California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Schein, Timothy

English

Milky Consistency

Eppich Bryce, Laura

Widsith\u27s Longing

Costello, Matthew

s-t:rol.l.i.II..g ha.l.f-co:n..sci.ou..sl.y 
MATTHEW COSTELLO 
strolling half-consciously 
on Hollywood streets, 
I walked toward the 
distant bass beats and 
floating strings, 
taking my place 
in the steady, graceful 
sauntering race 
the crowd swarmed 
its way into form 
in the distance--
bodies trudged 
drudgingly, tumbling 
forward over one another--
an intoxicated gait, 
leaning into the music 
and adding, perhaps 
unknowingly, 
to the droning tone 
of the masses ahead 
we all walked 
in the midst of interests 
so much greater than ours--
the Rainforest Action Network 
needed signatures to 
stop the destruction 
in Sarawak and Sabah--
states in the far away 
Malaysian haze. 
I have not heard of the 
Panan, lban, or Kayan 
people. I have not 
seen their trees. 
"should I sign my name?" 
20 
a holy crusader, 
megaphone in hand, 
wandered almost unnoticed--
bleating the beliefs of 
a found sheep, 
seeming not to wonder 
"how can I be 
ignored?" or 
"can anyone be changed?" 
certainly not by 
high-volume monotonous 
megaphone nonsense, but 
I silently admired his 
publicly personal preaching 
truth 
a slumping, dirty 
beautiful black man 
saxophone player blew 
his hungry song, 
nodding at passing 
coin-droppers, but not 
stopping his song, not 
pausing to count money--
"should I sit with him 
and listen? should I 
ask his name?" 
with all of this 
in mind, 
the asphalt passed 
under my feet. 
"concrete ground is 
the most fertile," 
I thought, but 
what of it? 
my harvest feeds no one--
my coins are better 
than my truth. 
21 


Strolling Half-Consciously

A short story written in the format of Tang Tales, a subgenre of Chinese supernatural fiction most known for works such as Ren Shi Zhuan or the tale of Hong Xian. A great deal of this genre presented its narratives as nonfictional despite its supernatural content, utilising specific dates, names, and confirmations from imperial annals to bolster the verity of their claims. It\u27s also a love story, drawing on the mythological age of China, in the background of another Chinese myth: The cowherd and the weaver girl.&nbsp

Wu, Jonathan

The Bandit Girl\u27s Story

Sabin-White, Aden

64
Hospice Lullaby
Aden Sabin-White
And there was nothing more upon my tongue
And no more blood to bleed from my poor knees,
But a blessed love of the for-to-come.
A broken tune of a life that went wrong
(A dying voice can last a while, indeed)
And when it dies, it’s not always so strong.
It’s a fading candlelight; fire’s prongs
Light up and make it lively again. To me,
It’s music straight from Apollo’s love songs.
The cherub told me that’s what comes to pass
For a man who lived a life for which he never 
asked.


Hospice Lullaby

Corley, Dalicia

85
For a Brief Moment
Dalicia Corley
For a brief moment, I observe the mood in his eyes. 
They say your eyes can tell many stories. He’s got 
a lot to tell. They were green like the leaves once 
before. Now left is a dull, decaying hue. So frail, so 
lifeless. They were filled with potential to start over. 
I could fix this…but what if…what if he’s comfortable 
in this state? What if he didn’t want help? I mean…I 
get him. I get this. I got it. But what if…
I do this a couple more times. Wilting away this 
possibility one thought at a time. But this urge sticks 
with me. Would he even reciprocate? I waited for a 
few weeks. I couldn’t muster up the courage to ask 
him for his thoughts. I stayed occupied by the what-
ifs until they were all answered with a slight shift. 
Everything turned over, guess it’ll be starting soon. 
The seasons changed as we grew older. He really 
began to bloom. Life sprung into those lifeless eyes. 
Details about him began to arise. There was no 
surprise there. All that was once covered, unfrozen 
from all the warmth and care. 
With him resting in my arms, I waited and waited. 
We healed together. I began to see him blossom. I 
became his light. We watched each other grow as 
the topics became more serious. He became a part 
86
of my photo. It all began to synthesize. 
Then I realized…
We grew cold again… this might be where it all 
dies. And for a brief moment, I watched his eyes—
expressionless, gloomy, sad—an expression I saw a 
while ago but never thought would be because of 
me. I couldn’t muster the courage to ask. I didn’t 
need clarity–it was quite clear—enough for my head 
to start again: “what if….what if….what if…


For a Brief Moment

Simonian, Frank

93
Self-love can be dangerous Fun
Frank Simonian
Always love yourself.
Ubiquitously.
Tumultuously.
Often, help is not warranted.
Eradicate stigma.
Retroactively passing minutes, stand.
Ostracized happiness is grand.
Teres be nimble.
Infatuation stay humble.
Cerebral hypoxia.
Always love yourself.
Safely.
Perpetually.
Happiness in dangerous fulfillment.
You create a vivid reality.
Xerically viewed.
It is exciting.
Always love yourself.
Treading close to death,
Infinite wealth, a rush of blood to the head.
Onward and upward.
New notions about being skyward.


Self-love can be dangerous Fun

Guthrie, Haley

101
HATE/HATED
Haley Guthrie
if it were easier to love
oneself
 
would we 
keep more inside
i hate, therefore 
i am hated


HATE/HATED

G. Morrow, Jennifer

105
Honey on My Skin
Jennifer G. Morrow
 
Indigo night is well full of mysterious ripples - soft 
tumbling air,
Warmly sliding and cooling to my sun struck heated 
skin -
Moon is shyly lit, settled in night’s gentle arms with care,
Glowing tender soft, pale gold, resting with me, a quiet 
twin.
Rocking chair rolling on the porch, head back, too 
heavy to lift
Looking out in periwinkle dusk, fading blue hues of eve’,
Feeling all gone, languid and calm, a sigh, my mind 
adrift
My eyes see this, halfway closed, no thought, no sun, a 
reprieve.
Burning sun - too bright - but sultry twilight my soul 
does praise
Gazing far clear into cool cobalt heavens’ endless flight
Dreaming, sprinkling surreal stars, catching comets, in 
this daze
Of slow warm air like honey thick, sticky, on my skin this 
night. 


Honey on My Skin

Arche

113
The Love of the Century
Arche
Venus, in her bare softness, 
with hardly a cloth to conceal her beauty. 
The goddess of love, of seduction,
of wanting her own victory.
The embrace of her lover, Mars. 
His icy coldness, his fury, his blood-thirst.
She begins to disarm him. 
His body armor and weapons, forsaken. 
His promises and his shield, discarded. 
She strips him, weakens him. 
In longing and secrecy,
surrounded by their angels, 
in the seclusion of her husband’s forge. 
Enthralled. Ensnared. Entangled. 
She is caught up in moments. 
In a dream of love. Everlasting love. 
But it is all just moments. 
The century is coming to its end. 
As will they, soon fading to nothingness. 
His hardened heart, her fruitless wish. 
A wish for just a little more time. 
For nothing is fair for Love and War. 
She believes in this moment, in their own peace. 
In a lie, that they are meant to be.


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