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!

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.

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

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.

Read the Full Story

Visual Art Selections

Brain Waves by Laura Amaro   Reduction by Toribio Palacios   Whether by Kimberly Rullo