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!

2018 Interstice Contributors

Julieta Corpus, Marlene Chavez, Edward Vidaurre, Lisa Stice, Lynn White, Linda M. Crate,  Robert Alvarez, Jesus Amaya, Kathleen Carlson, Mayanin Rosa, Elizabeth Perdomo, PW Covington, Kirby Wright, Robert Hinojosa, Priscilla M. Elizondo, Vernon Carlson, Alexandria Canchola, Mary Ann Escamilla, Anjela Ratliff, Roxxanna Rivera, Juan Garza, Jiovana L. Perez, Mathew Betancourt, Mark Peña, Silvia Herrera, Maritza Torres, Susana Case, Amy Cummings, Rodney Gomez.

Contact Interstice

Isaac Chavarria, Managing Editor

Juan Ochoa, Associate Editor

Poetry Committee

  • David Moyle (Chair)
  • Erika Garza-Johnson
  • Collen Brooks

Prose Committee

  • Juan Ochoa (Chair)
  • Silvia Herrera
  • Christopher Carmona


  • Rene Martinez (Chair)
  • Liana Andreasen
  • Patrick Garcia

Book Review Committee

  • Silvia Herrera (Chair)

Literary Selections

What We Left Behind The Visitation Room Don Pedrito and the Devil Wind

What We Left Behind

In 1978, my family traded San Pedro Coahuila, México for the Rio Grande Valley. Each place located in its own Unique, parallel universe. Forty years Later, I still ache With the memories of What we left behind. We left our bare feet reveling in the Sensation of cool tile during scorching Summers. We left our sun-toasted bodies Running around unpaved streets until Nightfall. Mom shouting from the door- Way, ordering us to come in for dinner. We left a susto fastened to a tart-tasting Membrillo after sneaking into an orchard. Our young hearts lodged in our throats When a man on a horse, brandishing a Whip ran us off. We left our tongues stained red with chili And tingling with lime after licking an Ensalado. The frozen treat was sold by A mentally-addled man. He had the super- Natural power to read our coins using Only his thumb and forefinger. We left too many recuerdos strewn along Dirt roads lined with corn fields. We left Part of ourselves behind, forever.

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,

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Don Pedrito and the Evil Wind

Don Pedrito must have walked a million miles in his lifetime. I know this because I saw him do it. Almost every day of my young life he walked along Trosper Road in front of my house. I don't know how old he was, but he was always old. As I aged he did not change one bit. He was a small figure who almost always wore khaki pants, a button up long sleeve shirt, and a straw or felt cowboy hat that always seemed larger than him. He had salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache, and the oldest pair of eyes I ever saw. And he always had a pack of Buglers in his left shirt pocket. Always. During the summers of my youth I would watch him walk in front of my house twice a day. First, when he was going to where ever he was going, and then when he came back from wherever he went. Sometimes he was carrying something on the way back, but not often. He lived just half a mile from my house. His house sat slightly slanted up right next to a small canal that was nearly always as dry as the dirt road it went under.

Those summer days carried a thick, wet heat in the air that kept everyone inside except young boys like me, and, well, Don Pedrito. I don't remember a day I didn't see him. Sometimes he walked fast, rarely looking up and paying no attention to anyone or anything. Always walking with a purpose, and always walking in the middle of the road. He would move off to the side only when he heard a car coming behind him, and then he would disappear in the cloud of dust the car had brought with it, only to reappear moments later, not missing a step or even seemingly bothered by the dust. When he would pass in front of my house he would wave. Other times, depending on how fast he was walking, he would take the time to ask about my father, "Como esta mi Chuyito?". "Bien", I would say. "Gracias a Dios. Gracias a Dios", were his words as he continued to walk, not slowing down. I liked that he asked for my dad. He asked for him like a man would ask for his son. No one else did that.

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Visual Art Selections

Decay   is this it   in life