Babygirl Guerrero by Katerina Guerrero

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Babygirl Guerrero by Katerina Guerrero

See, I come from days and nights at the restaurant, and I wouldn’t change that for anything. I watched my parents work hard, early morning prep for my father, early wake-ups for my mom, the teacher. I’d go to school with my mom and then run through the park after class to meet my dad at the business. Those are the days I miss. That was my normal. 

As I got older, I started asking more questions about who I really was. I grew up in an immigrant community of mostly Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, but I was Mexican American. So who was I? 

I’d visit my family in Mexico every year. I’d buy my rebozos like my mom told me, remembering how my tía taught me to wrap it around myself. I learned embroidery so I could one day hold tortillas in the cloth I made myself, just like my abuelita. But even with all that, sometimes I still feel stuck. 

My parents called me Babygirl Guerrero. 

But knowing where I come from doesn’t always mean I know where I’m going. I’m learning that identity isn’t a single moment of clarity. It is a lifelong stitching together of memory, tradition, and self-invention. Some days I feel like I’m made of all the pieces I inherited, and other days I feel like I have to reinvent everything from scratch. 

I am the daughter of a teacher and a chef. I am the girl who knew the rhythm of a restaurant before I knew multiplication. I grew up watching my parents cut limes, stack plates, count change, and still somehow smile like they weren’t carrying the weight of an entire dream. I didn’t realize until later how much of my childhood was shaped by figuring things out, not just for the business but for our place in this country. 

When I was younger, I didn’t notice that we were different. I didn’t know that being Mexican American meant sometimes being invisible, sometimes being exoticized, and sometimes being questioned, even by other Latinos. I didn’t understand why my Spanish felt too American in Mexico. I didn’t have the language yet to explain why every time we crossed the border, I felt both home and not home. 

I’ve spent years trying to earn my own belonging. Learning the things my mother’s hands just knew, how to wrap a rebozo tight enough that it feels like armor, how to embroider slowly enough that each stitch becomes a prayer. Holding tortillas in a cloth I made, the same way my abuelita did, trying to feel that same sense of rootedness she carried so easily. But there are days when even tradition feels like something I’m still trying to deserve. 

I was the last grandchild, the surprise baby, the only girl, the one everyone expected softness from but also strength. I was told I was the peacemaker, the one who brings us all together. And sometimes I wonder if that role made me more interpreter than participant, the bridge, the in-between, the one who understands everyone but feels fully understood by no one. 

Still, I carry my family with me in the way I work, in the way I love, in the way I take care of others, even when I forget to take care of myself. I carry the weight and the warmth of being babygirl Guerrero, the one who came last but was expected to hold everything together someday. I carry the restaurant lights, turning on before sunrise. I carry the pride of being from people who built everything from nothing, even if they never called it resilience. To them, it was just life. 

Maybe the feeling of being stuck isn’t failure. Maybe it’s the space before transformation, the place where roots and wings fight for room. Maybe the version of myself that doesn’t have all the answers yet is still worthy, still whole, still in motion. 

Because I’m learning that identity isn’t something you arrive at. It’s something you grow into. It’s the restaurant and the rebozo. The English essays and the Spanish lullabies. The embroidered tortilla cloth and the diploma. The girl who knows how to serve a table and the woman who knows how to serve herself. 

Maybe this is what inheritance really is, not a perfect story but a history that asks you to keep writing. A culture that isn’t frozen in the past but alive in the way I laugh, speak, cook, love, and question everything. A reminder that I don’t have to choose between who I was raised to be and who I am becoming. 

I am not finished. But I am rooted. And that is enough. 

 

"Scream" by Sarah Arellano

“Scream” by Sarah Arellano

Rated R in 1996 is the original “Scream” movie. My all-time favorite Halloween movie ever. It’s the perfect blend of jump scares, brutal kills, mind games, and that tongue-in-cheek humor that pokes fun at horror characters who never seem to make the smart choice.

I first saw the movie back in high school, and ever since, it’s become my must-watch every October. This year alone, I’ve already watched it five times just in October—tonight being the fifth.  

The movie always starts the same way—with the icon of the entire franchise (besides the actual killer): the girl with the blonde bob.
     A young Drew Barrymore, actually. And every time I watch it, I go through the same  routine of wondering why she looks so familiar before it hits me—oh right, it’s Drew Barrymore. I already knew that. Duh. *hand to the face emoji 

It starts out creepy—obviously, it’s a scary movie, so you’re naturally on edge. But the moment the voice on the phone, who we later find out is Ghostface, switches from playful and flirty to cold and threatening is soooo good.
     And after watching it so many times, I’ve turned it into a little game—trying to figure out which killer is speaking in each scene, knowing there are two behind the mask. . . . . . I’m about 80% sure it's Billy Lumis.  

When Ghostface breaks into the house and starts running around while Barrymore’s character hides, it does two things for the viewer. First, it makes him feel human—he’s not some unstoppable, supernatural force because he can’t find her right away. From that moment, we know he can be defeated. There’s no magic, no ghostly possession—just a good old-fashioned slasher. 

After the opening scene we were introduced to out main character Sidney, and her boyfriend. And honestly, by now you’d think people would learn—if there’s a shocking murders that somehow relates to you even in the slightest bit, it’s probably the boyfriend.  

I mean, the red flags were practically waving in 4K, but sure—classic horror logic.  

Then we get to the school scenes and are introduced to the other yet unreviled, Stu 

Macher and his girlfriend, Sidney’s best friend, Tatum Riley. Who I aspire to be when I grow up (I’m 21). She had this confidence about her that was inspiring to a high school girl trying to figure out her way in life.  

I was so sad when she was killed in the end it felt so wrong, so un deserved, but in reality I know that’s what makes it good. It is just so sad she died.  

The next big scene is Ghostface attacking Sidney at her house, the same scene where its revoked that the killer has something to do with Sidney's mother’s murder, which happened exactly one year before the killings started.  

Again! Looking back, it’s always the boyfriend you know. Even during the fountain scene before this one Stu and Billy are the only one with girl friends while Randy on the other hand, survives and doesn’t have a girlfriend.   

To end the chase scene Billy Loomis appears out of nowhere with a mysterious phone.  

He must be the killer.  

Except his phone records for that phone come back clean. (But we don’t know that for like another 30 minutes)  

Since at this point the main suspect is Billy but at this point there’s only a little over an hour still left of the movie, the killer can’t be caught this early.  

To make the watcher second guess that themselves thinking it's Billy when Sid receives  call from Ghostface at her best friend Tatum’s house and Billy is supposedly locked up for the night,  

The next day at school Billy is released and there, he runs into Sidney, our main character and explains how he’s not even mad.  

He somehow decides to forgive Sidney for accusing him, a major red flag. I’m sorry but if my significant other didn’t trust me to the point of accusing me of being a murderer, I would not go back to them–a relationship is built on trust and all that. Let alone bring up our sex life as a couple to them, because that’s such a big concern (note the sarcasm)  

But also Sidney, girl, you accused this boy (Cause let’s face it he’s technically still in high school no matter how much he does not look like it, (which is a whole other thing about actors not looking like the age of the characters they're playing.)) of murder and attempted murder on you and he immediately forgives you and is more concerned about your. SEX. LIVES. . . . . .  sorry but that’s a no for me.  

Sidney’s mother’s death is a recurring event that is constantly being brought up and referred too. The call Ghostface made to Sidney at Tatum’s house hinted at the wrong person being in prison for her mothers death. This is a problem because Sidney was the one the id’d the her moms murder, and deep down she’s been unsure of her choice the whole time but was too scared and embarrassed to say it could have been someone else.  

Another day at school goes by, Sidney’s the talk of the halls and people are running around with masks. Why? Because they are either a) stupid and unempathetic or b) are scared and are using humor to navigate this uncertain time.  

But the end of the school days brings us some news, a party at Stu Macher's house, to rebel and celebrate the curfew started by the town that night.  

Macher's house is an old modern Victorian style in the middle of nowhere, with no neighbors within ear distance. Perfect place to end a slasher horror film at . . . 

. . .No one can hear them scream  

Once the party starts getting in full swing Stu realises they're running out of beer and sends Tatum into the basement to get some the fridge. In the basement she is cornered by none other than Ghostface.  

Not believing it the actual killer Tatum talks to him like it one of her friends, Randy, who everyone else has been accusing throughout the movies, (they were pushing him so hard to be the villain but honestly I forget about randy most of the time except for his iconic couch scene).  

“Oh you wanna play Psycho killer? Can I be the helpless victim? Okay let's see. . . “ Tatum says before transitioning her voice into a higher pitch trying to sound extra cute and feminine… ”No, please don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface, I want to be in the sequel.”  

Shortly after Tatum realizes it is actually the killer and not Randy, sadly it’s too late and Tatum is killed by a garage door. 

An Icon died in that scene, giving us one of the most iconic lines in killer horror movie culture. 

Due to all the noise from the party, no one hears Tatum die, no one knows the killer is at the party. People even start to leave due to the curfew and still don’t notice Tatum's dead body hanging by the garage door. Those who stay watch a scary movie and learn about the rules of surviving a scary movie.  

Like don’t say “I’ll be right back.” 

Billy showed up to talk to Sidney, they went upstairs to talk and to “talk.”  

Dewey takes Gale Weathers who was there at the party hunting down a story, already having a history with Sidney. They find Sidney’s dad’s car who’s been missing since the first attack at Sidney’s house.  

Skipping back to Sidney and Billy after their done “talking” Billy is attacked by Ghostface, making it impossible for the reader to even think it's still him. The attention is now starting to switch to Stu Macher. 

The Facts:  

• Cassey the first victim was Stu’s ex-girlfriend, who broke up with him for her current boyfriend.  
• Stu was not at prison when the killer called Tatum's phone. A number that Stu would know already since he’s dating Tatum.  
• He throws the party at his house and killer has no problem getting in  
• He said, “ I’ll be right back,” before most of everyone let to go see the old latest victim.  
• Meaning he was still in the house when Billy was attackers.  

And if not Billy, and not Randy, It must be Stu.  

Ghostface chases Sidney around the house for a while before she jumps out a window and lands on a seemingly lucky placed boat.   

Gale and Dewey get back to the house, and state trying to call for back not knowing what to expect going into that house.  

Gale finds her camera man dead, calls for help and tries to drive away only to end up in a ditch.  

Sidney finds Dewey. . . . with a knife in his back from the killer.  

Making the only one still left alive her, Randy, and Stu, who conveniently popped up again after attacking his last victim–but wait Billy is also still alive.  

Cause yes after getting stabbed multiple times and being left without medical care means you can still walk and talk like nothing happened. . . . . .NO!!!!! 

Which is why when he gets Sid to open the door she locked out the other two with, and finds only Randy to then shoot him does it become clear that it is not clear how he is still alive.  

Until it is obvious he wasn't actually stabbed and to make even more clear the character explains the blood by talking about its recipe and movie inspiration.  

Wait, but, what about Stu, isn’t he still a killer?  

Weren’t the signs pointing to him?  

Yes, because there were actually 2 killers to the one Ghostface... Stu and Billy.  

With Randy now dead, Dewey with a knife in his back, Gale passed out in a ditch, no one can help Sidney when she’s being cornered by Stu and Billy.  

But we do finally get some answers in Classic bad guy characters: they explain their plan to the protagonist giving enough time to the protagonist to escape and turn around and use their plan against them.  

Stu and Billy killed her mother, their motive:  

• Her mom was having an affair with Billy's dad and the reason his mom left him.  

  Their plan:  

• Use Sidney's father (who's been held hostage this whole time) to frame the murders on, his motive would be the anniversary of  his murdered wife setting him off sending him on a killing spree that would kill his daughter and take his own life.  
• How Billy and Stu were to survive, stab themselves good enough to look convincingly, lucky, victims.  

Why do they get to live? Well, to plan the sequel.  

“There has to be a sequel.” Stu Macher (“Scream”) 

But wait, Gale Weather is still alive and she has a gu oh wait no she doesn’t Billy knocked her out.  

Sidney runs away and hides in the house though, calling to taunt the guys that they’ll never find her. Stu reveals that he’s feeling weak and that Billy might have stabbed him too deep.  

Billy find her, they fight, she fights Stu, drops atv on hippos head., RANDY’S ALIVE!! 

GALE'S AWAKE.  

She shoots Billy!!!  

Billy’s still alive, Yayyyyy (note the sarcasm)  

Sidney, like a boss, takes the gun from Gale and double taps Billy. 

The End.   

Oh Shit, Dewey is also still alive, and being taken away in an ambulance.   

Does it make sense why Dewey lived? No.  

Does it make sense how no one knew Sidney’s dad was there the entire time? No  

Does it make sense how Randy lived after getting shot, hit, and chased? No  

Does it make sense how Sidney kept using her arm like it was fine after getting stabbed in the shoulder? No  

But, was that still one of the best scary movies ever? Yes.  

Billy Lumis, was so meticulous about his plan that he honestly could have pulled it off, but his narcissism to bed in the “movie” is what got him caught. 

I full heartedly believed that he planned to get “caught” by Sidney with the phone after Ghostface attacked her.  

I also full heartedly believe that that is the moment he got himself caught.  

While the plan was to make his name clear to police so after the situation he would still look innocent, was smart, it also just caused too much unease and mistrust between him and Sidney; and they never recovered.  

In the end, “Scream” isn’t just a scary movie—it’s the one that changed what scary movies could be. It’s clever without trying too hard, edgy without losing its sense of going too far, and even after all these years, it still hits just as hard. The characters are messy, the choices are questionable, all around, but that’s what makes it feel real. It’s the kind of movie that sticks with you long after the credits roll. It’s iconic, chaotic, and honestly? Still undefeated in the slasher genre, in my opinion.  

And it will continue to be my most watched movie of October every year!!!

Pretty Little Brain by Noah Bracale

Pretty Little Brain

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Noah Bracale

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Sertraline, Melatonin, Magnesium supplements, amphetamine-dextroamphetamine, Priadel, aripiprazole, Buspirone, Bupropion, Hydroxyzine pamoate, Escitalopram, Mirtazapine, Venlafaxine, Fluoxetine, Paroxetine, Lorazepam, Trazodone 

My bedsheets smell like tequila, and I’m wrapped around myself. Wallet, phone, keys, cigarettes, lighter shoved under my pillow. There’s blood too—on my bedsheets. Blotted in the same pattern that is carved across my back.

I’ve been given this pretty little brain, and I am determined to live through it.  

Psycho-therapy, Al-anon meetings, EMDR, TRE, DBT, CBT, Puppets? At one point? Sandboxes, 72 hour mandatory stay. It costs $50,000 to go to a ranch and pet a horse, and I wish I had the money to go to it and fix me. I’m not sure it even would.  

I was eight years old when I first remember hurting myself. Truly hurting myself.  

I tried to break my own hand. I took one of my father’s ten pound weights and slammed it over my left hand over 400 times. I only know this number because I counted. I was punishing myself for something, the same thing I still punish myself now for—and it is completely elusive to me.  

Vodka, Tequila, Green apple Tennessee Whiskey, Weed, Molly, Mushrooms, LSD, Xanax, Cocaine (once on my gums), Adderall crushed and snorted in a hotel bathroom, Black Marlboro shorts (Cowboy killers,) All of them—mixed together.  

I came up with shorthands, comical ones: ones that let my buddies know that something was going wrong. I’d bray like a donkey when my brain began to get loud—when I couldn’t find the words to say “I’m seeing that memory again.” “My hands have gone numb.” “I’m stuck in a loop—I can’t find my way out.”  

They all reacted different. Aidan was the first to hear it. Diego knew my pride—how to distract me, to ground me, to ease me back to earth without doubling my shame. Dom would ask before he held me, and then he’d hold me. Alaska knew instinctively to check what was wrong.  

Diego, Aidan, Dom, Alaska. 

There’s this story I tell sometimes, almost like an apology—or some kind of explanation to my friends and lovers who had stayed up with me through all of the nights I cannot sleep. 

Awoken from nightmares, tortured by thought. The nights that my safety plan deems a babysitter necessary. They’d sit with me, and I’d tell them: 

“Sometimes, I think, before I came here, I had a conversation with God. And he told me that he’d make a deal with me. He told me that I would come back, and I was going to suffer, really suffer. But all of that suffering was going to be worth it because I would get ‘this’ in return.”  

I’m sure I said to them, “Maybe it’s you. He told me that there would be rape, and torture, and pain. But at the end of it, there would be you. You are God's apology to me.”  

General Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, Panic Disorder, Agoraphobia, Complex 

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, 

Substance Abuse Disorder, Bipolar Depressive, Borderline Personality Disorder  

Treatment Resistant.  

I was told that, 

‘Whatever you have—it may be time to consider that it is treatment resistant.’ That maybe there would be no stop to it.  

I was given choices no kid should have ever had to make. I was given memories that will never find their way into an essay. I was given the role of a sacrificial lamb who is now being asked to reply to two of my classmates’ discussion board posts. I was given a pretty little brain.   

And he is kind, lord. And he is empathetic, and patient. He is merciful. He is gentle, and he tries because he knows it is important. And he was given a pretty little brain.  ƒ

He was given a pretty little brain with no cure.  

Things That Fade by Aditi Ghosh

    Aditi Ghosh: Things That Fade

1. Daisies on a gold chain. Provenance: exact details forgotten, but most likely Francesca’s, La Encantada, 2905 E Skyline Dr #143, as one of a two or three part sale deal. In my first year of college, I wore it nearly every day, small daisies strung around my neck, a sort-of matching set of daisies on my ears. The chain, once gold, has since darkened into a warm copper, worn down by the oxidation, the time, the love. 

2. Adjustable rings, one embedded with a (likely fake) pink stone. A gift from my mother. Provenance prior to gifting: Unknown. I stopped wearing these not because of the tarnishing, but because they hurt. The corners on the adjustable ends are sharp. With fingers clasped around a pencil, or around themselves into fists, the metal bites, digging traces into the soft skin at the corners of my palm. There are no cuts; still, under running water, the edges of my fingers sting, slightly blue, with all the annoyance of the smallest paper cut, invisible until noticed, then unable to be ignored. 

3. Stylized silver rings. Provenance: two different sales at pop-up tents on the University mall. After a few uses, the salt in the sweat between the rings and my fingers started to eat away at the metal, staining it. Now, they’re shaded all around, not quite tarnished, not to the point of ruin. Mixed-metal, perhaps, liminal. Not quite silver, not quite gold. 

4. Sterling silver and turquoise linked bracelet. Provenance: Arequipa, Peru. This one is, admittedly, completely my fault. Over the summer, I left it in a bag with a tarnished necklace, and by the time I opened it back up again, the pristine silver had turned dull and grey-ish, brown-ish, black-ish, a clouded film at the edges, blurring into the bright turquoise. Ruined not by time or love, but by neglect, quieter, final, a kind of damage all its own.


 

5. The only remaining ring in the first set of jewelry I ever bought for myself. Provenance: Claire’s, Outlets North Phoenix, 4250 W Anthem Way. Senior year of high school, a quick stop off the highway on the way to the senior band trip to Disneyland. Bought while waiting for one of our drum majors to get his ears pierced for fun. On impulse, I grabbed the pack off the shelf, gold-ish, coughed up 15 dollars for them, and walked back out into the cold, December evening air.

I lost one ring the next morning in San Diego, stolen by the surf, salt-tongues sliding the thing off of my index finger and swallowing it down into the belly of the ocean. The rest tarnished in barely a month. They were probably gold-tone: made of a base metal, only plated to look like gold. Underneath, after my skin and sweat had eaten away the plating, they were copper-ish, rough, and left an embarrassing ring of blue at the base of each of my fingers. 

This one used to be the simplest of the set: gold all around, a single, uninterrupted band. Now, it is eaten away, chipped, its core rough and exposed. 

Two unspoken, broken promises: I never wore the rings again. He never got his ears pierced.  

Campus Flowers by Hanna Wilkens

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Campus Flowers

Hanna Wilkens

A few weeks ago I was studying late at the library and decided I needed a break. It was nearly 10pm, and the dense heat of early September had loosened and made way for a warm, comfortable 80 degrees. It’s my favorite time to walk around campus—the freshman skittering around in going out clothes, headed to University with fake IDs, feeling jittery with excitement and rebellion. Leisure bike rides and walks and a few students throwing a frisbee back and forth. I headed aimlessly back to my old dorm on Highland Ave, the walk still engraved in me although I haven’t lived there in two years. Walking through the pathway between dorm buildings, I looked up at my old window. I wondered who lived there now. If they were adjusting alright. I hope they’re adjusting alright. I turned to look at the Hibiscus plant growing in direct view of my old window. It’s bright purple petals folding inward on one another. I used to find such comfort in them. Those first months away from home, I’d look out at the flowers when I was feeling lonely and tell myself they were a sign. A sign that I was in the right place. 

That year I’d taken a liking to using flowers as indications that I was making the right choices. It started with a visit to Arizona my senior year of high school. My favorite flowers are poppies, although I rarely see them in real life. We used to have a big painting of them hanging outside my childhood bedroom and I suppose I’ve always associated them with home. Then, somewhere on the highway between Phoenix and Tucson, I spotted them, sprouting along the black tar in daring patches of gold. It felt like a message.

The hibiscus flowers, though, belong to a different memory. My grandfather used to grow them in his garden in Florida, and every time I visited he’d pick one of the flowers and place it behind my ear, and I’d wear it there for the rest of the trip. The last time I saw him he picked two: one for behind my ear, and one that he placed on the dash of our rental car before we left. It wasn’t until we were pulling out of the driveway that I noticed it, and I turned around to wave goodbye to him. That was the last time I ever saw him. Later, staring at the hibiscus outside my dorm window, I liked to think that the flowers were a gift from him. A symbol that I was doing the right thing—that I was moving forward and making a life of my own.

That night, walking around campus, I picked one of the hibiscus flowers and tucked it behind my ear. Then I proceeded to walk all around the south side of Old Main, pocketing flowers in my jeans. When I got home I pressed them in a book and later made them into cards I plan to give to my friends and family on their birthdays. Maybe for them, the flowers will mean something too.

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Untastables by Ander Monson

 Untastables (Fictional Chips) by Ander Monson

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Bags of chips in chronological order:

Let’s Potato Chips, Community (and so many other television shows), 2009

Potato Crisps, Fallout 4, 2015

Potato Chips, Control, 2019

Zalgitos, Omega Mart (Meow Wolf Las Vegas), 2021

Judy’s Potato Chips, Sea Monster Spice, Open Roads, 2024

MAI** (MAINE? MAIZE?) Potato Chips, Lost Records: Bloom & Rage, 2025

WTF:

Since 2021 I have collected bags of new-to-me chips. I have hundreds of empty bags now, flattened in binders, each of which I have tasted. I only keep the first bag of each chip I try. But I’ve started seeing untastable (because fictional) chips in television shows I watch, in the video games I play, and in the Meow Wolf Las Vegas Omega Mart. Only occasionally (in the Fallout games) can they be eaten in-game. They cannot be eaten offscreen. I’ve gone to significant efforts to procure bags of two of these inedible, untastable chips, including the Let’s Chips that have appeared in at least dozens of television shows, most notably (because they made a bit of it) Community. Is a chip that cannot be eaten a chip at all? Is an object on a screen an object? Am I a sad person for wanting to taste these untastables? What does collecting these things accomplish? Do I win or have I already lost?

Ellen Tracy, Raffle Fundraiser

This week, TINY CABINET presents a one week raffle fundraiser.

Prizes include a cardboard Ford wheel hub, half of a highly sought after railroad marble, famous New Orleans exotic meats poster, mystery biscuit, and many more and may all be viewed at the CABINET. 

Please consider buying a 5 dollar ticket in person at the CABINET, or via venmo (@ehtthe)

Or just donate directly to @louisianahotsauc3 who is currently facing serious legal trouble in Alabama. 

More information about how to participate below.  

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raffle to help a young trans activist stay out of jail in alabama

all proceeds going towards legal fees

tickets $5 each

cash in envelopes or venmo ( @ehtthe )

specify which item(s), and your name/contact in your message, so we can get prizes to you

there will be more (and better!) items added throughout the week

prizes shown are an approximation

prize drawing to happen Tuesday 6th

direct aid venmo to @louisianahotsauc3

for more information email theeht@protonmail.com

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