Artifact Nouveau FALL2021/SPRING 2022 VOLUME 7 ISSUES 1 AND2 AWriters' Guild Publication
Letter from the Artifact Staff, Advisor
This year, our team worked hard to get our feet on the ground again. Affected by the COVID year and its restrictions, our club was reduced to five members. Through Zoom meetings and email exchanges, we were able to put in the work to produce the 7th Volume of Artifact Nouveau. A special thanks is due for our advisor, Gabrielle Myers, who guided our hands and kept our team accountable regardless of the difficult situation we all found ourselves in. Her enthusiasm, and gentle deadline reminders helped the team come together to produce the magazine. Her appreciation for writing and literature never goes unnoticed. The Artifact Nouveau team extends its gratitude towards all of the individuals who submitted their pieces for review. It takes courage to put your writing or artwork out for others to see. Our team recognizes and appreciates all the pieces submitted. Artifact Nouveau is largely made up of San Joaquin Delta student voices. As you read the magazine, put yourself in the position of your peers and get to know them through their The-Artifactpieces.teameditorsofthis issue should be commended for their tireless efforts amid the devastation of the Covid Pandemic. Throughout the past year, while juggling their course load, family commitments, and work obligations, our editors persevered to accomplish the large goal of putting this issue of Artifact together. The determination and drive of this group of talented students has impressed me to no end. Our editing team consists of Ivy Martinez, Angel Vasquez, Brittany Lusk, Joseph Flores, and Joe Romero. I would like to give a special thank you to Ivy and Angel, who finished up the issue while on summer break. I hope that you enjoy the creative expression found on these pages and feel compelled to write more, photograph more, and create bold works of art more than ever before! Please consider joining our campus creative writing club, the Writers’ Guild, which will be meeting via Zoom in the Fall Semester of 2022. For more information, please email me at gabrielle.myers@deltacollege.edu
-Gabrielle Myers, Faculty Advisor to Artifact and the Writers’ Guild
Table of Contents Forever by Mia Amore ..........................................1 Door by Laura Giardina ........................................3 Consolation You Attempt, but for Consolation You Must Plead by Collin Dodds ..........................................4 Renewall by Fariel Shafee ..............................................4 PorteusPuzzlesOverOdysseusbySamHeart........................5 Tabby Head with Running Man Mask ........................6 Amnesty Day by R.J Fox ............7 Future and the Past by Celine Rose Marriotti .............11 Pueblo Dwellings by Laura Giardina .........................12 Union Drummer Boy Builds a New Drum by Jack Donahue .........................................................................12 The Disillusionist by Brian C. Felder .........................13 Dreams by Cherl Ceaser ...............................................13 Reckoning by Bharti Bonsai ........................................14 What I Know About Music by Jack Donahue ..........16 At the Van Gogh Immersion by Cherl Ceasar ..........17 Tea with Old Friends by John Ferrin ..........................18 Carnival by Cherl Ceasar ..............................................21 The Suana by Diarmuid Maolalai ...............................22
Gossamer by Anna Farleigh ..24 Don't Forget the Other You by Yunabing Zang 29 The Poetry Elf by Cherl Ceaser ..29 Silence by Bharti Bonsai ...............................................30 The Widow by Emily Newsome . 32 Feedback by Collin Dodds ...........................................35 Tropical Sunset by Cherl Ceasar .................................35 Native Palms by Laura Giardina...................................36 Fall by Sam Hatch ............................. 37 Not Real by Michael Itsvan ...........................................41 Bustling of the Hive by Michael Itsvan .......................41 Yessing by Michael Itsvan .............................................42 Pine Knight Sky by Cherl Ceasar ..... 42 The Last Weekend in July by Zach Murphy ..............43 Broken by Aleksandra Vujisic .....................................46 At the Center of the Passage by John Grey ............. 47 Rooted by Fariel Shafee ................................................48 Sometimes by Aleksandra Vujisic ...............................48 The Righteous Fall of James the Just by Sam Hatch 49 Isn't Nature Just So by Jack Donahue ........ 51
Shadow Red by Fariel Shafee .......................................52 Twilight Comes Too Soon by George Freek .............53 Hamlet's Lesson by Felipe Hendriksen ......................54 Native Jim by Laura Giardina .............. 59 More Than Peace by Suzy Inuzunza .......... 60 The Branch by Joseph Nguyen ..... 61
You're on the road to hurting me
As a man continues to fill himself with her Bullet sling shotting
Counting the blackened gum stains on the walls
I asked God once why I was hurting Sitting at the edge of the Observatory
Apparently i have a sour after taste
Forever
The words in the phone dangle like science project planets
Light pollution blocking my shooting stars Mia Amore 1
I hang up before you have the chance to proceed
She cleans her teeth with a toothpick
The mattress is eating at my feet again
Making its way up my legs and thighs Saving my torso for later
Trying to confess it was the drinks, and she was pretty
Destroying the walls of my depressed brain
The easiest solution is naked women paid to have sex on Icameraalways think beyond the production I end up stopping with my pleasure peak, because she looks like she's really in pain
I'm in the market to feel something
I cut you off mid-sentence
Love
is the best distraction The endless maze of miscommunication Leading up to the promise land of nowhere ForeverOrOrBreak-upadivorcemaybe
2
Door By Laura Giardina 3
Atop the Capitoline Hill, I ask a carabiniere how to find a street named for consolation He explains with some annoyance that Conciliation is a long walk across town, but Consolation winds down the hill from the glamorous wedding, the equestrian statue and the famous piazza I don't have time for It leaves me at the Fortuna Virilis -a starting concept and a shambles of collonaded shackrunning late Conciliation You Attempt, But for Consolation You Must Plead Colin Dodds 4 Renewall Friel Shafee
To shed the chrysalis of all constricting roles, To slough off The dry husk of Ouroboros itself, No dandelion wisp of honor Blown to aimless filaments
Odysseus, however resourceful and brave, Had an imagination as backward and cramped
To hear Proteus tell it
To be a chameleon savant, Sam Hatch
Offering him a life of immortality and bliss? “Not to night, dear” Would never pass her shining lips. Odysseus had a chance with Calypso
Proteus Puzzles Over Odysseus
5
As his rocky island home. Ithaca—the very name is a ragged beggar’s lisp. So what was wrong with A ravishing goddess— The light of desire in her eyes
By the whisper of promises Kept or unkept. The man of wiles spurned his chance
Or the tame serpent of self-binding promises of piety and love? After all those promises were made decades ago, Before the hero emerged from green youth, Long before the world split open before him, Like a luscious fruit—ruby ripe, In the hand of a smiling goddess. with Running Man
6
voluptuous
A shimmer without edges, Drifting blissfully through a world without end. Was time the hero’s all-devouring monster
Tabby Head
Mask CeasarCherylBy
But tell me, where do the children play?” -Cat Stevens
Things weren’t exactly going great before the pregnancy, the arrival of which had taken them both by surprise. After all, they tried the fertility treatment route for two full years (not to mention most of their savings) in an effort to bring new life into this world. It brought no shortage of strain to their relationship. There were times when both thought about ending things and starting fresh, but usually one would talk the other out of it, or at least do something that would persuade the other that they could make it work. They both had a growing sense that it was only a matter of time before someone pulled the plug. But then lo and behold, she was pregnant. And just like that, their relationship was given the fresh start the were hoping for. Their united front became stronger Butever.six months into the pregnancy, they lost it. Their little boy. III Fox
“Well you've cracked the sky, scrapers fill the air But will you keep on building higher 'Til there's no more room up there?
Will you make us laugh, will you make us cry?
Will you tell us when to live, will you tell us when to die?
7
I know we've come a long way We're changing day to day
Tragedies either bring couples closer together, or they can drive them apart. Rarely is there a middle ground. Following a miscarriage, Ava and Steve found themselves in the latter category.
Stephen
Amnesty Day R.J
Though they both wanted to grab on to these moments and never let go, they were elusive. Like a phantom fading away into the night.
Though neither one said it out loud, going separate ways felt like the only option left at this point.
Yarmouth was the perfect autumn town in the perfect autumn state –a last hurrah before winter stored in like a lion, destroying everything in its wake. The cloudless blue sky was punctuated by the red, yellow, and orange leaves still on the trees, showing off the height of their beauty before turning to rot.
After an early dinner downtown at their favorite restaurant, they proceeded to take a stroll into the park smack dab in the middle of downtown, holding hands like the old days. In fact, they couldn’t remember the last time they held hands. It felt like putting on an old pair of comfortable slippers that you forgot you had. They grabbed a coffee, then ventured into a nearby neighborhood.
8
The summer passed, giving way to fall. And the thought of facing another long Michigan winter seemed suffocating. Any semblance of a happy relationship at this point was usually a temporary mirage A faint echo of what used to be. Like a ghostly visit from the past.
On a perfect mid-October Saturday afternoon, in what was perhaps a last-ditch effort to save their marriage, Steve proposed that they return to the town where they had their first date – the affluent, sleepy town of Yarmouth on the outskirts of metro Detroit. Though they could never afford to live there, they would visit there frequently, though not since before the tragedy. In fact, the last time they had been there was to celebrate their pregnancy.
They would rather have never have gotten pregnant at all, then to do so, only to have it taken away. Both fell into a lingering depression that manifested itself in disparate ways, further deepening the divide between them. And in their own individual suffering, they drifted further apart than they ever had before any point in their relationship.
The Victorian-era homes were decorated with an abundance of Halloween deorations, which came as no surprise. Yarmouth was a very kid-centric town. If one were to take an educated guess, at least one child resided in every two out three homes.
For block after block?
Ava and Steve both lived for Halloween. In fact, it was one of the things about parenthood they were most looking forward to. But with or without a child, they would always love Halloween. Nothing could take that away from them. Though, it did cross that mind that maybe this town wasn’t the best place to be – surrounded by children –reminders of what they didn’t have. A neighborhood where everybody had it all. It was difficult to fathom that miscarriages could exist in a place like this. Something rather peculiar immediately caught their eye. Enormous piles of “trash” along the curbside of just about every house – mostly big items that weren’t typically picked up by sanitation services. They assumed it must be the city’s amnesty day, where anything that normally wouldn’t be taken away by trash collectors would be. But that wasn’t what struck them as most odd: most of the items left behind on the curb were children’s stuff: cribs, beds, tables, toy boxes, swing sets, bikes, scooters, clothing, potties, sandboxes, etc. At least two out of three houses had kids’ stuff at the curb.
“Why is there so much kid stuff?” she asked. A perfectly rational question. Furthermore, why did so much of it look so new and not trashworthy? Steve couldn’t help but think about the classic, hauntingly succinct Hemingway story: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Sure, these were people with disposable income. Throwing away perfectly good stuff wasn’t that unusual in communities such as these. But why not donate it? And why was there so damn much?
Ava pointed out another rational oddity. Where were all the children? It was a perfect, 65-degree autumn Saturday. The Wolverines had a bye week. Swing sets (the ones not left at the curb) stood silent. And where were the adults for that matter? Perhaps if they saw one, they would definitely ask some questions. Where were the children?! 9
Ava and Steve never did find out what happened to the children. Urban legends soon emerged, but nothing that could be substantiated with fact. And before long, the original inhabitants had all vanished without a trace.
10 Upon further inspection, the curtains and shades appeared to be drawn in every window of every house. Though it had just turned to dusk, not a single light was on – interior or exterior. They both had a sudden urge to head back home. They were getting an awful vibe and they had seen enough. As they headed back to their car, they noticed several ramshackle trucks pillaging items from the curb. Christmas had come!
Soon after, Ava and Steve went their separate ways, where they would remain childless for the rest of their days. But they would always love Halloween.
One man’s trash… When they got home, they both retreated into their own separate corners of the house. Though they couldn’t quite put their finger on it, there was something about their experience that just didn’t sit well with them. They just wanted the day to end.
Halloween arrived and, on a whim, they drove back to Yarmouth. Not a single kid could be seen trick-or-treating. Nor, was there a single porch light on. Over a relatively short period of time, the town of Yarmouth went through a tremendous transformation, in the form of an unexplained mass exodus. Schools shut down in what used to be one of the top districts in the state. Those that stayed behind let their homes fall into disrepair, as did new resident who moved in by taking advantage of plummeting property values. Many homes remained uninhabited. Eventually, it became a modern-day ghost town.
Future and the Past Rose Mariotti Somehow the space of time From then and now, And into the beyond, Our lives go in cycles Spinning from one realm to another, Childhood is the most unhappy part Because of your days in school, The mean kids, The mean nuns and teachers, There must be a better way to learn The best times of our lives Is the time spent with family, The memories we share Are precious and dear, Our loved ones Follow us from beyond They are always with us We live in the present with An eye into the future, While we keep moving on, Something pulls us from the past Something calls us We are always connected Somehow the space of time From then and now, And into the beyond, Our lives go in cycles Spinning from one realm to another.
Celine
11
12 Pueblo Dwellings
Union Drummer Boy Builds A New Drum Jack Donahue I whenrememberIwasa Union boy; a minie ball shot through my drum, battle gutted a plantation dog for its new skin (it’s right there in my diary) never lost a pushedbeatthe troops forward to save our country marching to freedom yet paid a dear price: the spirit of that dog still haunts me all the days of my life.
GiardinaLauraBy
Dreams
13
Brian C. Felder The Disillusionist
April showers May bring May flowers, as is said by those who say such things, but I would rather have a winter’s day with sun than a spring day with none.
It’s like a room without a lamp, a joke with no punchline, a revival of Godot.
I can take the cold but I cannot take the gray chill that comes with the rain and lingers still.
By Cherl Ceasar
Waiting, ever waiting on the season’s promise, as eager for it as any sailor with a girl; alas one who only teases and never gives you a whirl.
Reckoning
Bharti Bonsai Yellow gaze of the setting sun Reminds me of the days When the flowers wouldn't droop at the sight of me
I wonder if happiness is all glammed up In the little corner of my heart
Waiting for the train to arrive
Glimmering sunflowers
14
And setting sun
I wonder if things when left alone Come back together like a lost cat to its home
I am afraid if I wait long enough I might fade into nothingness Empty cans and unread books
Teal blue sky And violet eyes Is it too much to ask for beauty?
Steel countenance of a monotonous life
And take her farther from this lonely world
It's still feral This need to be happy But tell me a sober way Where I don't run away From striking realities
15 Vacant roads leading nowhere Is it enough if dreams remain distant Ghost of memories haunting at dusk And me wondering things if touched become real Everything sleeps to the lullaby of silent sky The flowers The birds The pages of a half read book And the girl who wonders about her place in this sinful world Everything eventually comes to an end The colorful skies The lonely birdling The pigmented dreams The rebellious blue moon And me, entranced and sad Like the little star falling and fulfilling wishes
What I Know About Music Jack Donahue
With no formal training I can blow a solo note on the oboe exactly as Mozart intended tinkle the triangle, pound the drum, clash the cymbals right on cue , express what sympathy can do for the mind's movement through story, sound strings held so dearly upon the shoulder stubby fingers pumping brass button lips opening calves of the heart pulsing sections of wind, brass, percussion discussion between chords of blue who knew the sounds of nature maws out such a tumescent gaseous noise about to burst the interior of the composer's mind slogging in quiet molasses a vicious whisper into my good ear.
16
Cheryl Ceasar
By
17
John Ferrini
Franco wore his spotless, white waiter’s jacket, white shirt, black bow tie, pressed black trousers, and shoes shining like mirrors. Franco put two children through college working at “The Mark”, and was the last of a dying breed of professional waiters. He felt like family and treated me like royalty, greeting me as “Madame”, and always nearby at my beckon call.
I was always welcomed by my waiter, Franco, a fifty year employee, who reserved my favorite, long, green, supple, silk covered, chaise lounge, which included two long arms, and a matching foot rest. With charm and grace, Franco would gently roll up a brass serving table with a glass top, displaying my assortment of English teas, finger sandwiches, and exquisite pastries. Franco always included a glass of sherry which often times induced an afternoon nap, and dreams of our exotic travels as a family. Across from my chaise lounge, was its “sister”; a beautiful, vintage, velvet, bright red sofa with gold leaf accents. It looked as if it previously held a prominent place within the palace of Czar Alexander. The red sofa was so elegant, it appeared to be a museum piece, and only on occasion, would people sit upon it with reverence. Both furniture pieces were handcrafted at least one hundred years earlier. I always admired people with an appreciation for fine furniture who would photograph, and admire the beautiful red sofa. We were situated in a quiet corner of the magnificent hotel lounge where I could sit alone with my memories, nap, or watch the hotel guests come and go. My heart was always warmed by watching a young mother introduce her daughter to High Tea, reminding me of my precious moments with my daughter, now grown with a lovely daughter of her own, attending Stanford.
It was a weekly treat for me to attend an elegant, afternoon, “High Tea” at the beautiful “Mark Hopkins Hotel” after church services across the street. The “Mark” held a commanding view of San Francisco from its location atop Nob Hill, and provided a beautiful view of the iconic bridge, bay, and city below.
18
Tea With Old Friends
“Franco, what happened to the lounge? Where are my chaise lounge and the red sofa?”
19
“The hotel management remodeled the lounge last week to attract younger guests. I miss the old décor, as well, Madame.”
“Where did the chaise lounge and red sofa go? Perhaps, they’re in storage? I would like to purchase both immediately!”
He remembered the many private dinners my husband and I shared, our anniversary celebrations, birthdays, and lavish New Year’s parties we hosted. He was careful to remind me of these precious memories because it always brought me tears of joy, albeit, bittersweet, now that I’m elderly and alone.
The chaise lounge and I became friends because I believed it had a soul. Its arm rests were like the embracing arms of a loved one, comforting me as I reflected upon my long life; a depression era teenager, soldier’s wife, mother to a beautiful grown daughter with an equally beautiful granddaughter, and a handsome son killed in Vietnam, whose untimely ,and unnecessary death, left an open “wound” within my heart. We had a comfortable life in San Francisco, and managed quite a bit of international travel as my husband was transferred around the world in the course of his business. We fell in love with San Francisco and decided to make it our home when we retired. I often fell into a deep sleep within my chaise lounge, and awoke to find a blanket carefully placed over me by Franco, and a plush pillow beneath my head. I had a dream that my departed husband was calling for me from the opposite side of our home, as was his custom. I hadn’t dreamed of my husband for decades, and surmised, I was being called to “join” him shortly. I welcomed the day when we might be reunited in the afterlife. I missed him, dearly. I was ninety years old and watched my friends die over the years. Except for church, periodic visits from my daughter and granddaughter, I lived a reclusive life, but was content. I returned one Sunday afternoon for High Tea to find the entire hotel lounge had been remodeled. I walked about, hurriedly looking for my chaise lounge and it’s “sister”, the red sofa. I believed that I might have entered the wrong hotel until I was met by Franco.
The General Manager, a young Swiss hotelier, soon thereafter, approached me, apologizing, “I’m sorry Madame but the previous furnishings were taken away by a moving company to an undisclosed location at the behest of our interior designers who don’t have any further information on their whereabouts.”
The General Manager and Franco knew I was heartbroken by the loss of my favorite chaise lounge and its “sister” sofa. They provided me with a beautiful Queen Anne chair adjacent to the fireplace, and graciously provided my “High Tea” at no charge. I considered my favorite furniture as friends, and was thankful for the privilege of knowing them. I prayed both the chaise lounge and red sofa met a beautiful fate, perhaps displayed with honor in a vintage furniture shop, soon to be purchased, hopefully together, and appreciated by new owners for decades to come? If I knew which store, I’d immediately purchase them both and move them into my Pacific Heights home. At ninety, I had grown accustomed to losing friends and loved ones, but the loss of two inanimate, beautiful, vintage, furniture pieces, providing only comfort, never the pain and sorrow humans mete out, devastated me. I dreaded the thought they may be sitting in a landfill, slowly decaying, like an elderly woman. I prayed they did in fact, have souls, and would fondly remember the many guests they comforted, including me.
“The work was completed during the overnight hours so as to minimize our guest’s inconvenience, but I will inquire on your behalf, Madame.”
20
"Where did the chaise lounge and red sofa go? Perhaps, they're in storage? I would like to purchase both immediately!"
21 Carnival By Cherl Ceasar
The Sauna Diarmuid Maolalai the park is far too crowdedthere's nowhere left private to piss. and we walk toward the woods for a little while getting away from the people. and Fallon's just burned onenow he's talking very loudly and the rest of us are following to listen to him talk - something cruel about Portugal,
22
23 and the ugly Portuguese language. he whiletosomegoodspeaksFrench,SpanishandItalian-hastherightIsupposehisopinionthemudsinksdownbetweenus,ruinsshoesandtrousersends. we come upon a crease, somewhat shaded in the dirt four men our andreleasingtogetherbackswordswallsofsteam
Anna Farleigh
A barmen poured a shaken container’s lurid contents into glasses that a waitress in black distributed, her glasses’ red frames matching the bar’s red seating. A microphone, speaker and chair sat on a red stage. The singer’s appearance on that red, with her guitarist, created an applause like hailstones striking corrugated iron. Having recently seen a Rolling Stones concert in a small bar in London, I had zero Paulaexpectations.claimed
The singer’s voice matched its owner’s volume, her vast, round arse exploding from a waist so narrow. Her shape branded my data banks. Steam rose from my cerebral hardware. I would eventually masturbate, imagining that arse on my face.
The singer wailed as if unimaginable tragedies had belted her. Violent upheavals are irrelevant in comparison to your football team winning a title, your wife’s death infinitely more tragic than Shegenocide.howled like a wounded animal. Had everyone in her village been slaughtered? Decapitated donkeys left in lakes of blood on chalk tracks? Girls raped by oily-faced fiends? Widow's black dresses ripped off and dick shoved up voluptuous bottoms? The singer made me conjure up that last thought.
“We’re seeing Fado tonight,” she said, “in the best Fado place in Lisbon. The best Fado singer is singing there tonight. I made the reservation weeks ago.” “Okay,” I said. “Fado it is.” *
Gossamer
Fado epitomized cultural excellence; so we were seeing Fado whether we liked it or not. Why avoid an “unlimited cultural excellence” if commanded by beauty to experience it?
24
Paula’s dark irises focused on me. Her enthusiastic intelligence made you forget how young she was. Speech from her inflated lips caused maximum fascination.
“She’sridiculous.depressed,”
I said, “because renegades raped everything in her village, even the donkeys, everything except her. The chorus of this howling is: ‘And I’m still a fucking virgin. Still the only fucking virgin in this fucking shithole! Even the donkeys can get it!’”
Paula’s uncle, Luis, saw my cheeks twitch with suppressed laughter. He was the only person not facing the stage. The reason for that became apparent when he leant towards me and said: “I hate fucking Fado.” I leant across the table and said: “I know what she’s singing about.”
Luis’s laughter turned Paula’s eyes into beads of disdain.
Paula and her bitter cousin staring as if I was a devil polluting innocent minds. Even the singer got distracted from her pretentious misery by the inexplicable guffawing cracking on the privileged table near her feet; the two non-Portuguese-looking men below her, howling out gob-widening laughter, shoved uneasy surprise into her previously miserable eyes. Maybe now she understood tragedy?
25
His blue eyes became polished opals. I didn’t understand Portuguese. Interior mechanisms make exteriors shine. Luis was shining. He had blonde hair. He didn’t look Portuguese. He may have been one of the few Portuguese who hated Fado, his physical appearance therefore appropriate. His lips, expanding expectantly, expressed hope for something
“Her self-esteem,” I told Luis, “got shattered when some brokentoothed bandit told her to hold a donkey’s head while he fucked it.
‘Make sure this hunk of four-legged flesh doesn’t bite me, you ugly bitch,’ he told her, as he shoved it up the donkey’s arse, the donkey’s teeth exposed as it howled, its head locked by the only virgin left in Luistown.”laughed,
“Everyone loves her,” Luis said. “She’s got everything, so she glamorizes tragedy, the one thing outside her experience.”
The next day, when I said that “Luis loved last night’s comedy club,” she yelped: “That’s the sort of stupid comment I expect from you.”
26 Outside, Luis said: “That was wonderful.” His opal slithers shone like stained glass. Paula refused to look at me. She said goodbye to everyone except me, the insult in Iberia. She walked away, a princess engulfed by an admiring entourage, a human amphorae vase, no surprise that classical architecture emerged around the Mediterranean, symmetrical perfection having already been achieved long before the first stones got laid. Paula could do whatever she liked. She would never suffer the same fate–the same Fado–as my imagined singer. People free from castigation love believing. Their opposites must learn. Believing is practical if ignorance doesn’t impede success. You can shower appreciation upon the ideals you wish to glamorize. She disappeared around a corner, her courtesans like hangers-on around a queen. The courtesans, under instruction, had been waiting for her outside the bar, their long hair, even in the subdued light, still emanating electrifying sensuality.
“She wasn’t happy with us talking,” Luis said. “And laughing,” I replied.
“Maybe she’s so in love with herself,” I offered, “that what she loves must have universal significance?”
Cobblestones gleamed like teeth in a grey, smiling face, the soundless street illuminated by yellow lights.
“What’s that got to do with someone behaving like an idiot?” she Sheasked.had a wonderful face. Things new or surprising could light that face up as if it was the universal catchment point for everything extraordinary. Her smile created a lightness of mind that stimulated creativity, her hair as black as a raven’s feathers, her fleshy mouth seductively askew, her cheeks’ red flush having a fineness that satin manufacturers will never achieve. And she couldn’t stand me.
“Do you get equally angry,” I asked, “when something important happens? Or is it just Fado that does the trick?”
“Is Fado more important than millions dying in disasters?” I asked. Flickering surprise ignited in her mica eyes before bitter composure’s return.
27
Fado’s stories were above real suffering, Paula’s glaring disproportionate to my flippancy. Real tragedy lacks poetry. Try seeing a tank crushing a man. Because I had been irreverent towards Fado I deserved instant death. I had committed the most heinous of sins, genocide nothing in comparison to my brutality, for I had mocked the greatest of all things–Fado! Being beneath amoebas, I deserved to be stomped on by the brontosaurus of justice, crushed, like the mite I was, by the iron heel of cultivated pertinence. How could anyone treat the highest of all pursuits so cavalierly? I was a disgrace to civilization.
END
Her peeved silence now possessed embarrassed
Given that Triumph had been hers from birth it had never occurred to her that her perspective may have been as skewwith as her beautiful mouth. A wallop of unexpected perspective smashed her into silence.
“She’svulnerability.onlyseventeen,” Luis said later. “And now,” I said, “she’s much older.” THE
28
“I didn’t realize,” I said, “that Fado was so monumental that someone’s value could be judged solely by how they reacted to its Shakespearean profundity.”
“The preservation of your glamorous self-perception,” I howled, “and the cultural tit-bits that reinforce it are much more important to you than real suffering. Including the suffering people sing about. Otherwise, you might find something else to get angry about. And did Luis and I say that we wanted to see, as he put it, a fucking Fado concert?!”
She tried walking away. I followed, determined to give a spoilt, egotistical bitch a hammering.
By
29
CherlCeasar Don't Forget The Other You
Yunabing Zhang Don't forget the other you, All the other yous, either in the body or outer space, those sweet smiles and diamond flowers that never thatwither,make boundless earthly years turn into a snippet of bird song. Yes, the crows of a heavenly Phoenix, those luscious, dark bolts of lightning, hit you; you wake and see Heaven is with you. Your body becomes the golden body of giants, and all time becomes sweet.
The Poetry Elf
30 Silence Bharti Bonsai
Rainbows dancing beneath the clouds
I wonder if beauty is just threads interwoven
And eyes which fail to see A rear view mirror in car
I wonder if I was always different By different I mean prone to loneliness
And grey cement walls
And a brown colored moth That sits upon them A brewing storm And tea that mother makes I wonder if everything was as naked as it seems
The green apple trees
A fan in winter A woolen sweater drying under the sun
Grandmother's wrinkled hands
And a mind That meditates upon it
Devoid of apples
Teal blue sky Yellow sun
And reflections that appear closer than they are
The raging colorless wind
31 I wonder if this is how loneliness looks like From horizon I can see the birds diving deep The clock striking four And wife that weeps For lover long gone If only I were time I would have witnessed their love again and again Two little girls Their pink florescent frocks And neon smiles I wonder if I was them once A little bit of time A lot more despair Everything stops Only if I dare to A minute hand of clock And seconds that pass by I would implode If somebody doesn't ask me How am I For I might say the truth I might sugarcoat the lies But I will talk Oh for the sake of God Just listen to me This sullen silence has woken up again.
Regardless, I think I will go to sleep to pass time. Day 2 I look outside the window of my room, watching my friends approach the door. My father answers, shaking his head and sending them away. A few moments later, he opens the door to my room after walking upstairs. “Were my friends here?” I ask, watching as he brings me grapes and crust less sandwiches, something I preferred when I was three. “Yes, but they really ought to stay inside.” He told me. His eyes were filled with worry as he looks at me.
Daddy loves me with all his heart, but sometimes I wonder if he is a bit protective. Since last week, he has kept me inside my room. My room is small and cramped, decorated with a small bed, drawer, and desk. The window facing outside is the only indicator of whether it was night or day. Daddy gave me toys to play, despite my protests of being twelve. Twelve-year-old girls do not play with plush toys.
“How long do I have to stay here?” I ask, as he pulls out some clothing from my drawers.
“Just until it is safe outside.” He promises. “When will that be?” I ask, feeling my heart sink to my stomach as he answers,“Notany time soon.”
Day 1
“It is extremely dangerous out there. Men creeping at every corner to take a young girl for himself.”
32 The Window Emily Newsome
It has only been a week since daddy saved me from that man wearing a strange coat.
Daddy swore he would never let anything like that happen again. I remember, he grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly, muttering in a low “Keepvoice,your head down”.
“Honestly, daddy, they’re a bit too young for me.” I reply, causing his eyes to darken. “You are my little girl. I just want to keep you safe.” He says. I do not press the issue further, and continue staring outside the window, listening to the wind outside. Day 4 I am starting to grow irritated, and tired of seeing all the same four walls that seem to shrink. It is suffocating me, but I did not want to look outside my window because I knew it was not safe. That is what daddy told me. He said I wanted to stay inside, and so I do. If only that stupid window was not mocking me. I approach that window to the outside world, looking into the streets filled with people and their mocking faces. They laugh at me. A sudden burst of anger consumes me, and I see nothing but red. I throw myself at the window, pounding, and screaming at those that enjoy the freedom, simply given to them. I continue my fit of rage until my door swings open and my father asks, “What are you doing?” His voice is strained. He attempts to comfort me, but I know I saw those faces outside.
33 Day When3
I wake up, I find that my clothes, a light pink dress, were already set out for me. I go to my drawers, grabbing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. They were my usual attire, so I put those on
instead. Daddy knocks soon after, then enters once I call him to come in. He carried a tray of utensils, and a glass of milk and pancakes. "I brought you breakfast”. He smiles until he sees me in my t-shirt and “Thankjeans.you, daddy. You can put it down on my dresser.” I say, pointing at the furniture. He does as I say, frowning at me the entire time. He walks toward the door, then carefully turns back to “Sweetie,me.
don’t you like your new dresses?”
I tried looking away from the window, so that I could avoid the smiling faces, mocking me. One face, as white as a bed sheet flew toward me from the window. The face was daddy’s! I jump away, falling flat on my back and quickly tried to crawl away, but the face kept coming toward me, laughing. I screamed and cried, begging for it to go away, to leave me alone but it continued to approach me. It floated closely, inches from my face, and whispered how helpless I am, that I would be stuck here forever. I felt tears falling down my cheek. When daddy left me my breakfast, I took the knife and hid it under my bed for my own protection. Day 6 All I could hear are those voices, telling me to look outside and watch those mocking faces. They laughed at me. Then the door to the room opens. It was one of those wide-deep smiling faces, coming toward me, coming to attack me. I grabbed my hidden knife under my bed and lunge toward those mocking faces. I swiped my weapon, aiming for the eyes of the face. The face screams in agony, begging for me to stop. It sounded like daddy, but I continue to attack it. The voices grow louder and louder, laughing at me. I do not stop until I hear the gurgle of the voices and then, complete silence. I look down at my attacker, a man, who I could not identify from his swollen face. I refuse to leave my room. Those faces are still out there. I can sense them.
34 Day 5
35 Tropical Sunset
By Cherl Ceasar
By Collin Dodds
The fresco shows a momentthe story may go either way: Gothic satans spew forth murderers and perverts from burning wombs The righteous descend from gauzy nurseries of light and lovely angels to earth Feedback to andtestsuccumb together to that inopportunable domain whatbeyondwe called birth
36 Native Palms By Laura Giardina
Scattered yellow leaves
Poets and their changing muse Rivers and digressing paths
The lavender sky Bows down at the feet of fall And she lets out a chirpy laugh
There is something that fall demands of me. Ladylike, her fingers touch my hair
A bad omen, she warns And I like any rebellious child, do otherwise.
Motherly warmth oozing out
Sparrows and the barren windows where they make their nests again She looks at me like a lover does With assumptions and doubts With laughter and unfulfilled vows
37 Fall By Sam Hatch
And asks me to take a seat She has a story to tell But she asks me not to mourn. She talks about her childAnd how he went away looking for a living
And trees standing bare
"Wasn't this house home enough?" She asks, tears in her eyes Fall, I tell you, is a woman without grace She is clumsy So is her cry And I like that about her It gives me a space where I can be myself.
As if telling me about ends, rarely beginnings Fall is a sunset And I am the photographer capturing it My maa asks me not to salute the setting sun
I believe she knows already about spring And budding flowers
The crops already cut
A contrast so striking She screams in joy," isn't it looking like me"
While she, dressed in red, with henna on her hands
If she was once a thriving summer
Helps her accept that some children are never coming back home She then turns around And wind blows through her hair
"I believe flowers are like humans.they thrive more in love", she laughs sadly I wonder if saying it out loud
38
But she shows me the red chillies growing on dry plants
To tell her that some of us intend to stay Even when its dark
Even when the rustling of the yellow leaves put us to sleep Fall is an old lady now Her wrinkled hands are sewing a sweater for her son
And I wonder if fall has secrets She keeps burried in her chest Like all of us
If she pretends to be someone else to fit in
Kept waiting If this is why I was born in her lap
She then takes the drooping petals of a flower in her hands And sighs out loud
Who lost in love If her lover was a young man who promised her future And then left for a foreign land
The mountains are standing brown and barren
And I witness pain taking shape behind her hooded eyes I take her hand in mine
"Who takes medicines at this age?" She laughs
And says something in a hope to sound wise But who can preach her
The lady who has seen monsoons pass by I will come back, I promise her And she smiles She knows I won't But I pretend like any other person does When he hears a lot about someone's misery We bid each other goodbye She goes inside her wooden house And I see her disappear for the final time. and to continue some domesticated and already famed bonebreakers -- who translate every imported idea unspeakably literal-ly -- pulled the first guns against real bullets of some who had but billiard cues, another fault in their brains and the pumpkin was crushed before it flowered, our shortened graduation excursion through our shortened land.
And I nod along like I have nothing to say Her drooped back and bony figure tells me she isn't eating well
39
"Winters are out there,I can feel it" she speaks warmly
40 No one danced with me at the graduation dance for there were thirty-two of us skirts at that language school. My daughter is playing the first tango from the Echelon she follows the music with her left foot, yet we are still in the same drained land, I am dancing to her earthquake in my own path and I know already nothing was ever in vain, that now it is not me, it is she who will pay them my debt
The this-is-not-real feeling of trauma news is a defense toshortsightedmechanismenoughundermineitsownaim. It shields the mind from terror for that second. But what reallyoccurreddidoccur.
By Michael Itsvan
So in contrast to that wherebreatheritallappeared unreal, into vivid relief terror storms forth as if to offset that “Passagebreather.oftime itself heals,” one might insist— “and not just over those months of hoping, say, that the spouse will come back, but even over the micro-time in question: the sliver feelingbetweenthisisnot real and facing that it is.” Still, the starkening of the terror against that feeling dwarfs any healing arising in that interval, no? Not Real Bustling of the Hive
41
The and-life-goes-on animation of the showsstreetsthatthe trauma did not infect everything at least. For me, though, it is as if the loss of you is the only thing there is. I am unsure whether the bustle is giving me the courage to move on or making me feel worse for being pained still by what is worthless in the end, and for being so sad for myself—a being worthless in the end.
Oblivion, if at all anything, is yet another mode of reality. Nothing is, if it is at all—it is just another mode of being. Everything is such a mode. That is how much reality “chokes,” put in pessimist terms. That is how “beautiful, grand,” it is, put now in optimist terms.
By Cherl Ceasar
Even the desire for oblivion remains an expression of reality. And this is not simply itbecauseisadesire.
42 Yessing
ItsvanMichaelBy
Pine Night Sky
Uncompromising yessaying, full embrace of reality itself, must then go to the extreme that approached:Whitmanseeing the yes of self-denial and even yessing selfdenial—yessing the various walks of life.
All no-saying to reality is only no-saying to mere forms of reality.
The Last Weekend in July Zach Murphy
“Whatsky.aweekend,”
“I’m so terrified of tossing four years away,” I said. “And going into debt forever.”
It was the summer of 1993 and Keilani and I sat by the crackling fire as the bullfrogs croaked a sonorous symphony, the grass swayed from a whispering breeze, and the stars zipped in different directions across the vast night
“I’ve“What?”Northwestern.”Keilaniasked.thoughtaboutita lot and I just don’t think college is for me,” I answered. “But we had it all planned out,” Keilani said. “Together.”
Keilani said, resting her hands on the back of her jet-black hair.
43
“Rad like a cat wearing sunglasses,” I said. “Satisfying like spelling Sriracha right on the first try,” Keilani said. That was our thing. One of our things. In fact, when you’ve known someone since the age of five, you amass a lot of things. I leaned in toward the warmth of the fire, took a deep breath, and prepared to tell Keilani something that I hesitated to tell her all summer. “I decided I’m not going to
“I had a panic attack about driving in downtown traffic,” I said. “I had just gotten my license!”
“Like when?” I asked. “Remember when you didn’t even show up to your own birthday party? The party that I organized!”
Keilani tossed another log onto the fire and a flurry of sparks burst into the air. “I’m sorry,” I said. Keilani sat back down, fanned the smoke away from her eyes, and brushed the ashes off her sweatshirt. “I’m going to miss you. That’s all.” “I’m going to miss you too,” I said. “So what do you plan on doing?” Keilani asked.
“It’s not the last minute,” I said. “That’s another thing you do,” Keilani said. “I know it’s not literally the last minute, but you just have this affinity for suddenly dipping out on plans.”
44
Why did you wait until the last minute to tell me?” Keilani
“I had to use a pay phone while half of my mouth was numb!”
“I had the flu!” Keilani stood up. “And the time you said you would pick me up from my dentist appointment and didn’t show up?”
“Youasked.always do that, and it drives me crazy.”
“No,” I said. “I keep having these dreams about rainforests losing their color and oceans warping into garbage dumps. I want to try and do something. I’m just not sure what yet.”
45
Keilani reached over and grabbed my hand. “We’ll still look up at the same moon,” she said.
“I want to save the world.” “Like Wonder Woman?”
“Maybe someday there will be an invention that allows us to see each other’s lives from far away,” Keilani said. “Sure,” I said. “And maybe Blockbuster will go out of Webusiness!”bothlaughed until we snorted.
I wondered if I’d ever have a moment with Keilani like this again. “What a weekend,” I said. Keilani sighed. “Over too soon like a Prince song.”
Aleksandra
Broken By Vujuisc
Broken, like a glass of wine after a brokenfight,withall that was mine, without no light, broken like a preacher of forgotten likeprayers,apainting with no colors and layers, and never asking the reason why -come on little girl, be brave, don’t cry. You have left me so many times before but I always tend to ask for more, I never stop and never believecome on little girl, be brave, just leave.
It feels like waking up next to a ghost and craving for life and getting lost, and I want to hold the girl that I used to be, tell her that ancient secret for me doesn’t mean more than a sweet liecome on little girl, be brave, don’t cry.
46
47
At The Center of the Passage
By John Grey
Sun is down completely. Nothing in the sky for now. Moths begin the transition by attacking the porch light. I sit below, sipping wine, rocking like a leaf on pond ripple. The roads before me are empty but cars could come. And, even as the flowers fade, their scents are subtly irrepressible.
There’s a chill in the air like a spider crawling up the back of my neck. But, when alone, I do better on the outside, no matter the weather. Someone might stroll by and wave. A kid’s ball could float into my yard. Some stars may appear. They do. And a thin moon sliver. It does. Who can know if I don’t? Everything leans on my being here.
Rooted By FarielShafee 48 Sometimes By Aleksandra Vujuisc Sometimes the words just pass me by Don't know the questions or reasons Everythingwhyseems less coloured than yesterday Please don't run to me, just run away.
2
We cheered, his enemies hissed And hurled the sainted man From the temple
Sam Hatch of James the Just
“Righteousness,”parapet.weprayed, as he fell “Righteousness must waft and settle gently a good man’s fall.” His snow-white robes fluttered Stillgracefully,thebrother of Our Lord plummeted like a Yetstone,he did not cry out. After a moment that seemed unwilling to end, The good man landed on the temple steps. That liquid thud sickened us all, A sound none of us can ever forget. Despite all our prayers, Despite all the admiration James inspired even in his enemies, His righteousness could not defy the power of gravity.
3 On the temple steps, his body broken, James, with his last words, like his brother Forgave his Weenemies.wondered why his grace frightened us so much, Much more than his fall.
49
James the Just, brother of our Lord, Would not forswear the Christ, refused the words of his betters.
Jesus was the door, said James, The way, the truth, and the light. No man comes to the Father but through him.
Stepping from the crowd, a common laundryman, A man, to all appearances, without grace. Holding his fuller’s brush as if he were About to beat a load of wash at the river’s edge, He smashed the good man’s skull like a common clay pot. The light in the good man’s eyes, The light we had seen so often That lifted our spirits in dark times, Those eyes we thought unquenchable, Simply went out like a small candle in a stiff breeze. Who was redeemed by this sacrifice, we wondered, By this blood flowing on the temple steps? Could even Jesus redeem this brute, Holding aloft in triumph his bloody brush?
50 4
5 Today we mourn the great man, We celebrate his greatness And ponder the lesson he taught us that day before the temple. We cherish our homes and children, We thank the Lord for His blessings each day, And humbly cultivate the smaller, less conspicuous, But still important virtues. Remembering gravity, too, demands our respect, We are careful each day To serve God and qualify for salvation.
51
Isn'tNatureJustSo By Jack Donahue
Is the land more beautiful than its people, the grass kinder to the soles of my feet, the trees better to clothe me in their welcome shade? I know the sun warms my cold body; the sky fills my eyes with openness; the air breathes me in and out and the hum of the river in my ears measures me against the mountain rocks that challenge my grip on reality. The heart of the stars beats against my chest. The willow weeps only for me. I can hear the tongue of the wind lash me a word of encouragement. Does the butterfly know me as it leads me? Does she want to land on my finger? Here, here is my finger, my hand, my shoulder, my knotted hair. I wish I could show all of me as I see all of you.
Shadow Red 52
You
Why
By Fariel Shafee are you so curious about this part of my journey? usually keep to yourself, flit from branch to flower, from flower to tree, from tree to ground where I will not step out of respect for your life, short as it is when it reaches the highest register I imagine sustains long enough for the breathless tempo that clears a path for your descent.
In a few weeks winter will arrive, dropping snow like bullets from a leaden sky. It’s difficult to survive. Life is a constant storm. A month ago my wife died. I wonder why I was born. But whom can I ask? I only mourn.
Twilight Comes Too Soon
By George Freek
53
I’m unable to see the sun. Rain becomes intense. Shadows hold the branches like flutes, and leaves sway to the sound, as unstable as parachutes, finally falling to uneven ground.
By Felipe Hendriksen
And that’s how I received 2020: downright melancholic and nostalgic, not being able to get off the bed, without reading nor writing. And that’s when news about this new virus started to stand out here in Argentina. Journalists would report that things were bad in China (and its despotic, authoritarian government was trying to cover it all up, but almost next to nothing was known about it.
I still remember when I first heard about the 2019coronavirus.wasabittersweet year. I spent the first half of it at Washington College, a not-so-small college in a frozen-in-time conservative-looking Maryland town. I experienced for the first time in my life (I was 22 what snow felt like, I got to talk in a language not my own for more than two weeks straight (the typical length of my previous trips to America, and I met wonderful people (I frequently talk with two of my professors and two of my students, all of them close friends now.
54
Hamlet's Lesson
But the second half… Well, it was tough. I couldn’t attend classes in Argentina because the academic year here begins in March and not in August. So I had to stay at home, away from my classmates and the whole university environment that always did me well. It didn’t take too long for my long-forgotten depression to kick in. Without something to entertain itself, my mind went back to its old habits: selfloathing and apathy.
“Oh, great,” I thought, “it’s like in 2009, just another swine flu. Give it a month or so, and it will be over.”
I’m sure now that God laughed right at that moment. I was naïve enough not to care at all (and politicians here did the same) since my mental health was my top priority. Lithium pills started to do their job and, when one morning I was able to dance to “Club at the End of the Street,” I knew I was (almost) cured. 2020 seemed promising: I would be getting a second chance at life, a redemption. Back to classes, back to seeing my friends, back to being busy. Nothing could go wrong, right?
I moved to a students’ residence in Buenos Aires to become a little less dependent on my family (although they were the ones paying for everything), and there I met my two Ecuadorian roommates, who would become close friends. Everything was great: we watched anime, we listened to Bad Bunny, we smoked cigarettes, and drank so much beer that, the first Friday of classes, in what would be my last physical, face-to-face course in college as of now, I dozed off in my chair due to my massive hangover. I visited my parents that weekend because I missed my house, and that’s when the president spoke to the nation: quarantine would be mandatory starting next Monday. We didn’t know back then what that entailed; we couldn’t fathom the repercussions.
55
Thinking it couldn’t last more than two weeks (at most), I went back to my residence feeling excited: I would be able to read whatever I wanted since they were probably going to prescribe us a compulsory holiday season. But my college (Pontificia Universidad Católica Argentina) must have known something we didn’t because, after their initial silence, they started warning us that classes might go momentarily virtual.
56
I visited my parents that weekend because I missed my house, and that’s when the president spoke to the nation: quarantine would be mandatory starting next Monday. We didn’t know back then what that entailed; we couldn’t fathom the repercussions. Thinking it couldn’t last more than two weeks (at most), I went back to my residence feeling excited: I would be able to read whatever I wanted since they were probably going to prescribe us a compulsory holiday season. But my college (Pontificia Universidad Católica Argentina) must have known something we didn’t because, after their initial silence, they started warning us that classes might go momentarily
Wait,virtual.what?
Is it supposed to last that long? The government (as always) was being completely inefficient and didn’t communicate clearly their plans (I’m guessing because they didn’t have any). So we were at a loss. How did virtual classes work anyway? I didn’t know back then that being a student would become such a chore, such a painful burden. I suffered my education’s virtuality. I wasn’t learning as much; I couldn’t pay attention. I had never had these problems in college; I felt like a high school student again, all frustrated and bored. So I got really anxious too (I do suffer from anxiety and depression), being trapped in a small room with two strangers. That’s when I started smoking like a chimney: two packs a day, sometimes more, never less. There was a cigarette shortage for a moment, so I had to walk many blocks and go to every store in my neighborhood until I could find decent (if I can say so) cigarettes to smoke. And I drank a lot, too—no alcohol, or not a lot of it, but mainly Coca-Cola. So I always felt bloated and out of breath, my stomach and my chest hurt constantly, and I couldn’t sleep well (which was not good, since I had to get up around seven every morning).
57
I studied all day, every day. I don’t know how I put up with so much studying. I didn’t watch any series; I didn’t read the books I wanted to; I didn’t go downstairs to play pool or poker. I was just focusing on my courses. This was probably just a defense mechanism: if not studying and being away from my classmates made me depressed, being trapped in my room, I had to study extra to cling to my sanity. That was not life: for a whole semester, I didn’t live at all.
I didn’t mention that the residence I was in wasn’t my first pick. I always wanted to go to one in Recoleta, an Opus Dei Hogwarts-like “Center of Studies,” not because I’m a believer (I’m the complete opposite), but because it was the most exclusive, elegant one in Argentina. And when there was finally a place for me there, I moved out, leaving my two loyal Ecuadorian friends behind. Although Ecuador was still bound to haunt me since, when I got to CUDES (the new residence), other Ecuadorians there were cooking autochthonous food, and I helped them out to mingle with Ithem.hadgained much weight during the last year (I hit triple digits, in kilograms), so now people would call me “Gordo” (literally “fat”); it was the first time in my life that someone had appealed to my weight to characterize me. It bothered me initially, but then I got used to it (as people usually do). There I met the most interesting people. I already knew an Uruguayan living there, but I got to know a Honduran filmmaker that blew my mind. We became closer as time went by, and now he’s got a place in my heart. I also established strong relationships with the numeraries there (people devoted to Christ and their work). They tried more than once to convert me to Catholicism, but every time I politely declined. However, I went to mass once and confessed to a Korean priest (a great friend of mine) all of my sins.
58
2020 was a rocky year, but it had its highlights. I made great new friends (the Honduran one); I was able to write again (poems, basically), something that’s of the utmost importance to me; I reorganized my priorities (being happy is at the top, along with being both physically and mentally healthy); I became a better friend, a better son.
Being trapped in a bedroom was hard, but it gave me much time to think. So I thought and thought long and hard. And I realized that what we most value in life, freedom, is mainly a state of mind. I finally understood, after a year of being a prisoner, what Hamlet meant when he said: “O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.”
I gave a couple of final exams, but not as many as I would like to. My GPA went down a bit, but it didn’t affect me as much as I thought it would. I skipped many classes, mainly because I was getting really bored, and because I wasn’t able to stay more than an hour in front of a screen without smoking a cigarette (that problem didn’t go away, sadly). I didn’t like what we were studying the second semester: too many bizarrely and painfully marginal authors and none of the classics. Professors seemed duller too, more annoying than ever, excruciatingly plain and silly. My insomnia worsened. I would stay up until 4:00 in the morning, not able to fall asleep. My Honduran friend would play LoL while I studied right beside him, and that would go on for hours until night became day. Most days, I didn’t sleep at all before my courses, so I ended up falling asleep before lunch, which I missed more than once.
By
Native Jim
LauraGiardina 59
More Than Peace SuzyInzunza
The world eagerly needs quality people We must reach into our integrity, to develop longevity
The world eagerly needs quality people trash in the sea, fires burning wild, are we truly creating prosperity? the genocide that we push on the creatures of earth is an atrocity We must reach into our integrity, to develop longevity we’re so worried about the wrong type of popularity; that the world is in crumbles, still not enough to spark our curiosity
60
The world eagerly needs quality people we can rebuild burnt bridges with sincerity little eyes watch in silence; not understanding the velocity We must reach into our integrity, to develop longevity we’re so harped on, human war; when the earth needs charity mistreating the innocent and oppressed, with no apologies
The world eagerly needs quality people no need for sympathy, we’re in need of your generosity We must reach into our integrity, to develop longevity extend your hand, it will bring us all clarity end the violence, bringing in the natural novelty
The students carried their lives in the small canvas rucksacks upon their backs and marched in a single file line as a boy stayed well back in the rear. The boy was not in the greatest of physical shape, and under the blistering sun and the unfamiliar weight on his shoulders, he could not get used to the discomfort that he never wanted. To make sure the boy did not fall too far behind, an instructor was obligated to stay beside the boy, watching over him and providing empty words of encouragement in hopes to keep the boy moving. “Come on, we’re almost there” and “it’s okay, you’ll be okay, you got this” were the mantras that were dismissed by the boy, it was patronizing, irritating, he just wanted to go home.He looked up to the titan of a mountain that challenged him, taunting the boy that he was going to regret ever climbing it. So the boy kept his eyes on the ground, focusing on his feet moving in front of him, one by one as if it was automatic. He hypnotized himself by the repetitive steps, left then right, then left again, and eventually he convinced himself that he could keep moving like this. He focused on his breathing, inhaling for every two steps, then exhaling for the following two, everything he did was calculated and for a brief moment he believed in the words that were supposed to encourage him. Without thinking he looked forward, straight ahead to see how much further he had to go, and he saw that the titan grew even larger.
It was a bright summer day and the busses just arrived at the class camp destination. A swarm of children hastily left the bus. Excited and full of energy, they gathered to their respective guide and began to prepare for the long hike to the campsite.
61
The Branch Joseph Nguyen
His heart sank to his stomach, he felt like he was losing the breath that he so carefully crafted, and every fabricated confidence he gave himself was shattered.The pitied voice behind him again condescendingly speaks to the boy, “alright, here we go, come on!” He hated it, everything about this trip was just a ruse just to get rid of him for a while, and no one really wanted him there either. He could tell by how the adults kept forgetting him, he could feel their disdainful manner whenever they spoke to him, and he could see that to them, he was not a priority. To make it even more obvious about their contempt towards the boy, they paired him with the most vexing adult to accompany him. Her constant empty words of inspiration were exasperating, as if every syllable added an extra pound of weight throughout the entire boy’s body. The boy disregarded the woman, only taking notice of her presence while omitting everything else that came withTheher.boy and the woman were eventually greeted by a fallen branch that laid upon the trail. The branch stretched across the entire width of the path and thick enough to recognize the obstacle in their way from where they were. Thirty or so students and adults had already walked around it, and the boy, already annoyed by the constant reminder of his insecurities, gripped the end of the branch tightly and pulled. He pulls with all his might and can feel the large tree branch releasing its grip underneath the dirt. His arms and legs began to burn; however, the branch never leaves his furiously clamped hands and with the branches’ final moment, it flies out of the earth and the boy tosses the large branch to the side off of the trail. Gasping for breath, he looks down to where the branch is, now a bit more calmed, cooled down by his brief outburst.
62
The boy felt his eyes swell and his nose began to run, but before they could even emerge he wiped his eyes and sniffed his nose. A sense of pride, not fabricated from his imagination or one that felt short lived, took him by surprise. Had it not been for the woman’s words he would have thought the branch as another item to add unto his miserable mental collection. The words she spoke suddenly began to well up inside him, he physically felt the change as he processed everything he heard from her. Everything felt light, the weight on his chest and shoulders dissipated and looking up did not feel as encumbersome as it once did. The titanic mountain regressed to a small hill, the scorching sun now a pleasant ray of light, everything around the boy began to morph along with him.The woman and the boy eventually caught up to the rest of the group, tired yet pleased of their accomplishments. The boy, even though he felt a transformation within him, still had many social challenges laid ahead of him that he was aware of. For the first time he wanted to reach out to someone and waive off the secluded lifestyle that he initially set upon himself. However he didn’t know where to start, nor could he even begin to think about how to start putting himself out there.
“Thirty boys walked past that branch. It took one man to move it, and he made life easier for every person after him."
The woman looks at him, and he is perplexed by her gaze for it was a look he was unfamiliar with.
63
64 Those insecurities began to rush back and his breathing began to grow more rapid, he felt his knees begin to lose their strength. Fearing that he would make a fool of himself if he were to collapse in the middle of camp, he searched for a safe spot to hide and finds an empty bench away from everyone else. Carefully, with one foot in front of the other, he throws his body onto the bench before his legs could give in. The boy sat on that bench, head resting on the table and focused on his breathing as practiced so many times before. He opened one eye to look at the crowd that had proceeded their nightly activities without him, and began to have thoughts of abandonment. He thought why was he was here in the first place, for what reason did he have to go to a dumb camp where no one liked him, and if there was a way he could just leave. A large sigh escaped the boy, and he felt the table that he laid his head on shift, he looked up at what it was and was shocked to find another boy sitting across from him. The other boy looked a little older, more athletic and didn’t seem like they had any reason to sit here.The boy wanted to ask “who are you?” And “what brings you here?” Or even just “hi.” But he was so stunned by the presence of the other boy that he sat there, jokingly thinking that there is no way that this is real. The other boy looked at the boy and asked, “Hey man, you okay?” The boy was unable to speak, still unsure what to say and how to say it, instead the boy mustered whatever energy to nod to the inquiry.
The boy looked at Johnathan with a pleasant surprise and nodded. “Cool, and don’t worry about having to talk, it’s okay, I think we’re all trying to figure it out, at any age. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?”
65
An awkward silence befell the two boys, and the boy felt the pressure from the other boy’s presence, it was uncomfortable and he could no longer bear to look at him to stave off any potential embarrassment. The other boy broke the silence, curiously asked the boy, “you’re really quiet, what’s your name? Mine’s Johnathan.” The boy, still unable to respond, embarrassed by his shyness, continued to sit looking away from Johnathan. “That’s okay man, you don’t have to say anything, I don’t know anyone here, and you look like you didn’t either, so how about we stick together?”
“...Okay”
Artifact Nouveau is a magazine of works by students, faculty, alum ni, and employees of San Joaquin Delta College published by the SJDC Writers’ Guild. We accept literary and visual art submissions year round. All genres and mediums are welcome. Submit to •Short•PoemLiteraryFallSpringDeadlines:artifactsjdc@gmail.com.-April15th-October15thSubmissionsLengthMayVary(limit5submissions)StoriesandEssays:Max1500Words(limit 2 submissions) •Accepted formats: Microsoft Word (.doc, .docx), Adobe (.PDF) Visual •Colored/BlackSubmissionsand White •JPG Format at 300 DPI •Limit 10 submissions 66 ADVERTISE IN ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Outside Back Cover: $100 Full Page Inside: $75 Half Page Inside: $50 Quarter Page Inside: $30 Send inquiries to artifactsjdc@gmail.com San Joaquin Delta College Get Published in Artifact Nouveau Ad: Celine Rose Mariotti Two ghost stories-George Bowman appears As a ghost playing the banjo in Book I George Bowman resurrects and returns to life In Book II “I Hear the Banjo Playing” “The Return of George Bowman” Contact: celinem@aol.com
ARTIFACT NOUVEAU GabrielleADVISORFACULTYMyers FRONT COVER ART “Summers Lease ”by Cheryl Ceasar ”New Author”byCheryl Ceasar ArtifactNouveauis a publication of works from the San Joaquin Delta College community. It celebrates the artistic and creative works of its students, faculty, alumni, and employees. It is published by the Writers’ Guild of San Joaquin Delta College. The contributors certify the works are their own. The views of these works do not reflect the opinions of the administration or trustees of Delta College. ArtifactNouveau copyright remains with respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. ©2022 SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE Superintendent/ President: Dr. Lisa Aguilera Lawrenson Board of PresidentTrusteesoftheBoard: Dr. Charles JenningsVicePresident: Dr. Elizabeth Blanchard Clerk: Catherine Mathis, M.D. Student Representative: Kaiden Gibson Dr. Teresa Brown Ms. Kathleen Garcia Ms. Janet Rivera Ms. C. Jennet Stebbins 67 Editorial Team: Joseph AngelJosephIvyBrittanyFloresLuskSolisMartinezRomeroVasquez BACK COVER ART
www.issuu.com/thewritersguildartifactnouveauartifactsjdc@gmail.comfacebook.com/SJDCWritersGuildwww.deltacollege.edu/org/wrtrsgld/
