ARTIFACT NOUVEAUA New Beginning

S P R I N G 2 0 1 5 V O L U M E 1 I S S U E 2

A Writers’ Guild Publication

Please Take One

ARTIFACT NOUVEAUVolume 1 Issue 2

BREANNA HILDEBRAND—Editor-in-Chief SUMMER MIGLIORI—Co-EditorAGUSTIN RIOS, JR.—Co-EditorERIC RAMOS—Co-EditorSARAH ANTINORA—Faculty AdvisorCover Art: Spiral by Michael Antinora

Artifact Nouveau is 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.

Artifact Nouveau copyright remains with respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. ©2015

SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE

Superintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy Hart

Board of TrusteesPresident: Steve Castellanos, FAIAVice President: Claudia MorenoClerk: Janet RiveraStudent Trustee: Alejandro GomezDr. Teresa BrownCatherine Mathis, M.D.C. Jennet StebbinsRichard Vasquez

A Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

Welcome Readers!

Another semester has rolled by, and with it comes another issue of Artifact Nouveau! This is the second issue of Artifact Nouveau created by the new staff and officers of the Writers’ Guild. The rough challenge of creating the first issue has given us the experience we needed to create this amazing issue. We are still aiming to bring a new twist to Artifact while main-taining its original integrity and purpose. In this issue, we’ve included artwork from alumni featured in this year’s Horton Gallery Alumni Show. I’d like to thank these amazing artists for their continuing support and contribution to Delta. We are honored to include there work in this issue.

With this new semester came a growing group of students who are kindling the fire of the old flame of Artifact. I’m happy to say that more and more students are joining the Writers’ Guild, making it a new and exciting environment! The Writers’ Guild has recently re-introduced writing workshops led by professors such as Mary Blackford, Phil Hutcheon, and Paula Deboard. These workshops range from topics such as the effective use of dialogue to the harsh reality of publishing work. I have thoroughly enjoyed every workshop and have gained knowledge and a little more courage to read my work aloud. We are happy to see new faces, and hope to have you join us in our journey on this new beginning.

Sincerely,Breanna Hildebrand

Thank you to all the contributing authors and artists who comprise our spring issue. The Writers’ Guild is incredibly grateful for the hard work of Maggie Anderson; Myles Salas; and Patricia Mayorga, editor of Poets’ Espresso Review. We especially want to thank those who are leading the spring semester writing workshops: Mary Blackford, Phil Hutcheon, Paula DeBoard, June Gillam, and Anna T. Villegas.

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 15% 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 10 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

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.

ADVERTISE IN ARTIFACT NOUVEAUOutside Back Cover: $300

Full Page Inside: $100Half Page Inside: $75

Quarter Page Inside: $50

Send inquiries to artifactsjdc@gmail.com

Table of ContentsIntersection By Breanna Hildebrand ..................................................7

Cynosure By m.e. anderson ..............................................................11

My Closet, Myself By Patricia Mayorga ......................................................12

Coming OutBy Brianna Webb ..............................................................13

The Box By Myles Salas .................................................................17

A Poet’s Collection By Michael Duffett .......................................................19

I’m Back, Bertie By Peter Hawley...............................................................21

Every Rose Has Its ThornBy Tabatha Melin.............................................................25

Billionaire CEO, Dudley Herringbone Has A Warning For JesusBy Sam Hatch.....................................................................27

God Bless Melville Dewey By Sam Hatch ....................................................................29

The Magic Tree By Celine Rose Mariotti ...............................................31

Hello By Johnny Hem ..................................................................32

“The Blind Leading The Blind” By Greg Martin, Jr ..........................................................33

My Musical FriendBy Ivan Corona ................................................................35

A Book in Review: Part IIBy Agustin Rios, Jr. .........................................................37

Horton Gallery Alumni Show

The L.H. Horton Jr. Gallery featured six Delta College alumni in early spring 2015. We are proud to feature one

piece from each of the artists here.

Carlos PérezSJDC Alumni (1970-72)San Jose, CaliforniaHomage to Delores Huertagiclée prints on archival paper (22” x 15.5”)Archival Print © 2015

Bill AbrightSJDC Alumni (1968-70)San Anselmo, CaliforniaPotterceramic and acrylic (17” x 9” x 15”)2014

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Tracey SnellingSJDC Alumni (1988-90)Oakland, CaliforniaDanger Mountainwood, paint, lights, electroluminescent wire, fake landscaping and water, LCD screen, media player, speakers, transformer (36” x 28” x 22”)2013

Michael LuceroSJDC Alumni (1970-72)Signal Mountain, TenneseeTeapot with Flowers and Eyesclay with glazes (15” x 13” x 8”)2009

We are also pleased to feature John Yayogi Fortes’s The Six Stupid Remarks that Got You Slapped in the Face (2015) on the back cover and David L. Phelps’s Pastoral Dreamer (2003) on page 20.

6

It was the light. That stupid fucking light. Who would’ve known it would have been the light? I was driving home— mad, of course, because he said something stupid. He said something stupid because he’s an asshole. I was driving home angry from his dark hole of an apartment when I pulled up to that stupid light. Yeah, the one that doesn’t change for hours, probably just to spite me. So, I’m sitting there staring at that blurred light through my tears. And sure enough, the tears are ruining my makeup, smearing black gunk all over my face and stinging my cornea. Anyways, I’m fed up with that stupid light. I just want to be home, so I look both ways, politely of course, and decide to run the dumb thing. That’s when it hit me. A massive truck with a huge grill that squished my passen-ger’s side like it was just another fly on its windshield. And what’s the first thing I think of? Do you think it was my life flashing before my eyes? A bright light? Did I begin to ask the Lord, Our Savior, for forgiveness? No—toes. Fucking toes. Toes were the first thing that popped into my head while I was getting sideswiped by a massive truck. I’m not exactly sure why, but everything just started slowing down. I couldn’t hear anything, but I got a clear image of a toe. My toe to be specific. And his soft hands gently massaging my feet. I saw my legs intertwined with his in a perfect little serene picture. I saw his smile, and his eyes, those stupidly cute little lines on his neck. I saw his fingertips—long and slender like those of an artist’s—gently tracing my temples. The glass from my passenger’s window shattered and small shards tore my flesh. Ripples of blood fell across my face right along the path I felt him trace with his fingers.

Intersectionby breanna hildebrand

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The impact shoved my head into the side of my window and the blow to the head made everything feel familiar, like I had been here before—some distant feeling of comfort. Just like the smell of his house and the warmth of his arms wrapped around me. The feeling overwhelmed me and, with the wind rushing across me, the anger I felt disappeared. In its place was comfort. Familiarity. My seatbelt tightened and I lost my breath. That tightening in my heart, suffocating my chest, digging into my stomach reminded me of every time I’ve felt the same before—those cute little moments when I felt the pain of being in love. The way I couldn’t breathe for a second when he smiled at the things I said or when I heard his voice whisper in my ear. The first time I saw him walking towards me. Now, all I can see through the shattered glass window in front of me is the street slowly turning on its side. The simple, but beautiful streetlights, once strong and stable, now slowly falling. The small bushes and plants that are so easily ignored when driving past, now monuments marking the end of me. All of the familiar things that I glanced at as I left his apartment so many times before, all of those things tilting and slowly drifting away. I wish I would have noticed them before. I beg them to return upright. I cry for them to stop moving so far away and just stay still—I swear I’ll notice them next time. I thought of the way his eyebrows raised slightly when he smiled at the weird things I said. His crooked teeth and the uneven growth of his black beard are suddenly so apparent. I can’t forget his long eyelashes batting and covering his brown eyes. I feel my body lift out of my seat and I’m suspended—waiting for an impact. The same way I felt all of those times when I waited for him to say something after I mumbled my deepest secrets. I feel weightless. Then suddenly, my car hits the ground and everything flies around me. A reaction to the impact. My possessions scattered in my car and spilled out into the street. The things that were once just mine now spewed about for everyone to see. The vibration of the car’s final embrace with the pavement echoes like the slam of the door as I left.

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A dizzying view of the street is all I see as I’m finally thrown down. The pavement is hot underneath me. Warm blood seeps out around me, and I’m numb everywhere, but there’s still a distant pain, like a rug burn, stinging my entire body. There are shards of glass everywhere, and I hear them crush even more as the truck slowly backs out, then speeds off. I can only think of him turning around and walking away. And now I can’t breathe. I’m lying on my side, wedged in between my steering wheel and window, trying my hardest to catch my breath. What I think of is all the times he said things that caught me off guard—things he knew I never wanted to hear, but continued to spit at me like venom stinging an already bleeding wound. The jerking motion of my seatbelt holding me back must have caused me to bite my lip. Hard. Because blood spews into my mouth—a sticky, thick substance that tastes like iron, and all I can think of are the things I told him that I instantly regret. The anger that filled his eyes and the desperation that filled mine. I chased those words away, trying to push them out of the door before he noticed like an uninvited guest. I remember calling his name, begging for him to turn around, but he never looked back. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t think. I take it all back. I can see my phone now. It’s lying right beside me. The cracked front lights up and his face is on the screen, calling me. I try my hardest to reach for it, but my body is paralyzed. All I can do is lie here, bloody and broken, and wait for someone to save me.

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Entrance Is Barred by Angela Bardot

10

She often queStionedWhether i thought her to be beautiful.it WaS a fooliSh queStion.of courSe She WaS.

“i did chooSe you,”i’d tell her.“and i find you to be beautiful.”but Such WordS Were never enough.

“to me, you are lovelierthan the Sunburnt leaveS in autumncoloring the StreetS With the gloWof red, pink, and yelloW.

“you are more Strikingthan that place in venezuelaWhere the lightning StrikeSfor 1,600 hourS a year.

“you are more tantalizingthan a filet mignon SteakthroWn into the denof a hungry lion.”

perhapS theSe WordS Were good enoughto provide her temporary comfort.but She Would turn her head and laugh,“you have alWayS had a Way With WordS.”

Cynosureby m.e. anderson

11

Loosely hung dresses draped from faded timesget pushed asidethere, in the dark of a lost corner.The box, a cryptic keeperforgotten lair frayed pieces of myselfhidden.Old photographs of peopleslip from an envelope, forgotten.Bent smiles from long-haired boyswhose names I have to think about,remind me of free spirited timeswhere Saturdays were saved for kite flying.Photos of lovers and brothersin camouflaged fatiguesshouldering straps decoratedin bullets of the timeand their straight smilesdisclose a fear of uncertainty, loneliness;Those boys of my lifewho became men.And dog tags meant something differentthan what I now engrave fluffy love names to.

A beaded purse with a rustic snapthe casket to the three leggedpeace hanging limp from a leatheredaxiom; such irony.I clutch its dream in my seasoned hand,my heart pains for its loss.Dried fragrances, dusting edgespetals of youth once pinnedon a small shoulder strapof a dress that had to be pinkworn once with shoes too tightthrown off under a tablefreeing opportunity to grace the floorin rebellious motionsprovoking disapproving nodsfrom prudent damsels.A tattered journalscrawls of reticencemeant for sole eyes — mine;I nudge the secrets of a time long agopast long faded garments to the cornerof hibernating truths.

My Closet, Myselfby Patricia Mayorga

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My life, up until this point, has been a lie. I tried to fight it, I tried to hide, but this was something that was inherent in me, something that I was born with. Everyone says, “Oh, it’s a choice,” or, “She’ll grow out of it, you just have to give her some time,” but I am living proof that both of these statements aren’t true. I was finally beginning to understand what I am. After years of just trying to avoid it all together, I decided it was time to start being honest with not only myself, but with my friends and family as well. I knew that before I opened up to others, I needed to cope with this, but it was just so difficult. And now, standing in front of my bedroom mirror with a stranger looking back at me posing a confused stare, I was at a loss. Growing up with a childhood of being so concerned with how I appeared to others, I really began to resent having to put up such facades. Wearing the “proper” masks just to please others was exhausting, and it got me to thinking, why should I care what anyone thinks, as long as I’m happy with myself? Originally, I just pretended it wasn’t there. I eventually just started telling myself that if I could make the right sacrifices, such as happiness and truth to myself, I could end up back on the “proper” path. It was easy enough for the Aztecs, and it seemed my sacrifice was just a small price to pay. A life without passion was definitely not something that I had envisioned for myself. The thought consumed me, both physi-cally and emotionally; it became a darkness that I couldn’t seem to bring to light. After the denial, I decided the only way to be truly happy was to follow my bliss, accept who I am, embrace my passions, and thrive in my lifestyle. This realization was where I gained the courage to come out to my parents. The amount of time I spent in front of my mirror trying to recognize my newly-discovered self was a lot more than I would be comfortable admitting. In my head, as well as out-loud, I practiced different situations of how the conversation with my parents could go. It took me a while, but eventually I gained the courage to face them. I heard the front door close, and with that I left my room to head downstairs. With every downward step my anticipation built up, so much

Coming Outby Brianna Webb

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so that when I reached the final step, I thought I might explode. My parents had just decided to pick up a pizza for dinner, since they were both so exhausted from having such a long day at work. As my mom took off her blazer and my dad loosened his tie, I knew I had no choice but to be honest. Growing up in a family of business people, I had spent countless days witnessing the aftermath of a hard and unhappy day at work. My mom was a supervisor, and my dad a banker, so both of them had stressful days where all they wanted was to come home and go to sleep. Early on in my childhood, I decided that I didn’t want my life to be a tedious chore as my parents’ appeared to be. I wanted to live a life of happiness and passion, which solidified why I needed to do this. As effortless as our Monday pizza night seemed, I knew the news I was about to break would be difficult for my parents to swallow. After 30 minutes of random dinner conversation and with my anticipation build-ing more and more, I finally spoke up and said, “Guys, I have something that I really need to talk to you about.” The curiosity and concern that flashed across their faces did nothing but further my anxiety. “I know this is untraditional, and probably not what you envisioned for me, but I’m tired of hiding and it’s time to be honest. I’m…going to major in English.” As soon as the words left my mouth, the dining room was dead silent. Although the silence was miserable while it lasted, it was what I wished for once the interrogation began. “Oh, and just how exactly are you planning on supporting yourself? You know we can’t pay for everything for your entire life.” “What do you even do with a degree in English?” As I was bombarded with questions, I had an epiphany. All of these things that my parents were asking me were completely irrelevant. Their main focus was money and how my decision would reflect on them as parents, and how it would look to others, but my main focus is happiness. Money and status were important to my parents. The proper sacrifice in their eyes was to cut off happiness, only to have money pour out from the wounds. This is where my parents and I clashed. In my opin-ion, happiness is the most important part of anyone’s life, and if you’re not doing what makes you happy, then everything else is for nothing. Some-thing that I realized through this experience was the harder I try to fight something, the more I succumb to it. I tried to deny my passion, but as hard as I fought, the more I truly wanted this for myself. I may not have

14

California Spur by Michael Antinora

15

all of the answers right now, I may end up in a tiny apartment, living off of Top Ramen and mac and cheese, and I’m going to be happy as hell doing it. The only response I could muster up was, “I’ll figure it out.” A look of genuine concern flashed across their faces, and both just stared at me with uncertainty. This was exactly what I feared; I love my parents, I don’t ever want to disappoint them, but I couldn’t sacrifice myself in the meantime. Once the silence became unbearable, I finally said, “Listen, I know you guys want the best for me, and are just looking out for me. But this is what I love, and this is what I can see myself doing for the rest of my life. I might not end up being the richest person in the world, but I sure will be the happiest. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted for me, but I can’t even imagine my life doing anything else.” I didn’t realize it at first, but I seemed to have said the right things. My mom finally looked up from her plate and said, “Sweetie, we want the best for you, you know that. We want you to be comfortable and able to provide for yourself and your future family. This will be very difficult for you—long nights and little pay. But it seems you have thought this entire decision out and have accepted it, so I don’t see why we can’t either.” Just by the reaction on my dad’s face I could see he wasn’t exactly accepting of the decision just yet, but I figured he would get there eventually. I wasn’t going to change my mind, regardless of their reactions, but it still felt pretty great to know that they were beginning to see my thought-process, and that they were at least a little understanding of my decision. It took a lot for me to make the decision to tell my parents about my major. The pressures that come from living in a house of successful business people are very high, but it was worth it. As scary as it was, I am now out of the closet, a declared English major, pen in hand, ready to conquer the world.

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A POET’s COllECTION

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A DYING MAN TO HIS NURSESYou surround my bed with eager hopeThat I may recover or die decently.I look into your eyes and few of youLook back, most of you preferring to lookAt my feet which soon may be uncoveredTo hold the toe tag firmly to proclaimIts unequivocal meaning that will showThe end of all inconclusive waiting.You leave at night to your variousCelebrations of life, with husbands,Children, lovers and perhaps a grandpaOld or older than me to remind youOf the return in the morningTo the indecisions of life or not.

TANTA DISFATA*Gossip stains the glory of existence,Of life, the gift that God has given usWhereby we can get back to him; to spendIt otherwise is to waste it and most doWho fail to conquer the tongue, that viperOf the body that poisons the mind.To use it in any other way thanIn examination of the journeyBack to him is to misuse the languageThat we are blessed with, reason and speech thatDistinguish us from the rest of allCreation, that give us the gloryOf Homer and Dante and all poetsWho practice silence at the lure of gossip.* “So Many Undone” from Dante’s Inferno

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ARTIFACTArtifacts last longer than artificers.That last word I remember from my youth.It is a rank in the Royal NavyAround which my childhood is structured:Naval policeman father, submarineOfficer brother, and even IServed as a cadet, skippering humbleCutters and piloting tugboats (the latterDecidedly less than military).These days, I too am decidedlyLess than military but I like to thinkThat, as an artificer of poems,I have been promoted beyond cadetAnd travel depths below beloved brother.

WHALE ISLANDWhale Island was the name of the placeWhere my brother learned to enter and surviveSubmarine depths. I loved him but he did notJoin me in entering depths of differentWaters. He was a blunt and bluff navalOfficer who gave his men confidenceTo navigate waters unafraid while heWas inwardly uncertain of the depthsI plumbed. “Too deep for me, Michael,” he wouldGrumble as I hesitantly handed him My poems and he took another drink.He was popular in the wardroomAnd when he took me there, he did notHave to tell me to keep my whale mouth shut.

by MIChAEl DUFFETT

“Hey,” she said slowly, “you know I love you, right?” “Of course,” he laughed, “you know you don’t have to point it out every time we meet, right?” “Well, I just want to remind you is all.”She then reached into her pack, pulling out a golden box. “Here, I made this for you. Don’t look inside until you get home. Or, at least until you get into your parent’s car.” On the ride home he opened the golden box. Inside he found multiple pieces of paper. All covered in bright highlighter writing, all about him. She wrote every single thing she loved about him. He was touched. He knew she loved him, not a single doubt in his mind. They talked for hours over their cell phones, discussing many aspects of life. He felt her love through the phone, through the words they exchanged. He felt her love through the gifts she made and the food she’d buy him. In the golden box, containing one photo alongside multiple pieces of paper, the golden box she hand-crafted: he felt love.

The Boxby Myles Salas

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Pastoral Dreamer by David L. Phelps (2003)SJDC Alumni (1974-76)

Oklahoma City, OklahomaBronze (13” x 43” x 24”)

Everything was euphoric, beyond perfect. Until he found the truth: that lies deceived him. All was one giant lie. He looked at a brown box, underneath a heap of dirty laundry laying on the floor. He didn’t feel anything. It wasn’t the same box. Where did the box come from? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. The box is now one with the atmosphere. And soon, he will be too.

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I’m Back, Bertieby Peter Hawley

1988

“Good Lord! Peggy Sue, is that you?!” Bertie doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. He grabs hold of my arm and pulls me into the butcher shop. He flings his arms around me in an embrace, but I just stand there, stiff as a statue. “Peggy Sue, where have you been? I wanted to write to you but…” “But you’ve been dating May and forgot about me,” I interrupt. Bertie looks at me in shock. “What are you on about?” “May’s your new sweetheart,” I answer glumly. To my surprise he bursts out laughing. “Oh god no! May is sweet enough, but she’s incredibly ugly, nothing on my little blue-eyed Peggy Sue,” he says, pushing a strand of hair behind my shoulder and I feel my heart lift. “But she said you were going to marry her!” “I was only joking! Do you really want me to be your sweetheart?” He asks earnestly. I nod until my head feels like it will come off and his whole face lights up. I find my own face smiling uncontrollably. I hug Bertie and can’t help noticing that my heart feels lighter when he hugs me back.

1994

“We’re closed you know. We can’t have someone who doesn’t work here in until we’ve opened.” The deep voice of Jarvis the butcher, Bertie’s boss, makes me jump back in shock. Bertie turns bright red and mumbles an apology before walking out to the street, pulling me with him. He keeps walking down the road until the red ebbs away from his cheeks. “Sorry about that,” he says, staring at his feet, and I can’t help giggling. A grin spreads across his face and the awkwardness disappears again. “So where have you been?” “I went down to the beach. I met a kind family and stayed with my mama.” My breath catches and Bertie strokes my cheek comfortingly. “I guess we’re both married now. Still making our own way, still together,” he whispers

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softly. Then he suddenly pulls his hand away and locks his eyes to mine. “You know you said you want me to be your sweetheart?” I look at him questioningly and he carries on. “What about that guy, Jim?” “I don’t know about Jim. I haven’t written to him since that postcard I sent to you. I sent him the same one.” “But do you still want him to be your sweetheart?” I shake my head solemnly and take his hands in mine. “Just you, Bertie.” And with that he hugs me hard.

1996

“So where are you staying now?” Bertie asks me once I’ve finished tell-ing him all about the time I had with Jim. The question stumps me and I pass the time by playing with the dust around me. We’re back at the butcher’s, but we stay on the doorstep instead of inside. “Where are you staying?” he asks again. I just shrug. “Well, don’t you think we should find a place?” I shrug again. I don’t want to be a servant again, especially not for any of the posh people in town. Bertie senses this and takes my hand. “I could talk to Jarvis and see if he will let you stay here for a few days if you like?” “I don’t think he would let me,” I reply sadly. “He might,” he presses. “Let me go and ask him. You stay here,” he says and runs inside before I can object. Jarvis has one of those loud voices that car-ries through walls easily, so I can hear everything he says. “This isn’t a hotel!” he yells and I worry that Bertie will get in trouble. I hear the loud thud of his shoes hitting against the concrete floor and Bertie’s quicker, lighter steps following. After a moment or two, Jarvis’ voice rumbles through, indistinct. There is another moment of silence and then Bertie skips out, smiling. “Jarvis said you can sleep here as long as you are out by half past six,” he tells me excitedly, taking my hand and my suitcase and pulling me inside. “Jarvis has just gone to tell the others that they have to stay together so you can have a room.” “They don’t have to move. I can sleep anywhere. Once, I was forced to sleep on a bare floor in a cold attic!” I tell him. Bertie looks at me in shock. “Who made you do that?” “My mother. She had guests over one time and the only space left was in the attic,” I tell him solemnly. He still looks shocked, but he keeps it under control. “Well, your cruel mother isn’t here, Peggy Sue, and we’re not forcing you to sleep on a cold, hard attic floor,” he tells me, dragging me upstairs. Fortunately, the disgusting smell

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of raw meat becomes fainter as we progress further upstairs until I can’t smell it at all. Bertie stops suddenly in front of a shabby door. “I’m sorry it’s not much, but I didn’t want you out on the streets,” he apologizes, not quite able to look me in the eyes. I smile at him gratefully and he returns it before turning to face the door. He reaches one hand towards the handle when it flies open and his co-worker, Samuel, stands in the doorway, shaking with suppressed anger. I can’t help but take a few shaky steps back, ready to run down the stairs. Bertie’s hand finds mine, and clings on tight, whether to comfort me or to stop me from run-ning away I don’t know. “Why am I having to move out of my room for some scrawny little imp who left her mother then ran away for months?” he asks, his hushed voice drip-ping with danger. I take another step back, but Bertie stays strong. “Because she can’t stay out on the streets.” “If the imp doesn’t want to be on the streets she should have thought

Corroded Character by Angela Bardot23

what she was doing before she left her mother.” “The imp has a name and her mother stole something of hers. And as for running away, she wanted to stay with her sick brother.” “Well, why isn’t the imp with her brother now?” he asks but he seems less angry. Bertie looks serious and I blink rapidly to stop tears rolling down my cheeks. Samuel’s face goes expressionless and without a word he picks up his belongings with one strong arm and goes into the next room. Bertie puts one gentle arm around my shoulder and steers me into the room. He sets my suitcase down next to the bed and stands there awkwardly. “I have to go to my bed now, but I will see you in the morning,” he tells me, shuffling backwards to the door. I put my arms around his neck to stop him from leaving. “Good night, Bertie,” I mutter in his ear. “Night, beautiful,” he whispers back, his breath warm against my cheek. Then he pulls away and slips down stairs.

2002

As I woke up, I felt I was back in my childhood bed in Charleston. Then I remember that I’m in the butchers shop. I get up and dress quickly, remember-ing my promise to be out by half past six; I plait my hair and make my way down the steep stairs. When I get down, all of the meat is hanging from the ceiling and two boys are arranging meat along the counter. “Good morning, little Peggy Sue,” Samuel said cheerily as he smiled and nodded at me. Jarvis comes in with dead animals to hang from the ceiling. “Good morning, Peggy. Did you sleep well?” “Very well, thank you, Mr. Jarvis.” He chuckles and smiles at me. “What are you going to do today, Peggy?” I blink at him, confused. Everyone laughs. “You can’t stay here all day!” Jarvis cackles. “I know that, I simply do not know where I shall be going today,” I say before turning on my heels and walking out. I hear all the men laughing at me inside and I force myself to walk on. I stop a little way down the street and look around. Where should I go? I should probably get some kind of work, but every-one knows I was fired from my last job for stealing. No one will ever take me on. I wander the streets, watching all the shops slowly come to life. I remember all the shops and who works in them. Even though it has been a long time, I know my way around. I soon find myself in the gardens Bertie had brought me to on our first date together. I sit on the grassy bank, watching people enjoy themselves and wondering what to do with my life now.

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Every Rose Has Its Thornby TabaTha Melin

ITightly coiled ringlets Pools of wilted green Ghostly white skin

Lips with clots of blood on the tips.

VI know another way

Let me show you my musesWhom are nudes and strays

But have lived more than what you can say

II Suffocated in corsetChoking on words

Dressed in garbPatches of invisible scars.

VI Let me show you a jig

An Irish dance, not that big. You don’t know the steps?

Just go with it.

IIIPrim and proper is your fateMarried to some hellish mate

Do what you are told!Do not dare to be bold!

IVDon’t you dare let go!

Don’t you dare jump off this shi--

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IXYour hair is a raging fire

Your heart-- full of desireI have saved you in every way

It was your own decisionTo truly live each day.

VIIYou want to break free?

You know your robe is above your knees?Bare your soul and skin to me

A porcelain doll you will not be.

VIIYour skin…so pale and white

Your youth and innocenceBurns away in your fight

To live with your own rights.

Inland Empire by Michael Antinora

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billionaire Ceo, DuDley herringbone, has a warning for Jesus

by saM haTCh

Epigraph

A billionaire CEO, Dudley Herringbone, has a warning for Pope Fran-cis… wealthy people, such as himself, might stop giving to charity if the Pope continues to make statements criticizing capitalism and income inequality. Herringbone said he was worried the Pope’s comments about an “exclusionary culture of prosperity” may make some of the rich “inca-pable of feeling compassion for the poor.”

A major conservative donor, billionaire Dudley Herringbone, told CNBC in a story published online Monday that wealthy people like Herringbone might stop giving to charity if Jesus, the well-known Galilean carpenter and Messiah, continues to make statements criticizing capitalism and income inequality. “We rich are not putting up with anymore of this ‘if you want to enter the Kingdom of God, then sell all your worldly goods and give the money to the poor.’ Nobody ever got into a country club or created a multi-national corporation that way.”

Herringbone went on to criticize another comment by the Messiah. “What is this ‘eye of the needle’ stuff? If I can get into the Four Seasons without a reservation, I can sure as hell get into heaven!” Herringbone and other billionaires have also been lobbying Jesus to remove the miracle of the loaves and fishes from the gospels. “It’s really very simple,” said Herringbone, “this miracle stuff de-incentivizes work, and glorifies the dole. Okay, ‘in my father’s house, there are many mansions’--I get that. But, Jesus, don’t give the poor the impression that all they have to do is show up in heaven—with no entrepreneurial credentials—and all of a sudden they’re living in mansions. Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to say, ‘In my Father’s house, there are many gated communities, some nicer than others, and nobody will have to sleep in an appliance box.’ See, there you’ve got hope and realism and none of that pie-in-the-sky stuff.”

Herringbone remains optimistic that the rift can be healed. “My people are talking to His people. We’ll work this out. The Savior knows which side His bread is buttered on—even when he’s multiplying loaves.”

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Untitled by Cassidy Danko

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God Bless Melville Deweyby Sam Hatch

1On the first day, the God of Righteous Order createdManila folders and alphabetical order,File cabinets, the Library of Congress Card Catalog And the Dewey Decimal System.And He saw that they were good.

2…And on the sixth day,He created man and woman,In alphabetical order.And He trembled, for He Knew,Snake or no snake,These two and their descendentsWould be scattery and fumble-witted,Would be unworthy of alphabetical order,Unworthy of file cabinets and manila folders,Unworthy of the Library of Congress Card Catalog,And, most of all, unworthy of the Dewey Decimal SystemAnd His only Begotten Son, Melville,In whom He was well pleased.

3On the seventh day, He would have rested,But for the whispery keening Of unfiled papers and misfiled books,But for the dirge,But for the Fall into EntropyDown the abysmal mineshafts of history.Would that Fall be Fortunate?

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4He heard the chants of the innocent,Proclaiming Melville The mastermind of Progressive Education,The prophet librarian who carried, On his shoulders, a Card Catalog of Stone Down the burning slopes of Sinai,Heard innocents proclaiming him The pragmatic author of Moby DickAnd Pierre: or, The Ambiguities Endlessly ramifyingIn tenuous filaments of confusion.

5And the God of Righteous Order beheld all,Yet He did not weep,As mere flesh might have,For He had shaped, From the nothingness of primordial waters,Eternal DecorumToo stiff for tears.And He saw that it was good.

Bug on a Brittlebush by Michael Antinora

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The Magic Treeby celine rose mariotti

The magic tree,It calls to me.It brings me whispers of things to be,Voices of the past pass through the leavesSpeaking to me of things gone by.I hear the voices of the ones I loved,Telling me of their enduring love,How they watch over me from where they are,Enabling my dreams to all come true.The magic tree takes time to grow,Of the world’s mysteries, it does know,It gives out wishes, one, two and three,When the wind blows,The magic treeCalls out to me.It sends me love, warmth and the music of life,It gathers me into its branches,And hugs me tight.The magic tree,It calls to me.

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Helloby johnny hem

Drowning in a sea of her own bloodAllowing herself to bleed

With the bitter taste of shameKnowing things will never be the same

Not knowing how to give herselfThe love she always wantedWhen neglected as no good

Slowly sinkingIn her own self-torment

With no room for airNor space to move

Crushed by inadequacyDreaming of someone to call out her name

Before she dug her own graveTo help her open her eyes

With the gaze of sincerityThat she longed for her whole life

Rest was not her friendAs she threw away her heart

That was sick of beatingFor no one came to help her breathing

This was her ending.

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“The Blind Leading the Blind”: My Episode of Media Misinformation

by Greg Martin, Jr.“Patriotism, traditionalism, and fair and balanced journalis”: the

slogans, mottos, and beliefs of Fox News that I heard religiously through-out my four years of high school. When I woke up in the morning, it was Megyn Kelly relaying the “latest, most breaking news,” and when I came home, it was Bill O’Reilly relaying the same exact news, but in a much more boisterous setting. I lived with my grandparents, who are very traditional conservatives with the same ideals as the media that was delivering our daily information. I was very unaware of how media operated at the time; I thought it was all the same, unbiased news, just on different channels. I was oblivious to the fact that the media I was listening to and watching— the very source that explained to me every aspect of life outside of my communal realm— was affecting my very own opinions and ideas. Seven years later, I am much more aware of media misinformation and how easy it is to fall into a media-related, “blind leading the blind” scenario. The dispute of the Affordable Care Act, which was of great controversy when I was in high school, and still is, was a case in which I adopted an expectation based on the repetitiveness of Fox News’, and other political-based media’s, rhetorical appeal of pathos that was disproved in real life. The idea of the Affordable Care Act became a complete nightmare for me in high school; it was all the news was talking about for quite some time. I would have to listen to session after session of multiple news anchors on Fox explain how the American healthcare system would become a disaster in which patients with life-threatening issues would not receive the help they needed and waiting lists would be created for cancer treatment. The idea was reiterated by my grandparents on a daily basis, as well as by some of my teachers. One teacher in particular made the class watch an entire documentary on the “horrific” universal healthcare system in Canada where cancer patients were to be approved by a healthcare board in order to receive treatment. The idea instilled in me was that America was going to adopt a similar system, and that I should be afraid for my own well-being, and that of others. Although the Act is presently in its beginning stages, there has been little to prove that the perceptions I was presented with are true. Many individuals I know have had to find healthcare in order to satisfy the law: however, there have not been any stories that entail neglectful treatment based on overpopulated or understaffed hospitals. Regardless

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A Safari in the City by Angela Bordot

of the opinions some may have about the Affordable Care Act, there is not any information proving deaths are occurring because of it. Fox undoubtedly used the rhetorical appeal of pathos: “the persuasive appeal made on the basis of arousal of the listener/viewer’s own emotions by the speaker’s presentation” (Villegas HB 221). The fact is, not everyone is afraid of death, but most are afraid of losing someone they are close to. Thus, it is not surprising the media used the idea of individuals possibly dying and/or suffering because of the Act as a persuasive and political strategy, while misinforming the public in the process. Furthermore, the repetitiveness of the same ideas presented through other news networks and media, solidified the idea of a healthcare system on its path of demise (which is still debatable for some in other aspects). Clearly, I was appealed to by the rhetoric used by the media, which allowed me to form an expectation based on misinformation: a classic strategy we all fall victim to. The fact that negative ideas about the Affordable Care Act were repeatedly presented by the media I was exposed to, both at home and in school, played a significant role in al-lowing myself to fall prey to adopting such misinformation. Many forms of media have an agenda-based strategy for their viewers, whether it is political, social, or even economical. Ultimately, it is crucial to use critical thinking and logic before assuming an idea presented by the media is in fact accurate; just because national networks are presenting strong concepts doesn’t mean one should adopt them.

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A stringed instrumentwith six steel strings to be exact.

Five fingers fretting,the others endlessly strumming.From soft riffs to loud twangs,

almost anything can be played with your hands.Its polished surface gives it an attractive appearance,

which pleases the eye in addition to the earFrom country to pop,

folk to rock,latin and classical,

this instrument is very versatile.What I love the most,

is making people happyplaying a few notes.

My Musical Friendby Ivan Corona

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Strat Madness by Michael Antinora

SEAL It With a Kiss’s Commander Marc Miller has haunted my dreams since I first reviewed the book cover, beckoning me with his rippling muscles and beady little handsome eyes, so I sat down and finally decided to actually read this thing and find out whether all of the revulsion and admiration I have for it is warranted. The most surprising thing about this book, to me at least, is that Rogenna Brewer (the esteemed author of this romance for the ages) de-cides that instead of only writing from the viewpoint of the female romantic lead Tabitha Chapel, she also decides to present the story from Miller’s POV. We, the audience, get to see what this manly man is all about, his hopes and dreams, his failed love with Carol, the one who got away and married his best friend, everything you’d like to know about Miller is on display in the confines of this book. Truthfully, Chapel isn’t very interesting, and I think that almost instantly wanting to bed your male CO when the point of your study to prove that women can be Navy SEAL operatives might send the wrong

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A Book in Review: Part IIRogenna Brewer’s SEAL It with a Kiss

message to the top brass, but hell, her godfather is Miller’s boss, so that’ll just add up to some wacky sitcom hijinks where our leads have to keep it in their pants for longer than you’d expect, right? What sticks out in my mind the most is a scene in Chapter III, where Tabitha and Marc have a sexually charged drive-thru order experience at what I can only assume to be a McDonald’s before supersizing your order got phased out. For me, this is the heart of not only the book, but of the entire line of Harlequin Romance novels. Mundane events become sexually charged in an instant, you get in and then you get out within about five or so minutes, and then you forget about it and move on with your life. Not the most flattering thing to say about this book (since it’s not completely terrible or anything, pretty average considering the subject matter, and it’s far better than say, Fifty Shades, Twilight, or hell, Clarissa), but perhaps the most accurate.

*For Part I, pick up a copy of Artifact Nouveau 1.1.

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by Agustin Rios, Jr.

The Six Stupid Remarks that Got You Slapped in the Face (2001) by John Yoyogi Fortes (SJDC Alumni 1972-1974)

artifactsjdc@gmail.com sjdcwritersguild@gmail.com facebook.com/SJDCWritersGuild