Category: Issue 3 (Spring 2024)

I jump Through SO many Hoops for you

Nicholas Nevarez (He/Him) is an undergrad in literature and writing at CSUSM. He enjoys writing short pieces of fiction and poetry and hopes to become a creative writing professor in the future.

Cherry Jello in Teacups

      
              We ran through blackberry bushes chasing clouds  

              Nothing keeping us in this town except  

              How do I explain? 

 

Cherry Jello with whipped cream on a Wednesday night when you’ve had nothing sweet for years 

              Mothers voice  

              A storm in a teacup 

              The elephant in the room 

You should close your legs  

Look where your legs are  

Look before you leap off cliffs  

              We never did  

              We had bigger fish to fry 

              Ran head first and headlong into whatever was waiting 

              Catfish with needles threading dinnerplates together on Sundays after church 

              My hands are tied to the pews drug down the street as we speed past the city limit sign 

              How do we stop without road rash-covering bodies still bending to fit into family photos 

              How do we come back...belong without becoming what we are running from? 

Miranda is an undergraduate at CSUSM. She is inspired by the everyday, an observer of the world around her, hopeful and excited to see what is around the next corner of this journey she is currently on. 

Render Me Sweet

I ask the canvas to render me sweet,
His countenance far easier to sway
Than the brush, whose full head you beat
Against the canvas, whose blood sprays
In bright hues—enough to capture the color
Of thought. I ask the brush to forgive your violent
Art, that necessary craft, and he endures.
He translates your whim to canvas from his bristled end,
To the canvas that does all a canvas can
To render me sweet, loyal as a canvas may be.
He stays stock-still under your steady hand
While I, the subject, stir, restless in my seat.
            I envy the wet brush that tastes your fingers’ tips.
            I long to be the canvas, for you to paint me with your lips.

Nathan S Thomas is a writer and poet based in Columbus, Ohio. He is currently studying English Rhetoric & Professional Writing and Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati and is a poetry editor for the university’s undergraduate literary journal, Short Vine. His work often concerns aesthetics, aware of the way prose looks on the page, the way it feels in the mouth, in the body, out loud. He works in and out of forms but prefers to keep things loose.

i haven’t eaten in months but i’m still not hungry

all the life has been sucked out of me
all the intellect, creativity, curiosity
the feeling that this world was so much bigger
and that I could be a part of such vastness
where did it go? - I just had it
it ate me up for a long time
in the best way, in the way I’m sure every artist knows. 
mental blockages
negative non-stop mind chatter
I constantly feel like I’m broken,
faulty, send me back to the manufacturer
If I were a toy, they’d stuff me back up
like a teddy bear
until I was able to serve my purpose again
because what good is a stuffed animal that is not stuffed? 
I’m an artist that doesn’t make art
a writer that doesn’t write
a reader that doesn’t read ...
as these labels are being stripped from me
one by one
by my own doing (my own destruction)
I’m left with nothing anymore
everything that I pride myself in, that I identify as
Is like it was never me or mine, to begin with

Humanities

When I get away from myself
Is the best feeling
Or is it getting into myself
That I’m really doing?
Get out of the house
Hang out with friends
Get a coffee and sit down outside
Feel the sun and the breeze
Life feels normal again
Not so stuck in my head
I think it is “away from myself”
That would be the correct way to put it
Though I don’t like to think
That the wave of negative thoughts
That blankets over me when I’m alone
Is me
I like the idea that I am not my thoughts
But rather, the consciousness
That is witnessing them
Therefore I can pick and choose
What to pay attention to
And what to believe
What to embrace
And what to ignore
It actually sounds pretty dangerous – no, powerful 
Why don’t they teach us
How to wield these weapons in school
Self awareness
Critical thinking
Emotional intelligence

How can anyone say
The Humanities are not
Worth studying

Cool morning breeze of possibilities

There’s something about mornings that cure
every hopeless thought and feeling
Whatever I did, or more likely didn’t do, yesterday
is expelled by the crisp chill of today
There are so many hours left in the day
I make a list of all the things I need to do
And it’s still early enough to believe
that I will get them done
Yet as the hours pass,
and the tasks don’t get completed,
I fall back into the familiar mode
of hopelessness and darkness
Too overwhelmed to try to get anything done 
Too late to start my list
So I wait for the next day
and hope I rise early enough
To feel the dopamine rush of anticipation 
Cool morning breeze of possibilities

I’m good at making promises to myself
But not so good at keeping them

Alexa is a senior at California State University, Fullerton, studying English. She is a Mexican-American, first-generation college student who transferred from Fullerton Community College, where she currently works as a writing tutor. She has always enjoyed writing poetry because of the freedom it allows her to express her thoughts and feelings in a creative way. Her poetry tends to focus on the inner self, and the experiences of what is going on in her psyche in order to find meaning and connection to the world. 

Someday

  I fall in love every day
with the clouds in the sky,
the way my car AC hits my face, 
when a customer asks how I’m doing
while they look me in the eye. 
There’s love in everything I do, 
passion with every move I make,
I’ve never only loved one person,
I read in a book somewhere
that total devotion to one thing
will only lead to despair. 
To all the people in the world
who have turned their backs on me,
flipped me off when I turn my head,
whisper badly when I leave the room,
I love you all too.
I’m always hoping one day
the sun will shine on all of our hands,
as we feel the warmth, 
the growth, 
that feeling that starts inside,
to ward off the decay,
maybe then we may see eye to eye,
even wave hi on the street,
but until that day,
just know that I love you.
I know you love me too.

Please Don’t Burn

When I die I want to be buried,
I don’t care where or how it’s done,
don’t even need a coffin,
just dump my body into the earth
where it can eat at me
as it gets the last laugh,
devouring the skin I lived in.
Do what you want with my corpse,
throw it off a boat in the middle of the sea,
dump me in some random ditch in Hemet,
store me in your basement freezer,
all I ask is you don’t burn me.
I can’t let everything I worked for
be reduced to ash in a jar,
let my rot be a reminder
that I survived the best I could,
I’ll be at peace when I feel the decay,
let it wrap around my bones,
It's what I deserve.

Christian Morales goes to Cal State San Marcos and is currently studying in the field of Literature and Writing. Christian plans to write in the field of horror fiction once he graduates, but also writes poetry weekly to help gather his thoughts.

Phenomenal Woman: A Parallel and Reflection to Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman”

phenomenal woman,
your smile is my favorite thing
it brightens up my day
despite your annoying explanations
“I have to do this. I have to do that.”


your lips are pretty as much as they move
your shoulders broad too
your personality bright like the sun behind clouds when I look at you.


I hate him
though I do not know his name
nor where he comes from
drove up in his car telling us to get in it
he banters and shouts: a complete stranger 
his face, the gears turning with gross intention


and he didn’t care that I was with you 
indulging in harmless activity such as beauty
and self esteem


he shouted to you and yet I’m the one shaking
I can’t eat now or never again after his invocations 
bystanders near yet never witnessing; never at the scene


this world does not seem to care for the phenomenon that is a woman


his shouts carved into me like a marking into a tree 
a tree can die from that if you didn’t know


but you don’t know do you?
you have no idea
the pain, the anger, the fear
the gutting echo of your mannish voice banging in my head like an ominous drum; 
that her sister is a writer, a poet who internalizes your repulsivity on paper.
you look at us like opportunities like objects until our objections become weaponry. you want a mouth that’s malleable for you to bend or break. you love your car more than yourself which is dangerously obvious. the things you said to her, this phenomenal woman,
who cares, when you see curves;
who objects, when you see object; 
who builds what guys like you break;


you cut into the person you weren’t trying to win.


and it wasn’t even to me
 it was to her


my phenomenal woman of a sister.


 

My name is Madison Livingston. I am a first year at Cal State University of Fullerton and I am majoring in English and plan on double majoring in Business as well. 

I am an avid reader and writer, and I’ve played the piano for ten years. I love talking to people and getting to know their passions. I like to play video games and play volleyball in my spare time. I love to learn as much as I can and am currently in the process of writing a book.

mustard’s captives

Wisps of yellowing stalks surround my bare feet, toes painted teal
the golden red Scarf also draped across my shoulders and my fingers folicking
Alongside the mustard plant,
tugging, the push and pull then the mustard lets go of its grip
Releases and the fringes caress my calves. Cape-like
Yellow petals drifting to the dirt,
 tinier seeds falling by the hundred into the earth
settling… spreading, sprouting…Suffocating
out golden Poppies and sage brush, wildflowers that never grew

OFF TRAILS FORBIDDEN the sign reads
My cape continues to drop the mustard seeds as my fingers keep dancing above
The blackeyed california sunflower brushes,
collecting a few of the fullest stems
Bold black center with seeds frilly within white cocoon dropping behind me
Clippings in hand for my vase to be drowned
Past the gate and into the kitchen, bare shouldered was I
 lukewarm water, too much sugar
Seeds on the wooden floor, later swept and thrown away
Seeds abandoned on the table brushed off to join their comrades.

Yellow elongated petals bruised brown, winkled
The mustard seeds sweetly settles, slowly sprouts and suffocates
The yellow californian sunflowers blackeyed and wilted.
Faded scarf hung by the rusty gate,
The fringes dotted with the petals and seeds of paths I wandered
My toes are dusty and my teal paint chipped off
Glinting against the earth, my feet are in sandals against the bare dirt and dust.

Submitting my piece this was drafted for a class assignment 2021,  but I love this piece because it reflects my values as a conservationist. As a Deaf woman, this is one of my first few works with Poetry and Free Verse at that. I’m a senior at CSUSM, expected to graduate this May and LIT/ LWTR Major. Enjoy my work titled “mustard’s captives” and I plan to either become a Deaf teacher or Deaf Forester/ Deaf Ranger in National Parks Service. 

Note: The yellow mustard is a highly invasive plant in Baja CA meaning in San Diego as well, which is what this piece is about 🙂 

It’s Been a Month Since I Kissed Someone that Wasn’t You

I set my alarm clock
With my calculator
Hoping to get extra credit in math
after oversleeping

I responded “you too”
When the waiter said “Enjoy your food”
Hoping someday I would wait on him 
so that the phrase would apply

I would rather go forwards going into
The wrong room
Than to immediately turn back around
Hoping that this embarrassing occurrence would
Somehow change my life for the good

I said “I’m sorry”
To an inanimate object
For bumping into it
Hoping to be forgiven

I opened my mouth 
To tell you my good news
But forgot we were now strangers
And I walked into a door
Hoping to get my mind off of you

A.V. Bailey is a junior at the University of Indianapolis studying English and Secondary Education. In her free time, she loves reading, writing, piecing puzzles together, and spending time with her family. She hopes to publish many novel-in-verse books in her lifetime.

Quiet

Morning Coffee

The quiet and stillness of early mornings. Soft breezes blowing through the screen of the window onto my tired eyes, flowing past the tropical flora and fauna resting just outside. The glimmering sunlight peering in, softly warming my fluttering eyelashes as I wished to remain asleep. This quiet is warm and serene. It is a haven hidden from disruption and chaos. The only interruption that is welcomed is the kind gesture of coffee. You make my morning indulgence exactly how I prefer it; you take care to measure the milk right, warming it perfectly, and brewing freshly crushed beans right over the dairy. The smell of the hot beverage meets my nose and softly awakens me from the depths of slumber, followed by the gentleness of your voice. Soft whispers of “Good morning” and “be careful, it’s hot” become a daily ritual, kind and protective sweet nothings. 


Absence of Noise

The house becomes quiet and eerily silent. I do not like this quiet. This quiet feels wrong. It feels like it’s going to grab me and pull me down into the abyss of loss, making me succumb to grief and sorrow. This quiet is more than just no noise; it is loudly quiet, too quiet. It is the absence of noise. The absence of you. The house felt quiet before, but true quiet is entirely different. I never thought I would notice the absence, but I did not realize how accustomed I became to the subtle sounds of your company. The jingles of tags around a collar, your song signaling your approach from down the hall. The tip-tapping of nails on the hardwood floor, the subtle tickle in my ear alerting me that you are near and moving about the first floor. The ringing of frequent vacuuming dulls and becomes the chore done the least, as there is no longer as much hair riddled about the carpet and tucked into the corners. But as many people may know, the hair never truly goes away. The deepest sighs of the sweetest freeloader drift off, no longer unimpressed with the lack of snacks every minute of the day. The slightest shift in the house causes me to turn abruptly, hoping you might have returned, but I am only greeted with emptiness. For someone who finds pleasure and serenity in quiet moments, I do not like this quiet. It only reminds me that you were once here, and your silent absence is deafening.


Peacefully alone

I have grown to enjoy quiet moments. After a time of pain and heartbreak, I enjoy taking time for silence. These times may include contemplation, many may not; I use this time to recharge from the continuous expectations and needs of the world outside my space. My days are often non-stop. I work to earn money, I attend school to earn knowledge, I prioritize relationships and friendships to gain joy, and once I return home, I crave moments to simply stare into nothing and escape the reality that requires so much of me. I sometimes use this time to watch various media to zone out, to allow my consciousness to drift and mix with the sounds and pretty colors. Other times I use the time to exercise my mind by reading, journaling, and other crafting hobbies that require an active mind, seeking to learn and create new ideas. More times than not, I use the sacred moments to allow my brain to turn off and daydream; I dream of what I want to do, what I might do, and to imagine future moments I wish to happen. I enjoy allowing my mind to take a vacation for a short while, letting it blow off steam and return to me when it is satisfied with its time off from relentless use and thought. I enjoy this quiet. It may be a boring quiet, but it is a peaceful quiet. My private quiet. 

Love’s Dose

Petals stretch out and up toward the sun,
inhaling its warm, radiant beams,
absorbing into their delicate extremities.

My arms reach out to you,
anxiously taking in your warmth,
consuming the feelings of affection you provide.

Like the sun does for the garden, you
breathe life into me. I am
rejuvenated,
replenished,
reborn
as you continue to love me.
My rose bushes bloom into fullness, 
lacking their painful thorns.
The cherry blossoms awake, flushed,
fluttering in the wind of your sweeping currents.
Grand and strong trees stand tall and full,
full with iridescent green foliage,
rustling and dancing in the breeze of your force.

Kristen is currently studying literature and writing at CSUSM and enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. She enjoys reading fantasy, young romance, and mystery/thriller stories. She is originally from Seattle, Washington and has lived the latter half of her life in California. Kristen hopes to use her literature and writing degree to work for either an independent or major press and/or publishing company in the Pacific Northwest, while also hoping to publish her own written work one day.