Online Art Gallery, Volume 5

Have you submitted your latest and greatest poems, prose, paintings, and photos to Pathos yet? Submissions close May 6th! A fresh new mag will be on the stands by the end of the term! We are so grateful to be able to support our student artists and share the talent of our community!



by Bryna Cortes


My Beach Towel

by Bryna Cortes

The first one was from SeaWorld

A trip my family took

before we knew that

their whales and dolphins swam in tears


The next was for the beach

as colorful as a sunset

Reminding me of peaches, strawberries

of summertime


Never a white towel

no light colors

The red is too vibrant

leaving stains even after the wash


I lost my beach towel

Not the one for the sand

for a different kind of

wet on my skin


Wet that is warm and thick

No one knows its feeling but me

me and my towel

we’ve been through it all


I lost my beach towel

Only now do I know how much it means to me

In my sleep, I will worry

wishing it would lie beneath me


Teach the “Boys”

by Christian Orellana Bauer

Teach the “boys” well

Before its too late

Teach them to love

Don’t teach them to hate

Teach them to dance

To sing not to fight

Teach them that hitting

Is wrong and not right

Teach them to ask

To listen and think

Tell them

“It’s alright to like something pink”

Give them a hug

If they wear a dress

Put one on yourself

Say “You look the best”

And make sure they know

It’s ok to cry

Or to be scared of heights

Or to be scared to die

And don’t make a fuss

If they like the “girl” toys

And never

Don’t ever


“Boys will be boys”

Just teach them to help

To hold and to care

To not give a damn

If they lose all their hair

Teach them it’s alright to be like a “girl”

And maybe we’ll have

A much better world

Online Art Gallery, Volume 4

Woah – more art. Thank you students of PSU, for being so artistically talented. Have you seen our bright blue submission call posters around the halls of PSU? Submit your poems, your short stories, your paintings, your drawings, your photos, your graphic designs – any and all art is welcome – at by May 6th. The weather is perfect for a photo-shoot amongst the blooming flowers or a work session under the sun in the grass of the Park Blocks! Stay gold, PSU.


Two Suns

by Zaji Cox

The city is rain-dampened, its sun sodden. The amber light, when it peers between the clouds, is rare, but welcome and yearned for. We worship it when it arrives, as we would a god. The concrete receives its heat and steam rises, tangy chemical evaporation permeating clothes, skin, and hair; this sun tastes like mist and evergreens.

When its rays touch my skin, I can imagine I’m in the southwest. There, I am closer to it: elevation is higher and the star’s rays press on scalp and skin, a brazen presence even in winter. It smells of wild sage and mountain dust, of warmed adobe and coyote pelts. After it sets, it finds a way to linger: violets and magentas, deep azures and bright oranges remain until the very last minute when overtaken by the blue-black wing of night. This sun tastes of clear winds and rich southwestern spices.


Falling in Love in Coffee Shops

by Zach Messinger

The first time I fell in love was at a Starbucks.

2:58pm, February twenty-eight, two-thousand-sixteen.

The sun illuminated her through a stained glass window

“You okay?” she asked seeing that I had hardly touched my mocha.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ll tell you later,” was all I could muster to say

I wrote it in my phone and returned to my homework waiting for later to come.


Since then I keep falling in love in coffee shops

Ambient music softly playing in the background

The smell of espresso

The look on your face as you laugh at all my bad jokes.


Maybe its the caffeine kickstarting my heart

Maybe it’s the hipster aesthetic of some indie-movie future I’ve been dying to live,

Maybe it’s the pathos of every poem ever composed-

In every coffee shop in the history of the world-

Hanging in the air like ghosts.

Whatever it is, I can’t get a cup of joe without taking the risk of having my heart broken.


Revolutionary Love

by Caitlin Strickland

Be the Perón to my Evita.

You make the clouds

Shake when you speak.

Be my Revolutionary love

May the ground quake beneath our feet.


Be the Hades to my Persephone.

My great warrior, my King,

Kiss my lips and fulfill this longing in me

Make sense of me,

make love to me

Build a new life, a new world with me.


Be the Antony to my Cleopatra.

Fight with me,

Die with me. For the love of God,

Stay close to me.

Fall asleep holding me.

Online Art Gallery, Volume 3

Welcome to another installment of Pathos Literary Magazine’s online art gallery! The flowers are blooming and beautiful, and the warmth of the Spring sun is finally shining on campus. The most recent issue of Pathos is currently on the stands around the hallways of PSU. We hope you consider submitting your unique artwork, poetry, and/or prose for publication in our next issue or online. Check out our social media pages to stay tuned for continuing updates and inspiration!


“Each of these photos were taken over the summer. They are representations of things I learned over the course of the summer. Disappearing Comrade is from a theater production I was in (over the summer) about WWII and current day performed entirely in German (this photo was taken during dress rehearsal); the character depicted in the photo is talking to one of his friends who was released from a concentration camp and he is unsure as to where his friend’s allegiance lies. Fine Wine is a representation of how we as humans and our style has changed over the years but our fundamentals remain in-tact. Protektor is a friend I was in the theatre production with who helped me when stress was added and feelings were hurt– he talked to me and kept me from anymore hurt feelings, not to mention he made me smile when I wanted to cry.”

– Josephine Claus


Disappearing Comrade

by Josephine Claus

Fine Wine

by Josephine Claus


by Josephine Claus


Take a deep breath and…

by Jessica Layman


Count the grey flecks on the 16 doves in the ash tree.

The arch where we made our own rain.

Table set to tea for two, but it’s too cold now.

The dead and drying vines threaten from the fence.

Mug of coffee, still warm.


Fingers frozen against glass pains.

Tangles of hair twist and tickle red ear tops.

Blankets wrapped around shaking shoulders.

Bite of concrete on skin.


Revved engine trying too hard on back country roads.

Rustling from the compost.

Someone, somewhere, is mowing their lawn.


Petrichors thick from the last rain.

Aging dog with the sunshine teeth grinning.


Too much cream.


You Can’t See My Sick

by Jessica Layman

i slurp up my brain stem

resting in a bowl of spinal broth


touch of basil            sprinkle the jalapenos


sliced, not diced

reveal the seeds

sprout new roots

on the roof of my mouth


it hurts


not as much as last time

still the noodles scream


slightly salted and crushed moon

to settle the ache


Sabi Sands

by Karla Powell

Along deep rutted roads our guide’s keen eyes detect minutiae traced in dusty earth

decipher faintest prints, in paid pursuit of that most precious wild

which still remains, such as this lounging pride


whose direct gaze disarms

whose measured strolls, so nonchalant, glide past us

where we sit in open jeep


without legs we’re neutralized in these lion’s eyes

like torsos of store mannequins, we are an incomplete display

tourists of ecology, toting souvenirs of early man within our DNA


the oldest of these lazing cats rests his bloodied mane

atop the cavernous remains of last night’s kill

our tracker warns us not to stand, not to lend them recognition


should one charge would we reenter our fateful history

that enduring interplay, which pivots on uncertainty

over who is predator, who is prey?