California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Centurion, Sophia

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Angel, before you fly down | Sophia 
Centurion
look at me as I am, an apathetic lover 
white knuckling every goodbye.
See a rival worthy of fight 
or flight. Heed the wanted signs listing
the names I was known by and all my 
reckless crimes. They were scattered by
good men and women who expected better 
from me. Not this screeching siren,
swimming the Styx against fate, 
crawling out
covered in pieces of saints. 
Invite disdain, for your sake.
If you hold me I will bury myself deep 
in your chest to live forever. Prepare
before you fly down. Let your heartbeat pick up, 
and your eyes blur red until you’re buzzing, unsure
where to aim your fists or hands or breath. Hate me 
first, to make love possible. That line is
fragile and crumbling—a match 
burning until it only leaves behind the fire.
Before you mistake me for someone who 
will bring you peace, study the scratchings
on the walls of my tower 
only decipherable through a fever.
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Sir Brave and Bright, fit your jagged 
edge to mine, see if you can save 
a ghost, hold her hand 
in a playground. We will
find solace in the silence 
on swings. In the dark
I tell you the chronicle from 
the beginning, and you deem me good.
So I join the rabble of selfish narcissists you can’t help 
but love.
The ones that would ruin the world, 
for that little bit of heaven.


English

Angel, before you fly down

Sterling, Emma

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The DeadLine | Emma Sterling
“H ello. You’ve reached the DeadLine telephone service for postmortem communication. 
With whom may I connect you today?” 
Once she finished rattling o! the scripted greeting, the 
operator covered the mouthpiece of the telephone and 
yawned. She could deduce how many hours remained in 
her shift even without the clock above her desk. The light 
outside the window verged on vermillion, as it always did 
at sunset, and her thoughts had wandered long ago from 
tedious company policies to daydreams of hunky men 
driving hot rods. She examined her manicure as she coiled 
the telephone cord around her finger. Even the anemic 
mauve polish outshone every other color in the room; by 
contrast, the o"ce appeared as bleak as the voices that 
dribbled like tears from the phone speaker. One such voice 
sobbed into the operator’s ear now. 
“Please… I would like to speak to my husband.” 
The operator leaned back in her seat and stifled 
an exasperated sigh. “Ma’am, I’m going to need more 
information. Full government name and dates of birth and 
death, please.” 
“His name was Cecil.” The caller stopped to catch her 
breath. “He passed away on December 13, 1953.” 
Yesterday, the operator noted with a grimace. 
Customers inquiring about recent deaths always tested 
her patience the most—inconsolable parents, siblings, and 
widows weren’t known for their coherence. She pinched 
the phone between her ear and her shoulder, freeing her 
hands to slide out the file drawer labeled ‘December 1953’. 
“Alright, ma’am. I still need a full name and date of 
birth,” she pressed. 
The caller hesitated. Only the faint crackle issuing from 
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the other end of the line indicated that the call was still 
active, until the woman cleared her throat. 
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” 
The operator ground her teeth. “Ma’am, I cannot 
connect you without the proper information. You mean to 
tell me you don’t know your husband’s birthday?” 
“Well, you see, I can’t remember. It’s all been a blur. 
One moment we were enjoying our co!ee and one last 
smoke together, and the next… Gosh, let me see…” 
The speaker picked up nothing but rustling. When the 
caller continued, her voice sounded strangely mechanical, 
and her sni#ing had subsided. 
“Cecil Moore. Born April 25, 1908. Do you need more, or 
shall we continue?” 
The operator raised an eyebrow, but proceeded with 
the usual spiel as she found the corresponding file and 
began sorting through the tangled switchboard wires 
on her desk. “You will be connected with the requested 
individual shortly. Please hold while I transfer your call.” 
She placed the telephone receiver on the desk and 
flipped open the manila envelope she’d retrieved. Inside 
sat a complete catalogue of Cecil Moore’s life—oldest of 
three, ex-military, loved dogs, and other trivial details—but 
the operator skimmed until she reached the diagram at 
the back. It showed the specific combination of wires and 
plugs to reach the person in question; in turn, the operator 
needed to configure the switchboard and merge it with 
the caller’s line. 
She only managed to attach ten wires before she 
noticed the light above her desk flashing red, indicating 
another incoming call. She accepted it and picked up the 
receiver, but before she could recite the usual greeting, a 
stern voice beat her to it. 
“Hello. This is Detective James Burnett, calling on behalf 
of the Sunset County Police 
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Department. We request clearance for contact due to 
a pending homicide investigation.” The operator perked 
up. “Approved. Please specify who you wish to reach.” 
“Cecil Moore. Born April 25, 1908, died December 13, 
1953.” 
Incredulity sent her heart racing. “Of course, sir. I 
actually just spoke to his wife, so this should be a quick 
connection. Please hold while I transfer your call.” 
She placed the receiver on the table again. The red 
light above the switchboard blinked a steadfast staccato 
pattern, showing that the first caller was waiting on the 
line. Even so, the second call took precedence—DeadLine 
required its employees to handle all legal matters above 
personal ones. Fingers trembling, she hastily plugged the 
rest of the wires into their slots and pressed the button to 
merge the lines, then raised the telephone back to her 
face. 
“Alright, sir. Please dial any number after the tone, and 
you will be transferred shortly.” 
The anti-eavesdropping policy in her employee 
handbook echoed through her mind, but temptation 
compelled her to lean forward and clutch the phone to 
her ear, twisting the speaker away from her lips. 
“I think I’ve earned some entertainment,” she 
murmured once she was sure the detective wouldn’t 
overhear. Only the beep that indicated a call transfer 
answered her. 
“Hello,” she heard Burnett start, “this is—” 
“Please help me,” a garbled voice whispered into the 
phone, sending a chill prickling up the operator’s spine. “I 
think there was something in the co!ee.” 
“Not to worry, Mr. Moore. My name is Detective James 
Burnett. I’m calling because a homicide investigation case 
has been opened following your death. I’d like to hear—” 
“Investigation?” The voice paused. “I didn’t think 
anybody would bother.” 
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The operator frowned, her eyes darting to the bulb 
above the switchboard. It continued flashing in angry 
opposition to the darkening o"ce. 
“Well,” said the detective, “we hope we can help. 
Do you remember anything notable from the day of your 
passing—anything at all? You mentioned some suspicious 
co!ee.” 
“Yes. I ate at Joe’s Diner on First Street, and this waitress 
brought me a co!ee I hadn’t ordered—said it was on the 
house. I’d never seen her before, even being a regular at 
that joint for years. I remember thinking it tasted funny. Well, 
then I got to feeling so dizzy that I couldn’t finish my meal. 
The last thing I recall is having a smoke in my armchair 
once I got home.” 
“Alright. Can you think of any reason that someone 
might want to harm you?” 
“No, sir, I can’t. I usually kept to myself—not the type to 
make friends or enemies. To be frank, I didn’t think many 
people would care that I was gone.” 
“Well, Mr. Moore, I reckon a few folks did. Your boss 
called in a tip—said it was unlike you to miss work without 
notice. Besides, what about your missus? A DeadLine 
operator told me that she’s on hold right now, waiting to 
speak to you.” 
A long beat of silence punctuated the detective’s 
voice. Anticipation crawled under the operator’s skin like 
a colony of ants. She ran her nail along the edge of the 
telephone speaker, feverishly twisting the cord around 
her hand to channel the nervous energy buzzing in her 
stomach. The entire o"ce flashed red in time with her rapid 
pulse. 
“Detective,” said Moore, “I’m not sure who that caller 
is, but it couldn’t possibly be my wife. She died seven years 
ago.” 
A heavy pang of panic struck the operator. 
The detective hesitated. “Then how do you suppose 
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this person got your information?” 
“Well… I did have an ID badge in my pocket. Was it still 
there when the police…?” He 
trailed o!, his voice fraught with misery. 
“No, I don’t believe any such thing was recovered.” 
The operator jammed the button to switch back to 
the first caller. The call could be traced with a device that 
plugged into the switchboard. She remembered learning 
about it during her training, though she had long since 
forgotten the details. Silently cursing her poor memory, she 
dug into the mass of wires in front of her. Even if she found 
the right plugin, it would only function if the caller stayed 
on the line for long enough—a prospect that dwindled with 
every second the operator spent rummaging through the 
jumble of telephone parts on her desk. 
“I apologize for the delay,” she blurted into the 
receiver, her voice stilted as she tried to scrounge together 
an excuse. “Due to an influx of tra"c to our line, your 
request may take longer than usual. May I have your name 
to ensure that your call transfers correctly?” 
The telephone speaker crackled as the caller sco!ed. 
“I don’t believe that’s necessary.” 
“I assure you, it’s all part of the process. You see—”she 
spotted the plugin and scrambled to trace its wiring back 
to the switchboard, “—we must verify that each customer 
is correctly paired with the person they requested to 
contact, so the names of both parties are required.” 
“I see. I’m afraid I must go, then. Would you kindly pass 
on a message to Mr. Moore?” 
The operator’s hands turned listless. Dread buzzed 
through her body like an electric current, compounded 
by the pulsing scarlet light around her. She pictured the 
nameless woman slipping a drop of arsenic into Moore’s 
mug, slinking up behind him as he smoked his last cigarette, 
parroting the birthday printed on a stolen ID badge, 
hanging up the call and fading back into the world… 
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“Yes, I suppose so,” she heard herself mumble. 
“Splendid. Please tell him that it wasn’t personal in the 
slightest. In fact, I may have done him a favor. Now he can 
reunite with his dearly departed wife.” 
“Why did you do it?” the operator whispered 
desperately. 
“Well, if I may be so bold as to use your words: I think 
I’ve earned some entertainment,” the caller lilted, her 
shrewd smile audible in her voice. 
“But how did you hear—” 
“Why, I suspect that in your own haste, you forgot to 
put my line on hold before switching to the other. Do be 
more attentive next time. It’s rather unprofessional to let a 
customer overhear conversations in which legal matters 
are concerned. Goodbye, darling.” 
The operator flinched at the sharp click of the phone 
being hung up, and darkness enrobed the o"ce as the red 
signal finally switched o!. The drone of the dial tone might 
as well have been a death rattle. 


The Deadline

Marisa

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Côte+d’Azur | M.J. Lopez
FADE IN:
INT. PASADENA MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - DAY - APRIL 
1922
A lavishly spacious Art-Deco style bedroom with 
pink silk-covered walls and Palladian windows 
that cast an afternoon shadow. A chandelier 
hangs high.
CATHERINE HILL, 22, a blonde woman with 
striking blue eyes in a satin wedding dress, stares 
out the window as elegantly dressed people 
take their seats in the courtyard outside.
She struggles to clasp together her pearl 
bracelet. Catherine’s maid, NORA, 16, rushes 
over. She wears a black dress with a white 
apron and a ru!ed, lace headpiece.
NORA 
Please, allow me, Miss?
Catherine completely unaware of Nora, starts 
to pace barefooted around the room. Nora 
follows.
Catherine’s breath becomes faster, with every 
failed attempt at closing her bracelet. Her 
breath becomes faster, faster, faster, until...
Catherine’s older sister, ROSE, 26, swings OPEN 
the door. She has a strawberry-blonde, wavy 
updo and a cream-colored beaded dress on.
Startled, the bracelet snaps, causing all the 
pearls to fly all over the room.
CATHERINE 
Oh, my god.
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ROSE 
Is this a bad time?
Catherine sits at her vanity. She buries her head 
in her hands.
CATHERINE 
I don’t know what I’m doing.
Rose closes the door. She looks over at Nora, 
who carefully picks up the scattered pearls. She 
kneels down close to her sister.
ROSE 
It’s your wedding day! 
Catherine looks into the vanity mirror and 
studies herself in her wedding dress. She doesn’t 
like what she sees.
CATHERINE 
Then, why am I not happy?
ROSE 
Who says marriage equals happiness?
(beat)
I surely didn’t marry Harold because I wanted to be happy.
CATHERINE 
Then, why did you marry Harold?
ROSE 
Because I didn’t want to die alone.
(beat)
That, and Harold’s not so bad.
CATHERINE 
I wish I could say the same.
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ROSE 
Oh come on, David’s not so bad. You’ll learn to like him. 
Give it time.
Catherine sighs.
ROSE (CONT’D) 
I mean really, Catherine, what other option is there for us? 
Become an old maid?
They laugh.
ROSE (CONT’D) 
If you really want, we can call the whole thing o!.
Rose strokes her chin, like she’s thinking about 
this.
ROSE (CONT’D) 
Mother will be so devastated, though...
CATHERINE
(sarcastically)
Can’t have that now.
(level-headed)
No, all the guests have arrived. It’s alright. And like you said, 
I’ll learn to like him.
ROSE 
Yes! You’re just experiencing a little cold feet, baby sister.
(beat)
Looks like you need a little warming up!
Rose playfully tickles her sister’s feet, which 
causes Catherine to laugh profusely. Nora looks 
on with delight.
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Catherine’s oldest sister, MARGARET-ELIZABETH, 
30, OPENS the door. She has a black bob and a 
peach-colored lace dress on.
MARGARET-ELIZABETH 
What are you two doing?
Everyone stops laughing.
MARGARET-ELIZABETH (CONT’D) 
We’re in need of a bride.Everyone’s downstairs waiting and 
you two are up here laughing.
Rose gets up.
ROSE 
I’ll go and get her veil.
MARGARET-ELIZABETH
(sarcastically)
That would be nice.
Margaret-Elizabeth looks at all the scattered 
pearls.
MARGARET-ELIZABETH (CONT’D)
(to Nora)
And you can do your job and pick up this mess.
Margaret-Elizabeth SLAMS the door shut. 
Catherine mouths the words “sorry” to Nora.
Rose grabs the veil out of a box.
ROSE 
Who does she think she is coming in here and barking 
orders like that?
Catherine puts on her heels.
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CATHERINE 
You know how Maggie is.
Rose places the veil on top of Catherine’s head. 
She gasps. 
CATHERINE (CONT’D) 
What is it?
Rose turns Catherine to look in the mirror.
ROSE 
You’re stunning.
Catherine doesn’t know what to make of it.
EXT. PASADENA MANSION - COURTYARD - DAY
Violinists begin to play classical music, as people 
stand to turn towards the back of the aisle. 
Catherine walks slowly down the aisle with her 
stern-looking father, FRANKLIN HILL, 52. He’s a 
silver-haired man with a handlebar mustache.
She looks at all the faces staring at her. Some 
are serious.
Some are smiling.
A kid sticks his tongue out at her.
She quickly looks up at the front of the aisle 
to a 6-foot tall man in a tuxedo, with a pencil 
thin mustache and jet black hair. This is DAVID 
BOURNE, 25.
The closer she gets to David, the more his 
presence appears towering.
She arrives at the wedding arch, she shyly looks 
up at him.
The MARRIAGE OFFICIANT proceeds.
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MARRIAGE OFFICIANT 
Dearly beloved...
CUT TO:
INT. PASADENA MANSION - BALLROOM - NIGHT
Catherine and David BURST through the doors 
hand-in-hand, out into a room full of people 
standing and applauding at their dining tables.
A TRUMPET PLAYER plays a LOUD note, as the 
rest of a Jazz ensemble join in on playing a 
lively, dance number.
Guests begin to make their way to the dance 
floor. They dance the “Charleston.” 
David nudges Catherine over to the dance 
floor. She smiles, but shakes her head.
DAVID 
Come on, just one dance.
CATHERINE 
I get nervous.
DAVID 
Well, I can help that.
David forcefully takes Catherine and dances 
with her.
Catherine sees people staring.
She breaks away from David, then walks away.
DAVID (CONT’D) 
Touchy, touchy.
David sees people staring. He does a mock 
of the “Charleston” dance. People laugh and 
cheer him on.
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INT. PASADENA MANSION - BALLROOM - TABLE #4 - NIGHT
Catherine approaches “TABLE #4,” where the 
HILL family sits.
Catherine kisses her mother, SUSAN HILL, 48, on 
the cheek.
She wears a lavishly beaded dress and a 
diamond headpiece.
SUSAN 
Don’t leave lipstick, dear. It’s very unsightly.
Catherine rolls her eyes. She approaches her 
father.
CATHERINE 
Hello, father.
Franklin is busy lighting his smoking pipe. He 
mumbles to himself.
SUSAN 
Franklin, your daughter is talking to you.
Franklin looks at Susan.
She nudges her head towards Catherine.
Franklin looks up at Catherine. 
FRANKLIN
(coughing)
Oh! My sweet girl.
He smiles, then returns to fidgeting with his 
smoking pipe.
Catherine lets out a little laugh, then kisses her 
father’s forehead.
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She sits next to Rose.
SUSAN 
Darling, where is your husband?
MARGARET-ELIZABETH 
Yes, mother, that’s a very good question.
Margaret-Elizabeth looks up and sees David 
smoking a cigar with some YOUNG MEN and a 
FLAPPER near the jazz ensemble.
MARGARET-ELIZABETH (CONT’D) 
Found out his wife doesn’t put out, so he found himself 
someone who does.
SUSAN 
That’s enough!
ROSE 
Really Maggie, sometimes I forget that you’re related to us.
Maggie shoots Rose a fake smile.
CATHERINE 
I wish you two didn’t fight. Today’s been too much 
already...
SUSAN 
How so, dear?
ROSE 
Mother, she just married someone she doesn’t love.
SUSAN
(sco"ng)
Love!
Susan sips her champagne. 
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MARGARET-ELIZABETH  
Mother, why didn’t you find me a suitor? At least, I would 
have been more grateful.
SUSAN 
Because you’re too dowdy, my dear. If you put a little more 
e!ort into your appearance like Catherine, then, maybe, 
we can find someone for you too.
Margaret-Elizabeth looks down in 
embarrassment.
SUSAN (CONT’D) 
Anyway, I think we’d better be going now.
Susan stands up.
SUSAN (CONT’D) 
I can’t stand to be around an ungrateful child.
(beat)
Catherine, you married into a great, noble, family. I’m 
really sorry that doesn’t fit your standards, I really am. Sorry 
to have disappointed you.
CATHERINE 
Wait, mother.
Susan nudges Franklin.
SUSAN 
Franklin, we’re going.
FRANKLIN 
Yes, yes.
Susan and Franklin leave the table.
SUSAN
(calls out to Margaret-Elizabeth)
Maggie!
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MARGARET-ELIZABETH 
Yes, mother. Coming!
Margaret-Elizabeth leaves the table. 
Catherine and Rose look at each other and 
sigh. Catherine rests her head on Rose’s 
shoulder. Rose pats her sister’s head.
CATHERINE 
Mother cares about status. Always has, always will.
ROSE 
What do you care about?
Catherine raises her head. She looks at Rose.
David approaches the sisters.
DAVID
(to Catherine)
This is where you’ve been hiding! I’ve been looking all over 
for you.
CATHERINE 
I haven’t been hiding, David. I was just--
DAVID 
—Mother would like to see you.
CATHERINE 
Oh, yes, of course.
Catherine gets up and endearingly grabs Rose’s 
hand. Their hands break away from each other, 
as Catherine leaves the table.
INT. PASADENA MANSION - BALLROOM - TABLE #11 - NIGHT
Catherine and David approach “TABLE #11,” 
where David’s mother, GERTRUDE BOURNE, 58, 
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sits. She wears extravagant furs and smokes a 
cigarette with a long holder. She stands up.
GERTRUDE
(in a smoker voice)
Catherine, let me look at you.
She grabs Catherine’s hands and checks out 
her dress.
Catherine looks uncomfortable.
GERTRUDE (CONT’D) 
Marvelous, simply marvelous.
She releases Catherine’s hand. 
GERTRUDE(CONT’D) 
Oh, the wedding today was splendid. Catherine, you 
looked stunning walking down that aisle.
CATHERINE 
Thank you, Mrs. Bourne.
GERTRUDE 
Please, call me mother. We’re family now.
Catherine fakes a smile.
GERTRUDE (CONT’D)
(touches David’s face)
And my son, my handsome son—
DAVID 
Mother...
GERTRUDE 
—takes after his father’s good looks! God rest his poor soul.
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(beat)
Where are you two lovebirds spending your honeymoon?
CATHERINE 
We’re headed o! to the French Riviera.
GERTRUDE 
Oh, how grand! In all my years and I’ve never been.
CATHERINE 
It’s so lovely!
Catherine blushes.
CATHERINE (CONT’D)  
Well, at least from what I’ve seen in my travel books. I can’t 
wait to visit Aigues-Mortes. It’s a medieval walled city that 
dates back to the 13th century...
GERTRUDE 
The French have such a rich history.
CATHERINE 
And the wild horses of Camar—
David snores.
Catherine looks over at David.
CATHERINE (CONT’D) 
Am I boring you?
David laughs.
DAVID 
I’m sorry Darling, but what is this about horses and ruins? I’m 
going there to write and relax. Take a dip into those big, 
blue seas, get as fat as a pig, and drink every last cocktail 
in the Riviera.
GERTRUDE 
David!
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DAVID 
Sorry, mother.
GERTRUDE 
Think of your father. Alcoholism runs in the Bourne blood, 
you know. Keep it up and you’ll end up in the grave with 
him!
DAVID 
Yes, mother.
GERTRUDE 
I do worry about you dear boy.
(at Catherine)
Catherine, please tell me you’ll take care of my David.
CATHERINE 
Yes, Mrs. Bourne. I mean mother.
Gertrude smiles.
DAVID 
I’m not a child anymore, mother. Besides, Catherine won’t 
have to look after me since I’ll be busy writing my next 
novel.
David puts his hands on his hips, in an 
overconfident way.
DAVID (CONT’D) 
Can’t disappoint the fans with this one.
Catherine rolls her eyes.
DAVID (CONT’D)
(at Catherine)
No, Catherine won’t be bothering me.
He pulls in Catherine tightly beside him.
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DAVID (CONT’D)
(to Gertrude)
She’ll be a supportive wife. Nothing comes between a man 
and his work.
GERTRUDE 
Very true.
Catherine looks like she wants to scream on the 
inside, but, instead, smiles at her new husband.


Côte+d’Azur

Van Gelder, Natalie

|  9  |
Fog visits  the Getty Natalie Van Gelder


Fog visits the Getty

Shafii, Cyrus

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11
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Human Errror

Moore, Mackenzie

|  36 |
Editing is Never Done |  Espinosa
“circumnavigate” just bothered me.
So ten minutes ago I decided to
rewrite the whole poem from scratch, and it was shorter,
compress, Hall always said, Chris, please, for the love of god,
compress. And now, two pages is four stanzas and it’s marvelous
and I am a little less than drunk, but it doesn’t matter.
The poem is gorgeous and the confidence is back and
I feed the fish and finally stand for a congratulatory smoke, knocking
the water over, slamming
the top of the lap to rescue the hard drive from the wave
and as everything crashes and swells
I realize, I never pressed save. And it doesn’t matter.
I finally get it;
the poem exists for as long as you see it. Poems are
“Super Position,” an electron in two places,
simultaneously.
A stanza existing and unwriting itself all
in the same moment.
In my head I type an apologetic ballad to the girl
and crawl into the cold covers of bed,
all the while still wondering why circumnavigating just didn’t seem
like the right place to end.
|  37 |
My friend told me
LA would thaw me
This is good
she said
tucking my scarf tighter
the brittleness of Chelsea
cutting through both our coats
Mhmm
I nodded
Suspicious.
But I wasn’t one to talk
a glistening block of ice
sliding along
unable to be stopped
unable to sit still
unable to be touched
She wasn’t wrong
I dripped for a solid year
after moving
Leaving trails behind me
as I tried to acclimate
to the blinding light
M a c k e n z i e  M o o r e
T h a w i n g
|  38 |
Thawing |  Moore
This thawing though:
all the water has to go somewhere
That without the municipal pipes
dumping into the East River
you need to find
new storm drains
People in LA cry in their cars
There is no solidarity
like crying on the train
where someone will
shoot you the glance
that infinitesimal nod
We’ve been there,
you’ll be okay
You cry in the sunshine
and it feels like a joke
Like the equipment van
parked on your street
will call wrap
so you can go back to
whatever it is you do
Your wish is granted
and so you stop thawing
before you even realize
You go out one morning
ready to wipe up
after your soggy footprints
but they’re gone
|  39 |
Huh. Just like that
You nod,
Suspicious.
But you’re preoccupied
because your skin is bone dry
Parched. Papery
Could use some cold weather
you lament
But you can’t go back to freezing—
Surely it would cause cracks.
Thawing |  Moore


Thawing

Movahed, Babak

106
ANGEL OAK 
BABAK MOVAHED
 On a Sunday under a dusk rust, I buried my father. I was 
the last to leave, not out of an intrinsic obligation to mourn-
ing. No. I was too tired to go. Preparations for a burial are 
more taxing than the grief of the loss. I still cried during the 
snippets of speeches caught between drifting. Phrases you expect 
to hear at a funeral take a tragic tone when they’re about your 
own father. It doesn’t matter the nature of death; my dad was 
an alcoholic smoker that miraculously made it to eighty-nine. 
Staring at a descending coffin was unnerving. I watched reels of 
us pass before my memory in the waning minutes of the box be-
ing lowered. The tears were streaming then. Maybe they were the 
same from the service, I couldn’t be sure. Then the slow shuf-
fle and sniffles with customary sorrys. There weren’t many paying 
our respects, my dad preferred it that way, so it was quick. I 
was alone gazing into a void of loose dirt. A breeze crept by, 
breaking the silence. Time took a reprieve from its persistence 
and left me alone. I was there for a while, but 
nothing changed, just a deeper fatigue. The grass seemed com-
fortable enough. There was a passing concern about the decorum 
of resting. It didn’t mean anything, so I sat down and leaned 
back, propped up on my elbows.
 Adjacent to us was an angel oak with a wide trunk, worn 
from decades gone. Its mangled limbs spanned across the grass 
and air reaching for something beyond its grasp. The tree was 
outside the fence surrounding the cemetery. I wished it were 
against my back; it would make for a serene resting place. I 
closed my eyes imagining the leaves shrouding me, keeping me 
tucked away in their mystery until I was ready to look. The 
languor was creeping throughout me. I’ve heard that anguish can 
manifest as sleepiness, a pain so profound a body’s instinct 
was to escape to slumber. That wasn’t it. My sentiment was far 
from sorrow; it should’ve been at least sadness. I was tired. 
 The largest branch of the oak had taken its own jour-
ney. It lay partly on the ground with extending boughs reach-
ing for glimmers of light. The branch must’ve been one of the 
first sprouted. Its grooves, twists, and divots looked etched on 
107with a pencil. I wanted to slowly pace beside it, tracing my finger through its patterns formed over the years. But I 
didn’t have the energy to stand up. 
 It should’ve been natural, an overwhelming, or at least 
numbing, sensation of pain. There, incapable of listening, hold-
ing a conversation, lay my dad. Despite the merits of the man, 
my dad was gone. I didn’t need to pose the question because I 
had the answer. I had no will to feel devastated for a man who 
lacked remorse. The debilitating fatigue that bore into me was 
familiar. It had weighed me down since I was a child, expecting 
more from a father that had nothing to offer. The evenings gone 
waiting by doors that never opened. The routine phone calls 
of lines I’d heard before. The stories with holes the size of 
oceans. The everything he was, made and kept me drained. I 
rubbed my eyes. 
 The leaves on the oak blended together into a weave of 
green and formed a brilliant awning of foliage. I was aware 
that each leaf was unique, but the distinctions were impossible 
to discern from afar. I mustered the strength to stand up, and 
walk toward the oak. It was a relief to be away from his plot.
 My dad used that word, relief, when his father passed. 
I never knew him beyond the vague tales of violence. My dad 
struggled to share those moments, and on the edge of a reveal, 
he left me at the cliffhanger. The one consistent theme in his 
recollections remained the same: he would never be his father. 
He never was. No. My dad didn’t raise his hand in a blind rage, 
no matter how intoxicated. Even if he was born from it, that 
wasn’t him. The experiences of us were painted in opaque hues, 
but beneath the shade was brightness. Despite the lack of visi-
bility, it was there. I just grew weary straining my eyes look-
ing for those experiences. It was just that. No relief because 
he had his demons, some of which became mine. No relief because 
I can’t say the it’s alright he longed to hear with his waning 
breaths. 
 By the time I reached the angel oak, I needed to sit. I 
situated myself close to the trunk, but with enough distance to 
appreciate its expanse. Every inch was its own, yet the infinite 
details were unified in creating the one tree. It was the most 
beautiful object I’d ever seen. I lied down and gazed transfixed 
at the newest leaves, hanging from the tallest branches, 
connected to the weathered trunk. 
 


Angel Oak

Meidaa, Amanda

|  92 |
Today, you will be sad.
I shudder at the thought and a wave of emptiness sweeps 
through my stomach. I lay in bed, stare at the ceiling, and fixate on 
the corner that’s cracking, getting bigger by the day. I notice it on the 
other days, too.
Not today. Please, not today.
I wait for the speaker to say this was a mistake. It’s never 
happened before. It’s never made a mistake, but I can’t help myself. 
I need today to be happy.
I’m tempted to smash the speaker into the wall. It can’t dictate 
anything if it’s a smashed pile of plastic. The last time I tried, I woke 
up the next morning to a brand new speaker, shining and taunting 
me.
A small oval-shaped speaker that only spoke five words a day. 
Capable of paralyzing me.
It takes me an hour to get out of bed and I go through the motions 
of getting ready slowly. My mind whirls with different excuses I can 
tell Mr. Greenburg. I’m throwing up. I’m sorry. My ankle’s sprained. It 
hurts too bad. The world has swallowed me whole. I can’t get out.
I’m still thinking of excuses as I walk down the sidewalk to the 
bookstore. I have earphones shoved in my ears, but the end isn’t 
connected to anything, the excess chord crammed into my pocket. 
It’s my best tactic, no one talks to you when you have earphones in. I 
stare at the ground mostly, stepping over the cracks and weeds that 
grow through the concrete.
Sometimes, I wonder how they got there, life bursting through 
the hard earth. Sometimes, I wonder how I got here.
I hear someone say something that sounds like my name, but 
I don’t shift my head up to look. Maybe, they’ll think you can’t hear 
them.
When I finally arrive at the bookstore, I glance at the large clock 
on the wall and it says I’m fifteen minutes late. Mr. Greenburg looks 
up from behind the counter and frowns for a moment.
B l u e
A m a n d a  M e i d a a
|  93 |
“What will today be, Blue?” He knows but he still asks. Some 
days, I don’t answer him.
I take a deep breath, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. 
I shake my head slowly and he nods in acknowledgement.
I go through the motions slowly. It’s hard to be motivated, to do 
things that usually make me happy. I stack books on the shelves, 
finding no interest to delve into any. Nothing triggers a flicker of 
excitement. I don’t eat a scone today, it won’t taste the same. Not 
because the recipe has changed, but because I have. Mr. Greenburg’s 
cat Whiskers floats around me all day. I don’t give him any attention, 
but I can see his movements from the corner of my eye. I don’t know 
what he thinks he’s protecting me from. He can’t help me. I make 
myself a cup of tea during lunch. I take it, set it on the coffee table, 
and sink into the couch. I slouch and stare at the cup, watching the 
steam rise.
I almost consider skipping my break altogether when Theodore 
walks into the store, making the bell above the door jingle. He saved 
Whiskers when he got stuck in the fire escape last year. I apologized 
profusely and he said his job wasn’t only about putting out fires.
I wish I could sink further into the couch. I don’t want him to see 
me, but it doesn’t take long for him to spot me.
He looks away from me for a moment and says something to Mr. 
Greenburg. They both look at me briefly then continue on. I stare 
between the two of them, wondering how they’re both impeccably 
put together while I fall apart. What am I doing wrong?
“Blue,” Theodore says. He’s standing in front of me now. He 
cautiously looks at the seat next to me and slowly sits beside me.
“Hi,” I mutter. I almost don’t say anything at all. He’s here, but my 
heart doesn’t flutter the same way it does on the happy days. I want 
to crawl into my skin, far away from him.
“You want to share a scone,” he says.
Yes, just not today. I shake my head. “No.” 
He’s here, but I still feel alone.
“Okay,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow.” I shrug. Maybe.
This has happened before. I don’t know why he comes back.
Blue |  Meidaa
|  94 |
I swallow hard, hoping I’m not trapped in a sad day the next time 
he’s here.
When he’s gone, I’m alone with my thoughts again. I take a deep 
breath, slowly and gasping all at once.
Night time is the hardest. My thoughts feel magnified, banging 
against my skull.
When it’s time for bed, I dread the darkness. But I dread the sun 
rising even more. I shiver in my warm bed, wondering what the five 
words will be in the morning. I try to conjure a speck of happiness 
but nothing comes. Not when I know sadness will come again.
I lay down, staring at the black air above me, and remember my 
first day with the speaker. The majority of my first year with the 
speaker was happy. I was young and my mind still had a quiver of 
control.
The speaker sat on my nightstand and gave me instructions. 
That was the only time it ever said anything else. Never reveal your 
speaker’s identity to anyone around you.
My mom couldn’t see it. Neither could Dad. 
It only burdened me.
Today, you will be happy.
I breathe in, a sigh of relief escaping me, and continue staring at 
the ceiling, still and wide eyed. It’s been a week since the last time.
I turn over to my right and feel the bed springs squeak beneath 
me. I smile to myself, knowing today will be better.
I get out of bed and go through the motions of getting ready. I do 
everything quickly, brushing my teeth and my hair and then getting 
dressed.
When I finally get outside, I trip over my toes, eager to get to the 
bookstore. Happy means I’ll be on time today.
I decide to take the long way. I follow the dirt path beside the 
field of trees instead of the sidewalk, embracing the trees and the 
Blue |  Meidaa
|  95 |
colors, red, orange, brown, and yellow. I watch the others on the 
path, walking their dogs or jogging. The cool fall breeze sweeps past 
the back of my neck and the warm sun creeps against my cheeks.
“Morning, Blue.” I turn towards the voice and see Theodore.
“Morning,” I say, waving.
“You look happy this morning,” he says.
I wonder what I must have looked like the other day.
“We got a shipment of new books. I’m excited to… dig in.” 
“Anything I’ll like?”
“You’ll have to come and see for yourself,” I say. He waves me off 
after promising to be by later.
When I get to the store, Mr. Greenburg is behind the counter 
looking at something I can’t quite see. He has a steaming cup of 
coffee in front of him, and the smell of coffee mingles with the smell 
of books.
“Morning,” I say. He startles and looks up, his eyes softening as 
soon as he sees me. He squints at me for a moment, the wrinkles by 
his eyes becoming more prominent.
“What will today be, Blue?” He stares at me, hopeful.
“Good,” I say, digging my hands into my jacket’s pockets. “Today 
will be good.” 
His shoulders slouch in relief.
Me too, Mr. Greenburg. Me too.
I spend the day going through the boxes of new books that need 
to be put away. I’ve always enjoyed putting things away, and Mr. 
Greenburg revels in the fact that he doesn’t have to now.
I get lost in a book here and there, making a connection with 
the pages beneath my fingertips. Every time Whiskers brushes up 
against my leg, I move on to the next book. I scratch behind his ear 
and he meows in pleasure.
I always keep a piece of paper in my pocket. I pull it out, write the 
title of the book that I know I need to come back to, and then shove 
the paper back into my pocket. I help a few people find the books 
they’re looking for.
I nibble on a scone that Mr. Greenburg has waiting for me on the 
Blue |  Meidaa
|  96 |
counter. My favorite is blueberry. I drink a cup of tea and sit on the 
lush green couch in the corner on my lunch break.
Shortly after I sit down, Theodore comes in and we talk about 
our favorite books. He drinks his coffee and laughs when I tell him 
I read romance novels. He eats the pieces of my scone that I’ve left 
behind, the pieces without any blueberries.
Happy days always go quickly.
“It’s almost time to close,” I hear Mr. Greenburg say hours later. 
“Would you just close the back door for me?”
“Sure thing,” I say.
After I do as he says, I take the two books that I set aside earlier, 
and leave for the day.
Today, you will be sad.
The crack in the ceiling has spread past the middle of the room. 
I stare at it until it goes blurry. 
I sit up in bed, take the speaker, and throw it against the wall in 
front of me, using all the strength my tired bones can muster. 
But the sadness still festers.
“Does your speaker always tell you to be happy, Mr. Greenburg?”
He looks up at me, puzzled. “Speaker?”
Blue |  Meidaa


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Angel, before you fly down

The Deadline

Côte+d’Azur

Fog visits the Getty

Planes

Human Errror

Thawing

Angel Oak

Blue

Sun\u27s Melody

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