California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Branagan, Nicholas

69
 
 I was born in a verdant grove, under a cloudless golden 
sky and a canopy of leaves. Opening my eyes for the first time, 
the first thing I saw was a sapling nestled in the soil between 
two withered old stumps. As I grew, the sapling grew alongside 
me. It was not long before the sapling became a tree, towering 
above me with its leaves blending into the canopy above. As its 
tallest branches brushed the heavens, the lowest began to hang 
low to the ground. Upon these branches, fruits of all shapes 
and sizes and colors began to grow, ripe and heavy with juice. 
I marveled at these fruits, captivated by the plentiful choices 
before me as I finally noticed the growling of my own stomach. 
I took stock of the fruits before me, wondering where to start 
or if I’d even have the room for all these fruits in my stom-
ach. At that moment, for the first time in my life, I looked 
away from my sapling to the other trees in the garden surround-
ing me. 
 Not far from my own tree, there stood another–not quite 
so tall nor verdant as my own, but impressive nonetheless. At 
its base stood a young girl, roughly my age, deep in thought 
as she examined the two solitary fruits her tree had produced. 
I felt a twinge of pity for this girl–she had not been blessed 
by the same bounty I had, and the measly fruits offered by her 
tree surely could not sustain her. I contemplated calling out 
to her, offering to share in my wealth, but there was no need–
as I watched her, she began to approach a branch of her tree. I 
thought she’d decided on the pitifully small maroon fruit with 
dull gray leaves, but when she reached the branch she did not 
grab the fruit. She grabbed the branch itself and hoisted her-
self atop it. Then, she reached for another branch above her 
and repeated the step, slowly scaling her tree until I could 
scarcely see her through the foliage. A moment of blurred move-
ments and flashes of her figure through the gaps in the leaves 
later, and she suddenly jumped down to the ground once more. In 
her hands rested a shining gold fruit, nearly glowing in its 
brilliance. With a satisfied grin she sank her teeth into the 
flesh of the fruit, golden juices running down her chin, 
and I returned my gaze to my own tree once more. While 
ROTTEN
NICHOLAS BRANAGAN
70
beautiful, none of the fruits before me bore that same luster. 
But the girl did not find this fruit among the lowest branches 
of her tree, so it was unreasonable to expect so from mine. I 
gazed upwards. 
 Above those branches, through the gaps in the canopy 
above, I saw them–fruits beyond my wildest imagination. Impos-
sibly large, their branches bending precariously under their 
weight. Some of the fruits were a shimmering gold, like the 
girl’s, but there were countless others just as stunning: some 
were a polished chrome, nearly invisible as they reflected the 
leaves around them, others seemed to be encrusted with rubies 
and sapphires, pearls and diamonds, and a few even seemed to 
shift with ever-changing patterns and colors. I must have stood 
there for hours, entranced by the bounty above me. I scarcely 
knew where to start, so once again I turned my gaze out towards 
the other trees. 
 Nearby there was a boy, just a bit older than me, holding 
the core of a fruit in his hands. As he chewed the last bites 
the core in his hand began to crumble into ash, leaving a hand-
ful of seeds resting in his palm. The boy barely paid any at-
tention to the seeds before placing them in his pocket, then 
he turned back to his tree to reach for another fruit. As he 
did so, his tree seemed to shudder from root to branch–then, 
one by one, the fruits began to fall from its branches. As they 
bounced on the ground and settled into the grass his fruits be-
gan to rot away, their shining skins and rinds rapidly decaying 
into puddles of black and brown liquid before soaking into the 
soil, leaving no trace of their existence. The shock I felt was 
mirrored on the boy’s face, who began to look back and forth 
between the ground and the now-barren branches of his tree as 
he searched for a sign of any fruits possibly remaining. His 
efforts were fruitless, he reached back into his pocket and 
pulled out one of the seeds, turning it over in his hand as he 
examined it carefully. Then, he looked out at the garden around 
him, at all the other children and their trees as far as the 
eye could see, and his fist clenched around the seed. He stepped 
away from his tree and set out, passing my tree and others, 
shrinking in my eyeline before disappearing in the shrubbery. 
 I was floored–the boy’s tree had granted him one fruit be-
fore shedding its bounty, leaving him with only the seeds of 
that fruit to sustain himself in the future. I began to panic–
71would my tree do the same to me? My eyes shifted back to the girl I had seen earlier, only to find her gone and her 
tree as fruitless as the boy’s. I turned back to my own 
tree, eyeing the fruit with unease–how could I choose only one? 
 I sat down at the base of my tree, looking upward to stare 
at the fruit. I thought for a long while about which one I 
would ultimately pick, and fruit I would spend my life culti-
vating. The sun sidled lazily across the sky, setting it ablaze 
through the gaps in the leaves as it set beneath the hills be-
yond the grove. As the inferno above dwindled into inky dark-
ness I closed my eyes and drifted into restless sleep, haunted 
by dreams of rotting fruit. 
 I awoke with the sunrise and continued my contemplation. 
Though I hungered, the image of rot burned in my mind and I 
could not bring myself to make a hasty decision. All around me 
the other children played in the garden, some picking fruit from 
their own trees and venturing forth out of the gardens when the 
rest of their fruits rotted away. I wondered how they could 
choose so easily, commit to a life of farming just one fruit. I 
imagined the regret they’d feel, years in the future when that 
fruit would begin to taste like ash in their mouths, that they 
hadn’t chosen another. I would not be like them, I decided. 
I would think carefully, and only the best and most dazzling 
fruit to eat the rest of my life. 
 And so the days continued–I woke with the sunrise, I 
stared at my fruit as the children around me played and ate and 
left, I slept with nightfall, and I repeated the cycle all over 
again. 
 One morning I woke not with the sun but with a sound, a 
soft thud on the ground next to me. My eyes opened and I saw a 
fruit, shimmering silver and bejeweled with emeralds and aqua-
marine, perfect for just a moment before shriveling into a 
gray mass and bursting into a rotten puddle, soaking into the 
ground. I sat in shock for a moment, staring where the fruit 
had been, before my gaze shot up to the branches above. Most of 
the fruits remained intact, perfect as ever, but some now held 
bruises, patches of dark brown, sagging flesh marring a few oth-
erwise perfect fruits. 
 As I examined the fruits, another fell just a few 
inches from my feet–a brilliant gold fruit, emitting a 
foul odor as it decayed before me and vanished. I began to 
72
panic–this was not a possibility I had ever considered that the 
fruits might not always be ripe. I didn’t know how much time I 
had left, how long before all my fruits had fallen and rotted 
away into nothingness. And yet, I couldn’t choose. That fear 
still scorched my chest, my fear of choosing the wrong fruit 
burning as brightly 
as the fear of not receiving one at all. I looked to my left, 
to my right, but all that remained in the garden were bar-
ren trees. No other children remained, just me. Another fruit 
fell from my tree, and I turned back to the branches. I began 
to reach for one fruit on a low branch before recoiling, in-
stead gripping the branch it grew from and hoisting myself up. 
I climbed madly, with no direction, hoping the perfect fruit 
would materialize before me.
 As I searched, each fruit I found too imperfect in some 
way to commit to, I began to panic more and more. I reached for 
a branch without looking, and suddenly I was falling. I hit 
the ground with a dull thud, facing the canopy above. Another 
fruit fell, landing squarely on my heaving chest before rolling 
off and rotting into the dirt. I barely registered the impact, 
as the tears formed in my eyes. I didn’t know what to choose. 
There were too many fruits, too many potential wrong choices, 
and not enough time. I wish there was more time. I wish I was 
like the other children, able to simply choose and move on. I 
wish I didn’t have to choose, or that I could try all the fruits 
and choose after. But now, as I lay beneath a tree of rotting 
fruit, all I can do is cry. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


English

Rotten

Tillis, Jake

Balloon Time

Hejran, Sophia

Darkness Is Your Candle

Kinsella, Adrienne

NRHill Street
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Hill Street

Hite, Christian

In the Land of Shinar

Jones, Rolin

Conner the Invisible

Coren, Julie

HEARTS A FIRE 
Hearts a fire. 
She was dancing. She didn't know why, 
just moving to some rhythm that she 
didn't understand until everything 
changed. It happened so suddenly that it 
was hard to understand. To understand 
how just everything there was could 
change in an instant. Exploding inside 
were all these feelings, they wanted to 
come out and it was like they had a 
mind of their own but she just kept 
saying, "No. No. You must stay there, 
stay there, deep inside." It would be so 
much easier to understand if there was 
just a reason, something, anything, that 
could make the things she was feeling 
make sense. Whatever that was. It 
seemed to her like a finger painting gone 
julie Coren 
all out of control, exploding on to the page, bright oranges 
and reds, deep reds too. Burning, burning everything. 
The picture books were never like this. 
They had all those pretty pictures, the books she used to 
read. Everything came with instmctions and everything always 
worked out just fine, or you could take it back. And get 
another one. Vety misleading the way that evetyone always 
smiled, the way their clothes were always so neat and clean, 
the way they all looked like each other. The way they fit 
together. And they would take summer vacations to beautiful 
places where the water was always so blue , calm and vety 
blue. They would ride on their summer boat with sunglasses, 
scarves and tans, smiling children, and they would all love 
each other vety much. The way they fit together like pieces of 
a puzzle, like cracked egg shells put back together, like lock-
ets made of broken heatts that you share with your lover, 
your best friend. The other half. 
Fathers especially have trouble with their hearts. 
Indigestion. From too much garlic and wine spilled over 
pasta that never ends. Clogged arteries get in the way, 
clogged heatts are even worse. He said it was from too much 
work, days that never ended and nights filled with responsibil-
ity. Only the reclining chair could help. But evetyone thought 
he was absent because he could never hear a thing and 
would often hide behind the paper. Newstype, columns and 
columns of newstype. Words that had more meaning than 
children and their needs. Words that were more desperate 
than children wanting attention. Words that climbed the page, 
continuing for hours, offering solitude and respite from de-
26 Northridge Review 
julie Coren 
mands that were too much. Glasses helped. They made the 
words bigger, putting them together, offering clarity. They 
helped him to see just exactly what he wanted to see and 
never offered too much. Only skewed views worked here. 
Only moments filled with laughter and pictures offering de-
light, only whimsy when he was not tired and never tears. 
They were just all too much those tears. They caused clogged 
hearts and made him sleepy. Everyone needs a nap. 
The savage heart. 
He stood before the mirror. Naked. There was nothing there 
but him and the mirror and the mirror just kept laughing. He 
looked up, perhaps there was something up there that he had 
missed, some silly joke that he would understand too, some 
stupid little bucket filled with water just waiting to spill on 
him the moment he moved, the moment he tripped the wire. 
But there was nothing and yet the mirror, it just kept laugh-
ing, haunting him. He looked below himself ce1tain that his 
bare feet were funny, perhaps misshapen and still he saw 
nothing. All he could do was look harder, see his hair, it was 
nappy. All he could do was look harder, see his skin, it was 
dark. And then everything changed, and she was someone 
else. But the mirror was still laughing because now her skin 
was savage red, her hair was long and dark, her body bare 
once again. And memories came flooding back, of too much 
death and broken families of language she did not under-
stand, of words that assaulted like fists pounding on bmised 
bodies. Fading in and out the words changed and the skin 
color lightened, it was dark again. Not deep and black but 
mixed all the colors of the world and most of all the mirror 
just kept laughing. Life in America. A dream, and then she 
woke up. 
ffistory books tell stories. 
She thought that everything they said was true, and why 
not, it was in a book, it was written down, doesn't that make 
it true. History books tell stories, written by master storytellers. 
Haven't we heard that somewhere before? Master? Oh yes, 
that goes back many years but we don't have slavery any 
more. It's in our minds though, culturally, it's who we are, the 
air we breathe, the thoughts that never creep out into daylight 
but are still there. We are damaged. Thurgood Marshall said 
he got tired of ttying to save the white man's soul. Are we 
lost? Do our cities bum with rage of our creation. Do our 
schools team with death of our teaching. Do our children 
believe the lies that their parents were taught by their parents. 
By the histmy books. By the atTogance of oppression and the 
absence of respect. There are not many truths in this life. 
Stoke the fire. 
She went outside to gather firewood, she wanted to make 
evetything warmer inside. All the cold, the way it went right 
through your clothes into your bones. Deep into your bones 
so that it was hard to ever really be warm. The moon was 
standing there, up in the air, balancing evetything, holding it 
all together. She wanted to cling tight to it, to stay there 
forever and just imagine the stars, listen to the quiet. Inside 
everything was so desperate. Evetything was so mixed up. 
Everyone was so afraid. Angry too. Angry that so much had 
been stolen from them, angry that the history books had got 
it all wrong, frustrated because they didn't know how to fix it. 
She stoked the fire, she said stupid words, she didn't know 
what to do. The colors raged and raged blurring everything, 
messing everything up. Stoke the fire, it is all so very confus-
28 Northridge Review 
julie Coren 
ing, the way the colors blend then separate, find each other 
then burst apart. Exploding. 
Untamed heart. 
Her feet crushed the crisp snow, making noise, squashing 
what was undemeath, pushing all the fear away. She went 
inside. She looked in the mirror and saw herself beneath the 
layers, shed of all the lies. "I have to unleam everything," she 
whispered into the mirror, touching her lips, outlining her 
eyes. "I have to see what's in front of me, as it is, only as it is 
to me." There were scarves all around the room, suddenly 
they were there, everywhere, beautiful too all their colors and 
the way you could see through them. And the fire raged. and 
the room got hot and all the lines gave way crashing the walls 
that had seemed so impossible before. She began to dance. 
Wild and ancient, untamed in every way. Rocking only to the 
rhythm inside, more different than she could ever have imag-
ined. 
So much happens when it's quiet outside. 
A car drives by with a shotgun peaking out its open win-
dow. Whirring by so that the blast rang out in all the silence. 
And another child died. School books and wild aftemoons, 
football games and hanging. It is school time and another 
child dies. While she was dancing. Ancient rhythms moan. 
Desperate streets await the paint as it peels off their buildings 
and bars fill the windows protecting evetything, stopping 
nothing. It is all outside and it is all inside. And where the 
paint is slick and alarm systems hum, it is there too. No one is 
untouched. Ancient rhythms howl. Everything must change 
because none if it fits together, no lockets or eggshells. An-
cient rhythms cry. 
Bad dreams. 
She awoke to the heat of the fire. Everything had been so 
beautiful before she went to sleep and she thought that just 
this once she might make it through the night. Passing 
through her mind were ancient canyon walls, rust colored, like 
the ea1th. The water wove down through the canyons, rushing 
like it had somewhere to go, and the sky it went on forever. 
But then all those memories came back, all those days filled 
with standing on other peoples backs and hmting them. They 
haunted her. How could eve1ything be so beautiful, the 
rhythm of the seas, the dark ea1th. How could it all be so 
beautiful when there was so much ugliness. It was not work-
ing. This t1ying to sleep through it all. This t1ying to ignore it. 
It was not working. 
30 Northridge Review 


Hearts a Fire

Etter, Carrie

Elegy - in Memory of Brian 
Carrie Etter 
Imagine: cutting a hole out of the sky's dome 
with an ice pick. Clambering through the opening, 
sitting on top of the hard, colorless fiberglass, 
Indian-style, expectantly. The entry disappears. 
Birds fly close, undemeath, but you cannot touch them. 
The air has no taste or smell. 
Suddenly, you understand that I 
put the ice pick in your hand, that somehow I 
brought you here. 
This is how I feel without you. 


Elegy: in Memory of Brian

Ann Heimann, Mary

I Dig Your Polypeptides Baby

Laurence, Helen

54 
.IVIINE 
HELEN LAURENCE 
ripen the fertile eye: 
blind chaos easing, 
yesterday's ill concealed 
cornerstone trips 
my undocumented I 
become mine 
selfhood at last I lasting: 
a rich mine. 
all this is 
mine together however i 
will, whenever i make 
soft hills and pollen 
greenpurple valleys yellow 
butterfly into me 
their motion pouring me 
poring us into pleasure. 
I encircle, enter, 
become rivering radius 
climbing center. 
escaping body 
spiriting along 
the diameter of feeling my entry 
wedge is women and within all 
the concentricity 
wild electricity favors 
craving all 
55 


Mine

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