Artifact Nouveau Spring 2017 3.2

ARTIFACT NOUVEAU

SPRING 2017 VOLUME 3 ISSUE 2

A Writers’ Guild Publication

ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Volume 3 Issue 2

EDITOR IN CHIEF Vanessa M. Soto

EDITORIAL TEAM Isabella Calabrese Dominique Diaz Peter Hawley Jaysyn MacDaniel Matthew Reyes Myles Salas FACULTY ADVISORS Sarah Antinora Gabrielle Myers FRONT COVER ART

Disassociate by Brennan Jeffery

BACK COVER ART

Orchard Flowers by Kasssy Menke

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. ©2016

1

SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE Superintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy Hart Board of Trustees President: Janet Rivera Vice President: Richard Vasquez Clerk: Steve Castellanos, FAIA Student Trustee: Rafael Medina Dr. Teresa Brown Carlos Huerta Catherine Mathis, M.D. C. Jennet Stebbins

A Letter from the Editor in Chief I started officially writing after my fifth grade teacher encouraged my classmates and me to write in our daily journals.

Although I was a terrible speller, I began to gradually love the idea of simply writing about anything that came to my mind, especially when I knew he read them. He used to draw interesting cartoons in our journals and write positive comments about what we had written. I honestly had the best teacher that year. He made sure my classmates and I were engaged by bringing in different prompts and later asking us to share our writing with the class. I remember looking forward to the next day simply because I knew we’d be writing about something completely crazy or unexpected.

Now, as a student in college, I thankfully have the same encouragement and opportunity to continue to write and share my stories through my English classes, the internet, and Artifact Nouveau. Being a part of Writer’s Guild has also given me the chance to see different perspectives and gain a better understanding of the different stories that circulate in everyone’s heads. I’ve been able to look at a variety of writing styles and other moment-capturing talents through art and photography, etc. Overall, I’ve been able to see just how important telling a story is for others. I’m glad that I decided to be a part of Writers’ Guild and take on the role as Editor-in-Chief because it has given me a new perspective on writing as well as other forms of self-expression. I have realized that you don’t need to be “the best” at writing, taking photographs, or drawing. In all honesty, the photos, poems, short stories, drawings, and any other form of expressive style lying in your computer, drawer, or USB are probably (and most likely) really good. Take a chance. Share it. Let us see what you came up with. Don’t let your second-thoughts hold you back. I sure didn’t...after some reassurance.

–Love, Vanessa Maldonado-Soto

Thank you to all the contributing authors and artists who comprise our spring issue. Your stories inspire and encourage us. We are especially grateful for the hard work of Patricia Mayorga, editor of Poets’ Espresso Review.

We also thank those who led the spring semester writing workshops: Paula Sheil, Phil Hutcheon, and Robert Reinarts, Jim Fox, and Michael Duffett of the Heritage Writers. Lastly, thank you, Writers’ Guild members, for continuously advocating for literacy and creativity.

2

Table of Contents Wet Painting by Josh Sartain..........................5 Five Haiku by Barron Sudderth.....................6 Tulips by Natalie Crick.....................................7 Haiku for Adelle Foley by Paula Sheil.......8 I Cannot Recall by Alexander Chellsen....9 Anna’s Leap by La Brea Spivey.......................10 Awaits by Katherine R. Walkowiec.............11 Atrocity and Empathy in World War II: Fury and My Grandfather

by Johnathan Bethards...................................12 I Used to Think Red Was Too Harsh...

by Breanna Moseley..........................................17 Funeral Philosophy by David Bankson.....20 I Love You A Hundred Times

by Jake Torres.....................................................21 Untitled by Michael Duffett.......................22 Love. Strength. Courage

by Maurice Kaehler.........................................23 My Friend in My Hand by Jake Torres........25 Threads of Thought

by Mark Livanos................................................28 A Lost Moment by Sara Hollingsworth...29 3

Table of Contents Untitled by Josephine Abujen.......................30 Cigarettes by Breanna Moseley...................31 After Sleep by Natalie Crick........................33 Untitled by Josephine Abujen.......................34 I Caught Eyes with the Man on the street

by T.William Wallin.........................................35 Zero Reaction Time

by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi..........................37 Seven Things I Learned about Trains Last Winter by Tiffany Wright....................39 Such a Happy Little Storm

by Ryan C. Aran..................................................43 Ladies II: Another Haiku Collection

by Peter Hawley.................................................45 Grandma Josephina

by Vanessa M. Soto............................................47 Spring in Color

by Sara Hollingsworth...................................48 Ass by La Brea Spivey........................................49 Poof! by Marc Livanos.....................................50 The Consequences of Truth

by Holly Day........................................................53 Contributors......................................................54 4

Wet Painting

by Josh Sartain

It drips. The paint drips. There’s a face. I see her body.

It’s a work of art. No color, just black and white. It smells fresh. I can metaphorically taste her flesh. It’s art; don’t let it break your heart.

She’s posing. Her nude breasts fill the canvas of sexual perverts leaking. Her eyes stare right into my soul as my thoughts fill with her tits. You can see an hour glass lightly stamped onto her forehead. All I see is a wet painting. All they see is a “whore.”

My mouth waters yet I know it’s just paint smacked together. Now my mind wonders if she’s free this evening. She’s fully naked and I can see through her mask of insecurities.

If you look closely you can see a twinkle in her eye.

I’m starting to crave her smell of oil. I can taste her lips. I lean in and grab her hand to pull her out of the canvas. She opens wide and walks right through my arms. Oh boy. I’m delighted with joy! I’m off on my date. Oh my! We’re going to be late.

5

Look for Part II in this series in the Summer 2017 issue.

This issue features a series of haiku from Barron Sudderth, Adjunct Professor at SJDC. See pages 16, 26, 30, and 57.

6

Tulips The Tulips have wilted.

Petals fall and light Bends, grotesque, Like a secret splayed open At the seams of a wide Black mouth.

The crowns remain lush, A bouquet of teeth Gleaming bright in a smile As if to say: “I am not dead yet.”

by Natalie Crick

7

Haiku for Adelle Foley who will miss this spring

Lavender tulip Petulant ballerina Bows before curtain

by Paula Sheil

by Ana Maravilla 8

I Cannot Recall

by Alexander Chellsen

I cannot recall a time when love and doubt did not coexist.

An ovarian cyst– growing inside Mother Nature’s uterus since the curse of Cain was brought upon him by his own fists, and Thomas demanded to examine the scars in his savior’s wrists.

I cannot recall a time before communicating in charades primarily.

Limited vocabulary– with meanings that are entirely arbitrary since the Tower of Babel fell, creating confusion and solitary, and Julius Caesar and his men set fire to the Alexandria library.

I cannot recall a time that intimacy did not feel like separation.

Genital mutilation– diminishing reciprocal pleasure and sensation since Aristotle proclaimed men as the principal players of procreation, and Genghis Khan used sex as a military tactic to conquer nations.

In every lost memory I try to retrieve of you– I cannot recall a time in which you were someone I knew that I knew.

9

Anna’s Leap

by La Brea Spivey

It looked like sugar from far away.

Godard’s hawks on linen curtains in Mumbai.

Anna’s jet black bob brushed her shoulders As she turned to hear how yesterday’s dream held her.

Release the black bear to catch the redfish.

Die and swim in the Atlantic.

Drown that suspicious notion and meet Nuti curmudgeon.

Tell this all it needs to know, then awake from above your pillow.

Selfless chats in pumping hearts, Anna lead like navigational art.

Come here white wolf, go there, wild hog.

Anna take a huge leap, like a South American bullfrog.

by Ana Maravilla

10

Awaits...

by Katherine R. Walkowiec

Dedicated to all “sailors.�

As I set sail New adventure awaits me.

I realize I am a sailor Of my own boat on the uncharted sea.

I am the captain, an explorer, On the vast ocean lot.

A fisherman of sorts, still I am the bait, even the fish caught.

I follow the beacon light, Not knowing where the journey shall end, Yet knowing all too well that the journey Continuously begins.

11

Atrocity and Empathy in World War II: Fury and My Grandfather

by Jonathan Bethards

“Wait ‘til you see.”

“See what?”

“What a man can do to another man.”

This exchange between battle-hardened Bible and novice Norman, who was trained as an Army typist, early in David Ayer’s 2014 film Fury, a movie set late in World War II, encapsulates all the horrors of war in a few sentences. There is, however, another aspect of man’s treatment of his fellow man that was far too uncommon in the second World War: empathy and forgiveness. My grandfather, Grover Cleveland Bethards III, experienced both sides of the war and, fortunately, lived to tell my father of his experiences, both positive and negative, which my father in turn passed on to me. Watching Fury with my class reminded me of what I learned about my grandfather’s war.

The astonishing levels of violence and hatred on display in World War II were evident in both the film and my grandfather’s experiences. Shortly after the warning he receives from Bible and before he has ever seen a second of combat or fired a round, Norman is forced to clean with hot water what will be his area of the tank of blood and viscera, basically all that is left of the soldier he is replacing, even what appears to be the remnant of the young man’s face. Later Norman will be forced to participate against his will in the execution of a POW and will discover the death via a random bombing of the German civilian who was presumably his first lover.

My grandfather was also exposed to this level of 12

atrocity and beyond. Late in the Pacific campaign against Japan, he landed with the 7th Infantry on the island of Okinawa. Unbeknownst to the G.I.s at that time, this invasion would be one of the bloodiest of the war, resulting in more than 100,000 casualties on the Japanese side and more than 50,000 for the Allies. Remarkably, it was in the form of a series of bedtime stories that my grandfather told my father about the banzai charges that the doomed Japanese would undertake. Wildly outnumbered and outgunned, these brave men would charge directly into machine gun and rifle fire, and most would be killed instantly. Many would charge on even when grievously wounded. My grandfather described the scores of men running toward the American lines on shattered or missing limbs, eviscerated and bloody while screaming “BANZAI” at the top of their lungs, with rifles, bayonets, or sometimes just samurai-type swords. This display of horror and fortitude seems nearly unimaginable to me.

Sadly, this was not the worst of what my grandfather was forced to endure. Later in this same campaign, he was dug into a foxhole with a friend from his unit, fighting back the Japanese counterattack, when his friend was shot and killed with a gruesome head wound. To my grandfather’s dismay, he was forced to keep fighting and taking refuge in the foxhole with his dead friend for more than 24 hours. Again, it’s hard for me to fathom having to remain in a tiny space with the ruined remains of a comrade while having to keep fighting to stay alive and sane. That these horrifying stories were related to my father as a young child seems more than a little unacceptable, but as my father says, his dad never talked about his experiences in the war except in these little moments before bedtime. Looking back, this was most likely my grandfather’s only avenue of releasing the stress he had kept inside for years. It was not deemed acceptable by all to go for professional help in those times, and many World War II veterans suffered in silence and with no means of healing their battered psyches. Thankfully, the staggering levels of fear, 13

violence, and inhumanity were not the sole experiences of those who fought that war.

Near the end of Fury, Norman takes cover under the battered remnants of the Sherman tank he served in, seeking refuge from the scores of elite German SS troops who have just killed the rest of his crew after suffering many losses in a sustained battle initiating in a self-sacrificial ambush by the tankers. While hiding, Norman is discovered by a SS trooper apparently about his own age. Instead of immediately calling out to alert his comrades or shooting Norman, the young German decides in that stunning moment to spare him, even though Norman and his crew have just slaughtered many of the SS unit. The German moves on, saying nothing and proving that man’s inhumanity to man can sometimes be matched by his compassion. This scene is especially powerful not only because of its contrast to the film’s earlier scene of the execution of a German POW but also because Norman has been warned not to surrender to the justifiably infamous SS, who will “hurt you real bad” and then “kill you real bad.”

Flag in Wind by Kassy Menke 14

There’s a striking parallel between Norman’s fate and my grandfather’s experience. While in Okinawa my grand father was out on a night patrol with some of his platoon in the jungle. He and his “battle buddy” surprised a duo of Japanese infantry, who had their rifles disassembled and were cleaning them. Many soldiers in this situation would have gunned those men down where they sat, but my grandfather decided to take them as prisoners and ordered them to disarm and surrender. Luckily, these Japanese soldiers did give up, something uncommon during the war in the Pacific, and my grandfather and his friend marched them back to the U.S. Army’s camp. Upon their arrival there, my grandfather and his prisoners were met by his sergeant, who proceeded to dress down my grandfather, furious that these enemy combatants were still alive when so many of the Allied soldiers were not as fortunate at the hands of the Japanese when captured. According to my father’s retelling, my grandfather looked the sergeant dead in the eye, handed him his Thompson submachine gun, and told the sergeant if he wanted these men dead, he could do it himself. Taken aback by his subordinate’s nerve, the sergeant promptly returned his gun and ordered the prisoners to be taken to the rear where the others were being held. For my grandfather to have the grit to stand up to a superior in that situation and to be able to see past the Japanese as enemies and to see them as fellow humans still amazes my father whenever he relates this particular story. Of all my grandfather’s exploits in the war, this is the one that has given me the most pride. Not all men in his place were as able as he to preserve their humanity, and I have the rifles and bayonets of those Japanese soldiers as proof of the man my grandfather was and what he stood for.

Today I prize those weapons not so much as trophies for my grandfather’s fighting skills but as emblems of the empathy that led him to defy orders and spare the lives of enemy soldiers who were no more responsible for the atrocities of that war than he or Norman was. Watching Fury 15

reminded me that the precedents set by my grandfather with his conduct during the war continue to have an inspirational effect on the Bethards family. Service, be it military, for the government, or as a first responder, continues to this day as we all try to live up to his good name.

by Barron Sudderth 16

I used to think Red was too harsh, too ornery, but maybe that was projecting or maybe I wasn’t ready for you.

by Breanna Moseley

Red

Is the color of my lips As they split apart in a sigh My back arching to the ceiling

Red

Is the blood between my thighs The blood of my ancestors Angry, passionate, And late

Red

Is the panic That grips my throat And hooks thorns Inside my trachea It’s the color of The setting sun As I refresh My screen Repeatedly

Red

Is the way He Bites His bottom lip But never makes a sound His hand pressing into My hips The flood of Blood As bruises form Beneath my skin

17

Red

Is waking up At 2am Wrapped in strong arms And gentle hands It’s the air that leaves His lungs In rapid pants The sound of Him Hyperventilating Behind the bathroom door His anxiety Mixing with mine Brewing inside my chest The witches in my mind Laughing over a bubbling cauldron

Red

Is the apples of my cheeks The hue brightening With every compliment It’s the blood flowing to my knuckles Throbbing That’s eased with every kiss A reminder that I am not That girl Anymore

Red

Is the heat Between us All hands and teeth My nails down His back The air around us Sizzling Friction between..

But It is also comfort The glow of the heat lamps Casting Shadows against the couch

18

Soft rattling From Alice’s cage His laugh Muffled by my hair

Red

Is the color of His lips As He smiles down at me Between rounds And pulls me closer The corners of His mouth pulling up A bit more Each time

Red

Is the long nights Spent on skype Waking to Him Open mouth laughing Apologizing for waking me It’s His Guitar strumming The peace I Find in His music The way He lulls me back to sleep Even on my darkest of nights

Red

Is the color of our tongues Dancing together Both too scared to Own up to our feelings Both too scared to break our Lips apart Or break each others Hearts Long enough to say I love you too.

19

Funeral Philosophy

by David Bankson

As useless as clipped flowers gathered in arms, curl of cuff, full of crush, the color of rose-stain blush needle through lapel is hell-hour: cropped time, pasted & forward-slashed. Crop of bullrush blather on, reposed in spite of occasion, disconnected from memory as if they traversed the twists of the Lethe instead of another. The heat hides in their stalks, plays the hot part of loving living (scant decay underneath), loving every broken part of plants, placing fisheye lenses amid blood meal and water.

Security is the hook, ever disguised as lifeline.

20

“I Love You a Hundred Times”

by Jake Torres “I love you a hundred times,” the faint voice shrouded in a cloud of certain death said.

I looked upon the man lying in his bed, gasping for air.

His eyes uncertain, his heart ballooned, ready to be popped by the needle.

Though his time inevitable, his smile kept the balance between the cold dark abyss and the cliff he had been clinging onto.

I could not look any longer, but my eyes betrayed me.

At first, a constant throbbing beep every two moments.

Then, with a lightning strike speed, his balloon popped!

A whir of death crept in.

I looked upon my grandfather, “I will always love you a thousand times.”

21

by Michael Duffett The wind blows the grass in three different ways: Oak, pine, palm and grass bend, sway and rustle.

The sky stays still behind them, heavy clouds Blanketing the concealed blue so that wind Affects only the green but not the gray.

Only the dead brown fingers of branches Impart violent motion against sky And distant mountains. The movement of greens Is gentle in keeping with the kindness Of its color. When blue returns and curtains Of gray clouds reveal the sky, the wind Will have dropped, bending, swaying rustle Of greens will disappear with their color When summer scorches it to autumn tints.

Red Dragon Keys by Kassy Menke 22

Love. Strength. Courage

by Maurice Kaehler

In this body I have had two lives. There has been expansion throughout.

In my first life, I was essentially a wanderer. To support my wanderings, I stayed in a “not affordable� world.

I meet a woman who pulls me through a portal into affordability. Our coming together is timely. A week after our love is consumed she finds that her cancer has returned. We are together 5 months before she leaves her body.

The way we come together and live in these 5 months leaves me with no doubt as to the power of love. The love that is in me. The love that is in her. The love that is in both of us. Hearing her diagnosis, I debate for a day whether to stay with her. The ballots of love are already in.

Love wins.

That day I vow that I will take it day to day, that I will stay out of her way even if I am in the place of extreme helplessness, and that I will hold her in my arms every night. I feel this is where true healing happens.

Am I doing this for her? Am I doing this for me? Am I doing this for the both of us? YES! I have spontaneous healing experiences. I am reluctant to use them fully as I cannot come to terms with death. I am still in an impossible world.

One evening I wake and look at my partner. Looking at her as she sleeps, I realize that our expansion continues as we live and die. That our healing continues as we live and die. I understand that Jesus does not do technique. He just touches. I understand why he is crucified.

Jesus is possible in an impossible world. In this moment, I go beyond impossible.

23

Throughout this experience I reawaken to how most people, medicine, and religion stop at impossible.

In my partner’s final days I am working with her, staying close to her, holding her, and holding the space surrounding her, me, the both of us.

At one point someone asks me, “How can you do this?” For a moment, I am baffled. I think that everyone knows this answer.

“This is what you do for someone you love.”

As she leaves, she takes my deepest fears with her. I stop being a wanderer as I have found a home in my heart.

Recent events are asking me to look again to my heart and the residuals left of the impossible grid. I find myself confronting my voice and the voice of others who say that the desires of my heart are impossible. These storms play themselves out of my body.

Impossible seems so real. Respected. Claimed. It’s easy to accept impossible. Impossible is manageable. It’s easy to be a martyr for impossible. In an impossible world that gets a lot of support.

These storms play themselves out of my body as I choose to be, live, and love in a possible world.

Doctors finish. Time is an ordering and managing tool. A healer stays in rotation. Healing is eternal and past death.

Love is eternal.

So I now find myself filling in a new grid. I summon that love that was there during my experience with Renee. I feel the strength that is in my heart. The strength that transcends. The strength that is eternal.

Courage.

The love that is beyond impossible.

24

My Friend in My Hand

by Jake Torres I look down to My friend in my hand.

An ice cold touch A biting sting That only i could feel.

A glossy black nothing Staring right back at me.

A weight of cataclysmic burden Upon my soul.

A protruding handle To cling upon My death for dear life.

A rattling silence That resonates with The hair trigger.

Metal passengers aboard Like an audience Causing a car crash Then watching that car crash burn.

Suddenly, with an inhumane thud My heart stops As i put The gun Down.

25

by Barron Sudderth

26

Desert Perch by Mike Antinora 27

Threads of Thought

by Mark Livanos Through the window of my toasty room, I crave the sight of birds, fragrances of cedars, pathways of angled roots, breezes from the pines in this place where time is kept by the rising sun.

Songs of bluebirds, kestrels, robins, jays, cardinals and the gurgle of a koi pond provide a sense of wonderment that inhales egos.

Slowly shifting in the chair in the company of myself, warm winds waft memories, delights, epiphanies swirling like lost chapters in the crevices of my mind ready to lighten my mood.

28

A Lost Moment

by Sara Hollingsworth

Cracked, worn roads, weaving a confused path along the Oregon coast.

Ancient trees and overgrown brush overtake the little touch of humanity remaining.

Pulled to the side, tires crushing previously untouched life, a young man crouches.

Nimble, grease stained fingers— calloused and leathered from years of work— dance a familiar trail through the guts of the grimy motorbike.

Watching my youthful friend, I can’t help but ask him, “Why do you always buy such broken things? They always fall apart on you.”

My friend chuckles quietly, Gaze never leaving his work as he answers, “Everything falls apart, Sara.”

29

Empress Josephine Blooms in the spring but weather Brings uncertainty

by Josephine Abujen

by Barron Sudderth

30

Cigarettes

by Breanna Moseley Sadness is when you’re out of both cigarettes and money And you cannot taste the sweet tang of him on your tongue So you must make due with what you have Sadness is a smoke at 3 in the morning while your love is asleep in bed And you cannot bear to let him know you’re hurting So you put the poison to your lips and inhale all your sadness in through your lungs and exhale all your fears Love is him finding you at 3am with an empty pack and a sad story and him wrapping his arms around you And even though he hates the taste of cigarettes He kisses you anyway

31

Bruce Duke (1922-2016) SJDC Ceramics Professor (1947-1987) “Abstract Figure” 1989 - ceramic sculpture 42” h x 30” w x 20” d

32

After Sleep

by Natalie Crick After sleep Your eyelids open and close Like sunrise and sundown.

In this long curved room Walls start to shimmer, Breathe in rhyme.

Rose and charcoal dissolve to dove, Reaching into the dark For their colour, Trees blackly jade, Dripping with cones like Jet suns.

This milky summer night Dazed, smiling, Lilies move into both of us.

33

As the ink bleeds so Do the memories of the Past we used to have

by Josephine Abujen

by Rebecka Skogh 34

I Caught Eyes with the Man on the Street

by T.William Wallin

I caught eyes with the man on the street his cracked weathered hands beating upon the newspaper racks to no tune except for the symphony in his head he is lost from the looks of the external but internally he is calm and relaxed the headphones that he wears play no sound only replaying voices and memories from another time something his mind is able to travel he people gazes and rests upon the press democrat box with style we catch eyes once again I have known this man before I have met him, but where and how most importantly why have I met him maybe upon the train track yards or saloons around the dusty American dreamed towns desolate and forbidding to the common folk I have come across this street dwelling man before perhaps another life time either past or future 35

I have a common memory of this poor soul a soul with a heart that shines big wide eyes eyes that scream please help or talk to me but all the hip santa rosan residents with their fad haircuts and uncomfortable looking walks each step they take looks painful to the gut they all fly by with no care or even a wince as if he doesn’t exist in their world we catch eyes once more I know this man my eyes water up with tears I have put a pause on my American dreamed adventures I went too far down the road I succumbed to the ugly side of rambling and life and death gambling this man and I perhaps once played as children running in a field with no cares laughing as the prairie dog free among the prairies it is possible I saved his life it is more probable he saved mine somewhere down the road someday where the dust never settles in arm’s reach and the clearest visible sight is only what you can dream

36

Zero Reaction Time

by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi

Busy clock Of stationary heart Is situated between— Rocker recliner at office, Dual inclining sofa— Where drawing acquaintances meet, And on love seat At a club.

I drive well, Though sometimes get stuck at home, and Become stationary from moving, At an idle red traffic light.

But soon the queue starts moving, and I too become a tail of the huge serpent.

At first conscious, But soon a Busy clock Of stationary life.

Moving at the same time Where everyone is moving And having zero reaction time.

37

Stephen Gyermek (1930-2016) SJDC Art History Professor (1970-1998) “Bavarian Lake” 2001 - woodcut print 12” x 17”

38

Seven Things I Learned by

1.

For the longest time now, I’ve been terrified of trains.

Now I’m not sure where exactly this fear came from, only that the days I drive to my fiance’s house, I hold my breath when crossing the tracks, cautiously looking out both ways for any oncoming trains that the cross-gate and warning signal may have forgotten to tell me about.

It happens.

2.

Trains don’t always look like trains.

Sometimes they take on the form of your neighborhood schoolboy, all white teeth and smiles.

And sometimes, you will not hear the sound of a train thundering towards you, you hear only the sound of his boots as he stands to shake your hand.

39

about Trains Last Winter Tiffany Small

3.

Trains will take you to a coffee shop, an art museum, a park in Vestavia, the most beautiful scenery just so you’ll forgot how terrified you are of them.

And how once they are in motion you cannot escape.

4.

The whistle you hear at night is a call in the dark, a song from a siren luring you to a steel grave that you are not yet ready to face.

Only you don’t see it as a grave.

Instead, you see it as a moonlit walk in the forest waiting on your train to arrive and sweep you off your feet.

Soon enough, you will find yourself tied to the tracks by your own hands.

5.

It can take the strength of an entire family to pull you from the path you have willingly laid yourself upon.

40

6.

It’s been fifteen months now.

The sound of a train still keeps me awake some nights, and I try to remind myself that I am safe in my bed.

After all, his tracks are twenty-seven miles away, aren’t they?

Still his whistle cuts through the air and I wonder how I hear it so clearly now.

The tug of his engine makes my windowpanes shake

he’s coming for me coming for me coming for me coming for me.

7.

I wonder when the time comes to stop running, if he’ll even be chasing anymore.

It’s been fifteen months now.

I’m getting tired.

41

Forgotten Mushroom by James Shoemaker 42

“Such a Happy Little Storm”

by RYAN C. ARAN

What lovely gray clouds Come to the rescue Of my poor sun-ridden eyes, As I was assaulted by Its fierce, unruly gaze.

Consumed by the heat of the moment, Rain sweeps through the beaming, fiery rage.

Thunder shatters the violent silence Of the once uncannily blue sky.

Relief has finally arrived.

Please don’t go.

43

Tianjin, People’s Republic of China, 1995

by Mark Wyatt

Pamela Ortiz SJDC Alumna 2012-2015 “Garden Figure” 2016, ceramic, 8” h x 4” w x 4” d

44

Ladies II: Another Haiku Collection

by PETER HAWLEY

Gaby A girl I once knew Who loved San Francisco Went there and stayed Judy A dangerous one She knew someone who killed Who thought love exists

Chantel A neighborhood girl Cannot speak Spanish at all But is Latina

Rowan Here is a woman Bold and proud and not taken Role model she is Pepper A ginger in love She lives in the Capitol Of our high power 45

Frankie A daughter in need Happens to hate her mother And will not forgive

Rebecca A sister to me She could be annoying, yes But she has a heart

Maggie Bored with her life She liked to be a bad girl And did not regret it

Kay Girl who likes to stab And interacts with the dead Is stuck in a house

Gaby II When she went back home The supernatural came And transformed her

Part I can be found in the Spring 2016 issue of Artifact Nouveau.

46

Grandma Josephina

by Vanessa Maldonado-Soto As they bury her in dirt And spill liquor around her grave, Tears glisten through my grandmother’s eyes.

Even in death, she struggles to accept her own demise.

Ruined, and thick—She couldn’t bear the life she’d have to leave Or the children she’d leave to grieve.

Sleeping, she lies in a closed coffin surrounded by three bottles of beer and two packs of Camel cigarettes.

With my heart in my throat and my hands in my pocket, I don’t say farewell.

I simply turn to my mother and tell her what anyone would say, despite the frozen tears my grandmother shed: “She is happier now in a much better place.”

St. Etienne de Baigorry, France, 2016

by Mark Wyatt 47

Spring in Color

by Sara Hollingsworth

Glittering pools of blue in black asphalt streets.

Grey clouds stain the sky bleak.

The scent of morning dew and freshly cut green grass.

It’s spring time again, and the birds are singing.

The sun is breaking through the grey.

Flower blossom white as snow in the trees with crisp green leaves, and fluffy orange and cream cats frolic in the warm afternoon light.

Treading wet paw prints across red brick stones.

Only coming home once again, when rain sends them crying for cozy human laps.

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.

48

Ass

by La Brea Spivey

Love my big butt It is awesome Body blossom Flower power Sway with the hips Good brain power Eddie Bauer Cold as a bat Flying, hanging Juicy and fat Hearts never crack Smile downside up I can walk it Tall buttercup Back up, hold up Horseplay booty

49

Poof!

by Marc Livanos

The structure is a cartoon.

Beams burst out like watch springs, floors flay like toothpicks, joists now sticks cannot hold a load, or be re-constructed back into that intricate attic cathedral.

Even cross beams and braces that once had the elegance of a mantis now resemble scrambled eggs, the skeletal remains of a hurricane’s destruction Like sailors venerating the safety of their ship, my house channeled achievements through libraried passages showcasing galleries of joy and hope.

No longer can we wake to that cool blue room, treadmill just so, pocket door ajar and enter a walkway leading to an oversized bathroom.

50

Much went into that renovated house where countless paychecks and sweat equity made our little utopia fit like-a-tee.

All that’s left is rubbish and a blank sheet of paper.

Another Night Terror seeps a chill so deep your bones ache.

You wake from the caverns of sleep to ice water flowing over your body.

Damp freezing sheets enshrouded as in a blanket of snow make every limb shiver against your will.

Muscles spasm so violently, the headboard beats in rhythm.

Your breathing can’t keep up with your heart beat.

Panic builds till your skull threatens to explode from your head.

Even the room’s dark shadows undulate toward you.

51

Great voids of nothingness reach out to devour you.

And no matter how hard you try, they slither over the bed’s edge ready to descend upon you weaving a cocoon of evil.

And as light’s rays flicker out, the screaming begins.

Deep and primal with the same agony and pain of a child expelled from its womb.

You are one with the grating shrieks, throbbing, shooting pain, thunder behind your eyes.

This kind of terror doesn’t like to lose.

I know. It’s mine.

It pursues me every night.

When those black fingers of shadows transverse the last specs of light touching me in my last moments of consciousness, I scream out — Why is this happening to me?

It’s not fair!

52

The Consequences of Truth

by Holly Day

I miss the birds that used to fly overhead when my son was small, when we used to sit together and watch the geese in their honking flocks through our tiny apartment window in our tiny apartment.

He’d ask me where they were coming from and I’d make up all the exotic places they’d been, palaces in China where they visited long-dead emperors stuccoed mosques hiding veiled princesses in the Arabian desert, the Moon until he was old enough to look up their flight paths himself, knew they were really just coming back from Florida. It was about that time he stopped sitting with me so close, one small hand on my knee, leaning forward eye wide in perpetual excitement, and it was about that time I stopped noticing the birds no matter how loud they were.

53

Contributors Mike Antinora Josephine Abujen Ryan C. Aran is a second-year Delta College student.

David Bankson Angela Bardot: A participant of the literary, visual, and performance arts. An advocate for community and the arts. A disciple of Christ.

Johnathan Bethards is at Delta studying for a new career and in his free time enjoys sports, hunting/fishing, and photography.

Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Interpreters House, The Penwood Review, and Ink In Thirds and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize this year.

Holly Day ’s poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle.

Michael Duffet was born in London, educated in Cambridge, and has published poems internationally for the past fifty years.

Bruce duke (1922-2016): SJDC Ceramics Professor (1947-1987) Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi is an assistant professor of linguistics at Shri Mata Vaishno Devi University, India. His research interests include language documentation, writing descriptive grammars, and the preservation of rare and endangered langauges in South Asia.

Stephen Gyermek (1930-2016): SJDC Art History Professor (1970-1998) Sara Hollingsworth: 20 year old student and freelancer Brennan jeffery: SJDC Alumnus 2009-2012 Maurice Kaehler InĂŠs Leontiev-Hogan: SJDC Alumna (2004-2006 and 2012-2013)

54

Marc Livanos’ “Panhandle Poet-Solitude” is available at barnesandnoble.com.

Vanessa Maldonado-Soto writes to express what is hard to verbally explain.

Ana Daysy Maravilla: These two photographs express mystery in two different and unique ways. I was inspired by mystery, as the subject and behind the subject.

Kassy Menke is a graduate of SJDC and CSU Northridge. She loves acting, writing, and photography.

Breanna Moseley Pamela Ortiz: SJDC Alumna 2012-2015 Rebecka Skogh Paual Sheil teaches English composition and poetry at Delta College.

Alexander Shellson is a writer and undergraduate student from the Bay Area.

La Brea Spivey: One of my favorite quotes: Poetry is an echo, asking a show to dance—Carl Sandburg.

Barron Sudderth: I am a former Peace Corps volunteer (Russia) and a teacher for 19 years who writes and self-publishes a daily haiku on life, love, and mindfulness at BarronSudderth.com.

Kathryn Walkoweic T. William Wallin is a journalism major and zen buddhist who lives in Northern California.

Tiffany Wright is seldom seen without a book in her hand and a baby on her hip.

Mark Wyatt: I have been photographing since around 1980, mostly people on the streets of wherever I happen to be. Street portraits empower a viewer to interpret humanity. When a common truth is captured in an image and displayed on a page or screen, it can be freely and unabashedly examined, and the connections between subject and viewer are granted all the time they need to be understood.

55

Inés Leontiev-Hogan SJDC Alumna (2004-2006 and 2012-2013) “30 Relief Prints in 30 Days” - 2016 30 (6” x6”) Relief Prints on Canvas, Canvas Board or Paper, Mounted on Plywood 41” x 41”

56

by Barron Sudderth

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 (limit 10 submissions) • Colored/Black and White • JPG Format at 300 DPI

57

Released by Angela Bardot 58

www.deltacollege.edu/org/wrtrsgld/ artifactsjdc@gmail.com sjdcwritersguild@gmail.com facebook.com/SJDCWritersGuild www.issuu.com/thewritersguildartifactnouveau