California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Carroll, Emma

60
C
a
rro
ll
H ades stood in his study, reading documents that closely examined the new operations budget, 
blueprints for the upcoming room remodel for Persephone, 
and the pleas of the dead which would never be granted. 
As he flipped through them all, he paced his rounded 
study with a silent click clack of his black suede loafers. The 
rare red Brazilian rosewood flooring echoed, a constant 
reminder that his domain extended far down into the 
depths of the Earth and beyond. 
Hades set the stack of papers down with an empty 
thud and pinched the bridge of his nose. The eternal 
grunts and heaves from Sysiphus could be heard even in 
the study. Charon requested yet another pay raise and 
a new boat. Orpheus’ songs were constantly on a loop 
as he called out for Eurydice on the opposite end of the 
Underworld.  
Hades didn’t necessarily hate his work, he was just tired 
of it all. 
It’s not like the other Olympians would o!er him other 
positions under their cabinets or above ground for that 
matter. His younger brothers with all of their glory and busy 
schedules never had time to meet with him. He would 
often hear of Ares’ unchanging brutality through his fallen 
comrades and enemies. And Demeter…well the two of 
them were obviously never going to be on solid terms. The 
only Olympian Hades truly had contact with was Hermes 
when he delivered the occasional mail from above. Even 
then, Hermes didn’t dare stay a moment longer than he 
had to in this wretched heat.
It’s not like Lord of the Dead was a position everyone 
was applying for. Hades just had a knack for it, albeit he 
didn’t know why. He never despised his work; most millenia 
he was quite proud of it.
No one understood the intricacies, the detail, and the 
Hades | Emma Carroll
Inspired by Franz Kafka’s “Poseidon”
61
NR
C
a
rro
ll
stakes of it all. More than that, no one understood how 
heavy the eons of death and molten heat weighed on 
him. 
He rarely felt the breeze and mists from his brothers’ 
domains. He would never admit it, but Hades sometimes 
wished his nostrils would tickle with the pollen from fresh 
flora and to bask in the intense rainfall from a hurricane. 
These odd yearnings would only arise when Persephone 
would arrive and leave. He blamed her for the small chips 
in his heart. He didn’t love her, he simply loved her stories—
her freedom. 
Hades collapsed onto his oxblood leather chaise, the 
material squeaking in the silence of the room as the leather 
molded to his body. He began to sink further into the 
cushioning, his eyes fluttered to a close. He could still see 
through his eyelids, casting a reddish pink glow in his closed 
view, the overhead light creating a central point against 
his lids.
He much preferred his human form rather than his 
true form. He liked feeling the paper cuts on the moist 
pads of his fingers, the saliva swishing between his fleshy 
cheeks, and the burns from the fierce heat surrounding 
him whenever he went. His ears popped as he went further 
into his domain and the headaches from all the tortured 
screams reminding him of this fate they share.
Sometimes, he thought about asking his brothers for 
more flexibility when visiting them or the mortal world. He 
thought about asking them to reprieve him of this position. 
But then he remembered that no one would want to 
be the Ruler of the Underworld. Too many souls to be 
responsible for, too many cries and shouts for mercy, too 
small of a budget to work with. 
A polite knock at the door chided him from his respite. 
A skeletal man in one of the Underworld’s volunteer 
uniforms softly creaked the door open, allowing the wails of 
the undead and bursting celestial flames into his study.
Hades sighed and got back to work.


English

Hades

Jones, Willow

62
A
rc
he
L’Homme au Masque de Fer | Arche
Unidentified beyond this mask, 
You’ve forced your thoughts upon this steel.  
Calling me your precious daughter, 
But have you ever once known me?
I remain trapped in your prison,  
Your little box of assumptions.  
Calling me your best friend, 
But have you ever once seen me?
For years, I have only known these bars of steel,  
Your warped expectation of my existence. 
Calling me a warrior because of my scars, 
But have you ever once pitied me?
I try to carry this heavy burden,  
But it is not my true skin. 
Calling up my disguise, 
The metal face you so desire.  
Thanks to your twisted minds, 
I know not who I am.
Nor will I ever be seen or feel pity. 
You’ve stolen my identity from me,  
Creating the mask I am sworn to bear.  
Held captive in your ideals and dreams,  
Locked away in my place of confinement. 
Never to reveal the true face of what I could have become.


L’Homme au Masque de Fer

Lee, Jason

NR
Hill Country Picnic
Mosquito-bitten boys
swinging buckthorn switches
hunkered down in the grass
over a dead rat snake.
While the grown-ups talked small
and the little ones tagged,
they poked at the strange swell
in its glossy black scales.
It burst. Out slid a lone
long limp jackrabbit foot
bridging wound to earth, its
claws gouging the topsoil.
Listen, children, whispered the snake.
The difference between want and greed
is what you take beyond your need.
Jason
 Lee
13


Hill Country Picnic

NR
Untitled
Down in the mossy dark,
fingers cold, feet sodden,
shivering, you scratch time
in fencepost blocks of five,
marking the pinprick dawns
and twilights flickering
high above; a cascade 
of hours pouring down,
rising to your ankles,
your shins soaked in idle
moments, and still it rains.
You call a tremulous
“Is it safe to come up?”
Days pass with no answer.
But even in the chill,
rising waters of time,
just one more tomorrow
is cause enough for hope.
Jason
 Lee
14


Untitled

Solares, Sofia

Abuelita

goli, sam

break

Burn

Mahdessian, Helena

NR
Morning with my Sister
I lick golden kiwi juice from my fingers
as you laugh at the faces I make—
You told me to stay
and for once
I did.
Lego pieces litter the table 
but you can’t find the one you need.
“People Watching” plays from my phone
and we sing along to traffic 
and crowds
and loneliness.
In thirty minutes, I leave for Bio class
and you’ll still be here, 
doing childhood.
When have we sat together in harmony?
Tomorrow, will we rear our ugly monsters
and display them once again?
For now, though,
I’ll help you find 
that gray two by three.
H
elen
a M
ah
d
essian
18


Morning with my Sister

Tomes, Julia

53WILD ORANGE
JULIA TOMES
In the winter I like to go out in the morning. 
Before the rolling hills and 
gnarled oaks abandon me 
to the windowless white walls.
 
I sneak behind the great rusted shell 
who had (in his past life) been a bustling green van. 
Then, in the time after, a chicken coop. 
But now only a cheerful monument of bygone times.
 
I find the orange trees there, 
planted in that wilderness of “the good old days.” 
And there I stand, in the quiet. 
And feel the morning.
 
I feel the burning sun as it wraps around me, 
gentle as kisses on brows. 
To anoint the ridge of the Three-Faced Lady, 
with her golden crown.
 
I let the dense earthy scent of orange trees embrace me, 
as soft as whispers 
reaching out in languid tendrils 
that coil around my brain.
 
Among these old friends, 
I linger for just a little while. 
And breathe. 
And talk to God.
 
Only after I’ve had my fill 
of the stillness 
do I stretch myself out; extending arm and back, 
To receive the fruit offered by the giving tree.
 
I sink my thumbnails into the thick skins, 
Not fretting 
about the juice that runs down fingers A
54
or into palms of hands.
 
Disregarding the delicate 
white membrane separating the meaty sections. 
I close my eyes, 
savoring each savage bite.
 
After, I wash my hands in the dew of the grass 
and turn my back on those whispering trees. 
The rank of giant guardian cypresses salute me 
as I start toward the sound of the tolling bell.
 
Later you may see me 
fretting smartly over this and that. 
Smiling sweetly and nodding agreeably, 
Folding hands demurely over crossing legs…
 
But all the while 
the secrets of the trees still coils around my ears. 
And the sweet acid of the wild orange 
still tingles my lips. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Wild Orange

Mathews, Ramsey

NR
Yellow and Green on Our Last Harvest 
Night
This eve before        
the reivers arrive, I 
shiver at the water’s edge.
A burst of tepid air dries my face.    
 
Hidden in the river reeds
a green heron croons
for his mate.
The crisp night nips
my fingertips 
as I walk this Florida dirt road.
A sweet pineapple scent
wafts from the prickly 
fruit in fields along 
the Indian River 
and hugs my quivering lips
like the sugary vapor 
of your mouth. 
In tomorrow morning’s harvest
the robust yellow-flesh  
armadillo-clad  pineapple 
will loosen its grip from the rich loam
and abandon Florida forever. 
R
am
sey M
ath
ew
s
26


Not a member yet