Hilario is a teacher with the Corpus Christi Independent School District. His parents were initially migrant workers. They instilled in him a work ethic. He considers himself indigenous of Mexican descent.
I'm bored and really not looking forward to doing my work. In my procrastination I am allowing my mind to wander. I think of the horror that our ancestors must have gone through 500 years ago when 90% of our population was wiped out by small pox and the massacre society that the Spaniards brought. Our people were forced to abandon the fields resulting in massive starvation. The Spaniards raped the women at will and fed our children to their dogs. Their religion was forced upon us while their priests pillaged our land. Our sacred texts were burned and our temples were destroyed. The Spaniards tried to destroy our culture and our religious beliefs as they committed genocide against our people. Yet, we survived. We are the children of the sun and there's nothing that can destroy us.
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Jon Gregory worked for The Fort Worth Star-Telegram for 18 years. His poems, short stories and essays have been published in The American Dissident, The Dallas Review, Contexas, The DFW Poetry Review, the Austin International Poetry Festival's annual anthology, in Map of Austin Poetry e-zine, and elsewhere. He has a B.A. from Texas Lutheran University, where he won two short-story prizes from the English department and was associate editor of the literary magazine; and an M.A. from Corpus Christi State University (now Texas A&M-CC).
As my cool, efficient car
Cut a metal swath
Through a brisk night
Of early spring,
I saw a muscled mastiff,
A strong, joyful machine,
Dart across the road
And narrowly out of peril.
Suddenly I saw his mate,
A virtual clone,
Eyes dazed and gleaming
With the pleasure of the chase.
I dared not stop
To see the living
Complete the race alone.
Karen has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. Her works can be seen in several literary magazines and websites including Nowhere Poetry & Flash Fiction, Tuck Magazine, Pif Magazine, Unlikely Stories, Tuck Magazine, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. She founded the Aransas County Poetry Society and hosts a monthly Open Mic in Rockport, Texas. She has a Kindle edition book of poetry, Stumbling to Breathe. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing.
My husband wears his red-brown skin like a badge of honor. It wasn’t always so. He tells me stories of being young and of difference, being teased and hit for that difference. He tells me of finally feeling the first hints of acceptance when he got his “Indian Roll Card.”
flowers push hard against earth,
brown sandy loam gives way to
a impetuous green, stroked all
night by moonlight before fracturing
into pink and white and petals, splayed
open, inviting insects to dive in, butts
in the calm Spring breeze, partaking
of the nectar, satisfying their buzz
the slideshow sky is a lesson in
cloud physics, cumulonimbus reposing
in naked delight across the stratosphere,
unashamed of it’s virga, it’s streak
exposed for the world to see
my husband ambles around our
small acre, imagining where to place
the much-talked-about fire pit which
never materializes; there is salt water
coating our windows, forcing us outside
to see the eruption in our yard, the
stickers and stinging nettle reaching out,
cleaving onto our soles, our pant legs,
their hope for reproduction depending
not only on the wind, but on our wandering
my daughter is studious in her bedroom,
her online classes keeping her engaged
beyond the four walls of our home, a
hope for the continuation of our version
of normal continuing beyond this Spring,
our ancient imperatives echoing inside of us,
the innate knowledge of Spring as a bringer
of futures, where Death is not welcome