California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Burns, Durena

English

Rapid

Matthess, Casey

25
NR
M
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tthe
ss
When You Listen | Casey Matthess
M y feet, bare and calloused, dig into the sand while the breeze lifts smaller particles to dance 
o! the cli!’s edge and fall into the salty water. The skin that 
separates my bones from the earth, hardened and torn 
from listening to the stories of the soil that a year’s worth of 
land may cover. The whispers of the wind fight against my 
straining muscles, aching, to prevent me from plunging into 
the frantic waves of the water beneath me.  
I stand and breathe. Breathe in what the world sings to 
those who listen. I breathe in those long, grueling stories. 
And she tells me everything I need to hear.  
The wind is more than a current that pushes and pulls, 
or a force destined to make leaves dance and water 
ripple. It is more than a breath that we draw into our lungs 
only to expel soon after. Likewise, the water is more than a 
force eager to wrestle and drown. It is more than a deep, 
unknown, and dark body. The water is more than a reflec-
tion. Fire is greater than destruction, heat, and burns. Fire 
feeds, it does not only devour. The soil is home to thousands 
of plants and animals alike. The soil is fuel and creation, 
never unwanted, never unused.
The world is a spirit and she has been calling my name 
for years. I can finally understand her. I can finally answer.  
As my eyes rest and flutter shut, the melodies of the 
wind grow louder, transforming into a song so beautiful no 
instrument nor human could replicate, “I have waited for 
you, my darling.” 
 An unforgiving tear rolls down my cheek. Sorrow does 
not weigh down my chest. Anxiety does not burrow in my 
stomach. Anger does not burn my ears. Yet, an unknown 
26
M
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relief rumbles through my spine, escaping through my 
fingers and my toes. The roughened skin on my feet feels 
no resistance from the sand anymore. My body— my soul—
feels free.  


When You Listen

Rizo, Mimi

61
Mimi Rizo
Swan Pond
 I went on a camping trip with my family. This is 
something I need to get off of my chest. My family is 
usually drunk, usually laughing. My cousin used to, before 
she got drunk, tell me that she was a witch. After watching 
the Wizard of Oz, I wondered what kind of witch she was. 
I wondered what she might look like suspended in a 
bubble.  She told me if I hung out with her long enough 
that I would also become a witch and she would be my 
witch mother. It took not long after the Santa Claus Hoax 
of 1999 to realize that she was not a witch, although my 
suspicion of witches in general lasted well into my teens. 
 My cousin uses Botox and has a big forehead. 
The Botox has worn off now, but I know who she is and 
who she has been. The lines that creep around her eyes, 
brows, and mouth tell me as much. I never noticed when 
I was younger, back when her Botox was working. Her 
wrinkles form semi-circles around her eyes that are both 
exciting and concerning. She encourages me to use it as a 
preventative measure. She always has something to say.
 She, my family, and I are sitting around the fire. I am 
down wind. It’s late enough now that we ceremoniously 
roast marshmallows on metal sticks. My roasting pole 
gets caught between a crack in the wood, and I watch 
the metal turn bright red. I consider touching it, but upon 
remembering that I am too old to be curious about the feel 
of hot metal, I rest the stick on the rocks circling the fire. My 
cousin softly pulls a marshmallow from the bag and glides 
it onto the pole with which she twirls her dessert with care 
over the glowing pit. I stick my marshmallow straight into 
the flames of the pit and watch as the flames burn from 
purple to orange.
 “You’re charring your marshmallow.” 
 62
 She always has something to say.  My goal was not 
to eat the marshmallow. I just wanted to watch it burn off 
the pole and into the fire where it would burn into the same 
texture of the wood, and I wouldn’t be able to tell where 
the wood ended and the marshmallow began. 
 “I like my marshmallows burned, they fall off the stick 
easily this way.” Earlier in the day I was offered to either cut 
a tomato, or wipe down the picnic table. I said I would do 
whatever was easier and got handed a rag. 
 “You always take the easy way out.”
 I don’t take the easy way out. Why does she even 
care so much? Why are you so sad? You can’t ask someone 
that. I mean, I wouldn’t want someone to ask me. And so 
I don’t ask her, but boy do I wonder. I’m sitting by the fire, 
down wind, and wiping my watering eyes. 
 “It’s just a marshmallow.” I wouldn’t dare cry about 
marshmallows around my cousin. 
 “It’s the smoke.” 
 She buys it, and for that I am grateful. I like sitting 
by the smoke. The smell burrows into my skin. When I get 
home people will smell the smoke on me and they will 
know that I have been out camping with my family. My 
family is all drunk and laughing. I just sit there and observe 
the bruises on my knees and try not to make eye contact 
with my cousin. 
 “I’m going to sleep.” 
 No, I am not. If I go to sleep, I will miss the fireside 
rituals that I usually hear from my tent, tucked away 
between two trees on an incline. For some reason I know 
that I am supposed to stay here downwind of this fire, 
sitting here indefinitely because no one told me how long 
they expect me to sit here. Family vacations are doing time 
for the crime of existence. Like original sin. Original sin is 
the being born part right? Meeting eyes with my brother 
on my left, I realize that I do not know how long I have been 
looking down. Nobody noticed anyway. They’re not paying 
attention because they are all doing their best impression 
FICTION
 63
of Batman. The neighbors who booked the campsites next 
to us are likely annoyed. 
 My older brother nudges me to let me know it’s my 
turn to make an impression. I blabber something about 
being Batman and it gets a chuckle, but it’s something I 
need to workshop. A familiar face, my fathers’, hands me 
a beer for participating.  It’s cold and blue. I get handed 
another one. You know this stuff really is not so bad. After 
about my third can, I am beginning to think about the 
absolute slander Bud Light receives. I disagree heavily and 
I don’t think we should feel ashamed about it, I don’t. 
 I feel lighter, better. A warm feeling floats me to my 
cousins’ side. She is boasting about her trivia knowledge. 
This witch is oddly comforting, and I want to be near her. 
The fire is just embers now, and I am drunk. Before I know, 
it everyone is asleep and my cousin and I sit in the noise 
of the forest. The sky is so black I feel like I am trapped 
beneath a styrofoam cup. I can hear a frog in the distance. 
 “Why didn’t you make your mother come?” Like I 
have the power to make anybody do anything.
 “You know this isn’t her thing. It was easier to just 
leave her alone.” 
 Bowing my head, I am begging her to let me go to 
sleep. The worms on the floor are vibrating against each 
other, making waves that move east. I immediately regret 
squishing their pattern with my boot. Moving quickly, I 
remove my boot to find worm goo, but my boot is clean.
 “That’s not true, she just doesn’t love her family.”
 I’m crying now, but it’s not because of the fire 
because there are only embers. Through the legs of the 
trees I can see the rippling glimmer of moonlight on the 
black lake. I wander in the opposite direction. Beneath this 
styrofoam cup the only thing that is guiding me is the noise 
soft dirt and dehydrated leaves under my bare feet.  The 
earth becomes marsh and I stop. The grime ebbs into my 
toes. I don’t like it, but I allow it. There are definitely worms 
in this dirt. A frog with a familiar croak calls my name and I 
FICTION
 64
am standing on the edge of a black lake. The black lake is 
small, depending on what you think small is. If a seven story 
building is small for you, then the lake might be very small. 
If you think swimming pools are large, then you might say 
that this lake is very large. To me, it is perfect.
 Black glass shows me the upside down reflection 
of two stark white swans who casually float by. They are so 
casually in love. They are in love, but not because they think 
they are better than anyone. Although they are not better 
than anyone else, they are in love. As well as being in love, 
they know that they are just like everything else. Everything 
else, watching, knows that the two are not so much better 
than them, they are ordinary. 
 Although they are ordinary, they are different. Their 
difference is not in the way they float, because I can float 
too. Their difference is also not in the way they breathe, 
we all breathe. Well most of us breathe, some of us don’t 
breathe. Some of us don’t breathe anymore. Some people 
say they would rather not breathe than be ordinary. But 
that would mean that they would be dead. That would 
mean that they would rather be dead than be ordinary. But 
breathing and being ordinary are the same thing. The point 
is that the swans are in love.
 We were not alone. Tadpoles are hugging my 
feet around the ankles, and although this would usually 
make me feel nervous I am incredibly at ease. Sleepy 
frog inhabited lily pads are a few shades lighter than the 
black surface of the water. Everyone is either asleep or 
precautious about my presence. I whisper my apologies 
to them and creep my toes further into the soft mud. 
Although it is late, and very dark, the water feels like a 
warm bath that has just been drawn. I think that somehow 
I am at the bottom of this body of water. Above me I can 
see my reflection, as though I am looking up at a mirror. 
It really is unusually warm. I kick my feet and push the soft 
water beneath me, moving toward the wavering image of 
myself. I look pale. My fingertips reach the air and I am so 
FICTION
 65
relieved to not be trapped or drowning in this warm, black, 
lake. The contrasting cold midnight air pricks my ears in 
an uncomfortable way. Looking west, the direction from 
which I came, the faintest, tiniest light is visible and I see 
my cousin sitting alone near the embers. She is hardly a 
shape anymore. Just a thing that is blocking the light of the 
embers to spread. What a strange time I find myself in, in 
the time of swans, and in the time of geese, and in the time 
of frogs that have not been touched by me. Have not been 
touched by the current of time that seems to buzz at the 
very tops of these birch trees.
 
FICTION


Swan Pond

Hajdu, Cole

Off the Grid

Tuang, Ashley

Tala

Silva, Joseph

|  12 |
Joseph SilvaNew River
|  13 |
Joseph SilvaNew River
|  14 |
Joseph SilvaNew River
|  15 |
Joseph SilvaNew River
|  16 |
Joseph SilvaNew River


New River

Mahdessian, Helena

NR
Evening Walk in the Park
pebbles crunch beneath;
i glance up through poplar trees— 
orange moon hangs low.
H
elen
a M
ah
d
essian
19


Evening Walk in the Park

Bender, Hannah

35
CAST OF CHARACTERS
*the symbol “/” will be used to show overlap of dialogue. 
Scene
A snippet from the overall play, focused on hangout after an AA 
meeting.
SCENE 3
SETTING:     
CASEY and JUNEAU enter to find MORGAN sipping a 
coffee at the table. MORGAN waves them to come join him.
CASEY
You weren’t waiting too long huh?
MORGAN
Not really, just sat down.
 (JUNEAU and CASEY sit down)
MORGAN (cont.)
Either of you hungry? 
 (JUNEAU shakes his head no)
 THE PROCESS | a play 
 HANNAH BENDER
Casey: Woman, late 20’s. AA member, overweight. 
Juneau: Main character; man, late 20’s; recovering from 
addiction, not an alcoholic. Earlier in the recovery pro-
cess.
Morgan: Man, middle aged 40’s; AA member.
Andres: Man, mid 30’s. AA group leader.
Alcoholic 1/Wife: Woman, middle age 40’s; AA member/ Mor-
gan’s wife.
Alcoholic 2/Marcus: Man, late-teens, AA member/Juneau’s 
cousin.
X X
36
CASEY
What are you getting? 
 (MORGAN holds up the coffee)
CASEY (cont.)
That’s it? 
 (MORGAN nods, CASEY starts looking at the menu, looks up 
at JUNEAU and MORGAN)
Hmmm... you’re really not gonna get anything?
JUNEAU
I’m just not hungry.
MORGAN
I ate before the meeting, plus this was your idea. I’m just 
here for the ride. 
CASEY
Fine. 
JUNEAU
You can get something if you want.
CASEY
It’s fine, I shouldn’t. 
  (pause)
Plus, I already had a doughnut at the meeting, which speaking 
of, what did you think of it? 
JUNEAU
Oh umm... I mean, it was fine I guess. 
CASEY
Fine? 
MORGAN
At least you seem better now, you were kinda’ in a space
JUNEAU
  (thinks about saying something)
Well...
  (PAUSE)
/ never mind
MORGAN
What?
JUNEAU
It’s stupid.
MORGAN
Just say it. 
37JUNEAU (PAUSE)
Fine. Ummm well, I was just thinking about the doughnuts 
from the church, does that mean they know about us? 
CASEY
I’d assume they’d have to for us to use the room.
MORGAN
I think they know about the meetings, but the rest of it is 
kept quiet. 
JUNEAU
So, what about the doughnuts? Who brings them to the meetings? 
CASEY
We don’t get treats often, they probably just had a bunch left-
over. 
MORGAN
That’s how we know God cares about us alcoholics.  
CASEY
Really, I just want to know why it’s called “Alcoholics Anon-
ymous” when we must stand up and introduce ourselves in the 
first 15 seconds of every damn meeting?
MORGAN
That’s for/ new people.
CASEY
Think about it, I mean, you go to a meeting with anonymous in 
the name, and what do you do when you get there? Sign a book, 
say your name and tell your life story. 
JUNEAU
I thought you said I didn’t have to do that?
CASEY
Well, I meant, not like that. 
MORGAN
You kinda screamed when you introduced yourself. 
CASEY
Most people just raise their hand or something. 
JUNEAU
Oh.../ sorry
MORGAN
Also, you’re not required to do those things, people just, do
CASEY
I mean it’s fine. 
38
JUNEAU
.../ so?
MORGAN
Well, I think it’s supposed to be like trauma bonding. You 
know, you drink, I drink kinda shit. 
CASEY
Right so why can’t we trauma bond without saying our name and 
our numbers? 
MORGAN
It’s more about the group feeling, I guess? I don’t know. I 
mean, considering our circumstances I think our names are the 
least of our worries. 
JUNEAU
Do you know most of the people there?
MORGAN
Some of them, but I’ve been at that meeting for a/ little while. 
CASEY
Wait, so why don’t you think it’s a big deal?
MORGAN
I think we’re the last people to judge. I mean, can you think 
of a more messed up group? 
 (JUNEAU and CASEY pause to think)
MORGAN (cont.)
A more messed up group that doesn’t drink.
JUNEAU
What about...
CASEY
Cult leaders!
MORGAN
Nope! They drink too.
CASEY
Yeah, Kool aid, but not/ “the hard stuff” 
MORGAN
(nonverbally agrees, his phone starts to vibrate, realizes his 
wife is calling)
I meant like... actually hold on, be right back. 
  (MORGAN gets up and walks outside. WIFE 
           enters on the other side of the stage)
MORGAN (cont.)
39Hello? WIFE
   (upset)
Where are you?
MORGAN
I’m at dinner with some friends. 
  (PAUSE)
CASEY
So, what’s your deal?
MORGAN
I don’t kn- Well hold on, I can explain.
JUNEAU
Oh, umm, things have just gotten’ to a point, And I just keep 
hurting people. But it’s like I just can’t stop myself. 
MORGAN
I know. 
CASEY
No no, I’m asking about the whole walk out thing? That deal. 
WIFE
Why can’t you just give me straight answer?
JUNEAU
Oh/... that?
CASEY
Andres said something about admittance. Something along the 
lines of “we don’t get it?” so what don’t we get? 
JUNEAU
If I go home I’ll just, drink 
CASEY
Drink? Drink and.../ what? 
JUNEAU
Hurt people.
WIFE
Hell! Are you drunk right now?
CASEY
You’re not... drunk/ now are you?
JUNEAU
What?! No.  
MORGAN
No, I promise. You really think after everything... I would be 
out at some bar?
40
JUNEAU
What makes you think that? 
CASEY
I don’t know, 
WIFE
I don’t know/ anymore.
CASEY
Maybe the way you were acting, you seemed messed up. 
JUNEAU
So you just assumed I’m drunk? 
CASEY
You went to AA meeting and acted like that (gestures). What am 
I supposed to think!? 
 (JUNEAU stops, looks down…)
 (MORGAN stops, looks down…) 
 (PAUSE)
MORGAN
I love you. 
JUNEAU
  (Head still down)
You’re supposed to think I’m an alcoholic. 
  (PAUSE)
And that I’m fucked up. 
  (JUNEAU looks up)
Tell me, tell me I’m fucked up,
WIFE
  (PAUSE)
I don’t love who you’ve become. 
JUNEAU
that I’m just some addict. 
WIFE
I’m done listening to your lies about how things are going to 
change. You’re narcissistic going out like this. You’re phys-
ically and emotionally unavailable, and constantly take your 
unstable sobriety out on me and the kids. And maybe, if it was 
just me, fine—but not to our kids. 
 (PAUSE)
and out of everything you have the nerve to say that I’m the 
one putting a strain on our relationship. When you’re the one 
who’s lying about their drinking problem. I just want our fami-
ly back… I want you back. 
 
41 (starts crying)
You’re sick... and it’s hard to love you when you’re sick. 
 (PAUSE)
 I called your mother, she said she’d make a room for you to-
night.
JUNEAU
Because you get a chip and now somehow, you’re “fixed”. 
 (looks at phone, notices the time)
CASEY
 … At least/ I’m honest about my addiction. 
JUNEAU
I’m out, I’m going home. I’d rather get high off whatever you 
think I’m on than listen to your horse shit. 
 (starts putting jacket on and getting up to leave)
CASEY
C’mon, we’re trying to help. 
 (JUNEAU is ignoring CASEY, starts to exit)
Hey, come on!
 (CASEY fumbles to put some money on the table before going 
outside to see JUNEAU leaving and MORGAN near the doors of the 
diner)
MORGAN
You/ good?
JUNEAU
Next time I’ll make sure to drink before our meeting!
 (JUNEAU past MORGAN and exits. CASEY comes after him and 
joins MORGAN outside)
MORGAN
You piss him off or what? 
CASEY
I think I came off a little strong. 
MORGAN
You think? What did you do?
CASEY
We were talking and I pressed him. I wanted a sense of what 
he’s on. He got upset and left. 
 (MORGAN gives CASEY a look)
CASEY
What? 
42
MORGAN
…I don’t know…did you learn anything? 
CASEY
Wasn’t drunk, definitely on something though, my guess is meth.
MORGAN
Why meth? 
CASEY
  (notices MORGAN looking upset and uninterested)
Just a hunch. Thin, emotionally damaged, fits the bill. Grant-
ed, he could be mixing, but…yeah, no, I don’t know. I mean he 
had all his teeth. 
 (PAUSE)
I’m guessing your conversation wasn’t much better?
 (MORGAN pulls out his chip)
MORGAN
Apparently I’m just a good liar.
 (PAUSE)
 (CASEY looks at MORGAN)
MORGAN (cont.)
…Yeah.
CASEY
Did she say anything else?
 (MORGAN gives Casey a sarcastic look)
MORGAN
She said a lot. 
CASEY
About us? 
 (MORGAN shakes his head no)
 (PAUSE)
 (MORGAN looks at and flips the coin though his hand)
MORGAN
Y’know, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve drank 
while getting this coin, but somehow it makes all of it mean-
ingless. 
 (PAUSE)
CASEY
I don’t think that’s true. 
 (Casey rests against the building next to MORGAN)
 (PAUSE)
 (CASEY playfully punches MORGAN on the shoulder, MORGAN 
softly chuckles. CASEY looks at MORGAN who is looking out into 
the night, MORGAN turns to look at CASEY)
43MORGAN
I told you, were not doing that anymore, I have a wife, re-
member? 
CASEY
I remember you saying something about not being pleased by your 
wife. 
 (MORGAN looks down, takes a minute and look back at CASEY)
CASEY (cont.)
And you seemed pretty pleased last time. 
 (CASEY starts running her hands on MORGAN’s leg, MORGAN 
starts chuckling, shaking his head)
MORGAN
We both know that shouldn’t of happened. 
 (CASEY shrugs) 
CASEY
 (CASEY pulls her hands up)
Just sayin’, offers there. 
MORGAN
We should both go, home. 
CASEY
 (CASEY SHRUGS. CASEY and MORGAN start walking towards 
their cars)
 (PAUSE)
You gonna be okay?
MORGAN 
That’s a good question.
CASEY
Let me know if you’re not?
 (MORGAN moves his head in acknowledgement)
MORGAN
 (PAUSE)
See ya next week?
CASEY
See ya.
  (BLACK OUT)
 


The Process | a play

Ruffus, Stephen

50
We cannot abide the small nameplate 
pressed like an afterthought 
into the still, dormant grass
 
while waiting for the stone 
that begins the last step—sun, 
moon, stars—in this journey.
 
He lies covered with snow. 
I shovel a long path to him, 
brush off the garden lights,
 
the feathers and wooden stalks 
his sister had arranged 
until the grey flat stone is set
 
in the fall still far off. 
But come this spring 
when the mower lords over
 
the land and all will be tossed 
and cut smooth, there will be 
nothing there. Gone will be
 
what was made with our hands, 
things we wished 
could stay and last forever
 
gesturing softly in the breeze, 
as he did, things that have held 
throughout the storm. 
 
 
 
 
 
GRIEF
STEPHEN RUFFUS
A


Grief

Bonebrake, Annabelle

The Ranch House
Annabelle Bonebrake
When Natasha went blind, it took us years to notice; 
she knew the corners 
of the table like 
protrusions 
of elbows, 
she knew turns 
of the hallway like 
the channels
of her femurs. 
She watched us,
coming in with the groceries
and going out with trash.
She announced visitors
clicking like a skipping stone
down the hall.
She watched us
until her eyes became
nickel discs 
polished to reflection
110
cataracts 
pooling 
on my arm flesh, where I’ve bumped
into corners 
showing signs 
of being neither here and there.
Now     she is barking
at a back bell that no longer operates, 
for the milkman, 
who no longer comes.
111POETRY


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