every day, sometimes not even every week, but always at 9:30. Each time, the woman seemed reluctant to believe that Marion wasn't waiting expectantly for her call. And each time, she hung up before Sally could say anything helpful.
This was back before caller-ID, so Sally investigated. She asked the other "openers” if they ever got any wrong-number calls. Most of them said they didn't, but one guy said he refused to answer the phone before 10:30 when they officially opened for business. He eventually admitted that he may have heard the phone ring a few times in the morning, but he stuck to his philosophy that if they weren't open, he shouldn't have to answer the phone.
As the months went along, Sally tried several strategies. She started answering the 9:30 calls by saying, "Hello?” in a pleasant voice, as if she were a retiree in the middle of morning coffee. That didn't help. Sometimes she picked up the phone and didn't say anything, but the woman would just hang up after a few seconds. Sally even answered a few times with, "Please don't hang up. I want to help you find Marion.” But the woman would repeat, "Marion should be there,” and then hang up. Once Sally even answered, "Hello, information ... could I please have the last name of the party you are trying to reach?” No luck—all she heard was a click.
Sally didn't remember exactly when the calls stopped, but one day she realized that the woman hadn't called in a month. In the meantime, Sally had finished her master's degree and was about to leave the French Fry Factory and move out of the area.
During Sally's last week, the manager held a surprise going-away party. Most of her co-workers were there, and several of the handsome guys who worked at the clothing stores in the mall (and whom Sally had often treated to free coffee) stopped by to kiss her cheek. The unexpected pleasure of this party nearly brought Sally to tears as she realized how much this silly little job had meant to her for the past year.
The owner even showed up. He was a lawyer who hardly ever came to the store. Sally heard that he operated the restaurant as a tax write-off and was upset when they actually started turning a profit. But he seemed like a nice enough guy, and Sally was glad he came to say good-bye.
With the owner was a very tiny woman. She had bright, happy eyes, and Sally could tell she had once been young and active. She still maintained an energy and a glow that made her very appealing.
"This is my grandmother, Mrs. Candelaria,” the owner said after shaking Sally's hand and wishing her luck.
"Oh, Glen, don't be so formal,” the woman scolded her grandson. Then she turned to Sally and smiled, extending her hand.
"Please, call me Marion.”
Visual Art Selections
