ARTIFACT NOUVEAU
SUM M E R 2017 VOLUME 3 ISSUE 3
A Writers’ Guild Publication
ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Volume 3 Issue 3
Spring 2014 - Volume 8 - Issue 34
EDITOR IN CHIEF Vanessa M. Soto
EDITORIAL TEAM Dominique Diaz Jaysyn McDaniel A Writers’ Guild Publication
FACULTY ADVISORS Sarah Antinora Gabrielle Myers FRONT COVER ART by Rebecka Skogh BACK COVER ART by Natalie Watkins Artifact Nouveau is a publication of works from the San
fall 2012 • issue 31 • volume 7
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.
Artifact Nouveau copyright remains with respective a writers’ guild publication
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authors and artists. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. ©2017
SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE Superintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy Hart Board of Trustees President: Janet Rivera Vice President: Richard Vasquez Clerk: Steve Castellanos, FAIA Student Representative: Marlu Reyes Dr. Teresa Brown Carlos Huerta Catherine Mathis, M.D. C. Jennet Stebbins
A Letter from the Editor in Chief
Love, Vanessa Maldonado-Soto
Thank you to all the contributing authors and artists who comprise our Summer issue. Your works inspire and encourage us. We are especially grateful for the hard work of Patricia Mayorga, editor of Poets’ Espresso Review.
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In the Spring 2017 issue, I wrote about how I got into writing. For this Summer issue, I only have two things left to share with you writers and artists. One, keep reminding yourself that you never know what will happen unless you try, and, two, failure does not mean it is a sign that you should change your academic major or much-loved hobby. Failure, if anything, means that there is something you need to spend more time on and that is okay. You are learning and will get better over time. Be patient with yourself. Everyone has their own pace. So, dear reader: Live. Create. Express. When you look back, however many years from now, I want you to have no regrets. Let the back of your mind be relieved in knowing you did what you thought you couldn’t. You do have the potential and talent. Have confidence and continue to inspire and be inspired. At the end of the day, I guarantee that this will go a long way because you’ve already taken the most important step. You are doing something.
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Table of Contents Halfway to New Haven by Phil Hutcheon................................................5 My Mother Never Hit Back by Arushi Singh....................................................7 A Merciless God by Ryan Strohlein................................................8 Anti-Mowgli by Omri Kadim......................................................9 To North Korea by Michael Duffett..........................................10 Bottom Feeders by Sam Hatch......................................................11 The Altomont by Ryan Strohlein..............................................12 Sermons by Ken W. Simpson..............................................12 Waiting Room by M. Sakran........................................................13 Sunshine in a Jar by Kat Story.........................................................14 Untitled by Michael Duffett..........................................20 Loose Ends by Allen Forrest................................................21 3
Table of Contents The Final Day by Dominique Diaz............................................23 Balloon Anatomy by Erica Arquero..............................................32 The Hourglass by Arushi Singh..................................................33 A God That Is Yours by Peter Hawley.................................................35 Star Crossed by Isabella Calabrese......................................36 Speak by Vanessa C. Maldonado-Soto....................37 SPLAT by Josh Sartain...................................................63 Bootleg Epic by Benjamin Stroop............................................64 The Hardening by Anum Kamran Sattar.................................68 Society’s Copyright by Yasmine Robinson........................................69 Contributors .................................................................................71
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Halfway to New Haven by Phil Hutcheon
Author’s note: I wrote this in a Delta College Writers Guild workshop arranged by Sarah Antinora and presented by Gabrielle Myers. I thank my colleagues for their inspiration and for any merit the poem may possess; its shortcomings are purely my own. Peter, small town factotum, valedictorian, classroom superstar Off to Yale in all his glory. Tyler, his best friend since jungle bars, A lesser light, but loyal, Horatio to the prince of this story, Along for the triumphal ride, Peter’s physician-father at the controls for the bold cross-country hop. Lisa, golden girlfriend, in full blossom of first love, Thrilled to be included, Had a last minute change of heart, Perhaps a premonition, Decided not to fly. Her caution saved her life. Turbulence over the vast Midwest: Three never reached the ivy walls, Their lives obliterated, two at the very cusp Of untold wonders, their brio and compassion Stolen from a planet much in need of each. The whole town turned out for the service. Two thousand mourners endured my useless eulogy. 5
At thirty, my first authentic taste of tragedy In a bookworm/pedant’s cloistered life. My father, long before that stage, Had fought in a war to save the world. Had seen before his very eyes his best friends Downed and drowned or blown to bits, Or learned that they had been captured, Tortured, and decapitated, Perhaps even literally eaten alive, By a savage enemy. The heroics of his generation gave mine A far less perilous path, For which I am grateful every day. Yet still, against all ratiocination, At the back of my throat the bile rises To sicken me When I see a plane on a runway, about to take flight Or passing, oblivious, overhead, And I wonder if those within its fragile frame Will reach their destination Or perish prematurely, like my students, Their precious promise unfulfilled. When newer learners marvel that I don’t like to fly, This is how I try to tell them why.
The SJDC Writers’ Guild leads writing workshhops throughout the academic year. Check our website and Facebook page for upcoming events. 6
My Mother Never Hit Back by Arushi Singh My mother never hit back. Not with her hands. Not a touch. She was so delicate that sand slipped through her fingers. Her touch was softer than your sweetest lullabies. Her skin so tender it’d pass right through you. Did she walk? But you saw her levitating As she floated across the bar to kiss you. My mother never hit back, her screams were never heard. Her beauty lost colour when she was touched by her own. Her lies were untainted, your truth would fall in shame. She’d tip toe across my room and they said she’d never stay. She has filled your eyes with beautiful lies. As you drink the wine off her lips. And the blood beyond her veins. No. my mother never hit back. Or so they tell me.
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A Merciless God by Ryan Strohlein Women and children, daughters and sons, None are spared hurricanes of handguns and hellfire.
Red by Kassy Menke 8
Anti-Mowgli by Omri Kadim
The train platform whereupon I stand each day Is built above a den of wolves They howl beneath my feet More bracing than the razor blades Flung by winds to score my cheeks I am readied Like a chambered bullet pointing towards the city Glass is so much more satisfying than concrete Insofar as it cracks more daringly
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To North Korea by Michael Duffett
I am ready to be ashes, ready For consciousness to be lifted from body “To return to the self without ego Or tendencies� as the Upanishads Assure us. Then it will all start again. Risen from the ashes will be that Which will not easily burn. No madman Will secure dominion over it. No clown Can win approval from trees from which No fruit can be eaten. Flowers will rule. And animals will lie down for their ears To be fondled, certain they will not be Eaten; I am ready to be ashes, Ready for consciousness to be lifted. 10
Bottom Feeders by Sam Hatch
At the edge of the pond I pause and wonder. The koi shelter in my shadow. My eyes pay tribute to their brilliant colors— Sinuous, shimmering arcs Of gold and orange, Lustrous black and silver. These bottom feeders break the surface With murky hope, Gaping mouth and dim eyes As if I might feed them on Manna instead of algae, Loaves perhaps but no fishes. I pause and wonder. What shadow looms above This bottom feeder At the edge of the pond, His mouth full of another kind of algae, His eyes dim, his hope murky.
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The Altamont by Ryan Strohlein
These rolling green waves, Hills that ebb and flow as tides, Grass drifts like water.
Sermons by Ken W. Simpson
Untrustworthy Sundays moving backwards towards eternity.
Transmission by Morvarid Ebadi 12
Waiting Room by M. Sakran
Sitting there, with a show about Alaska on TV, eating chicken fried steak, as the legs were restless, sitting on the pin, waiting for the door to open, and for death to walk in.
Dancer in Greece by Paul D. Bestolarides 13
Sunshine in a Jar by Kat Story
“What are you doing?” she asks. I slowly turn around, afraid to lay my eyes on her angelic face. She could make the ugliest expressions, and still look beautiful. “Nothing, just editing this piece of crap,” I reply. “Well, don’t let that ‘piece of crap’ ruin our plans,” she says, reminding me of the promise I made. I can’t let her down again. She’s definitely going to be fed up now. “I don’t know if we can still go, baby. I mean we can, if you want to. It might be better to wait until next weekend.” There she goes, making those faces at me. I hate the disappointment in the look she gives. I am guilty as charged. I’m that asshole. “You’re an asshole!” she screams and abruptly leaves the room. I love how she decorated this room. All white walls, subtle touches of vintage findings from our travels to Central America during our tenth anniversary escapade. I’m not even going to try and console her; when she’s mad I give her space. I am now a script doctor. I miss my glory days directing Oscar winning works and traveling the world to capture the essence of each story. I loved living in Hollywood. But when Roselyn got the part in Chicago, we relocated to New York City. She landed the lead after two auditions. “Guess what?” Roselyn asked. “I got the part! I’m Roxie!” She was so excited, words could not describe. My life as I knew it was over. My wife was going to steal my spotlight. She was going to take that shine and put it in a jar on our living room mantle for the entire world to see. I was happy that my wife finally received an acting role on her own. I was always sending scripts I read to producers and Roselyn would be up for consideration. 14
“I’ll put a good word in to casting, but she still has to audition,” Zach would say. “Yeah, I know. She really needs this one though; she still hasn’t received a call back,” I replied. “She has to be right for the part,” Zach responded. When actors audition and don’t get the call, they go into shock. After the shock wears off, the disappointment sets in, and then the determination takes over. It’s a sick mental cycle. Rejection, rejection, and maybes. Where’s the “yes”? Roselyn always kept her head up after she was notified. “Once again, I’m not what they’re looking for,” she would say. “Well, one of these days I’m going to leave Hollywood and go to New York! Hello, Broadway. You think I could make it there?” I never answered her silly questions. I didn’t want to move to New York. My life was in Hollywood. I was born here. Roselyn comes back into my office. I knew she wanted to talk. “Well,” she snaps, “are we going or what? I’m not going to sit around here all day when I could be doing something productive.” “Roselyn—then go do something productive. I’m still reading this script,” I yell. She quietly exits the room. I’m surprised she didn’t slam the door this time. I can’t stand it when she comes into my office like I’m supposed to abandon my work. When she’s in rehearsal, I never interrupt. But you promised. About an hour later I finally finish the script I have been reading. It reminds me of my life. The writer is a journalist from Burbank, the media capitol of the world. She always sends me the best stories. This story, however, seems forced. I’m positive she wrote this for me personally. One of my many discarded muses still in love. It’s about a man who, ironically, is a retired director and is now a script doctor. He gets caught up in this love square—I would call it a triangle only there’s four people involved. Anyway, the man is married to a Hollywood actress, but he’s sleeping with two other women; one woman is a lingerie model from France and the other 15
is an old flame. I can’t say that I’m having an affair with a model, but the old flame isn’t too far-fetched. I love my wife, but I want this other woman. We met on location of a film I was working on. She was the new intern, Diamond. Her mom was a fan of Elizabeth Taylor and
by Rebecka Skogh 16
Marilyn Monroe. Diamond was the best—she used to bring me Starbucks every morning on set. One morning I was in my office, and she knocked on my door. Before I could say “come in” or “go away,” there she was, standing in front of my desk with a smirk. Always ready to please me. I still regret having a relationship with an intern because her credibility is tarnished once people find out she is having an affair with the boss. Can you respect a woman if you assume she only got the job because of her extracurricular expertise and not the actual job skills? But Diamond was still worth it; she never stole my shine. “Does your wife know about me?” she would ask. “I don’t want any bad press.” I hated when Diamond asked about Roselyn. It always pissed me off. “Keep your mouth shut!” I would yell. “You need to keep it shut.” This script reminds me too much of my life. I have to call the writer and tell her it needs work. If I approve the script, my wife will find out everything, and I can’t afford to lose her. She’ll turn the kids against me. I love my kids. I get up from my desk and go into the bedroom. Roselyn is at her vanity crying. The makeup she just applied is dripping down her face. “Baby, I’m sorry. You still want to go?” She just shakes her head “no.” I knew she would change her mind about going if I waited long enough. Now I can meet with Diamond. Diamond is in town for a few nights, and I told her to meet me at the Eleven Madison Park. I had already made reservations. She loves the high ceilings and architecture, but I enjoy their wine selection. I change into lunch attire, and my wife catches on to my scheme. “Where are you going dressed like that?” she asks. “I have to meet Zach; he’s in town. So I’ll just cancel our reservation.” “Don’t cancel it,” she comes towards me and fixes my tie. “What are you hiding?” she asks. 17
“Nothing,” I reply, defeated. “Well, you owe me dinner, and it better be as good as that lamb dish,” she says. Now I think she is up to something. When I leave the apartment, I have a guilty feeling. Doesn’t everybody cheat? I call Diamond and tell her I can’t make it. The Eleven can wait. “I forgot about our date. I got busy. Raincheck?” asks Diamond. After that brief phone call, I go back home. When I enter the apartment I hear a man’s voice. The door to the master is cracked enough for me to peek inside. There is my sweet Roselyn kissing another man. Angrily, I swing the door open, catching them off guard. “What the hell, Roselyn!” I scream as she grabs the sheets to cover her breasts. “What are you doing!” she screams back as she struggles to get out of the bed. Her male friend starts putting on his clothes. “Don’t go. You can stay,” I say to him. I go to the closet and grab my revolver. “You want to screw my wife?” I ask, pointing the gun at him. My hands are shaking. I begin to hear my heart beating slowly out of my chest. Do it. My vision gets blurry, and I close my eyes as I pull the trigger. His brains decorate the walls. “Oh my God! Luther, what have you done?” Roselyn shrieks. I take the gun and push it against Roselyn’s heart. The beating gets louder and louder. Do it. After shotting my wife, I pull the diamond off her ring finger. I go to the closet and put the revolver back. I look around the closet and find one of my wife’s crafting jars. I empty the buttons and thread, and then place the diamond ring in the jar. I walk to the kitchen and rinse my face with cold water. I change into fresh clothes and then walked to the Eleven. I place the jar on the table next to my water glass. The waitress sees the jar and asks if I am proposing. I lie and say I was surprising my 18
girlfriend. “You’re a sweet man,” the waitress says. “May I take your order?” “Yes, I’ll have the lamb.” “How would you like that cooked?” she asks. “Rare—I like it still bleeding.”
Bird of Paradise by Victor Solis
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What portion is mine of the earth’s bounty? How much of the harvest may I consume? When the plate, as on my breakfast table, Is divided among my sons, how much Of the oatmeal may I ladle into My own bowl? Must their rations, as we grow, Exceed my own? Or does the lion Continue to roar? Where will we be When breath is expended? Who will sit At the head of the table, preside Over the division of the spoils and act As measurer and judge over all That is given? What portions, what measures Shall become human calculations? —
by Michael Duffett 20
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The Final Day by Dominique Diaz
“Good morning, New York City. It is currently 6 AM on this beautiful September 11th morning. Here is Steve with your morning news....” My radio alarm goes off. I sit up, pushing the blankets on top of me aside. I move my legs so my feet now touch the once white, shaggy carpet of our small apartment. I stand up, wiping the sleep out of my eyes, and stumble my way to one of the two small windows in the apartment. I reach my arms up, stretching, then take hold of the torn-up curtains. I slide them open. The sun burns my newly awakened eyes. I should have stayed in bed that day. I stare out the window, looking at the street below. The sun shines, brightening the streets of busy New York City. Cars, lined-up in the streets, attempt to go throughout the city. People cover the sidewalk, walking, sprinting, and trying to pass the other walkers on the way to their destinations. The buildings on each side seem to sprout out of the ground, towering over the people and cars like giants. Or like targets. Just such a perfect day, no clouds, no wind, a perfect day. Too perfect. A perfect day in New York City. I stand at the window just staring, watching the people below. I lose myself in my thoughts, but I do not even know what they are. My gut tries to tell me something, but I do not know what. Always listen to your gut. I snap out of it when I hear Michael’s loud snore. I loved that snore of his. I turn around, to look at him. Just to see him. I guess he needs to wake up now. Michael, my husband of about three months, snores away 23
in our bed. I head back towards the bed, just looking at him in such a deep sleep. I miss when I could sleep like that. Or even sleep. He lies there snoring, lying in a puddle of his own drool. I haven’t washed the sheets yet. I swear he can sleep through anything, so the alarm will not wake him up. That means I have to every day. I lean onto the bed with one knee, reach my arm out, touch him, and shake him. “Michael, it is time to wake up. It is…,” I look at the clock on the small dresser. “6:30.” “No,” Michael yawns. “Five more minutes, Mom. Please,” he rolls over towards the middle of the bed. Sarcastic remarks usually wake him up. “I’m like ninety-five percent sure you wouldn’t do what you did last night to your mom,” I whisper in his ear. This manages to wake him up. I laugh at his shocked face. That cute, adorable face of his. He sits up. His stretches his arms out while yawning. He looks at me, seeing me already bright-eyed and bushy tailed. He sits there in silence as I go to the closet to change real quickly. He watches me take off each piece of clothing. I can feel him eyeing me, and I enjoy every second. I miss that feeling. “Wait, why only ninety-five percent?” he asks after some thought. I put on my clothes and leave our room, laughing. I head to 24
the kitchen/living room to start a pot of coffee. The pot still sits there. Half empty. I run my hand against the wall. My fingers tips feel the ruff plaster of the bare, white walls. We
planned on putting our wedding pictures throughout that hallway. We just got this apartment, so there are no decorations up yet. Or never. We moved here from New Jersey. I remember when we first saw it. So many dreams. “But, honey, it is so small and not what we were planning,” I said after looking around the apartment. “But, honey, it’s all we can afford right now. I know it is not perfect, but we will make it work.” Michael hugged me from behind to stop my worries. “It will just be our starter home,” he responded. “We will get our own house one day. [One day] A big, beautiful house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and our very own mailbox.”
I remember thinking about how many of a dreams he had that day. All his dreams for us together, for our kids, for our future. All the dreams he had. All the wants he has for us. All the wants he had. All gone. The kitchen/living room clock reads about seven. Michael has just finished his shower. He comes out of the room with a towel around his waist. That towel still lies in the laundry basket. Water drips from his hair onto to his bare chest. He doesn’t have a six-pack, but he also doesn’t have a giant belly either, so the water just slides onto the floor. I smile just staring at him. I looked at him. I look at him. I watched him. I watch him sit down and start eating a banana. “How did I 25
by Rebecka Skogh
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Ray of Hope by Farima Qolami
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get so lucky?” I wonder. How did I get so unlucky? We have known each other since our junior year of high school. He has always been my best friend. Always. I love him with all my heart. Always. When he asked me to marry him, I lost all the words, except for one, yes. Yes, yes, I do. Forever. I do. After the wedding, it was time for our life together. We moved here. The thought of him fills my head so much that I don’t realize he has left the kitchen/living room. How could you not notice? Notice every second? I prance into the room to see him dressed. He wears a black blazer and matching pants. Hidden under the blazer, a red tie, blood red, and a plain white button-up shirt. His clothes became torn and burned. There became no trace of them. He looks dressed-up like a typical stockbroker. I have just a pair of dark blue, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt on. I have not changed. I have no reason to dress fancy, but compared to him I feel like a bum. Michael finishes the last touches of his outfit and prepares to leave our small apartment. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave. Please. We head to the kitchen/living room area together. Together. I go towards the door to grab my purse and coat nearby. As usual, Michael cannot find his brief case. No one can find it. He searches throughout the whole apartment for it. I cough after five minutes to gain his attention. Make him look longer. Stall time. Take longer. He looks toward the door to see me holding it, giving him a look. “That is why I married you.” He prances towards me, in order to grab it from my hands. Don’t let go. He kisses my cheek, my cheek, and heads out the door. 28
I look at him walking away, waiting for him to realize that he forgot his keys and coffee. Do not forget. It takes him until the end of the hall for him to realize. No take…take longer. Don’t go to work. That’s better than yesterday. No not better. He drags his feet back with a goofy smile on his face. That smile. I smile and kiss him. Our last kiss. Our final kiss. “Love you too, Honey,” I hand him his items and let the door shut behind me. Don’t let it shut. I lock the door and follow my husband’s lead out the building. Don’t let him go. We reach the busy streets, hug, and go our separate ways. Don’t let him go. Stop him. Michael works on the 101st floor of One World Trade Center for Cantor Fitzgerald. You didn’t say goodbye! Always say goodbye. We only live about fifteen minutes away, walking distance, from his work, so he should make it there before 8:30. Please don’t get there. About 8:10 right now, he’ll be fine. No, he won’t. He’s a big boy. I’m sure he can find his way. That is the last time you saw him. I turn the opposite way, towards the store. I work from home, so I mostly do all the shopping for our apartment. Our apartment. I get about three blocks away from the apartment building and realize I have forgotten my wallet at home. Don’t turn around. You don’t want to see it. Man, now I cannot mess with Michael for forgetting stuff. Not for the reason you think. Most likely I still will though. No, you won’t. I turn back towards the apartment. Don’t go back. Keep going forward. I move around the people going the opposite way. Follow them. FOLLOW THEM! These rude New Yorkers keep bumping into me. My day, ruined. Not yet. Well not ruined just, 29
side tracked. It will ruin your life. I never forget my things, but for some reason I have today. Such a terrible day. And usually I do not become as lost in my thoughts as I have today. Today differs from others. The day that changes your
life forever. I guess I got lost in my thoughts again. I have passed the apartment building. Your thoughts cause you to see it. Not by much but, still, more walking for me to do now. I look at my watch. 8:41. Five minutes. Okay, not too much off my schedule. Four minutes. I jog back towards the apartment to save time. Three minutes. While jogging, I see a cute little German Shepard puppy. “We should get a puppy,” I think to myself. Two minutes. I can see the building so close to me. One
minute. I arrive back at the apartment. “Finally,” I think to myself. I look down at my watch. Don’t look. It reads 8:46. The time. I look, in the distance, up at my husband’s building. No don’t look! I blow him a kiss and turn towards the apartment building. A loud boom echoed in the streets. Goodbye. The ground shakes. Goodbye, life. People scream and run in all directions. Goodbye, dreams. I look at the tower. Goodbye, hopes. Smoke comes from one of the floors. Goodbye. A plane hit the North Tower. Goodbye, Michael. There is no need to explain what happens after that first plane hit. Go read a history book. This story explains my husband, Michael. This story shows him as more than just a September 11th victim, but as a real person. This story explains what he did, what he wanted to do, and his life… the hours before. 30
Before he… before Michael lost… his… life. When tower one collapsed he… died. Gone. Gone too soon. We planned a life
together. We planned on having kids and a house and our own mailbox. We had dreams, but they won’t happen now. Ruined! Them all! Gone! Michael.
Blue by Kassy Menke
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Balloon Anatomy
The vital organs can be a gas or liquid. Oxygen and helium provide a lightweight structure, ideal for the inside to be hollow. Did you need space? Water shapes it in the form of a teardrop, weighing it down. Was I the weight on your shoulders? The skin is latex. Elasticity allows for growth, but there is only so much it can carry before it pops. Did I break you?
— by Erica Arquero
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THE HOURGLASS by Arushi Singh
I forgot to time it Your tip toe on a giant mine With a kiss shaped bruise Upon my back I forgot to time it So when they gawk and stare Wondering why a beaten woman Walks with the pride I’d say I forgot to time it Your beautiful misery Of fists and kicks shared like soap And guilt thrown around like a poet’s manuscript I forgot to time it Your first look of glee At a scar of enormous power That stretched across my flesh I forgot to time it So when the doctor asks me Just tell him this silly woman Forgot that biscuits come after tea
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I forgot to time it Your desperate calls and bloodied walls As I took my suitcase out While another walked in Soft rattling From Alice’s cage His laugh Muffled by my hair
Lake Sunset by Kassy Menke
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A God That Is Yours by Peter Hawley
Slender beams of light enter This darkened room as I kneel. Always silent, always alone. Frozen here. Waiting. Tortured forms wrought in panes of glass loom as Dust dances in the air. Forming an image in my mind. Searing my naked flesh. Paleness on a lover’s face. I raise my head, now embracing This callous truth.
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Star Crossed
by Isabella Calabrese I can never get to know you. Never find meaning in your eyes. Your body can never curve into me As puzzle people tend to curve. Your voice can never bring me solace. Your feet can never hold you up to face me. You and I can never share coffee. That’s all the better. Silence is for the better. We won’t tear for each other. You will never say my name Hushed, reverent, and haunted. Between us is a barricade of time. A little bit of light — A little bit of color — And a whole lot of goodbye.
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Speak by Vanessa C. Maldonado-Soto I close my eyes and see him again. He has grown older now, but his shoulders are still broad, his height still a little taller than mine by 2 inches with hair that reaches well-below his back in now-white strands. The mere memory of his hair makes my fingertips twitch at the memory of running through it. Within seconds, my cheeks flush a deep pink as I imagine him reading my mind with a teasing yet knowing grin. I miss him. I won’t forget his easy temper whenever we couldn’t adventure to the forest together or the mysterious, lust-infested glint in his eyes after he watched me strip by the river stream. I will remember everything with tears because I know, at the end of the day, he will never come back to me. Terry has been dead for over thirty years and still, I can never forget him. I chose to write about the day that changed my life because I am not much of a man of words anymore, at least verbally. After the murder, I chose to never speak again. ppp I was a child when I first met Terry. He did not make a great first impression, but he had been welcomed into my home nevertheless when my father brought him in from the orphanage. We spoke little to each other and, despite my obvious wonderment to his past, I never bothered him until I saw him “eating” a servant boy’s face. I learned from Terry, however, that he did not eat the servant’s face but kissed him, something most boys do to “greet one another.” From reading 37
by Rebecka Skogh
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books, I immediately assumed he was of a French background. Only seven at the time, Terry being ten, I began to let my curiosity run its course—I wanted to understand him. Of course, Terry didn’t particularly like a seven year old following him around. There would be times when he would leave in advance, shout at me to leave, or even curse me to hell. I had no clue why he always shielded himself away from others. My father once told me I was as stubborn as my mother. She was both bold and courageous, something I’ve always dreamt of being before becoming a scholar overtook my hopes of transforming into a charming, yet powerful man of arms. Over time, Terry realized there was no way of getting rid of me. Towards the end, he just warned me to never touch his things, especially his journal. My father seemed practically rejoiced at seeing us become closer. Being that Terry is three years my senior, my father wanted me to have a brother figure. It was no surprise that Terry began to pity me after awhile and stopped minding me anymore. On occasions, he would bring me presents (“More books for that big head of yours,” he would tease) and I would be too happy to refrain from hugging him. The day I turned thirteen, and Terry sixteen, however, we began to grow accustomed to each other’s presence...but, I? I only came to admire him further. Thinking back at the imaginary wall he built around himself, I am happy that he let me in. I never realized how he felt about me. I used to think that Terry saw me as some lonely kid looking for company...Within seconds, I let out a sigh and am suddenly reeled back into the past. I am eighteen again. I have been staring at the ground for the past hour when Terry blocks my vision. After he peels himself from the patchy grass seat he was sitting on, he moves his face four breaths away from mine. Flushed out of surprise, I shriek and jump back, falling off the tree stump I have forgotten that I have been sitting on. My arse drops hard onto the ground floor and I glare at a chuckling 39
Terry. Despite him being older, he is acting like a child. “Terry, you bloody animal!” I curse, struggling to stay angry as he bellows in louder laughter, a beautiful noise that is scarce these days. “You...you should have seen your face! Poor, Jack! You...you shrieked...like a woman! Are you sure you are a man, kid?” Now, I refuse to let myself smile. Narrowing my gaze, I stand up briskly from the ground and make my way to him as he collapses onto the ground full of hysterics. “Shut your mouth, Terry. You are not funny at all!” I order, right foot stomping onto the forest’s ground. Terry only wipes his eyes and grins, “Oh, don’t be such a worm. I’m only jesting. Peace, man. Peace.”
Peace?, I thought. My smile becomes devilish. Oh, he’ll have peace just as soon as he gets what he deserves.
Knowing Terry’s weakness fairly well, I pretend to turn away when I quickly whip around and attack him, fingers running loose all over his muscular body. Soon enough, I hear his barking laughter and can’t help laughing myself. “St-op, Sto-p it right this moment, damn you! Ja—” he laughs again. “Jack!” Who would have guessed Strong Terry could fall weak to such childish tickling. “Not until you apologize....Say it like you mean it, Terry. Apologize and I’ll stop right this second,” I threaten, serious yet humored at his now struggle for breath. “I—I am s-s-sorry! Oh, cut it. I’m sorry!” Terry apologizes in between another fit of laughter, causing me to grin wider. Though I would love to see him squirm even more, I nod my 40
head in acceptance of his apology and raise my palms slightly up to refrain from tickling him again. Terry now sighs and looks at me with the same glint in his eyes I have never understood. My legs are straddling his waist, and I only smile at him. What I do not expect is that he would return the same smile, only with a toothy grin. Terry hardly smiled with his teeth unless he planned something almost revengeful. Right away, I feel a shiver run down my back. I know I am doomed. Quickly, I try to get up and scurry away when he suddenly grabs for my wrist. In a frenzy to be released, I’m suddenly wrapped in his arms, collapsing above his chest before he flips around and has my hands pinned above my head on the field of grass. Immediately, mixed between fear and excitement, I stare up into his hazel eyes, watching as they size me up, focusing mostly on my lips and then my widening eyes. My face flushes as I remember why I thought about kissing him at that moment. The last time Terry had me pinned down like this, he kissed me hard. I knew he meant it as a mean tease, but, at that moment, I felt liberated in the idea of having those same warm lips close over mine. My heart stopped. Is this okay? My father used to say girls were the ones to “damn” a man, to cause chaos in him before he could even think about it. They were beautiful little devils (“But don’t tell your mother I said that,” he used to add) and they knew how to enchant the opposite sex well. But now, I begin to think:
Are boys able to do that to each other as well? Could Terry be the handsome devil that damns me? I was thirteen when he
first kissed me like that. I did not doubt why my feelings would rekindle and burn alight the moment he had me in the same position as before. 41
The Wild by Tamera Anderson
42
Terry does not kiss me now, however, and I notice how disappointed I feel. He simply rests his forehead against mine and says, “Don’t you ever make me weak like that again, got it?” I nod my head silently and feel him let go of me before he stands up. I stand up after him and dust off my pants. He eyes me a moment and I stick my tongue out at him to keep the atmosphere light and friendly. In return, he replies with a chuckle and reaches towards me to rest his arms over my shoulder. I do not dislike the gesture and smile despite how red my face has become. Before I knew it, I dreamt of losing my innocence to my fake brother and I knew right away that the lust and growing fondness I felt for him would continue to be permanent. ppp At the age of twenty four, I found that I disliked women sexually and in company. The ones my father exposed me to were annoyingly coy and pretended to be fragile. My father insisted I wed and bring home grandchildren, but, since meeting Terry, I never had interest in bedding anything female. Rather, I had interest in getting Terry to kiss me again. Father became tired of trying to split us apart and only settled with, “I was glad you boys are getting along, but, son, you need to separate some time. You each have lives to live, come now. Stop following your elder brother, Terry, around and give me some grandchildren!” Bleh. I stick out my tongue at the thought, forgetting I am currently in the company of Terry now. Noticing his smirk, I turn my head away and pout. I wonder what father would think if I were to tell him I love a man rather than a woman. As if on cue, Terry is already getting up from his usual grassy patch and is lifting me from the tree stomp into his strong arms. “What 43
are you thinking about, kid?” Remembering we are in the forest, covered by the rows of trees and bushes, I sigh. No one is around and in the back of my mind, I know what I want more than anything. I turn to Terry and frown, staring at him straight in the eyes as I try to ignore the mixture of green and brown twinkling in his iris. “Stop calling me kid. I’m not a child anymore! And nothing...Just my—our—father….” Terry nods despite my obvious discontent of being called a kid and decides to bring me onto his lap to sit, back onto the stump I was freshly pulled away from. “Is your father that taken in getting you wed to some frilly babe?” I almost forgot that Terry never did see my father as his own. He made it quite clear three years ago that my father, “the old man” as he called him, just clothed and supported him financially. I never did quite understand why he didn’t leave to adventure off as he once dreamed about, but, just the same, I was selfishly happy. His staying here longer meant more time we could spend together. “More than ever. He is eager to have grandchildren bouncing around on his lap,” I grumble. Terry grins. “Ah,” he says, suddenly moving his lap up and down. “Like this?” Not really in the mood to be treated as a child, I nod furiously, hoping he’ll stop using me as an example. “Yes, now please stop doing that. I am being serious. I don’t want to wed a woman...If...If anything,” I sputter, “ I would much rather marry 44
you!” Terry’s grin drops and his leg immediately stops bouncing me. He does not need to ask me to repeat myself because the silence allows my words to echo into his mind. As my heart rate increases, we meet eyes, and I see the war battling across his face, the way his eyebrows furrow whenever he is confused or plain upset. Right now, he cannot be confused...Right? “Terry…” I trail now, regretting my thoughtless confession. He does not know I love him nor the fact that I have dreamed of being with him romantically since I was a teen. Terry doesn’t say a thing and removes me from his lap, walking away as I stand flabbergasted but pitifully sorry for myself and him. I can’t follow him. Terry, if anything, must be disturbed. Covering my face, I scream at myself in the crowd of trees that surround me. Damn everything all to hell! ppp I know Terry still dreams about adventuring around the world. He used to tease me when I said I wanted to just bury myself in books rather than walk miles on end to nowhere in particular unless given cause. “You are supposed to be knowledge-hungry, aren’t you? Haven’t you ever wondered what the world is like? The people? The culture?” Terry asked me one day, his wistful thinking evident as he added how lovely it would be to experience what life has to offer. Remembering our teasings, I begin to really miss Terry. For a week, he hasn’t been around the house or me. Father 45
has tried to hide his contentment in seeing us spend some time apart, but I have refused to fall into his canny plans. I know my father, my own flesh and blood, wants to set me up with the neighbor’s daughter. I have met her before, of course, in the spring of her ball. She turned sixteen years old last fall and couldn’t stop talking about a jumble of things. The thought of wedding her already annoys me. After awhile, I grow tired of Terry’s avoidance. If he cannot meet me face to face, then I will just have to find him myself. Furiously, I scowl as I ask the servants if they have seen Terry. The guy is an old oaf and he needs to have a word or two spoken to him. By noon, my hunt for him has failed until I see the same servant boy he kissed seventeen years earlier. He has dirty blond hair, cat-like eyes and a skinny build. He is not so handsome, but his face says quite a lot in its own way. Despite how jealous I suddenly become of his eight year old self, I stop the servant boy and smile mentally at his stiff shoulders and curt nod. “Yes, young master?” he asks. I face him and cross my arms. “Have you seen Terry about? I have not seen his face at all these days. Do you know where he might be hiding?” The servant boy is too silent for my liking, so that I raise my brows and my chin slightly. “Marco? Have you or have you not seen Terry? Speak, boy, or I will tell father about your terrible service by refusing to allow me to speak to my own...brother…,” I add, catching his avoidance of eye contact. Usually not one to threaten, though, I sigh instead. I have a gut feeling that the servant is hiding Terry’s whereabouts since he refuses to meet my eyes. Then, after trying to understand his deep silence, my eyes catch why he is so uneasy. Staring hard at Marco, I size the boy up and see the hickey on the left side of his neck before he shamefully looks further away. Of all…, I 46
don’t finish the thought in my mind. “Terry told me not to tell you that he is in the stalls….He wants to be….alone….He is drinking….” Drinking, eh? So be it, that bastard will drink to his death then! Fuming, I force the boy to lead me half way, telling him to conceal the hickey as soon as possible. Upset more than anything else, I rush to where the stalls are and cannot contain myself. I look through each stall door before remembering the horse that once slept in the stall to the far right has been sold. Scowling again, I know exactly where he is hiding. Within seconds, I find Terry lying on the ground with his shirt bearing his hairy chest. No matter how much the sight pleases and delights me, I trudge on and stand by his feet. “Terry!” I bellow, watching him instantly flinch. “Just what do you think you are doing giving a hickey to a servant boy, huh? Do you think my father, or I, will forgive you for being this type of pathetic drunkard? If you feel that uncomfortable near me then be honest with it, man! Do not be a coward! I thought I knew you, fool!” Coming closer to the barely sober man, I ignore his fast intake of breath and loom over his face. “Tell me right this instant. Tell me right now you do not want to see me ever again and you want me to never be near you again. Tell me, Terry, and I will never say a thing to you again. I will not say I love you, I will never say I want to have sex with you after this! Tell me right now, and I will cease to exist in your life!” Furious, I wait for his response. He is awkwardly moving himself to properly sit down on the tiny lump of hay that is left on the ground. I watch Terry take a long while to reply before giving up and staring down at the floor. Could he really not say anything? My heart is broken. Pain shows on my face before I quickly 47
conceal the damn emotion with haughty anger. “Fine!” I shout, “Fine then! I will make the decision for you. It is obvious, is it not? I will never see your drunken, servant-kissing face again! No need to thank me. God knows how much the thought of even speaking to me again makes your skin crawl.” About ready to storm away with my back to him, I do not expect to have Terry grab my wrist. Fuming even more, my pulse races. “Unhand me, you fool! Let go of me this instant or else I am going to--” be unable to leave you alone for good...be forever trapped in your goddamn eyes...damn you! my thoughts finish as I am being tugged back towards him. Terry doesn’t leave me the chance to protest and swings me against his chest, arms locking me in a warm, tight embrace. His eyes again reflect the kind of softness that hides an emotion I could never identify, when I furiously meet his eyes. About ready to curse him, his mouth then crashes down onto mine, and I feel my lips begin to bruise from the harshness of the kiss, his tongue now trying to part my lips, eagerly awaiting battle. Punching his shoulders and chest, I begin to lose control of myself and the situation, just as Terry deepens the kiss, leaving me breathless and hungry for more. In seconds, his kiss is filling me. The first to pull away, Terry is the one who speaks despite how hard his breathing has become. “This is why I was afraid. I didn’t...I didn’t want to scare you away with my desire for you.” Shocked, I lick my lips and stare up at him with evident anger as his eyes fall to my lips again. I know just by his hazy glance how they must have looked. “Well, you sure as hell know how to hide your fear. Don’t you ever kiss that servant boy—or any other man—again, got it?” I order, now grabbing Terry’s own surprised face as I pull him back into another long, passionate kiss. He will not run from me this time. After seconds, I sadly stop the kiss and state, “Consider this your answer. You are 48
stuck with me now and you better keep liking it,” I order, resting my forehead against his as he always has done to me. Terry only grins back and crushes me back into his arms. “As the same is for you. Don’t think I’ll let you run away from me either. We’re going to be glued to each other and no frilly babe is going to give you grandchildren before I do.” The mere image makes me laugh, knowing it is physically impossible for him to personally bear a child from his stomach, but I only settle with grinning, shook my head in the crook of his neck. “You really are an old oaf, you fool,” I mutter. ppp Jack’s father does not hide his sorrow at seeing the two men together again. The same servant boy, whom Terry kissed while young, is currently being paid to spy on both Jack and Terry. “And you say there is more than simple brotherly love, boy?” the slightly grey haired man asks. The servant boy nods, but hesitantly. Impatient, the man repeats the question. “So is that a yes or no, boy? Answer me now with words. Are Jack and Terry in a sinful relationship?!” “Yes, sir. They have been hiding away near the forest lately and have already……” the servant boy trails off, suddenly flushing at seeing the young master’s bare ar— “Already what, boy? Speak up! I may look young, but I am old. My ears are straining trying to hear you. What in God’s name have they done?!” The servant boy inhales loudly before finally relaying, “They’ve already consummated their love...and not through a kiss.” 49
ppp Blast it all. Jack’s father scowls to himself, already pacing the office floor after spotting Jack and Terry walking together, an arm over the other. No matter how innocent the action looked, he is smart enough to know the difference. How else can it be explained that Jack, his own flesh and blood, refuses to marry a woman? That son of his becomes infuriated each time he brings up the subject. Being that the old man is now going to turn fifty eight, he needs to hear the laughter of his grandchildren before he passes. Terry is like a son to him, but now that both his sons are….the mere thought made the man shiver and curse. “No way in hell! I am going to make them stop this madness one way or another! God’s breath, I swear it!” ppp I sneeze, suddenly feeling a shiver run up my spine. Terry rubs his fingers over my arms and suggests we go home. “We can warm up near the fireplace, get blankets, and you can read me another book of yours in the study room.” Chuckling, I am happy at how thoughtful he is, but I shake my head and nestle into his warm, welcoming chest. After awhile, I sigh blissfully, despite a bad feeling creeping up in the back of my mind. “No, it’s fine like this. I like being alone with you, in your arms, without having to worry about that father of mine trying to pressure not just me but even you to marry. I like it like this. It’s….homey.” Terry raises his brows and repeats the word “homey” with disbelief. “Of all words, ‘homey’?” 50
I shrug my shoulders and stay in his arms with a soft smile playing across my lips. “Just because I read books doesn’t mean I will be fluent in vocabulary. I simply love to read, you oaf. Now, quiet thyself. I’m trying to think of how to properly phrase how happy I am to finally be with you.” Terry didn’t say a word, but his cheeks did pinken at once. He replies with some embarrassment and a bundle of joy: “Trust you to give me a loving heart attack with your sneaky words.” ppp For a month, I have been feeling uneasy, especially with our courting each other in secret. At one point in our “adventures,” I feel eyes on us as we go into the forest and its hidden river, near the edge of our property border. Terry does not feel the same unease, however, and says I am overworrying. Sighing, I push the thought back into my mind and begin to strip. I don’t notice that Terry has stopped when my back begins to burn as if eyes are piercing it. Turning my head to face him, my eyes clash with the color hazel and I’m struck by the mysterious, lust infested glint in his eyes. I quickly begin to kick away my clothes and dash into the water after tossing my underwear to the side. In seconds, I crash into the flat waves, already hearing the next crash of water before arms are pulling me in the opposite direction. Before I can utter a word to disengage my captor, my lips are already stolen. My hands automatically lower themselves from his broad shoulders to his stomach. The quick inhale of his breath made me freeze and before I could say anything, the smoldering atmosphere between us quickly diminishes at the sound of a familiar voice. My father. 51
“Jack! Terry! In God’s name, where in this forest are you two!” I was the first one to whip my head around as I escape Terry’s clutches, hurrying to put my clothes back on. “We’re right here, father, near the river!” My father is unhappy, especially at the idea of two men skinny dipping together, hands clasped over the other like a normal (man and woman) couple would. “So the servant boy did not lie,” he states, looking between us with disappointment. Terry is the one who decides we stop hiding. Despite trying to make him wait another month at least, we quickly discuss the consequences of waiting too much or too little before our father comes through the bushes. Terry steals my hand as Father sizes up the both of us. Thankfully, neither of us are nude, though our hair is soaked. Terry’s long, uncut locks are slightly curling at the tips from when I had grabbed them five minutes ago to pause him. “If you mean the same servant boy I kissed, yes,” Terry also states, without blinking fearfully for his life. Fuming—I can tell my father is fuming by the way his face reddens, and I suck in air. Of all things to say, I can’t believe my ears. I need to let my father know it was a long time ago. “Dad, don’t look so upset, please. I love Terry. Please...don’t separate us. I love him, I cannot marry a woman. I—” “Don’t! Don’t you dare utter those words to me! It is a sin! A sin! No man can love another man, for christ’s sakes, Jack! Haven’t your mother and I raised you right?” A knife twists itself into my chest and I stare down at the floor. 52
53
by Rebecka Skogh
I feel a comforting touch over my hands and look up to see Terry trying so hard not to beat my old man. His other hand is forming a hard knuckle. Truly, I do love him. “Both of you, ungrateful and sinners! I’ve already purified the servant boy, so you know, Terry. Your sins will no longer be spreading around this house. Thanks to that boy and his spying on the two of you, this sight is enough for me to give my verdict. I know exactly how to deal with the two of you separately. “ Suddenly grasping the whole idea, I squeak, “Please, father. Don’t!” “Terry….” My father stares him square in the face. “You are no longer welcome here. If you set foot onto this property after today, you will be killed, you hear?! As for you, Jack!” His eyes moved to me. “You will have no say whatsoever in who you will love or marry. You are now betrothed to Carla, the neighbor you so distaste. You are lucky she is infatuated with you enough to forgive your rudeness.” “Father!” I cry out. “Anything but this, please! Give mercy! Terry!” I face him in a hurry. His face is twisted sourly, but the moment our eyes meet, I see the anger and pain in his eyes. He knows there will be no chance for us. “Terry!” I cry out again, only this time his tight grasp loosens as my father pushes the man I love away from me.
Why is he not fighting? Why is he not doing a thing for us? my
heart cries out. “I thought you said nothing would get in the way, that even if I ran away, you’d make it impossible? Terry! Terry, say something, anything! You big oaf, st----.” Father didn’t let me stay long to hear the muttering under his breath or even finish my curses. 54
Damn my father, damn my gender all to hell! If I were a woman, my father would gladly marry me off to Terry! I know it even without the old man’s own cursing! ppp Three weeks without Terry has been hell. Everything has been hell. I refused to dine with my father and ignored the servant boy when he tried to bring me my dinner plate again tonight. Love sickness has made me empty-stomached and sad. Terry can’t officially be gone from my life, could he? Just as when I was thirteen, I dream of doing more than kissing him in my sleep. I dream that my father approves of us, and grants our marriage. In the dream, there are chuckling grandchildren that surprisingly resemble Terry and me. And yet, the dream brings another stab to my chest when suddenly a knock at my door wakes me up from my tortured slumber. Sighing, I get up from the comfort of my bed and swing open the door, expecting the servant boy to either beg for forgiveness or try to hand me another plate of that poisonous food. That is, until seconds later, when I realize it is not the servant boy at my door and my mouth gets covered at the same moment I am about to shout out “Terry!” in surprise. In the hallway is a handsomely-dressed man clad in black, looking as though he is ready to steal the king’s treasure. His hands stay on my mouth until he knows I will stay quiet. Nodding at his free hand trying to gesture me to stay hushed, he closes the door and I immediately wrap my arms around him, but then the memory of his lack of response from when my father separated us brings me to punch him in the face. Hardly expecting the action, I scowl at him and sharply reason, “Don’t you dare think I will let you get off the hook so easily, Ter. You 55
did not say a single word no matter what he said! You stayed quiet and let me go! You let him separate us despite your oath that nothing would tear us apart. What are you doing here, and why in the hell are you dressed in black, huh?!” I hiss with pink cheeks. Thinking a second of what to respond, Terry sighs and shakes his head, his black locks falling loose from his pony tail. “You tell me, Jack. What could I have done then, huh? If I had said something, he might have done something worse, planned it actually. Merely banning me from here is good enough. The reason why I didn’t say anything is because, if I did, he probably would have known that I would come back to take you with me to run away, like I am trying to do right now, unsuccessfully apparently. Hence, black to keep me camoflauged. Really, Jack. You doubt me that much to leave you, especially after when you confessed your love for me? No way!” Now, Terry smiles, despite rubbing his bruised cheek, making his way to me as I try hard to think of something else to fault him for. Damn him, he left me speechless. “Terry.” I search. “That still doesn’t…” “Oh shut up, for once why don’t you?” he groans, grabbing my face and pulling it close to his so that our lips meet and our bodies crush against each other. ppp “You actually believe something like this is going to work?” I question, watching the tied blankets almost touch the ground floor after tossing the sheets outside the window. “Stop doubting me, Jack. If you do not recall, I’m a dead man here, so it is probably wise if you are not debating if the sheets will hold your arse.” 56
Sticking my tongue out at him, I lightly slap Terry’s stomach before I am ordered to be the first to climb down. Once he tells me that we will be running away to another country, some place we aren’t known, I tell him to bring one of my language-translation dictionaries with us. Of course, Terry thinks it is an idiotic idea, but I refuse to go without it, particularly when it could prove to be useful. “Remember,” I tell him before climbing down, “the moment I am on the ground, throw me the book. Then you go down.” “Nice to know who is more important,” Terry answers back with a teasing smile. Chuckling, I shake my head and give him a long kiss before climbing out the window and down the tied blankets. “Devil,” I hear Terry mutter last and grin to myself wider. It doesn’t take Terry long to climb down after he tosses down the book. Before I have the chance to warn him, my father is already in front of him as the love of my life sets one foot down and whips his head around, a cocked pistol aimed at his forehead. “Don’t move, or I will blast you right now, boy,” I hear my father order menacingly. ppp My cry is muffled still as I ask my father to stop while the servant boy is whimpering on the floor after having been kicked and punched at repeatedly the hour before. From what he can already tell, my father assumed the servant purposely let him near me despite his orders to keep watch. “I got it,” Terry answered, trying to remain calm. It’s dark, but I can imagine his jaw tightening. 57
Sunday Morning by Mike Antinora
“That’s the problem. I don’t think you do. You disregarded my warning and came anyway, only to try and steal my son away. You are quite a rebel, aren’t you? I suppose all rebels must learn a lesson....Tonight, you die!” ppp I can’t breath. Terry smiles at me despite the gun aimed at his head. I want to kiss him, wrap him in my arms and protect him, yet I know even that is impossible. In some odd way, I know what Terry is trying to tell me when his eyes lock with mine in the darkness:
Don’t cry for me. I don’t regret coming back for you, Jack. I love you. Always and forever. Nothing will change this. Struggling to be released, I shout in pain and anguish as my father’s guards hold me down, tightly, and cover my mouth as the old man stands behind Terry with a dislikable expression 58
on his face. Already, the servant boy has been shot in the head twice with his tongue hacked off for not being an informant. Now, it is time for Terry’s execution, and I cannot look despite my heart crying for me to never lose sight of the man I love.
Oh god, please, please, please, I beg. Don’t take Terry from me. Please, I love this man and without him, I do not want to live! Oh God, please protect his soul! The pistol cocks again and before I can say a single muffled syllable, I see Terry bid me adieu with the love that glitters in his eyes. In his last second, everything around us is shaking. BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! Terry’s body collapses onto the floor, blood seeping from his giant body as my father repeatedly shoots at his already lifeless body. “TERRRRRY!!” I am able to scream aloud as the guards release me, tears now streaming down my face. “TERRY!” Two of the same men that helped murder Terry and the servant boy come with axes in their hands. From my father’s shouted assignment, they stand in front and in back of Terry before cutting him to pieces. “NO!” The old man tsks and waves for me to be taken away by the men who hold me by the arms. For him, I’ve learned my lesson. 59
His other two guards then make an old, shaking servant hand them a bag to put every limb of my Terry inside to throw into the forest’s water where “he belongs.” Day and night, I weep in my room. I do not care about my life anymore nor do I care about my “wife.” We were married yesterday and my father never mentioned Terry or his murder. Tears stream down my face again at the memory of it, and I refuse to speak for that very reason. His death has been all my fault. Had I not confessed my desire to marry Terry instead, he would be alive and well. Out of fake pity, my father brought me the very journal I was banned from reading, written in Terry’s penship. The last page made me an awful wreck after I had clumsily flipped through each entry dedicated to our various adventures in the forest. June 04. I could not hide our relationship anymore. I selfishly wanted to show my love for Jack in public. The forest isn’t enough for me. After I saw him naked by the riverbed, I knew I needed him, craved him. I do not regret my decision, except for being the reason behind the pained expression on his face. I did not want to hurt him. I didn’t know what I could possibly say that would not endanger our relationship and his life already. His father already knew about us from the start, made the servant boy spy on us to purify his disloyalty and pay for his service. I am furious, but I can’t do anything...yet. That is why, tonight, I plan to steal Jack away. I don’t care if it means risking my own life. I will sneak into the house at night and pretend to be the servant boy if that is how he’ll let me in. I want to see him again, explain that I did not mean to not fight for him. If his father knew my plans...there would be more distance between us, which I do not want. My Jack. I will never let him go, and he needs to remember that. I love him so much that I will do anything to see his face again, even if it means a gun will be 60
pointed to my head in the end. I do not want to pretend anymore. When everything is safe and we runaway successfully, I will ask him to marry me. I think he will not reject me. I’ve been planning this since the episode in the stalls. I need Jack. I want him to stay by my side every day until we grow old with kids running around us. That is the life I wish for us to live, if I am able to steal him away. That is the life I wish to share with him after letting him read my journal after tonight. I pray there is more from him, but, even with the empty pages, I know there is none. He wrote about first meeting me, the instant dislike he felt when I bothered him. I even read about his own dreams and the time he kissed the servant boy out of annoying desire for me, trying to picture how it would feel to have his lips pressed upon mine. Just the image alone makes my tear-covered face redden. Next, he wrote about his early aspirations in taking me away to a faraway land. Every word punctured my heart more than I should have let it, and the woman I was forced to marry did nothing but excuse herself out of our room as I continued to read the pages over and over again in her presence. I wish not to believe that we are star-crossed lovers. All that happened is not the cause of stars or the thread of destiny. It is the way in which we had the power to either have what we wanted most or never know what it was like to have it. I remember Carla’s face when she realized we had no true future together. Sworn to an oath of my own, I did not give my father grandchildren and never saw him die on his bed after accusing Terry of rising from the dead to bring him to hell with him. I did not want to remind myself of anything negative pertaining to him. The mere memory of Terry’s “no frilly babe will give you grandchildren before I do” made me think of that fading chuckle escaping his lips. ppp 61
I close my eyes and I am now sixty-seven. I can still remember him clearly. He has never cut his hair and always has a sparkle in his eyes. Even after dying, Terry’s spirit never ceases to grin and beckon me to join him in the river we used to skinny dip in. His warm gaze never leaves me as I recall the small bickering and easy laughter between us. What is more, I also remember the passionate kisses nothing could ever substitute. Feeling my breath grow ragged at the thought, I quickly take my anxiety pills and a glass of water to calm my nerves. Even at an old age, I have yet to forget my past. In my sleep, I have yet to forget Terry, who is still alive and beside me once more. As always, his arms are open to me and I am blissful again. He teases me in how childish I am acting for being selectively mute, but that does not change a thing. Since that fateful day, I have stopped speaking. I will never forget Terry’s existence stripped from this world nor will I forget his murder. For this reason, I will never speak until I have five bullet holes to my head with my body parts stuffed inside a bag to be thrown into the cool waves of the water. Surely, you understand, don’t you?
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SPLAT
by Josh Sartain I’m the color black. Obviously she is the color white because I see no darkness beneath her innocent eyes. She walks as if I paint. Soft strokes like I’m creating an original piece. Her lips curve the U shape of unconditional love that I have for her. Excuse me, I’m a genius, but I see no acknowledgement. It’s okay, don’t stress. Don’t worry. Once this art drops and splats, I will have them breath-taken, cheering my name up on stage. It’s beautiful the way I write, isn’t it? I’m orginal the way the punchline bites. Take it off. Your clothes, your mask of worries. I promise you an extraordinary night with me. Years gone by and I still have the taste of our first kiss at the tip of my tongue. Let me sketch a brief illustration of I and you. I will outline every single detail that I remember touching with blind eyes. No need for glasses. I never regretted an opportunity that passes to show you how much I shine. So be strong for me. You want an escape, a way out of your pain. Just read my art with every little piece of my heart poured out and you will feel incomplete no more. I see us, all four, which includes my fears and your insecurities. We’re all sitting around a fire burning ablaze our freedom. Now watch me splash flames on my empty canvas to show you how real it is. It’s a kick in the ass to regain the will to love before our memories vanish. All these colors surround me, yet I still see black stuck on me. I didn’t ask for this, but Heaven sent the color white to complete my artwork, like yin yang. Ask me what I think about the color spectrum, and I will answer with a question. Do you see black and white within the realm of color? All I see is SPLAT on my white piece of paper. 63
Look for Part I in this series in the Spring 2017 issue.
Bootleg Epic
by Benjamin Stroop CHARACTER LIST: COUCH (A-List) CAMERAMAN 1 (The Journey) CAMERAMAN 2 (The Hero) VOICES OF THE DEAD (Laugh Track) JULIAN RICHINGS (Acting Transport)
A sitcom. There’s a couch. A spotlight shines on the COUCH for contractual reasons. On either end of the spotlight in the Styx River, two cameramen sit on low stools, talking about their aspirations. One camerman is facing downstage, the other is facing upstage and wearing a plumed helmet. CAMERAMAN 1. (Downstage). I’ve been talking of lovely nights for an eternity. (Laugh track is played. 1 rises from seat to scrutinize 2) I wonder between the two of us…where this printed page goes? Guten Tag! (Away from 2) I get a mime or an axe to talk to. (The lights go on. 2 shifts in seat uncomfortably. 1 speaks to the audience.) What are lovely nights anyway? (Gesturing to 2) I interject this hero. Am I the villain? Heroes are preventatives, but villains are similar in narrative-thrust. Just their actions are incongruous with the world. But what world is this? (Returning to seat) A fact moves space. I made it in the world great an—
CAMERAMAN 2. –Quiet! (The lights go off except the spotlight on COUCH. 2 turns in seat to face a shocked 1.) Have you any self-respect heathen? By my troth, marry, in–, in–, mmmindeed, you’re an animalcule! (Laugh track is played) CAMERAMAN 1. (Clears throat) Anything—
CAMERAMAN 2. –I have a psychological condition!
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CAMERAMAN 1. (Clears throat) The elegiac epic speaks. May I ask what your psychological condition may be? CAMERAMAN 2. No.
CAMERAMAN 1. Is it clinical?
CAMERAMAN 2. I plead the fifth. CAMERAMAN 1. Hoity-toity.
CAMERAMAN 2. I’m a little quiet—
CAMERAMAN 1. –Fit in my hand quiet? A guppy is more the humanizer than you, kid.
CAMERAMAN 2. Not just quiet. I have selective mutism. My mentor/love-interest/social worker diagnosed so. It was my guppy, Amis. (A coin drops near 2.) CAMERAMAN 1. My word! Someone remembers you, kid. CAMERAMAN 2. What does it mean?
CAMERAMAN 1. You just earned a transport by the name of Julian Richings. Charon is his understudy. CAMERAMAN 2. Anything for you?
CAMERAMAN 1. I–I don’t have a name…I’m…I always wanted to be a film student. Follow Marty Scorsese.
CAMERAMAN 2. Well. Where’s your camera? (1 points to the audience.) Will you be able to apply? CAMERAMAN 1. (A crumpled paper falls next to 1. He reads it, approaching 2.) To guppy it may concern: “Video footage of staged plays or theatrical performances is not acceptable.” (Returning to seat) NYU Film & Television. CAMERAMAN 2. It’s not all bad. I always wanted to tell someone about my memoir prospects. CAMERAMAN 1. Yeah? (Laugh track is played) CAMERAMAN 1 & 2. (Both pause)
CAMERAMAN 1. (Sits next to 2) Do you seek some kind of 65
assistance?
CAMERAMAN 2. Well, I could use some oversight over the prose of my introduction—
CAMERAMAN 1. –Enough about that, oh here (hands the paper to 2), start somewhere. Wherever you’re going— CAMERAMAN 2. –Do you want a job?
CAMERAMAN 1. Yes! That’s exactly it. I want to be— CAMERAMAN 2. –Love interest.
CAMERAMAN 1. No! Mentor—I want to be your mentor! CAMERAMAN 2. Social worker? I’m in dire need of one. CAMERAMAN 1. Mentor–social worker, fine, whatever.
CAMERAMAN 2. Now be utmost prepared for the deadliest— (JULIAN RICHINGS arises singing “Volare” from the house and travels to the stage while pretending to paddle a boat.)
JULIAN RICHINGS. –Volare, oh, oh! Cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh! Nel blu, dipinto di blu. Felice di starre lassu… (Continues with the song until 2 clears throat) CAMERAMAN 2. (Clears throat) I spot a walk-on approaching. CAMERAMAN 1. Julian Richings? (Lights go on)
JULIAN RICHINGS. Anyone present for a lovely night in Hades? (Laugh track is played.)
BLACKOUT
PROPS: COIN PIECE OF PAPER
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Day Dreams by Paul D. Bestolarides
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The Hardening by Anum Kamran Sattar Poor I, who in unceasingly sighing for your love sprouted my bright, iridescent flowers to mimic the female wasps that you dote upon and lure you onto my three lobed lip. And though you denounce me as a mere orchid, a cunning mistress of deceit who does not even possess the sugary nectar to feed you, my little sexually starved bee, I do entrust myself to you to preserve my tender body from the swarm of aphids, but resent you for plying me with lacquer and dipping me into molten gold for the true bloom of my petals has vanished and the fragrance from my mouth grows faint. *Also published in The Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry.
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Society’s Copyright by Yasmine Robinson
She is society’s copyright She is its finest blueprint It is the government to her soul And she never even knew it They take her And taint her Put makeup on her and paint her Fifty shades of fake And I know….I know half these girls out here can relate Maskin’ what’s on the inside But in reality Actually, the real her has now died Her body was the victim And society was the killer They put the barrel to her dome Said close your eyes, it’ll feel good And they pulled the trigger Now her body lays slave to some broke down nigga Who puts it through her brain that she’ll never be nothin’ bigger than a Back door ho He cleanses her mind with toxins So that her intellectuality never shows He controls and manipulates her until her heart no longer grows 69
He turns a fast pulsing organ into something bitter, black and cold She is society’s copyright But you’d never know she stays up late at night Looking in the mirror ‘til she makes believe That she sees what she really wanna see She is society’s copyright And she never fails to let society tell her What she is meant to be She is society’s possession It feeds and preys upon her Society is her biggest oppression She is every stereotype you can think of Black girl won’t amount to nothing when she grows up, will never be loved Raped by father and on drugs SOCIETY, is her world Without it she’d be dust It’s taught her that, why have love when you can have lust Why make friends when there’s no one out there to trust Taught her that to fit in, hookah, vapin’ and weed is a must She is society’s copyright She is its finest blueprint It is the government to her soul and she never even knew it She walked amongst the crowd blindsided But she still got through it 70
Contributors Tamera Anderson: I have always enjoyed expressing my creativity in many ways. Discovering canvas painting opened up a whole other avenue of creativity. Mike Antinora Erica Arquero may not be a Spanish archer, but she is a sonography major who enjoys short walks to her kitchen. Paul D. Bestolarides is an adjunct professor in the RTV program and selftaught photographer, who experiments with image manipulation to romanticize his subjects. Isabella Calabrese Dominique Diaz: This is her second time being published, the first being in Artifact Nouveau 3.1. She has since discovered a love of hockey, but overall she still writes, goes to school, and does theater. Michael Duffett was born in London, educated in Cambridge and has published poems internationally for the past fifty years. Morvarid Ebadi: Born in Tehran, Iran, Morvarid is a News Photography studnet. He won 3rd place at the Photography Festival of Tehran and has been published in Blue Mesa Review. He is a member of Paradise Ocean Literary & Photography Team, with management by Seyed Morteza Hamidzadeh. Allen Forrest is a writer and graphic artist for literary publications, the winner of the Leslie Jacoby Honor for Art at San Jose State University’s Reed Magazine, and whose Bel Red landscape paintings are part of the Bellevue College Foundation’s permanent art collection. Sam Hatch: A long-time high school and college English teacher, Sam Hatch was born and reared in the Lodi-Stockton area and has been trying his hand at poetry for the last fifty years. Peter Hawley: A college student who just hopes to write a good book or two. Phil Hutcheon
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Omri Kadim is a British-born, Israeli writer, actor and artist currently based in New York City, where he runs a theatre company and produces and performs in original work as well as adaptations. Vanessa C. Maldonado-Soto writes to express what is hard to verbally explain. Kassy Menke is a graduate of SJDC and CSU Northridge. She loves acting, writing, and photography. Farima Qolami: Born in Qazvin, Iran, she earned a BA in Graphics at Technical University of Vali’asr. Her work placed in the 32nd Cultural and Art Festival in Iran. She is a member of Paradise Ocean Literary & Photography Team, with management by Seyed Morteza Hamidzadeh. Yasmine Robinson M. Sakran is the author of a collection of poetry entitled First Try, a self- published eBook of poems with explanations called Understanding: Poems with Explanations, and a number of items for magazines and websites. M. Sakran’s poetry-related blog can be found at msakran.wordpress.com, and his website can be found at msakran.com. Josh Sartain: I am grateful to be published for the second time in Artifact Nouveau. It won’t be the last, so keep a look out for me name. Anum Kamran Sattar Ken W. Simpson: An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) in January 2016. He lives at Lysterfield, a Melbourne suburb, in the state of Victoria. Arushi Singh Rebecka Skogh Victor Solis: Art can also be found in science. Kat Story Ryan Strohlein Benjamin Stroop Natalie Watkins
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Get Published in Poets’ Espresso Review Patricia Ann Mayorga invites submissions to Poets’ Espresso Review to be mailed to Patricia Mayorga at 1474 Pelem Ct., Stockton, CA 95203 or emailed to poetsespressoreview@gmail.com. Free submissions can include poetry, artwork, and photography. All material must be appropriate for most age groups. A two to four line biography is required. Please include a photograph if possible, a return address, phone number and email address.
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San Joaquin Delta College Get Published in Artifact Nouveau Artifact Nouveau is a magazine of works by students, faculty, alumni, and employees of San Joaquin Delta College published by the SJDC Writers’ Guild. Works by writers and artists unaffiliated with Delta College may be selected for publication for up to 40% of the overall content. We accept literary and visual art submissions year round. All genres and mediums are welcome. Submit to artifactsjdc@gmail.com. Literary Submissions • Poem Length May Vary (limit 5 submissions) • Short Stories and Essays: Max 1500 Words (limit 2 submissions) Visual Submissions • Colored/Black and White • JPG Format at 300 DPI • limit 10 submissions
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Hands of God by Morvarid Ebadi 74
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