ARTIFACT NOUVEAU

S U M M E R 2 0 1 6 V O L U M E 2 I S S U E 3

A Writers’ Guild Publication

ARTIFACT NOUVEAUVolume 2 Issue 3

EDITORIAL TEAMMaggie AndersonMikael Honzell

Jaysyn A. McDanielAgustin Rios Jr.Vanessa M. Soto

FACULTY ADVISORSarah Antinora

FRONT COVER ARTRoseate by Natalie Watkins

BACK COVER ARTGolden Coast by Kassy Menke

Artifact Nouveau is a publication of works from the San Joa-quin 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

SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGESuperintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy HartBoard of TrusteesPresident: Claudia Moreno Vice President: Janet RiveraClerk: Richard VasquezStudent Trustee: Rafael MedinaDr. Teresa Brown Steve Castellanos, FAIACatherine Mathis, M.D.C. Jennet Stebbins1

A LETTER FROm ThE WRITERs’ GUILd VICE PREsIdENT

Howdy, ya’ll! This issue we’ve got some fantastic prose, photography, art, and, of course, poetry from both Delta College students and people from around the country and abroad. As usual, it’s been a joy sifting through the plethora of material sent to us. Though it has been difficult choosing only a select few to make it into this issue, we’re confident that we’ve picked out work that is indicative of the creativity and talent that courses through the minds of all good artists. While this is my last issue as the Vice President of the Writers’ Guild, I’m confident that the next generation of club members will more than capably continue the legacy of the club and provide an outlet for aspiring artists to get their work published and shared with an audience that appreciates the hard work that goes into creating thought provoking and entertaining art. For those who have never submitted to Artifact, we’d like to extend an invitation to take some time out of your busy (and not so busy) schedules to send us an email with work that exemplifies what you’re capable of. While the prospect of being scrutinized by an editor may be frightening (is frightening) to many of us, there’s no need for that kind of anxiety when you submit to Artifact Nouveau. Plus, you may get published in something with some French in its title. That’s always wonderful.

Warmest regards, Agustin Rios Jr.

“If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less, but to dream more, to dream all the time.”

–Marcel Proust

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Thank you to all the contributing authors and artists who comprise our summer issue. The Writers’ Guild is especially grateful for the hard work of Patricia Mayorga, editor of Poets’ Espresso Review. We also want to thank those who led the spring semester writing workshops: Gabrielle Meyers, Bruce Crawford, and Paula Treick DeBoard.

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TAbLE OF CONTENTs

Daily Living by Patricia Smith ................................................5

An Unnecessary Sadness by Maurice Kaehler ..........................................7

Untitled Poem by Michael Duffett............................................9

Thou Fearful Progeny of Rain by Lilian Dube ...................................................10

Sighs and Laments by Richard Shelton .........................................12

Color Red by Marlen Gonzalez .......................................13

I Wish I Was a Flower by Victoria Bagatta ........................................21

Relics by Jack Harvey ..................................................23

Changing Times by A. Lark ............................................................27

Lol Re Lax by Rose Knapp ....................................................28

The Librarian by David Bankson .............................................29

TAbLE OF CONTENTs CONT.

Smiling at the Rain by Will Walton .................................................31

Swiftsure by Alia Michaud ...............................................47

A Quest to the Tower of Shine by Myles Salas ...................................................53Under a Quilt of Stars by Lyn Lifshin......................................................85

Like You’re All That by Kathryn R. Walkowiec...............................86

Sweating Whiskey by Nicholas Demski .........................................87

The Drums of Winterlong by Carol A. Oberg ............................................88

Green Onions by Austin Veldman ...........................................89

Smile by Victoria Bagatta ........................................90

Little Asian Woman by Kassy Menke .................................................92

A Homeless Man Reflects About God by Michael Duffett..........................................93

Contributors .....................................................94

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She stands alone in her mind’s eyeranting, raving, running amok.When she whirls up a dust-storm like the Tasmanian Devil, everyone tilts to the right of her,sometimes to the left, and sometimes on occasion, someone may even slither on past.

There goes Athena—“Zeus did her wickedly” is the mockery.Fifty-five baby-mamas He dipped intoOne hundred three children opened their wombs.

Beautiful isn’t she—fully armoredBreastplate of Righteousness is her bannerShield of Hereditary Rights is her bodyguardThe Sword of Correction at her side—ready to nick, flick, and slash any insult—if need be.

Minnows of Hell rush in to feed on the foundation of her walls.

Athena—chiseled marble—Plays in her head, shrewd, courageous as the lionessYet, kitten-like in mannerism, pleasant girl though, chameleon-likeControlling her dominion at all cost.

Like the owl—A recluse in unawares.

Athena—swift as Achilleslike all warriors her victory rests upon The Swordup by sunriseprecociously prepping, preparing, protecting herself against whatever comes first.

Any Shifting of the leaves is her cue to dance.

This is the dutiful demeanor of any Reigning Warring Goddess—

Just, living life.

Daily living

by Patricia Smith

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Horse in Profile

by Sarah Van Dusen

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An UnnecessAry sAdness

by MAUrice KAehler

I sit in the corner of the veranda. The shade succors me in the blazing heat. Tawny hills and oak trees surround me.As I write, I hear the scratch of lead on the page. I’m unsure of how I feel.With my tears just underneath the surface,I’m unknowing of what’s waiting for me at home.

I found an old entry in the local journalWhere I wrote, “She showed me the importance of home.” A dam seemed to break inside.I had forgotten that. And amidst jealousy, Envy,Hatred,And shame,A little boy came home to find his heart.

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by Maurice Kaehler

The habits of recent thoughts have not been thoughtful. It scares me. It’s as if I’m possessed.I long for connection and fear that I lack what it takes to commit. I then think of her,Her transitioning, And me at my best.How recently I’ve forgotten that.Instead, accepting the impossibility of swimming through air. Tragedy lies not in transition or change.It lies in this way of thinking.To know there is love and not care, And to live in an unnecessary sadness.

Heart pill at seven, water pills at nine And the day is under way; a distant Aircraft reminds me of the world I’ve left Behind and from my armchair, a glimpseOf clouds through the back window tells me That sky and plains, valleys and mountains Are comfortably and uncomfortably around For others to explore. I am at restAnd focusing on the slow and faltering Rhythms of my heart and bladder, feet upNo longer restlessly pacing the pathsI crossed, re-crossed and followed to this place Where life begins with pills at seven and nine And there is nowhere left to go but inward.

—by Michael Duffett

9In the Candlelight by Kassy Menke

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Thou Fearful Progeny of Rainby Lilian Dube

A flood sluiced his neighboursout of bed one Easter and 30 miles awaythey found them in the mud.

Thus he walked from summer to winterfumbled around the cloud forest

like a blind buffalohis lonesomeness

perturbing the animalswho took it for a threat

And oh how senseless is this worldwhen a man is a stick that breaks for another

Nebuchadnezzar in his madness was bent like this mannow pitching a tent on a black bog

His body was wet with the dew of heavenuntil his hair grew like an eagle’s feathers

He had been for a long timeperfectly comfortable in the belief that there was no worldbeyond the reach of the eye As cold as a cannon with no skywe see him dissolving time with the locals now after that rain, his grimace, smallbut charged with significance.

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by William CraWford

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SIGHS AND LAMENTSby Richard Shelton

Ah, what sighs Time dents upon the mind

As plundering Age approaches

Shovel in hand

To beat upon man.

Ah, what laments the mind invents

As Time gnaws the body

Disarmed and feeble

And Age struts boldly,

Shovel in hand,

Upon the immensity of death.

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It has been wonderful these past few weeks, ever since the wedding. We moved to a little house of our own. It’s a house that belonged to his family. It’s not much. It’s barely as big as my apartment, but I think it’s perfect for just the two of us. It needs a little fixing here and there, but nothing that can’t be fixed with some paint and nice decorations. It’ll keep me busy while he’s away at work.

The hours seem eternal when he’s not home. I already finished my chores, so now here I am writing in this old notebook I found in the closet. It’s worn out, the binding is damaged, and there are pages that have been ripped out, as if it belonged to someone previously. As if they tore the pages in hopes of hiding whatever secrets they had spilled on the pages. I asked him if he knew whose it was, but he didn’t.

I usually just type away on my laptop, but lately I haven’t felt like it. From time to time I enjoy the feeling of pencil on paper. Plus, my belongings are still at my apartment, so this old notebook will have to do for now.

He’s been great to me. He says he loves me. That he’ll do anything for me, and I believe him. How could I not? He promised! He’s a good man and I love him. He’s at work right now, so I’m surprising him with his favorite: spaghetti. I hope he’s pleased with me. I want to make him happy. He’s always taking care of me, you know. Always

Color Redby Marlen Gonzalez

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making sure I don’t stray too far from his sight. He won’t even allow me to get a job. He says that that’s what he’s here for, that I won’t have to worry about a single bill while I’m with him. He truly is a good man. The best I could’ve asked for. He almost got lost once. It’s a good thing I saved him. He promised if I married him, that he’d leave everything behind, and he did. He’s been nothing but good to me.

*** All my belongings are here now, but for some reason I’m still writing in this old notebook. I can’t let it go to waste, so I might as well just fill up the remaining pages. I feel lonely here. He’s always away at work. I want to invite my friends over, but we haven’t gotten internet or a phone line. I found my cell phone on the ground the other day. The screen was shattered, and it would no longer turn on. It must have fallen from the table, although I don’t recall leaving it near the edge. He keeps promising that he’ll take me to repair it, but he never does. It’s been two weeks already. I would just drive myself there, but we only have one car at the moment. Mine is at the shop. I guess something is wrong with the transmission. At least that’s what he says.

*** The house is eerily quiet lately. I ran out of things to do and places to clean. I polished all the furniture. I even made him buy me paint for the walls. I painted the kitchen red, my favorite color. He doesn’t like it though. He says it feels like it suffocates him, but I’m not changing it. I also fixed the yard up. That took me two weeks to do. The house had been abandoned for too long, so all the

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Kazi’s Artichoke by Maurice Kaehler

vegetation had dried up. He bought all kinds of flowers for me to plant. My favorites are the red roses. The yard really does look beautiful with the flowers. It brought so much more light and life to the house. I’d say our yard looks better than any of the surrounding houses, not that there are many.

Now I have nothing else to do, well besides write in this old notebook. Apart from having nothing to do, I haven’t seen anyone other than him. I’m always alone. I

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still haven’t gone to the shop to fix my phone, so calling isn’t an option. We don’t have internet either. I’m reallydisconnected from everyone. My mom must be worried sick over me. He says there’s no reason to call, but I think otherwise.

The only other thing I can do is watch TV, but I can only watch so much of it. I keep telling him we should go out, but he refuses. It’s always the same. He’s “too tired, maybe tomorrow.” I tell him I can drive myself, but he doesn’t want me driving the company’s truck. My car is still in the shop. It’s been almost two months since he took it. I’m growing restless. I was always so used to having my own car, and being able to go anywhere whenever I wanted. I guess I have to keep “nagging,” as he puts it, for him to hurry up with my car.

*** He’s been acting strange lately. He’s always so distant, as if he’s in another world. At dinner we eat in silence, but I catch him looking at me. Actually, he’s always watching me, whether it be if I’m working out in the yard, or I’m washing the dishes. His eyes are always glued to me. He has that weird look in his eyes. The one he used to have. It scares me. He’s been getting irritated very easily too. He gets mad if I keep pressuring him to let me use the truck and his phone. I don’t want him to be that way. He promised he’d leave it behind.

*** He finally let me speak to my mother yesterday. She sounded worried. It’s been months since I last spoke to her, or anyone else that wasn’t him. We could only speak

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for an hour though. He said he was waiting for an important call. No one ever called.

My mom said she wanted to come over, but I told her we were very busy. She didn’t seem convinced, and I hated lying to her, but I couldn’t let her see me like this. She wouldn’t understand. She’d judge him too harshly. It was partially my fault. I accidently spilled coffee on him. He got really angry and couldn’t control himself. He seemed sorry afterwards though. He hugged me and promised he’d never do it again. I wanted to leave, but he really did seem sorry. He made me see that what we have is too strong to just throw away. He’s right.

*** He promised he wouldn’t, but he does. I don’t want to make him angry, but no matter what I do, something always bothers him. I think he feels angry with himself, so he let me speak to my mother again. She said I sounded strange. She wanted to know what was happening, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I know how he is. It’ll make him angrier, and I don’t want that. He cried last night. He hugged me and kissed my forehead. He said he’s sorry. He sounded so sincere. I know he means it. He really does, but no matter how much he regrets it, he always does it again. He always gets that look in his eyes, so I try to do everything right, but he gets angry too easily.

*** I’ve been in this room for three days. He locks the door from the outside, so I can’t leave. There aren’t any windows, so I have no escape. He only lets me out when he’s here, so that I can clean and make dinner. He’s on

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A House Is a Home by William Crawford

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Chained and Waiting by William Crawford

guard when I’m free to roam the house. He follows my every move. It’s unnerving to have him watching me. I want to leave, but I can’t get time alone. He’d know if I tried. He’s just waiting for any small mistakes, and he yells at me a lot for being slow. I can’t help it. Everything hurts all the time.

*** He gets mad at me for not listening, but I don’t care. I have lost track of how many times I’ve had to clean up my own blood. I can’t feel anything anymore. I don’t even cry like I used to. I sit there and stare at him. He stares at me too, like always. Sometimes I stare at the drawer, where I know the silver knives are kept. I wonder how sharp the blade feels. It surely would be sharp enough to draw out blood. Blood as red as the kitchen walls. I want to get one, but he’s always watching.

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Always watching.***

There’s red everywhere. I was cooking his favorite: spaghetti. I only wanted to make him happy, but he was angry. He was yelling and throwing things, but all I could focus on was the cold metal in my hand. It was sharp like I had thought. I even drew out some of my own blood.

The color of blood is so beautiful, and now it was everywhere. It stained the white tiles I had spent hours whitening. It matched the walls, but I had to clean it be-fore they came for me. It was an accident really. He was yelling so loud that it made my head hurt. I just wanted peace and silence. They wouldn’t understand though. I did it so we could be happy and because he looksso peaceful when he’s asleep.

They were going to be so mad, and they were go-ing to take me when they saw what I did. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but it wouldn’t come off. It only got worse. Everything was red. They would be so angry…so angry. I continued to scrub, and scrub.

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i wish i was aflower sothatyouwould

touchmewithareverenceshownonly

tothingsof pure beauty sothatyouwould pullmefrommyroots

and killme

but asidied iwouldgettoseeyou dancewhileyoucooked inthekitchen

or lazeonthecouch inyourpajamas or cryinyourroom

whileyouwatchedyourfavoritemovie onnetflix mystemwouldtwist and

mypetalswould bloom inyourdirection likethesun youaremy sun

but maybe iamalready a flower

I WIsh I Was a FloWer by VIctorIa bagatta

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bIg bang ZInnIa by MaurIce Kaehler

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Relicsby Jack HarveySchiller’s skullon Goethe’s tableawaits interment.The unspeakable,the mothering earth,impressed with toomany monuments,is dumb;unanswered Beethoven’sout in the cold.

Mann’s Faust,lost in spiritual ice,like a crane stretchesfrom one shipwreckto the next;shipwrecked for good,Schiller’s skull,thrown upby an unsteady sea,lingers on the beach.

Consider the consequencesof genius or exceptional eyesand ears, limbs andall the rest;like the rest of usconsigned to jumping overfences till death

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do you partfrom the earthly part,the dross, the glosson the text;

consider the ant,you dreamers,and fall back in line.

The fires of creation andthe winds of the musesblew through Schiller’s head,possessing him and possessed;breathed on by divine lips,eyes rolling like windmills,he suffered the bread of pain, the water of anguish,scribbled away andthe legions of the lesserbuilt their castles on his books,built on his backbone.

Long agoin the dark German woodsVarus had his problems.Rome marched back and forthin the damp and the cold;the southern Mediterranean lightpaled, and went out.

Centuries laterSchillerturned south;

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dignity and sundrew on enthusiasm;the sacrifices of yoredimmed to a pointand then all was light.Light from the domeblasted the darksides of the templeswhite as sheets;Schiller, at the zenith of his flight,unmovingas Zeno’s arrow,looks out:an eagle fixed.

Now on a tablehis skullgrins at the skillnot lost;the bard shall not go speechless to Orcus.

And Goethe,setting like Antares,sees a pattern everywhere;moonlight and hope at the last.

Goodbye both;you served usbetter than most,raised us

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high as the Venusberg,sunk usto the depths of the Brocken.Flesh and bone conjurers,sufferers of human ills,your secrets are safewith us,your honorable worksstand in unbroken ranks.

Immer besser,immer heiterer,the dark side,the light,live off the flame;Schiller’s skull,balanced in Goethe’s hand,grins like an ape,and then dies again.

Beyond Dome by Mohammad Ali Mirzaei

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Changing Times by A. Lark

Today, there’s concrete where a playground used to be

A magic place where children used to laugh and play

By human force, the joy has been removed away

Because concrete is where a playground used to be

Today, there is a stop where go used to roam free

Echoing only sullen dispirited sounds

Repeatedly, rubber striking the altered grounds

Because concrete reigns where a playground used to be

Today, there is distance where closeness used to be

The cars, the people all distracted, zoom by fast

Busy and absorbed “one cannot stop for the past”

Today, there’s concrete where a playground used to be

The virtual has replaced the reality

One’s skin knows not the feel of trees, dirt, grass, and sand

Our children will be safe on fabricated land

Today, there’s concrete where a playground used to be.

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Lol Re Laxby Rose Knapp

Lol Re Lax, Idc jk Jfk irl I need xanax

LA may be a little lala but

it’s laid back, chill, dope, and “happy”

NYC is very neurotic n lala

it’s not your fuckin friend or bourgeois utopia but

it’s where people go to find dope and define dope

Bouquet by Kobina Wright

“The final book is closed,” she confesses through cupped and quivering hands, hands possessed of ancient force and fury. But that force—that fury—drained into a thin cup upon her fireplace mantle. It brims, overflows, spillinganxious mist across the floorof her emptied library corridor.

In all my times here, I’ve never seen this cup before, the way it hangs over her, over her hearth, disconnected and alien, shaky and unfamiliar, pliable yet untouchable, as if protectedin the vacuum chamber of a bell jar.

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The Librarianby David Bankson

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It does not belong, but it’s not what matters;one cannot scratch a message in the marginwhen her books her children are closing, checked out, unreturned, some missing, some burned.

Not when you stand in the face of the childhood librarian, with no books left for her care.

Every Where by Kobina Wright

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IclosedthedoorstoBestMoveforthelasttimeonDecember7,2012,nearlyfiveyearstothedayofthehousing-marketcrashof’07.Iwassurprisedtohavelastedthatlong.Withnoonebuyinghomes—inthemidstofarecession—therewaslittleworkforfurnituremoversinasmalltownlikeWaycross,Georgia.Thecompanyhungonthoselastyearslikeunrequitedlove,buteachdaywasmerelyadelayoftheinevitable.Ourlastmonthinbusinesswasdevotedtoemptyingourwarehousestoragefacility.Bytheendofthefinalweek,wehadclearedoutalloftheremainingseventeenunits,exceptforone.ThisunithadbeenrentedoutforoverayeartoawomannamedSophiaFoster.Sophiahadnotmissedorevenbeenlatewithasinglepaymentupuntilthispoint.Ittookmysecretary,Miranda,twoweeksofunsuccessfulattemptsattrackingSophiadownbeforeshefinallyreachedSophia’ssister,Beverly,whoinformedherthatSophiahaddiedinacaraccidentafewweeksprior.WhenMirandaaskedBeverlyifshewouldaccepthersister’sbelongings,shetoldMirandathatshewantednothingtodowiththeitemsthatwereinstorage.ShesaidtheybelongedtoSophia’snephewandthattheywereworthlesstoher.

Onthemorningoftheseventh,threeofBestMove’semployees—Bill,JacobandLeo—andmyselfmetatthewarehousetoloadSophia’sfurniture,boxes

Smiling at the Rainby Will Walton

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andwhatnots,andthentaketheloadtothedump.TheclosestGoodwillorSalvationArmywasoveranhouraway,ineitherValdostaorBrunswick—eitherway,toofar.

Billbackedthevanuptotheloadingdock,andLeopulleddownonthechain,openingthebaydoor.JacobstoodonthegroundanddirectedBillashebackedthetwenty-six-footer.

“Thisisadamnshame,Josh,adamnshame,”Leosaidtomeashewalkeduptothestackoffurniture.“Perfectlygoodstuffjustgoingtowaste.”

HeandJacobgrabbedthefirstpiece,acouch,liftedittotheirknee—sotogetbothhandsunderit—andwalkedittothefrontofthevan’sbed,wheretheyheaveditupovertheirheadsandintotheoverhang.Theyturnedandwentbackforthelove-seat,whichtheyplacedinsidethecouch,withthefeetfacingout—likethemergingofanuppercase“L”anda“7.”AsJacobandLeocontinuedtoloadthefurniture,IbeganstackingboxesforBilltodollyintothevan.Istackedsevenrows,and,ontheseventhrow,Iplacedtheonlyopenboxatthetopofthestack.AsIstood,catchingmybreath,abook-letofpapersatthetopoftheboxcaughtmyeye.Thebooklethadatitle-pagethatread,“‘MyStory’by:DickBrenna.”Mycuriositypiqued.Ipickedupthebooklet,turnedoverthetitle-page,andbeganreading.

“Don’tworry,Boss,we’llgetit.”Iheardthesar-

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casminJacob’svoice,butIneverlookedup.Instead,IsatdownIndianstyleinthespotI’dbeenstanding—eyesonthepaper.

***** IamangryatnooneforthehorrorsIenduredasachild.Ihavenowforgiventhosewhoharmedme.

IwasbornonHalloweenin1977,atMemorialHospital,inWaycross,Georgia.Mybirthwas

WatcheroftheLakebyBriawnaFreeman

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complicated,andmymothernearlydiedfromseverehemorrhagingduringlabor.Shesaiditwasthemostmiserableexperienceofherlife.

IgrewupinanolddecrepithouseinHoboken.Ilivedtherewithmymotherandfather,mysister,Kate,andmybrother,Brad.Katewastheeldestofusthree,BradwasayearbehindKate,andIwasthreeyearsbehindBrad.

UntilIwasseventeen,mostallofmyworriesinliferevolvedaroundmybed-wetting.NearlyeverybeatingItookasachild,everyinsult,everyembarrass-ment,wasbecauseofthisproblem.

Oneofmyearliestmemoriesisofmebeingmadetosleepoutsideinourbackyard.Iwasleftwithabaremattressandnocovers.Idon’tremembermymattressbeingmovedoutside.Idon’trememberbeinggivenareasonwhyI’dbeencastout.Idon’tremembermyage,orwhatyearitwas.Idon’trememberwhatdayoftheweekitwasandIdon’tevenrememberthecold,butIwillneverforgettheredsandgreensandbluesofourneighbors’Christmaslights.Icanseethemnow.

Althoughitpreventednothing,Motherdidn’tallowmetodrinkanythinghoursbeforebedtime;often-times,lunchwasthelasttimeIwasgivensomethingtodrink.Icanremember,atageseven,sneakingoutside,andhastilydrinkingfrompuddlesofrainwater—onbothknees,humpedover,handscupped.Tothisday,at

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agethirty-four,Ismileattherain.

Mymotherneveroncestruckme,thoughIfearedherthemost.Myfatherwasthemuscleofthepair,butonlyasanextensionofmymother,onlyashertool.Hedidn’tlayahandonmethatwasn’tcommandedbyher.

FromthebestIcanremember,Iwasaboutsevenoreightwhenthebeatingsbegan.Iguessitwasatthispointthatmymotherrealizedmybedwettingwasnotgoingtobeanimpermanence,andfeltitnecessarytoaddressthesituationinthewayshefeltwasbest.

Thebeatingsalwaysbeganthesame:myfather,pumpinghimselfup,wouldslingopenmybedroomdoor,andbegincursingatme,sayingsomethinglike,“Anotherstainonmydamnmattress.That’sallyou’regoodfor:stainingmygoddamnmattresswithyourpiss.”Withhim,everythingwasalways“my...”—thiswasthesamewithmymotheraswell.

Healsosaidthingslike,“Afterputtinginahardday’swork,Ihavetocomehomeandhearitfromyourmother,sonowI’mforcedtotakecareofit.”Heusuallystartedwithhisbelt—buckleout—and,moreoftenthannot,endedwithhisfist.Hewoulddropthebelt,andmaketheswitchoncehisemotiontookover.Father’sonlymercywastosparemyface,butthiswasmerelybecausemarksonthefacehadtobeexplained.BythetimeIwasnine,Ipridedmyselfinbeingabletotakeabeating.IbegantorecognizethebetterItookit,theless

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satisfactionhegained.ThiswastheagewhenIconsciouslydecidedtostopcrying,andtheagethatwasthelasttimeIcried.Kate,whohaditworsethanme,andinworseways,nevercriedorscreamed—althoughshecouldn’thelpbutmoan—whenFatherlockedherbedroom-doorbehindhim,andtookcareofher.Fromher,Igainedmystrength.

***** Onthenightbeforemytenthbirthday,whilewashingthedishesafterdinner,IcaughtaglimpseofaDairyQueenicecreamcake,asKateopenedthefreezerdoortograbsomeiceforherDr.Pepper.Icouldn’tbelievewhatIsaw!Notonlywasthistobemyfirsticecreamcake,itwastobemyfirstbirthdaycake.Ibarelysleptthatnight.Ithoughtofallthatwasgoingtohappenatmypartybecausesurely,withabirthday

Seagull by Mohammad Ali Mirzaei

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cake,therewouldbeabirthdaypartytoboot.IthoughtofallthepresentsIwasgoingtoget.Ithoughtabouttheballoonsthatwouldbetiedtothebacksofchairs,andthetencandlesthatwouldburnlikeChristmaslightsontopofthecake.Ithoughtabouteveryonesinging“HappyBirthday”tome,andhoweveryonewouldbenicetome.Goodthoughtsledtobad,andIthoughtaboutthenightthatstoodbetweennowandthisdayofhappiness.IprayedtoGodforadrymattressinthemorning.IprayedtoGodforicecreamcake.

Myalarmsoundedoff.Itwas7:00a.m.andmybirthdayhadarrived,andlikeeveryothermorning,whilelivinginmyparents’home,Iwokesoakedinmyownurine.Ididn’tblameGod.Afterchangingintomyschoolclothes,Iwalkeddownthehalltowardthekitch-entofacemymother,where,asalways,shewassittingatthekitchentable,thumbingthroughthepaper.Byageten,thisshamefulwalkhadbecomearitual.Imadeittothekitchen,and,likeeveryothermorning,mymotherneatlyfoldedhernewspaper,laiditdownonthetable,andwentintomybedroomtocheckmymat-tress.ForyearsIhavewonderedwhyshedidn’tjustaskme—sotosaveheratriptomybedroomandawhiffofthatputridodor.Perhapsshelikedthesmell.Perhaps,toher,theputriditysmelledlikeopportunity.

Iheardhercomingbackdownthehallway,yellingtoKate,whowasinthebathroom.

“Hurryupandgetout,Kate.YouandBradare

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havingcakeforbreakfast.”Motherwalkedintothekitchen.

“Grabaplateandafork,”shesaidtoBrad,whowaswalkingtothetablewithabowlinonehandandabagofFruityOsintheother.“Nocerealthismorning.Today,youandyoursisterareeatingicecreamcake,andDickisgoingtowatchyoueatit.”Mothertookthecakefromthefreezer.

“Cakeforbreakfast?Hellyeah!”mybrothersaid.

“Watchyourmouth,oryou’llbestandingrightalongsideDick,watchingKateeat.”Sheyelleddownthehallway,“Getinhere,andeatyourcake!”Mothersettwoplatesdownonthetable,andtoppedeachwithathickpieceofDQ’sfinest—Icouldseetheinsidelayerofchocolatecookiecrumbs.

“We’reeatingDick’sbirthdaycakeforbreakfast?”Katequestioned,asshecamewalkingintothekitchen.

“Yes.SinceDickcan’tevenholdhispissonhisbirthday,hedoesn’tdeservetohaveabirthdaycake.Shit,hedoesn’tdeservetohaveabirthday,afterwhatheputmethrough.”Shethenturnedtome.Iwasstandinginthebackcornerofthekitchen,nexttothetrashcan,countingthecracksinthelinoleum.Bynow,shehadworkedherselfupandwasreadytolayintomedirectly.Shewenttospeak,butshestopped.Ilookedupather,and,inaninstant,Isawthemostgratifyinglookwash

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overherface.Itwas,perhaps,thelookEinsteinworeaftercomingupwithhistheoryofspecialrelativity.

“Getthemclothesoff.”Shewalkedoutofthekitchenanddownthehall.Icouldhearherrummaginginthehallcloset.Shecamebackholdingawhitesheet,andshehadtwosafetypinsinhermouth.Shetookthepinsfromherteethandsetthemonthekitchencount-er.Sheunfoldedthesheetandbeganfoldingitbackun-tilitwasthesizeandshapeshewanted—allthewhile,keepingherheaddown,whiletalkingtoherself:“Pissonmybed.Stainmymattress.”Shelookedup.“Getthosefuckingclothesoff!Ifyouwanttopissyourpantslikeadamnbabythenthat’showyou’llbetreated,likeagoddamnbaby.”Istrippeddowntomyunderwear.

“Allofit,Isaid!”Mybrothersnickered,withhismouthfulloficecream,asIstoodthere,bare-assed,armsbymyside.Katejuststaredblanklyatmycrotch,andsaidnothing—shelookedasthoughshehadsome-thingelseonhermind. “Nowcomehere,andlet’sputthebaby’sdiaperonhim.”Motherwrappedthesheetaroundmywaist,undermycrotchandbackaroundmywaistagain,andthenpinneditontheside.

Throughthefrontwindowofthehouse,Isawaflashofyellowgobyandheardbrakessquealing.Bradheardit,too.Hegrabbedhisbackpack,andranoutthedoor.

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Katesnappedoutofitandfollowedhim.

“Well,whatthehellareyouwaitingfor?”Motheraskedme.“Youbetternotmissthatbus.”Therewasamoment’slull.“Well?!”

Ipickedupmybackpack,andwalkedoutthedoor.AsInearedthebus,Icouldseethekidsontheinsidepointingatmethroughthewindowsandlaugh-ing.JustbeforeImadeittothedoor,Iheardmymother,frombehindme.

“Getyourassbackhere,Dummy.”Iturnedaround,andbeganwalkingback.Shewasstandinginthefrontdoorway,holdingthescreendooropen,shak-ingherheadindisgust,whilesmuglychuckling.

“What,didyouthinkIwasgoingtoletyougotoschooldressedinnothingbutamakeshiftdiaper,andembarrassmelikethat?You’reembarrassingenoughwhenyou’refullyclothed.Getinsideandgetdressed,andIwilltakeyoutoschool.LordknowsIdon’twantyouhangingaroundhereallday.”

***** MyAuntSophia—mymother’ssister—visitedusonoccasion.Iwasfondofmyaunt.Shesmiledwhenshetalkedtome.SophialivedinNahunta,whichisonlyfifteenminutesaway,butonlyoncedidIgetthechancetovisither.WhenIwastwelve,mymotherandfatherdrovedowntoJacksonville,Floridafortwodays

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toattendafuneralformyfather’sbrother,whodrankhimselftodeath.WhileBradandKateeachstayedatafriend’shouseforthenight,I,becauseofmyproblem,hadtostaywitharelative.So,IwassenttostaywithAuntSophia.Likemymother,Sophiaisasmall,slenderwoman,withhairasblackasobsidian.Theyareonlyoneyearapartinage—mymotherbeingolder—and,asidefromanoticeablescaroverMother’slefteye,itwouldbehardtotellthetwosistersapart.Ihaveoftenwondered,alongtheirpathsinlife,whathappenedtomymother,orwhatdidn’thappentomyauntforthemtoturnoutsodifferent.

Onthemorninginquestion,beforeleavingforJacksonville,Motherdroppedmeoffatmyaunt’s.Motherdidn’tcomeinside.Shedidn’tevenopenhercar-door.

Isteppedoutofthecar,andshesaid,“Dick,don’tyoufuckthisup.Sophiaistheonlyonewecanleaveyouwith.Doyouunderstandme?”

“Yesma’am.”Ishutthedoor,andshedroveoff.Sophiamusthavehearduspullupbecause,bythetimeIturnedaroundandlookedup,shehadherfrontdooropen,standinginthedoorway,smiling.

“Well,heythere,Dick.Comeonin.”

Forme,beingatAuntSophia’swaslikebeinginadifferentworld.There,noonewasdrunk,noonewas

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yellingorfighting,andnoonewashurting.Forme,therewasnoworrying;therewasnofear.Sophia,whowasnotmarriedatthetime,livedalone,soitwasjustherandmyselffortheentiredayandpartofthenext.Thefirstthingsheaskedme,onceIhadputmybagdown,waswhetherornotIwashungry.ItoldherIwas.

“Howaboutbaconandeggs?”sheasked,andItoldherthatIwouldlikethat.Sheevenrefilledmyglassofmilk.

Afterbreakfast,shetookmewithherintotowntorunerrands.Shehadtakenthedayofffromhersecretarialdutiesatthesawmilltowatchme,andshesaidsheneededtotakecareofsomeofherdutiestoherself,likegettinghernailsandhairdone.Afterleav-ingthesalonandmakingacoupleofotherstops,shetookmetothelocalvideostoreinNahunta.Werentedfivemovies,allofwhichIgottopickout:TheAdamsFamily,DocHollywood,whichhasanudescene(anakedwomanrisesupfromoutofapond,thrashingherheadupanddowntoshakethewaterfromherhair)thatImusthaverewoundandplayedtwentytimes,whileSophiawasinherbedroom;TheRocketeer;Hook;andTerminator2:JudgmentDay,whichshewasnottookeenonmerentingbecauseoftheviolence;however,afteracoupleof“pleases,”shegavein.Bythetimeweleftthevideostore,itwaslunchtime,so,beforereturningtoherhouse,westoppedandateattheDairyQueen.Ihadafoot-longhotdog,alargeCoke,andanicecreamsandwichthatwassweetandcold.

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Theentireday,afterreturningfromtown,allIdidwaswatchmovies,whileSophia,forthemostpart,stayedinherbedroom,sittingathersewingmachine.Forextraincome,shedidmendingandpatchworkontheside—mostlysheworkedontheuniformsofthemenwhoworkedatthesawmill.Thatevening,fordin-ner,Sophiaorderedusapepperonipizzawithextracheese—justasIaskedfor—fromMikey’sPizza.NahuntawasnotbigenoughtohaveaPizzaHutorDominoes,butIdidn’tcare;Iwashappyasshittohavepepperoniandextracheese.Again,sherefilledmydrink—water,thistime.

Whenitwastimeforbed,shewalkedwithmetomyroom—tosortofseemetobedandtuckmein,Isuppose.Shepulledbackthecomforterandthetopsheetandpresseddownonthemattress,soIcouldhearthecrinklingoftheplasticunderneaththebed-sheet.

“It’sokayifyouhaveanaccident.There’splasticdown,whichwillkeepthemattressfrombeingstained,andalsomakeforaneasyclean-upinthemorning.”

Shesaid,“B.B.,”whichiswhatSophiacalledmymother—hernamebeingBeverlyBrenna—“toldmeaboutyourbedwetting,butitwillnotbeaproblemforyoutonightbecauseweareprepared.Iunderstandthatyoucan’thelpit,ofcourse,andIdon’twantyoutoworryaboutthiswhenyou’rehere,okay?”sheasked,loweringherchinandsmiling.

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Flower Seller by Mary Carroll

“Okay,”Itoldher.Shekissedmeonthetopofmyhead.“Iloveyou,Dick.Goodnight.Ifyouneedme,Iwillbeinmyroom,justattheendofthehall.Youknowwhereitis.”

“Okay,goodnight,AuntSophia.”ImusthavefallenasleepimmediatelyaftersheclosedthedoorbecausetheonlythingIrememberafterthelightsgoingoutiswakingupthenextmorning.Iwasdry.ItwasthefirstmorningintwelveyearsthatIdidn’twakeuptothestenchandstickinessofpiss.Thenexttimecamefiveyearslater,onthemorningafterImovedoutofmyparents’home.

***** Idroppedmyarms,alongwiththebooklet,tomylap,andstaredstraightaheadatnothing.“Youokay,Boss?”Jacobsaid.“Um,yeah.I’mfine.”Iloweredmyeyesafewinches,butkepttheminanunfocusedgaze.Afterafewseconds,IcametoandsawtheboxIhadfoundthestoryin,sittingonthegroundbesideme—Billhadsetitdownoffitsstackwhenheloadedtherestoftheboxes.JacobandLeowerefinishinguploadingthelastfewpiecesoffurniture.Isetthebookletofpapersdownbesidetheboxandpulledbackthebox’stopflapstogetabetterlookinside.Ontop,now,wasadeathcertificate,whichread:

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MedicalCertificateofDeath

•ThisistocertifythatI,JohnE.Arnett,coronerfortheCountyofLosAngeles,StateofCalifornia,haveviewedthebodyofSethBrenna.•CauseofDeath:Suicidebycontactshotgunwoundtohead•NameofDeceased:SethWilliamBrenna•Age:34/Sex:Male/Race:White/MarriedorSingle:Single•PlaceofDeath:77CardinalRoad•DateofDeath:31October2011

Ipickedthebookletupoffthefloorandplaceditinthebox,ontopofthecertificate,andclosedthetopflaps.

“Okay,Boss,everything’sloaded.We’reabouttohaulitoff,”Jacobsaidtome.Billhadalreadypulledthevanup,awayfromtheloadingdock,andwassittinginthecab,withtheengineidling.Leostoodatthebackofthevan,waiting,holdingonedooropen.

“Doyouwantustoleavethatboxwithyou?Doyouwanttokeepit?”Jacobasked.

Istoodupanddustedthedirtfrommyjeans.“No.Takeittothedumpwiththerestofit.”

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Charlie Gains His Stripes by Abraham Alvarez

SwiftSureby AliA MichAud

It starts when she’s a girl of only sixteen, crouch-ing in the shade of a shopkeeper’s crates, and he spots her across the way where he’s holed himself in with his crew. The tavern’s warm lights soften the cut of his jaw and cheekbones until all she sees is the slick-glass green of dark-fringed eyes. He’s a lieutenant and she’s just a child, but he is kind when he buys her a pint.

Or—no. It starts at the bottom of some rickety stairs when he tugs and pulls at her hand. His smile is small and his glances fleeting, the ones he flicks at his crew, but she’s too busy staring at their intertwined fingers to notice the way that they hoot. He gives her a bow before he takes her to bed. For a moment she feels like his queen, for a mo-ment…

No. It starts with her bones spreading like ashes at sea, all sprawled and trembling things wrapped in

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the cream of her purpling porcelain skin that ache in his bed. And her cheek sealed by the sticky sweetness of her unwelcome sweat to the length of his soiled sheets.

It starts at sea with blood and screams. She swears—that is how it shall end.

***

She stands just behind him, peering over his shoul-der to watch the Captain’s wife lift her skirts, the sight of her bareness meant to chase away any demons on board. Or so the men say. But she has not the head for logic it seems because she cannot make sense of the superstition. She knows how sailors are with their rabbit’s feet and red skies spread over glassy seas and absolute forbiddance of bananas on board. So she won’t begrudge them this one, but still she cannot understand it. She is only a wench, though; she thinks the men would forgive her if she can’t help but laugh.

When the woman splashes them with her unholy visage and cleanses the ship, the kind lieutenant does not budge. Even as the Captain’s voice carries across the wind and attempts to spirit him away, he doesn’t move from where he leans. His long legs drape one across the other and his elbows slouch over the railing, all perfectly dishev-eled so that he may keep a possessive eye on her without much effort. His tongue slides over his bottom lip.

She clears her throat and hopes her face does not blush. That old heat unfurls up along her throat uncomfort-ably. “Your Captain, sir.”

There is a long moment of him watching her, his wicked tongue pressed to his cheek, before he pushes up from the railing by the jut of his hips. His head dips into a ridiculous bow. “Lady Anne,” he says with a smirk, tugs at her loose hair, and swaggers his way to the helm.

She knows she should be sorry to see him go. A niggling memory, one of sour rum wetting his lips and that mouth slipping her a taste, whispers the sorrow into her

ear, but it is too quiet to hear over the men and their ship and this sea. She probably wouldn’t recognize it anyway and would confuse it as a miserable dream. The sort that makes waking a nightmare.

“Bonny,” calls the Captain, his furry white brow bowing low upon his face. The cracked leather of his skin bunches at the corners of his eyes, and his thin lips curl into the squinting light of the noon sun. He tilts his chin to the deck. “Ship’s no place for a woman. Below, now, lest you tempt the Fates.”

So she goes below. She knows Fate, her fickle hand pressed between Anne’s shoulder blades all her life, guid-ing her to the orphanage, to the whore house, to the tavern where she met her lieutenant. She knows Fate and her slight-of-hand parlor tricks that pass the time. The way she dangles something sweet as a lure, something golden and glimmering amidst the dark like a northern star sing-ing to sailors. The way she purrs at the approach, coos and croons gently, until the very last moment when fingers have just stretched out to maybe have a taste of what goodness feels like before she rips it away.

Anne cannot understand their superstitions, but she knows Fate. She has been the victim. So she will hide away and do her best to spare the generous crew.

Her efforts, though, are in vain.

***

The storm strikes in the heart of the night. While she curls in on herself, gathering the sheets as best she can to cover her trembling skin, despite the heat of the cabin and his burning breath coiling tightly around her neck, while he sleeps peacefully beside her. A lantern creaks mournfully above and spills the faint dregs of candlelight over the room.

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50

She stifles her tears with her face turned into the pil-low, and she’s just settled her racing heart when the mid-shipman throws the door open.

The orange glow falls just right to make his sunken eyes ghoulish in the night. Her heart pounds. She reaches blindly behind her and thumps the lieutenant soundly on the chest.

“Bloody hell!” He seizes forward, startled. His gaze drops to her and he grabs a tight fistful of her hair. “What the hell, Anne?” Thunder rips through the still of the night, and his eyes dart instantly to the shadowed sailor.

The midshipman blinks owlishly at his lieutenant, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the door, and he stammers out breathlessly, “A—a storm, sir. The Captain’s calling—”

But the lieutenant has stopped listening, hurried-ly tying up his trouser laces and pulling his tunic over his head. He launches over her and stalks to the door, shoving the sailor along. “Never enter my quarters without explic-it permission,” he growls, and then they’re gone down the hall.

Not even a moment later, the ship lurches and toss-es her from the bed violently. Books fly from their shelves and hit the opposite wall. She tugs her shift over her head and begins to hastily scoop up the tomes, ever aware of the lieutenant’s quick hand. Just as she’s gathered them all to her chest, the lieutenant throws open the door, seizes her by the arm, and begins to tug her up the stairs to the top deck. He never says a word.

And above, there is utter madness. She can hardly see through the white wall of rain or the black of the night, but she can just make out sailors scurrying from stem to stern. They shout but the words are muddled by the vic-torious roar of the storm, by the clamber of God’s drums. Waves thrust up into the sky all around and crash upon them, submerging and tossing the meager men in Her Maj-esty’s Royal Navy. The ship rolls.

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She grabs his arm by habit, by necessity, and for the first time, notices the dagger he holds. Her blood runs cold in her veins. In the next moment, the lieutenant grabs the front of her shift, presses the dagger so that the point touches her throat, and cuts a line clean down the middle of her clothes. Her mouth falls open around a useless protest. He yanks her by the arm, even as she scrambles to clutch the ruined garments, and presents her at the bow. He pulls her arms behind her back and looks to the sky.

And though the lieutenant has bared her to the storm, given away everything of her he has right to give, Fate has found her wanting. The storm abounds, and still the men falter.

He turns to her almost regretfully, drops his eyes down the length of her for a lingering moment, and then bares his teeth. He hollers to her over the storm and the frantic crawl of sailors up in the rigging, fastening the sails and crying out to each other as they’re pelted by the mer-ciless sky, “Should’ve known! More trouble than you’re worth!”

He lunges forward and heaves her over his shoulder. Before she even realizes what he’s doing, he’s taken the re-mainder of the deck under his long strides and dumped her over the railing and into the frothing sea below. The waters crack the moment she hits the waves and greedily swallow her whole.

*** She knows Fate, but it is not to the goddess that she prays.

No, she whispers it to the sea. While the waters swarm, press into her skin, and trace her every line with cold, wet fingers; while her torn shift billows like silky, an-gelic wings about her exposed body and drag her down into the ocean’s murkiest deeps; while the clouds in the

sky above her break apart to expose the peeking silver moon, a storm finally passing and a ship slowly settling. While she dies on a dark and perfect night, she whispers to the sea. Air swells from her lungs to her lips and slips into the waters above, carrying the words she hopes are enough. Oaths of vengeance and scorn delivered in pearly bubbles of her last breaths.

She believes she will die hating him, but her curses are enough.

The churn of the ocean that seemed poised to kill her only seconds before fades into something softer, nearly loving; a sisterly hand, cradling her; a mother’s touch, swathing her in its cold arms. Pulling her deeper into the icy water and filling her lungs so completely she feels she may burst with just one more sip. It scrubs away the tear-tinted sweat on her cheeks, peels back the layer of her useless silk shift, and begins to unravel her skin until she blooms into glinting pedals like the first bud of some springtime past. Her flesh melts into scales, a tale of ivy green. She changes with the sea. And suddenly she can breathe.

With breath comes her voice and the song that hums through the deep. She feels it and knows it as if it were her own. She begins to sing. Remembers the tales of the sirens, whispering their songs to sailors before they dragged them to their deaths, and feels, for the first time, as if she is completely free.

The Captain was right. A ship is no place for a woman. No, she belongs to the sea.

She swears she will show them how cold she can be.

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53

The vast green plains were definitely a sight to behold. Miles upon miles of green grass, all swaying in greetings against the wind. The only other colors visible were the what-seemed-to-be never-ending brown dirt path and Marylin walking with her friend, Ore. Marylin and Ore were walking along the path in silence. The silence felt awkward to Ore, but Marylin paid no attention to it, as she strolled along looking towards the horizon with a content smile. Ore broke the silence with a question that had been stabbing him ever since the start of their walk.

“Do you think we will reach it by nightfall?” asked Ore.

“There’s no way of telling. Some have said that the journey is at least a full day,” said Marylin, “and we left the village around noon. So, we’ll most likely have to stop and sleep somewhere.”

“Are there any sort of inns along the path?”

“No. This path doesn’t have enough travelers for there to be any. Do not fret though. I brought plenty of water and some other goodies just for you!”

“Just for me?”

“Well, duh! I knew you wouldn’t bring anything sweet, so I brought us the essentials.” Marylin patted her

A Quest to the Tower of Shineby Myles Salas

54

backpack and said with a delightful tone, “Momma Linda’s homemade crisps will be our main source of energy! I made sure to have Momma Linda specially make you those crisps that have the fresh apple slices embedded on the top.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem. I remember how you used to drool over them.”

“Oh…” Ore paused and then said, “Did you spend all of your week’s worth of coins on the crisps? They can be very expensive.” “Ha, yes, I did, actually. You know Momma Linda’s crisps are worth every coin though; besides, the amount of memories we are going to make once we explore this tower are going to be more valuable than any amount of coins we could earn.”

…

They continued to talk about the possible wonders that awaited them. Ore found Marylin’s constant stream of desires to be soothing. In Ore’s mind, all that mattered was that he was finally able to escape the imposing grip of the village for a while. The village was once a rather quiet place to live, unlike the hustle and bustle of the town, which was always an obnoxious place to venture.

The town had a continuous flow of people who lacked sympathy. When in the town, one could not stop

to greet someone, even if they knew each other well – this mentality came from the fact that the town had a barrage of horse-drawn carriages going through the streets at a fast pace.

Ore began to notice that the village had started to become similar to the town. The village’s main source of income was dependent on its residents’ crafts. The village provided the town with everything that did not involve politics, clothing, and the great Candle. Due to the village’s growing importance, the adult residents had to start assigning their children tasks at an earlier age.

Ore used to wake up every day to Marylin’s knocks at his door. On the days Ore decided not to stay indoors, Marylin and he would loiter in front of Momma Linda’s shop and make contraptions out of sticks and wax that melted from their candles. Using the contraptions, Marylin and Ore always found new ways to annoy the other kids of the village.

Most of Marylin and Ore’s childhood habits became distant memories. Walking with Marylin across the green plains, Ore noticed that Marylin’s hair was much longer than just a few years prior. And, Ore noticed, that hair was in the process of growing on his arms and legs.

From another drag of silence, Ore said, “That book was older than Momma Linda, you know. Probably older than her momma.”

Marylin did not reply immediately. Instead, she pondered over Ore’s statement in some silence that bothered Ore for a bit of time. To Ore’s relief, Marylin

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said, “Hey, the sky is reddening. We should stop and eat our full course meal before it becomes too dark to see what we put into our mouths.” Marylin chuckled at her own remark and parted from the path, heading towards a nearby hill. Ore followed and refused to resurface his previous statement.

Marylin set her backpack on the soft grass and opened it. Her manner of searching made Ore imagine someone who was trying to find a single particular pebble within the grand scale of a beach. Ore simply opened the biggest of two compartments of his backpack and pulled out a bag that smelled of one of his favorite meats, chicken.

“Here they are!” Marylin exclaimed, throwing her hand, which held a net full of Momma Linda’s crisps, over her head. “That took quite some effort!”

“Wait. Shouldn’t we eat something not-so-sweet first? I mean, eating crisps will probably ruin our appetite for anything else, anything healthy,” Ore fussed.

“Nonsense! You know I always eat sweets before savory. I have always been that way, come on now.”

“That may be so, but that doesn’t make it right. We still don’t have any idea of how far the tower is.”

“That’s of no concern to me. No matter the case, we will make it there with all our senses as adept as they are now! You know, you worry too much about the little things.”

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Marylin’s words were contrary to what Ore’s feelings truly were. Marylin’s health was never amongst the “little things” in Ore’s life. For as long as Ore could remember, Marylin had always planned antics without thoroughly considering the consequences. Every time Marylin concocted a scheme, whether it be for hopes of entertainment or personal gain, she always ended her outlining with, “And there is no way this can go wrong!”

Usually something did go horribly wrong, yet something in Marylin’s demeanor allowed her to perceive any backfires as progressions. “Now, we can work with this,” she would always say.

… “Ugh, I knew I shouldn’t have eaten so many of those damn deviled eggs,” Marylin complained.

“The deviled eggs? I think it was the crisps that really filled you up. I’m sure one would have sufficed for ‘our main source of energy,’” Ore said.

“Well, at least I will have much more energy than thou.”

“You really should stay away from those dusty books. There have been many new shipments of actually helpful books in the past year.”

Marylin placed her right hand on Ore’s left shoulder and said, “You really should enjoy this meteor shower above us.” She pointed upwards and Ore’s eyes followed. Above them was a deep purple sky – a blending

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Water Road by Amin Kharazmi

of the facing horizon’s orange-red and the opposite horizon’s young blue. Speckled in the colors were an uncountable number of stationary white stars and a nota-ble number of swiftly moving white meteors. With all the colors the sky was presenting, the grass and dirt path all radiated with shades of blue and white. This spectrum was so pleasing to Ore’s vision that he had to see if Marylin was enjoying the sight as much as he was. When Ore glanced to his left, he saw that she was in a trance like no other.

It seemed her trance was broken upon her words, “You know, if a meteor were to strike me right now, I would die happy.”

Ore, staring at Marylin, who refused to break her

eye contact with the heavens, immediately said, “You must be going crazy. You’re too young to have such thoughts. Don’t you know that you have so much to offer the village? You could become the next Great Queen and give the town a less dependence on the village.”

“I never wanted to nor ever will want to be a politician, Ore. The only person I ever want to be is myself. And, knowing myself well, all I want to do in this life is be happy. I wouldn’t be happy as a politician,” she said. Not hearing a reply from Ore, she continued, “You read the entirety of Hillred Shine’s account of the tower, didn’t you?”

“No, but I got an idea of it from you constantly explaining it. The entire tower is apparently a maze that somehow spirals upward towards a library of infinite knowledge.” “The library isn’t where all the knowledge is, Ore. Shine stated many times in his account that there are many guardians of the library: gigantic talking snakes, spirits that possess objects that would otherwise be inanimate, and even fungus that communicate through telepathy. All of them appear at different levels and test visitors’ worthiness to see if they are able to enter the library, which simply has books with perspectives from other travelers.

In the trials the guardians present, knowledge is gained. Those who return from the library return as entirely different people if they are strong and smart enough to endure the trials. Hillred apparently came out a much happier person.”

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“You already said you’re content with your current state. Why do you care so much about this tower?”

“I don’t, actually. I just enjoy new experiences. What if I enter the tower, beat the challenges, and return to the village just to debunk Hillred’s little theory?” Marylin chuckled at her own thoughts.

“Wow, you really are going crazy.”

“And it is always fun to get away from everyone for a while, you know?”

Marylin surprised Ore. Marylin finally looked down from the sky that previously intoxicated her.

Finally meeting eyes with Ore, Marylin said to him, “No one besides Hillred has returned from this journey to the tower. If this is not something you want to do anymore, I understand. I am sure that you’re satisfied with the amount of time you have spent away from the village but I am not. I am going to find the tower. I am going to endure the challenges. The only thing I am not sure of is whether I will return or not.”

“Then why would you take this risk and possibly leave your parents and everyone else who loves you? Do you realize that everyone will miss you dearly?”

“Ore, I don’t care if they will miss me. At least I won’t die there. Out of everything that could happen, that is what worries me most: dying at that village. I never have told anyone this, Ore, but you’re important and you should

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know what I want,” she said with a serious tone that was new to Ore. She looked away from Ore and towards the horizon, and she said, “I want to be something of great importance, not something a few people value. If I simply work in the village, or even the town, I would just be an-other number. I would be a number that simply says I lived and died. Dying the way my parents are going to means I won’t be someone people around this world talk about. No one will fantasize about my achievements, my personality, my aspirations, or even how great my hair looked!”

“Mary – ”

“And, don’t even start with the whole ‘being the next Great Queen’ spiel! Those who want to be notewor-thy in a polical setting have to learn to submit to the

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Forlorn Trainstop by James Shoemaker

public’s wants.The only great minds that get to be true to themselves are writers or artists, or someone who was able to venture where no one dared to – and I’ll tell you right now that I cannot write or draw eloquently for shit!”

“I was only going to say I had no idea you had such goals.”

Marylin stopped her inner embers and realized she was standing up and imposing her index finger onto Ore’s face. She relaxed her muscles and put her hands in her shorts’ pockets.

Ore noticed and said, “I enjoyed your openness. I actually find that I have similar desires; I just never had any real ambition.”

“Ore,” Marylin said, taking her hands out of her pockets. She then proceeded to rummage through her backpack and pulled out a small booklet. “Here, read this. It’s Hillred’s account. I honestly think it’s my primary motivation. Everything about the tower sounds so new and surreal that the thought of exploring its innards makes my soul giggle in excitement.”

“I’ll give it a good read when the morning comes.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. You know that we are close to the tower, right?”

… Marylin woke up to the sight of Ore’s face being parallel to her own. She sat upwards and stretched, letting out a loud yawn. The yawn woke Ore from his slumber, and he proceeded to mimic Marylin’s awakening process.

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Marylin picked up her backpack and immediately threw it on. Ore took a tad longer to not only pick up his backpack, but to notice that Marylin was staring at him impatiently. He turned around and locked eyes with Marylin. “What?” he asked.

“Just waiting for you, as usual. You’ve always taken fifty years to actually fully wake up,” Marylin said.

“Well, I usually just take my time to appreciate the morning sky from the comfort of my blankets. Not having them is making me wake up faster.”

“Good.”

“Do we have enough water and food for the rest of the trip? How much longer is this trip going to be any-how?”

“We have water.” “Food?” “Uh, no.”

“What? I packed my entire backpack full of meat and bread! When I said we can share rations, I didn’t mean we can share entire backpacks!”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. You know that we are close to the tower, right?”

“How can you determine that? There hasn’t been a

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Respect by Maurice Kaehler

single landmark since we started this path.”

“You’re wrong. While you were dreaming of other things, I looked past the couple of tall hills that are ahead of us and saw a single tree that looks like a landmark to me.”

“Mary–”

“Let’s go examine it!”

Before Ore could start another sentence, Marylin signaled that she was going to start the journey with-out him by simply walking away from him. He quickly grabbed his backpack and followed Marylin. While walk-ing behind Marylin, Ore explored his backpack in search of anything that could resemble what he packed the previous day. Nothing.

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“Hey, I got a little hungry after walking to and from the hills that lay ahead,” Marylin said, patting her stomach.

Marylin usually did things that annoyed Ore; how-ever, she always tried to make him feel better after seeing that he clearly was irritated. This time, Marylin could not think of anything to make amends. The two walked over the first hill in silence.

Ore was always bothered by any sort of awkward silence because it always led to pessimistic thoughts. Marylin usually did not allow any sort of tangible silence to bother her, as her brain usually created any other sort of noise to distract her. This time around, Marylin could not stop thinking about the enormity of her act.

Luckily, her mind was eased by Ore’s words. “I hope there’s some fruit growing around the tree.”

After a sigh of relief, Marylin replied, “Yeah, tree fruit is always delicious around this time of year. And, Hillred’s account mentioned some sort of fruit grows along this path. I can’t remember what kind of fruit it is supposed to be. He didn’t eat them because he was thoroughly prepared, of course.”

“Well, besides that, I only had one crisp yestreen.”

“Well, I still have a couple more regular crisps. If there are some apples growing around the tree, then I’ll slice them up and embed them onto the crisps myself!”

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Ore smiled and said, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

Another hill was topped, and the tree became clear in their vision. It was easy to see that the tree was tall and had more bark than leaves, but the leaves that were present were all just as green as the grass that surrounded it.

Marylin squeezed her vision and exclaimed, “I see some fresh oranges growing!” She then ran towards the tree with a zealous smile. Ore followed her.

Standing over what looked like a fresh orange, Marylin knelt down and clamped it. She tried pulling it from its roots, but it was not cooperating with her. Ore knelt beside her and then tried to pull it from its roots as well. While he struggled, Marylin observed her surroundings.

Plenty of shrubs danced in the light wind. The only other life, in addition to them and the tree, were the shrubs.

“I’m going to check some of the nearby shrubs,” Marylin informed Ore.

“Sounds good. We are going to need as much fruit as our backpacks can hold for this journey,” Ore said.

“Also, I think kiwi shrubs always grow next to tree fruit.”

Marylin salivated to the thought of kiwis. She examined each shrub within the tree’s vicinity and found

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not a single kiwi. Disappointed, Marylin returned to Ore and saw that he continued to struggle with releasing the orange from the earth. An idea sparked in Marylin’s head. Why not just cut the link between the fruit and the tree? The orange’s thick stem was external from the ground and did not look strong enough to withstand the sharpness of her blade.

“Watch out, Ore. I have this entire situation under control,” Marylin said, while waving her blade from left to right as a sign of disapproval to Ore’s feeble attempts.

“That orange better be worth it,” Marylin complained.

“It will be. I’m starving.”

Marylin’s mind was finally at ease, seeing that Ore was not only satisfied but also explicitly happy about eating something sweet.

“I wonder why this is the only fruit that exists by the tree,” Marylin said.

“Who knows! Either way, it is definitely a savior. I operated on only half of one of these for an entire day once,” Ore said.

“I doubt you, but I’ll indulge you. The crisps are still yours when you need them.” “Thanks,” Ore said as he peeled the newly claimed orange. He took a single bite from it and found that he did not enjoy its sour taste. He made a sour face.

691969 Armstrong Road Lodi by Maurice Kaehler

“Is there a problem?” Marylin inquired.

“Yes, this orange isn’t as fresh as it looks.” Ore threw the orange to the ground.

“Wow, after all that effort I put towards saving you from starvation, this is how you treat my gift?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll just take the crisps now.”

Marylin threw her backpack to the ground and erratically searched inside. Upon an “Aha!” Marylin presented the last two remaining crisps. She gave him his new gift and simply said, “I really am smart, aren’t I?”

“You’re pushing more than your just ego with that statement,” Ore replied with a smirk.

The two then followed the path that originally guided them towards something they hoped would be great.

…

The daylight was something to be admired. While the brightness of the rays was apparent, there was little to no heat to be felt. Marylin and Ore always somehow worked up a sweat despite this fact. Once Marylin became aggravated with the silence of walking, she decided to sing and move to the rhythm of her lyrics. It was a song that Ore was all too familiar with, so he joined along in both song and dance.

Neither of their voices were comparable to the voices of the late legends that everyone praised, but they sang, throwing their insecurities to the wind. The only important aspect of their song was the lyrical content. They sang a song that was popular to their village. The lyrics reflected the values of the many who Marylin and Ore knew: hard work, contributions to their neighbors, and gold coins.

Suddenly, Ore stopped singing and gripped

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Marylin’s shoulder. Marylin stopped her flow upon this and looked at her friend with confusion. “I really need to shit,” Ore revealed. “Oh, well, uh, go shit somewhere then,” Marylin said.

Instead of doing what Marylin suggested, Ore simply gripped his stomach and fell to his knees. Immediately, Marylin went to his aid. “What is happening to you?!” she questioned.

“I’m not sure. I feel like my stomach is on fire,” Ore wheezed.

“This is not good. Are you going to shit your shorts?” “I have no idea!” “Well, maybe the crisps were rotten.”

Instead of replying, Ore simply turned away from Marylin and put his hands on the ground. Barf and earth soon became close friends. Marylin did not have any witty remark to spout this time around. “Is there more?” she asked, concerned.

“I don’t think so,” Ore finally replied, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief he always carried in his left pocket.

“I hope so.”

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“Don’t worry. I think I just need some sleep.”

The sky was starting to show hints of red once again. Are we really going to continue this adventure with Ore in such a state? Marylin pondered as Ore stood up and started walking away from the horrid scene he had created earlier. Marylin began demanding some answers to her many stabbing questions. Ore did not acknowledge most of them, but answered a few with either a “No” or a “Yes.” Marylin finally asked a question that would get more than one audible word from Ore: “Don’t you think this entire journey was a bad idea?”

This question ignited Ore. “What?” he snapped.

“I mean, we didn’t come fully prepared for this journey at all.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am! I have been serious this entire time. Can you not tell?” “I cannot,” Ore said with a rage that refused to simmer. “You must be joking. If not, then you obviously don’t see how dire our situation is.”

“I do see it! That is exactly why I am urging you to agree to return home.”

“No, Marylin. It’s not so simple. I will not be returning home like this.”

“What are you blabbing about?”72

“Marylin, if you were to actually read books that did not collect dust, you would know that I am going to die.”

A sharp pain intruded Marylin’s being. “What are talking about now? You won’t die if we rush to the village!”

“I am not going to make it there in time, Marylin. Our last hope is the Tower.”

“Ore, it might not even exist! Hillred was always known as a person who dreamed about how great things could be and he ended up going on a journey that every-one believed to be an ineffectual method of escaping reali-ty!”

“The only thing that is truly ineffectual is our world’s medicine. Every one in one hundred people are met with some sort of disease these days because of how unhealthy the environment is. If someone is fraught with any sort of sickness, they are purely unlucky and have to endure whatever it is that tears at their wellness.” Ore then discovered that breaths were difficult to muster. He tried to imbue Marylin with some last words before he lost the ability to breathe altogether: “That tower, its guardians, and whatever knowledge the library within holds may be the only way to find the cure to my pain.”

Upon his statement, Marylin felt her heart thump faster and her vision filled with an ocean’s worth of tears as she tried to hold her demeanor together. Ore, after his words, simply turned from Marylin’s eyes and flattened his

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Hope by M. Sakran

feet to the earth. Marylin attempted to grab Ore’s shoulder, but he escaped her grasp by walking forward, not saying a single word to Marylin. Ore’s struggle to breathe could be heard almost anywhere, and Ore’s loud struggle immedi-ately allowed the ocean of tears to flow. There was a flow from both Marylin and Ore. Marylin knew there was no Tower awaiting them. If there really was one, why had there not been more travel-ers attempting to find it? Marylin thought that Ore was

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actually the smarter of them. Why was he so eager to move in the opposite direction of possible safety? The questions started to crush Marylin’s spirit. She knew she could not forcibly carry Ore back to the village. She knew Ore would physically resist her, and he would probably win the battle. Ore’s physique, along with his gullibility, always painted him as weak to the unexpected; however, once Ore was put into a corner with no means of escape, Ore displayed an inner strength that was utterly terrifying. Usually Ore just tried to stay out of trouble, but he always had to save Marylin, with his intelligence, from any sort of predicament she got them both into.

Marylin’s brain began to literally pound her skull in order to find a solution to their situation. The two walked in silence, as Ore retained a proper breathing pattern. Marylin knew this silence would not stay in the same state for very long. Soon the silence would be only in the pres-ence of her mind. She came to this conclusion while observing Ore transition from a walk to a limp. Marylin could not handle the pain in her body any longer and stopped in her tracks to stare at Ore, who refused to stop and not once glanced behind him to check for Marylin since he had first looked away from her. The sky was showing signs of an approaching night, with shades of red and orange.

Marylin demanded in an obviously solemn tone, “Ore, stop. Right now.”

Ore did not comply immediately. He did eventually notice that Marylin was not following him and complied – the only thing he did not do was let go of his stomach

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or turn to face Marylin. “What is the problem now?” he asked.

Marylin heard his voice and sensed the amount of emotion he expelled. There was nothing. This terrified Marylin. After a brief pause to take in the entire situation, she shouted, “We are going back home!”

“No, we’re not.”

“Ore, I will force you to comply if you don’t do it right now!” Marylin could now taste the salt of her tears. She could not take her pain any longer and grabbed Ore’s shoulder. She attempted to budge him but found it was impossible to do so. Ore fell to his knees, terrifying Marylin. Ore then fell to his side and blacked out.

…

Ore awoke to the sight of embers and a surrounding darkness. From the crackling of the campfire came a mo-ment in which he could only hear a loud, constant buzz. He finally heard a familiar voice.

“You’re awake!” Marylin exclaimed.

Ore could not move, even when putting forth all of his effort. The most he could do was feel the grass below him and eventually the touch of Marylin.

“You gave me a real scare. I thought you were going to become fully encased in stone and never be able to walk

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again.” Ore intensely wanted to reply to his friend. Instead all he could do was meet eyes with Marylin as she forced the perspective on his unmoving orbs. “It seems like you’re not going to be moving any time soon,” Marylin deduced. “You know, you’re making this entire thing much more difficult than it has to be. Especially with your hardened stomach,” she said, while tapping Ore’s then literal stomach of stone. “Carrying you is going to take all of my energy.” She paused. “I’m really worried, Ore. There has never been any sort of disease like this in any of the old medical books that I’ve read. Your entire body is being weighed down by your stomach. And, to top it off, it’s extremely noticeable. Luckily, your stomach looks so much like actual rock that maybe it’ll attract some of the village’s miners who are looking for some Ore.”

Marylin smiled, and Ore willingly broke his eye contact.

Ore’s action caused Marylin to say, “Oh! You can move your eyes? I guess my joke was good enough to bring you to life!” Ore did not meet eyes with Marylin. “Good to see you still are the same Ore I have always known, refusing to indulge my ego.”

“Yup,” Ore interjected.

Marylin immediately flinched upon his words. She then soothed her nerves and saw that he was staring at her once again. “Can you move your body now?” she asked.

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“No, not really.”

“Well, how do you feel?”

“I feel like I can’t move.”

Marylin sighed and then said, “Looks like I am go-ing to have to move you.”

“To the tower, right?” “No, not even close.”

“But, we’re so close.” “You have no way to prove that! Stop believing in your silly delusions already. You’re supposed to be the smart one here. Making decisions without you used to be difficult. Now I wish you would just go back to your sweet, peaceful slumber.”

“Marylin, you haven’t noticed how long we have been traveling down this path? There is no way it can go on forever. We for sure are going to run into something if we continue in the same direction.”

“No. Stop trying to justify yourself.” Marylin refused to look at Ore in any way.

“You do not have enough strength to carry me all the way back to the village. At this point, the only thing we can do is move forward.”

“You always doubt me! Why can’t you trust me this

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one time? You’re acting like I usually do!”

“Marylin, just trust me. The Tower is not too far ahead.”

Marylin could not endure his blindness any longer, so she simply wrapped her right arm around his legs and her left arm around his stomach – as much as she could. Her face quickly shading itself the hue of a tomato, her muscles gradually intensifying their sting, and her feet slowly burying themselves into the dirt, Marylin eventually lifted Ore from his grave. She then switched Ore’s position from fetal to hunched, moving his upper torso and arms over her skull and onto her right shoulder. She then shift-ed the rest of his body towards the back of her neck, over her deltoids. Immediately, she trudged on towards her and Ore’s village. It was not long until her sweat beads became waterfalls.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Ore said. Marylin ignored him. “I’m going to have to force you to go in the other direction, you know.” Silence was the only reply Ore received.

Marylin’s pace slowed dramatically. It seemed there was no hope for the journey. In fact, Ore’s weight seemed to increase the farther Marylin walked. There was no sign that Ore’s weight was going to let up. Marylin had only the desire to put down her friend and try to recuperate.

“Marylin, stop,” Ore commanded. “My stomach is not going to quit hardening.” Marylin only grunted. “It seems you are the blind one now.”

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At his words, Marylin simply stopped in her tracks and placed him upright, sitting, on the grass. Her face red – whether it was from anger or tribulation – was the clearest sign that Marylin was not going to talk to Ore, no matter how serious his concerns were. So, Ore sat in thought.

“Why not just leave me here then?” Ore asked. His statement caused Marylin to finally turn around and present her full, red face.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Marylin said. “You may have been the brains of this duo before, but now I can see neither of us had any brains whatsoever.” Marylin gained her composure and stood facing Ore, but she observed the dirt between them. “It is so dark right now. Even if we do make it to anything down the path, I doubt we will run into anyone awake at this hour,” Marylin said.

Ore appreciated Marylin’s analysis and said, “If it is the Tower though, we won’t have to worry about what hour it is. I know its doors, or gates, or whatever entrance it uses will be accessible at any time.”

“Ore, I have never so intensely wanted you to be right before,” Marylin replied.

…

Night time was always a time for rest. If a person was not resting during the late hours, a person most likely was preparing for her sleep. Of course, Marylin never con-sidered herself a person. She considered herself a creature who was ready for anything. Even with a day’s worth of food absent from her belly, she still managed to

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not only walk for several hours, but to also carry the many pounds that Ore then possessed. No matter how impressive Marylin’s endurance would have seemed to anyone who observed her, one would expect an instance in which her entire body would give up.

“This will not be that instance,” she said in between huffs and puffs.

Unlike the scenes in the plays she usually enjoyed, there was no large audience there to cheer on her effort. The only noises she was able to hear were the rustling of Ore’s and her clothes, the many breaths entering and exiting her being, the subtle grumbling of her stomach, and her loud footsteps against the dirt of the path she so eagerly followed.

She barely had an inkling of how long her marathon had been, based off the brightness of her surroundings. The pitch black of the night transitioned to the dark blue of the early dawn before her eyes, and her body was yelling in aches for the entirety of the transition. Despite such facts, her mind was focused on the task at hand. The only thing truly worrying her was Ore’s lack of conversation.

She had tried to commence an intimate conversa-tion many times since she began venturing in the direction of delusion. Any topic she brought up was met with a si-lence that Marylin finally noticed had been recurring. She knew setting Ore down to check his condition would be a huge mistake – seeing as she would have to pick his heavi-ness back up again, which would only lead to her dropping

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him. It was not long after the sky’s hue slightly brightened that she started to lust for a different reality. She began to visualize the Tower itself.

In her vision, the Tower was tall, shaped to resemble an oval, yet it somehow managed to be imposing and tattered all at once. There were no windows anywhere above the first level, which was enclosed by a grand stone wall with an even grander set of iron gates as its front entrance. Immediately after the initial gates was a set of stone stairs that could hold at least three horizontal rows of ten people per step. At the very top of the building was where archers could easily be concealed yet have amazing angles for targeting anyone below: a flat roof encircled by a low wall for possible cover. She knew the library was directly below the archers, as the appearance of the walls below the roof was jagged and carved, while the walls even lower were smooth and bricked.

In her vision, there was an older woman who wore rags for clothes and eyeglasses for protection, held a staff for assistance, and had short hair. Marylin’s vision was interrupted by her lack of energy. She limped, and her eyes blurred. She had finally dispensed all the sweat she possibly could. As her knees gave into temptation, her shoulders gave one last burst of energy and allowed her to peer upwards to see the glimmer she had always wanted to see.

Gravity slowly pulled Ore to its center. Marylin finally leaned forward. Having most of her senses deprived, eventually she violently buried her nose into the dirt.

…

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Stories say that Marylin awoke to find the Tower of Shine in front of her eyes. The woman in rags greeted her and gave her the energy and hope she needed to find the cure to Ore’s sickness. And, another quest began.

Sunflower Hitchhiker by Maurice Kaehler

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ObstructedbyKassyMenke

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Likeblackonyxvelvet.Shepulls,likesomeonespinningstrawintogold,visionsthatstun,wouldpullanymanclose,hisbreathheld,frozen.Herstories,pungentasamangogrove,intoxicatingasMaywineinanightgardenofjasmineandpatchouli,lassoyourbloodandyourdreams.Eachplotstunsandslithersintoanewonelikejeweledglass,rubyemeraldandsapphireshardsinakaleidoscope.Sheisenchanting,givesyouwhatyoucan’tletgoof.Amagician,sheisnotlikeatreewheretherootshavetoendsomewherebutisdaringandclever,wilyasCoyote,definitelynotlikethoseafflictedatbirthwithsomepresentimentofloss

UnderaQuiltofStarsbyLynLifshin

Like You’re All ThatYou Blister

Blowing Air…BellowWhile

Encircling meTouching me.

You HustleBustleBristle CrackFlusterPush

Ignore me.Follow me.

Do anythingTo get

My attention.Which youTOO often

DO!You fussSashayPlay

DancePranceLike

You’re All

That…

by Kathryn R. Walkowiec 86

87

Sweating Whiskey

Sticky fingers trying to peel themselves

from soft-white keys speckled

with a month’s dust. The tap-tip-tap of a keyboard

long gone, sound waves dissipating

into rainclouds over India or somewhere

I’ll never go. Knuckles quivering,

like statues dreaming, want to breaktheir inertia,

their non-impetus. Arthritic writing

in wrinkle-free fingers, eyes fixed

on a small vertical lineflashing:

begin type here, now, here, now, here,

now. Whiskey glass

empty, sweating.

by Nicholas Demski

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Upstairs in my writing studio I sit at the deskWatching all the different shapes and sizes Of snow make its loud slideDown the tall green metal roof above me.Each chunk that drops is as noisy or Noisier than I anticipate and I am simply gladIt isn’t me falling off the roof.Sitting here lazy on this late day of MarchThis never ending winter just as lazy as meWon’t obey the months commanding verbAnymore than I am.

THE DRUMS OF WINTERLONGby Carol A. Oberg

Laughing Zebra by Stephanie Rice

I fear I am ordinary, the way sleepprepares us all. I cite the morningas the reason I recover, if briefly.Birds visit the feeder. A nuthatch walksperpendicular and the chickadee chik-a-dee-dees.I saw a golden finch picking out the thistle.A blue jay lands and the gentlefolk scatter.

They spread her ashes on the dune.I wasn’t invited, but that’s okay. The weatherlike Glendalough and I drink Guinnessby the fire. No matter how many thousandsof years pass on, a campfire will look the samefor all of us. Hot coals. Shrinking cutsof pine and maple. Legislation to regulatethe wood smoke.

Green onions congregatearound the oak in the lawn, slender bodiesrising from the dark mulch to worshipthat which seems endless. The body is fragile.A butterfly is a flower that has escaped,if you are a romantic.

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GREEN ONIONSby Austin Veldman

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Smileby Victoria Bagatta

in the midst of a yawn or a pinched browor a snarlhe will look at me and say,

“darling,you look so much prettier when you smile”

he will try to play puppet master pulling the strings sewnto the corners of my lips up and away

to reveal teeth like ivory my speech will sluras i try to sound out the consonants

closer to a whimper than a word closer to a growl than a greeting i will try to resista fish on the line

flesh tearing open to reveal mandible and man unableto leash me

i am no beast to be tamed but i will roaruntil the mountains shake and the valleys echo

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i will claw at your strings feline and feraluntil your sweet bait lies soured

i am immune to your venom

the next time he tells you

“honey,why don’t you give us a smile?”

howl with laughterand show him how the wolf bares it’s teethjust before it strikes

Helical Hope by Angela Bardot

LittleAsianWomanbyKassyMenke

LittleAsianwomanStanding4feettall

Shedidn’thavemuchtosayButsheknewitall

SosimpleandcomplexAllbundledinone

ShealwayshadsomethingtodoThejobwasneverdone

ShewascreatingnewlistsBeforethechimeofworkthenextday

ShealwaysheldasmileNothingcouldtakeitaway

Ilearnedsomuch,thatsadfalldayWhenIlaidhertorest

Theonewhoalwaysguidedmypathway

IhopesheknowsIwillalwaysfightforthechancesshegave BecausenowherbodysleepsPeacefullyinthegraveButherbeautifulsoul

IsfreetobeBornagainintoreality

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93Beauty Elsewhere by Kassy Menke

AHomelessManReflectsaboutGodbyMichaelDuffett

GodisveryclosewhenmylittledogIsnexttomeforthereisnocreatureIlovemorethanmylittledogandGodislove.Ifheweretodie,Iwould,ButIwillprobablydiebeforehimJustasmymotherhas,myfatherhas,MybrothersandsistershaveandIamAloneonthestreetcornerandwhereverIandmylittledogsituateourselvesAsinconspicuouslyaspossibleFromotherswhoareourneighborsWhodonotloveusandfromwhomwekeepDistantenoughnottoremindthemThatGodisdogspelledbackwardsandislove.

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CONTRIbUTORsAbraham Alvarez

Victoria Bagatta

Angela Bardot is a SJDC alumni, a former officer of the SJDC Writers’ Guild, and a current Enrichment Artist at One.Charter. She is most known for her work in the mediums of photography, creative writing, and printmaking.

David Bankson’s works have been featured online at Thank you for Swallowing, Walking is Still Honest Press, and Indiana Voice Journal. More of his work can be found at https://www.facebook.com/davidthewordsmith.

Mary Carroll

William Crawford is a writer and photographer based in North Carolina.

Nicholas Demski’s poetry can be seen in Whiskey Island (#67) and upcoming in Broad River Review. You can follow him on Twitter @NicolasDemski.

Lilian Dube is a writer, teacher and seasoned traveller.

Michael Duffett was born in London, educated at Cambridge, and is now teaching English at SJDC.

Briawna Freeman is finishing her first year in college and is happy to have the opportunity of being published.

Marlen Gonzalez

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Jack Harvey lives in a small town near Albany, NY, and has been writing poetry for years.

Maurice Kaehler is a CEO/Designer of EPIC62 Fashion, yogi and farmer’s market junkie whose operative mantras are “There’s enough to go around,” “Do it because you can,” and “I believe in whatever makes me feel good to be alive.”

Amin Kharazmi was born in Tehran, Iran. He works in software and enjoys music, soccer, and reading books.

Rose Knapp is a poet, novelist, music producer, and multimedia artist who currently divides her time between Brooklyn and Minneapolis.

A. Lark is venturing out timidly and spreading her wings in the field of publication – hoping not to fly straight into oncoming traffic like so many avian species have.

Lyn Lifshin has published over 140 books and chapbooks, and ed-ited three anthologies of women’s writing, including Tangled Vines. Her website is LynLifshin.com.

Kassy Menke is a graduate of SJDC and CSUN. She loves writing and photography.

Alia Michaud is a freelance writer from South Florida. Her work has been previously published in Living Waters Review.

Mohammad Ali Mirzaei was born in Iran, Tehran. He has a B.A. in News Photography from University of Culture & Art Isfahan. His work has won numeorus awards, including First Place at the National Festival of Iranian People.

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Carol Oberg began her writing career with Blue Mountain Arts, Inc., publishing her poetry on greeting cards. Widely published, she was one of three featured poets in Ancient Paths, issue 16, which was nominated for a Pushcart award. She and her husband are semi- re-tired on a small inland lake in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

Nancy Quiroz is a Biochem and Electron Microscopy major and has been at SJDC for four years.

Stephanie Rice was born and raised in Stockon, and she is still de-ciding between being an illustrator or graphic designer.

M. Sakran is the author of a collection of poetry entitled First Try. His poetry-related blog can be found at msakran.wordpress.com, and his website can be found at msakran.com.

Myles Salas is just an aspiring fiction writer.

Richard Shelton is a painter whose writings include poems and commentary on art history. His writing appears in publications such as Willard & Maple. His artwork appears in museums such as the Smithsonian Art Institute’s Hirshhorn Museum.

James Shoemaker: A photography major; he doesn’t make shoes, but he does take photos.

Patricia Smith, also known as Patrician, is a poet who just finished two years at SJDC and her first year at Las Positas College in Liver-more, CA.

Susan Van Dusen

Austin Veldman is a singer/songwriter, novelist, and poet from

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South Bend, Indiana.

Kathryn Walkowiec

Will Walton is thirty-three years old and lives in Raleigh. He is currently attending NC State’s MFA program in Creative Writing/Poetry. He was a finalist for the Academy of American Poets Prize, and his work has appeared in or been accepted for publication by Spoon River Poetry Review, Faultline, The Evansville Review, Chiron Review, and Sou’wester, among others.

Natalie Watkins

Kobina Wright is a California native whose works have been ex-hibited world-wide.

AragogbyNancyQuiroz

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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

ADVERTISE IN ARTIFACT NOUVEAUOutside Back Cover: $300

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

Quarter Page Inside: $50

Send inquiries to artifactsjdc@gmail.com

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 materia 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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Sea Shell on the Shore by Kassy Menke

www.deltacollege.edu/org/wrtrsgld/

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

www.issuu.com/thewritersguildartifactnouveau