Perspectives Magazine - June 2019

Perspectives Magazine Where inanimate objects and animals have their say | June 2019

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 1

Contact Info

About Perspectives Magazine

ISSN: 1920-4205 Frequency: Biyearly Founding Editor and Designer: Monique Berry

 : http://1perspectivesmagazine.blogspot.ca  : perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com

INANIMATE OBJECTS 3 Perspectives Magazine Cerebral Birth by Monique Berry 5

Poem on Itself Poem on Itself by D. R. James

6

Briefcase Briefcase by Virginia Amis

7

Keyboard Making Life (The Keyboard) by Virginia Amis

8

Paper Paper by Steven Tutino

9

Pencil Pencil by Steven Tutino

10

Monique Berry Page 3 D. R. James Page 4, 5

Virginia Amis Page 6, 7

Canvas White Seduction by Steven Tutino

11

Palette Knife Palette Knife |by Steven Tutino

12

Saw Transformed Saw by Rebecca R Taylor

13

School Desk Desk with a View by Keri Vilchinsky

ANIMALS 4 Country Crow Country Crow by D. R. James Photo Credits

Steven Tutino Page 8-11

Rebecca R. Taylor Page 12

Keri Vilchinsky Page 13

Special Notice

Front cover courtesy of peterschreiber.media—adobe.stock.com.

See individual pages for other credits.

All rights revert to individual authors.

NO PHOTOCOPIES ALLOWED

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 2

Perspectives Magazine Cerebral Birth

By Monique Berry

I

am Perspectives Magazine—a diamond of literary creativity.

In July 2019, I’ll turn 12 years old!

Conception began in a college classroom. A teacher had assigned his students to write a first person point-of-view of any inanimate object. When the students read their work, Monique’s senses came to life. She thought, there should be an entire magazine of inanimate objects that have their say! And here I am! An idea who’s time has come.

Living inside Monique’s mind is a sensory feast. I stay calm and swim and breathe amidst the doubt and fear that twists from her thought knots; I hear the waves of creative power driven by her cerebral light storms; and the spray of her imagination descending the synaptic waterfalls overwhelms me. When the time came, my destiny was propelled through her mind’s eye.

It’s romantic to know all the surprises that await you. I wait patiently for my empty pages to be filled with words—pregnant with life, searching for their appointed places. I see your eyes twinkle as you walk through my streets lined with literary lamplights. Monique birthed me because she wants to hold your attention and help you escape the world of the ordinary. As long as the magazine continues, I continue to live.

I hope that one day I, Perspectives Magazine, will inspire cerebral births in other writers.

© peterschreiber.media - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 3

Crow Country Crow

By D. R. James

When cars approach at ten over, ten under, I think: stay with the carrion at this edible consistency or do my flap-away-and-wait?

The zoom is monotonous, all buzz and swoosh, a rhythm I live with, my murder and me.

And I’ve heard we’re confused for starlings, for grackles, though how? No speckles. No iridescent heads. We’re bigger, more mythical.

Some say majestic! Maybe. From a distance.

But on the fat branch of this fencerow mulberry it’s merely watch and wait. Some dull days I never stretch my wings, just hop from crotch to pavement and back again, and back again, a little bluish viscera dangling from my beak.

You’d never know it but the hawk’s no bigger, though the search light of his shadow casting wide circles over roadways, over fields means he’ll soon have live meat. Me, I get what gets itself hit. Then in between I doze and dream I’m small enough to ride a bowing cattail.

Slurring a scratchy terrr-eee, an oak-a-lee, flashing my red and yellow chevrons luminescent in the summer sun, I’m catching someone’s eye.

© pink_candy - stock.adobe.com

D. R. James has taught college writing, literature, and peace-making for 34 years and lives in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. Poems and prose have appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies, his latest of eight poetry collections are If god were gentle (Dos Madres Press) and Surreal Expulsion (The Poetry Box), and his microchapbook All Her Jazz is free and downloadable-for-the-folding at the Origami Poems Project. www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 4

Poem

Poem on Itself

—as told to its author

By D. R. James

“Reluctant, I’m shy the confidence of squirrels, who clatter across laced branches, reckless when the unmapped way lays itself out or doesn’t, the dead end, the spring-and-give more the living than the solid path.

“I fear this next leap— that a soft spot in leaves or a sure next move won’t rise up like a dream or like reason— that I might have to answer to myself or to some perfect image shouldering its vague weight onto a balance, trying to tip the scales favoring significance.

“Right now I’m hesitating to inch along this fine line I’m barely feeling between seeing meaning and needing merely being.

“Even in this I am afraid.”

© siculodoc-stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 5

Briefcase Briefcase

By Virginia Amis I watch you from the corner where you stash me between court appearances. I don’t mind waiting until you need me. I love the anticipation that builds when we’re about to embark on a great adventure, though you stuff my leather sides so full you cannot fasten my clasp. I know you don’t need everything you make me carry. Just makes you feel better to have it.

It’s interesting, watching you work. Your tired red eyes flit from computer screen to pleading, studying. You underline, making notes in the margins before you click away at the keyboard with your ink-stained fingers, adding page after page. From my cozy nook, I sense the wheels turning inside your head, see stress prompting your hands to reach for another piece of hard candy, your mouth savoring the sugar which is your tranquilizer. When the vertical line between your brows deepens, you close the office door, wanting quiet, only quiet. Your upper teeth worry your bottom lip when you’re unsure. Sometimes, you’re so deeply focused you don’t move enough to keep the office light from going dark. Do you notice you are working in the dark?

You blanch at every interruption, flustered, desperate to return to your focus. I would not approach you when you are so entrenched. You might kick me across the room in frustration, though, I can’t say you’ve ever been unkind in the past. It’s just a thought.

I think you worry too much. When you are worried, you grip my handles too tightly. You should try skipping into court, or singing loudly. That would burn off some of the nervous energy you carry as you approach your client.

Then again, it is serious business and I’m not the one who is depending upon you. I’ve seen the pale, desperate faces that search yours for reassurance. Maybe skipping and singing loudly are too much. How about if you just hum to yourself?

No matter, because whatever you do, I’ll be at your side.

© miroo77 - stock.adobe.com

Virginia Amis is a fiction writer who loves gardening and practices law to support her writing and gardening passions. An English major before attending law school, she enjoys losing herself in afternoons of writing. She has recently honed her writing skills by studying with Robyn Conley, The Book Doctor, and Sheila Bender of Writing it Real. Ms. Amis has written two novels and is beginning her third in the series.

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 6

Keyboard Making Life (The Keyboard)

By Virginia Amis I come to life when you awaken me.

Although I’ve never seen a roller coaster, I imagine one because you describe it to me, children waiting in line at the fair, watching as it thrusts riders over hills and drops precipitously toward the ground. I hear squeals of fright and delight through your words, as I have no ears to hear sounds myself.

I see, through your words, the peach pie when it comes from the oven, oozing with syrup, waiting for that cold scoop of vanilla ice cream that will chill a tongue. I chew gum and blow the best bubble, though I’ve no teeth or mouth. I smell the hickory bonfire, burning so hot on a cool night, sensing the fragrance of the wood and how it warms a body. I have no body, except through you.

You create people who exist only because you gave them life. It is as though they do live, so real I can touch them, though I have no hands. They feel, these characters, as you move them about the pages.

Yet, you are careful with them, honest when you are bravest, shallow when you are lazy.

Don’t be lazy. Make them tell the story that will take me on the adventure. I want to go with them.

Prod them to reveal their fears and to cry the tears they’ve held in too long. Let them be silly, embarrassed, uneasy. It makes them real to me.

Take me with them to Paris and to Puyallup. Let me drive the Porsche and the VW. Together, let’s see the aurora borealis and the small shoot breaking through the dirt in your spring garden. Amaze me.

Make me cry, then laugh. With your strokes on my keyboard, carry me into the story.

The story is where I live.

© Bacho Foto - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 7

Paper

Paper

By Steven Tutino Here I lie: paper so white that I terrify those who look upon me, whiter than the white they say is a blank slate – a paper jewel, vessel of an author’s beating heart.

You fill me up as we speak, as you write these words you scribble across my heart make me come alive you are re-defining what it means to write about writing on paper; call it self-appropriation, self-objectification: I call it knowledge of Love, the love that goes beyond the four corners of my world.

I am freedom I am love I reflect my indefatigable hunger back to you; I am world and I am hungering after Paradise.

I am redemption and salvation for before coming here, to you, I was irredeemable.

© Art of Success - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 8

Pencil Pencil

By Steven Tutino Put me in your hand right away and imprint your love onto this paper in front of me, the paper that is here right now – Write it!

Write, write, write until you feel waves washing over you like baptism until you hunger and thirst for freedom no more until you liberate that Frankenstein monster from within until you learn to say what love is until you learn to love me and ultimately, me alone – I see the results on the page I am an instrument for making and re-making.

Take me in your hand and see what I can do!

I can take you to places you’ve never been before.

We can fly Another day without a lover…

Love me, hate me you are my best friend.

You are my partner in crime.

You use me and re-use, discard and pick up anew…

Take me and write! let the words flow from my longing for you.

Survive the onslaught of writer’s block, and I will always be ready for you, when you are ready to return to that old love you call tampering with the written word, on the page you call freedom, on the page you call mercy street, for when your friends are no more, when those closest to you have abandoned you for power and the glorious illusion of freedom, I will be at your service, be by your side, ready to help you re-take what was once rightfully yours.

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 9

© Bits amd Splits - stock.adobe.com

Canvas

White Seduction

By Steven Tutino I am empty, white without a life.

An empty dream.

Without you I am nothing, a tree bearing no fruit.

Does my innocence seduce you?

Provoke a longing to transpose, apply layers of your mind onto my white layering?

Think of me as the landscape of your mind holding infinite possibilities, endless arrangements for whining and transfixing, mixing and re-arranging palettes of fun-filled taste.

Never let me go!

You need me as much as I need you.

I am a world that is nearer and still.

I am no painting yet; I am rather incomplete, indeterminate, seeking to fly out in colour and be real, real, real.

I want to know love, my love and yours, the love that erupts in you like a geranium or the fury of a thousand kisses.

You seek to know the love that emerges when your world is coloured with the brightness of laughter and the blood of tears…

You are a world that is nearer and still.

Don’t you see that I am a chance at re-birth? the splendor of new beginnings?

You are promise, fun-filled hope.

© Africa Studio--stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 10

Palette Knife Palette Knife

By Steven Tutino I am a tool, instrument ceasing endlessly toward perfection, limitless undertaking, assimilating what we follow, see, hear and gather.

I am an instrument in your world.

You are the world one step forward, one step back aiming toward Spirit we are one reckless undertaking I am your instrument of creation and destruction – I erase, peel back unwind – understanding you isn’t hard to follow.

We mix, coalesce, learn to invent colours of a life, your life and mine, all walks of life, your love and mine, your gentleness and desire to be heard – the love that eludes, selects, purifies – I will never let you go.

I will always be here when you need to liberate that restless soul of yours seeking salvation.

O dying love, who said loving you was easy?

I am merely a tool, instrument a dead weight; together we’ve waged countless wars…

I can never get enough of you. but I am merely a tool; don’t worry my love, I know my place in the hierarchy of goods.

© sibstock - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 11

Saw Transformed Saw By: Rebecca Rose Taylor

W

looked at me. This made me sad, but I understood. It was raining on Sunday and we were moved from the outside into a garage. Less people stopped by to see me and the other items for sale, but we still had some visitors. We could hear children playing and adults talking in the multi-family sale. I enjoyed hearing the sounds of people enjoying life. I was nervous though of what would happen at the end of the sale if someone didn’t buy me.

© Thomas Sztanek—stock.adobe.com

hat am I? I am glad that you asked because I have a great story to tell you. I began my life as a hand saw with a wooden handle and a metal blade. I worked hard and sharpened my teeth on wood and helped my master to get his work as a carpenter done. But, when I grew old and my master retired, I was sold in a garage sale. My handle was rickety, and my blade was rusty from the years of hard work that I had done. I was scared of what was going to happen to me. I didn’t want to be tossed into the garbage because I wasn’t as useful as I used to be.

Because of my age and wear and more people using power tools, I knew that the likelihood of someone wanting to buy me was unlikely. I sat out on a table in the sunshine all day on Saturday and barely anyone

But I was fortunate because I never had to find out.

Near the end of the day, a man came and bought me.

He took me home to his garage and began to draw on me with some sort of chalk. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but there was a mirror in the room, and I could see the designs that he was putting on my metal body.

There were images of trees and flowers and I was looking forward to seeing where this man’s creativity would go. When he was finished drawing on me, he left for the night. I went to sleep feeling content on his workbench. The next morning, the man returned carrying a cup of coffee in his hand. He sat down and looked me over while he sipped on his hot beverage.

Then, he got out some sort of tool and because to make careful and detailed cuts where he had made the design. I have since learned that the tool is called a plasma cutter and it is a favourite for metal artists like the man who had bought me. The sparks from the plasma cutter didn’t hurt me and neither did the cuts. I was simply in awe of the man’s talents as I watched what he was doing in the mirror. When he was finished, he buffed me and then clear coated me, and then left me on the workbench to dry. A few days later, the man came back and picked me up. He tied a red bow to my handle and then headed outside and put me on the backseat of his grey pick-up truck. The ride wasn’t long, and we soon arrived at a party. I could tell because of all the banners that said ‘Happy birthday’ on them. I was added to a pile of presents and was so pleased when the young woman whose birthday it was finally saw me. She thanked the man who had made me for the exquisite gift of repurposed art. Now, I live on the woman’s wall in her office. She looks at me everyday with a smile on her face. I was once old, but I have been made new and will live forever in my new form as wall art. I couldn’t have asked for a better retirement. I am still a saw, just a different version of what I once was.

Rebecca Rose Taylor is an author from rural Quebec. She has loved creating stories even since before she could write them down herself. Her first poem was published when she was twelve years old. Rebecca’s publications include her novels The Moderna Way and The Heart's Way and her children’s book Finding My Blue Ribbon Pet and The Magical Chicken Egg. She has also had numerous poems and short stories published by online and print publications including Perspectives Magazine.

Visit her author page on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/authorrebeccarosetaylor/ Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 12

School Desk

© smolaw11—stock.adobe.com

FROM A DESK WITH A VIEW

By Keri Vilchinsky

I

sit alone with the others who look like me. We’re in an army of five orderly rows on the eve of disorder, and sometimes, combat. As the darkness gives way to first morning light, I start to shine. I’m ready, waiting to take whatever comes with the day.

When she arrives, she brings with her the artificial light, and then I gleam.

“Good morning, Mrs. Baskauskus,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me and continues on with her business.

My voice is hard to hear, so I don’t blame her for not acknowledging me. Besides, I get plenty of attention throughout the day. I sit in the back of the room. I’m fought over—the most coveted, and I enjoy my status.

Eric walks in. He’s half asleep, carrying a backpack held together with duct-tape in one hand and his free or reduced breakfast in the other.

“Hi, Mrs. B,” he says.

She greets him with a warm “Good morning, Eric, glad to have you with us today” and a smile. Eric sees me and perks up, moving with purpose to be with me. I say

‘hi’ and he keeps on smiling. He drops his backpack with a thud and sits down to enjoy his breakfast, which includes a small carton of apple juice and a bagel stick filled with cream cheese and jam. Eric and the others like him start their days with little protein and lots of sugar. I learned about nutrition in a science class. I’ve often heard Eric boast that he eats nothing for breakfast until he arrives at our room. He says he goes a whole two hours after he wakes up without putting anything in his belly as if it were a badge of honor.

Once in a while, Mrs. B. brings in a crock pot full of beans and franks, or chili without peppers, or beef stew.

She says she makes the food so Eric and the others will have healthy food for breakfast.

“A strong mind and body must have protein and vitamins,” she says, sounding like a mom. She always stocks water for everyone to drink because the fountains are known as being ‘gross’ and bottled water from vending costs a dollar fifty. Mrs. B seems wise. I’ve never seen her crack under pressure.

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 13

(Continued on page 14)

A few minutes after Eric arrives, Jesus and Mario enter. They sit in another row and speak Spanish to each other.

Mrs. B says “Hola!” to Jesus and Mario. They respond in kind and smile.

Back in the fall, she said she’d taken weeks of Spanish language courses over the summer so she could converse with her ESL students.

Eric finishes coloring a design on my leg with black permanent marker. He likes tag art. Over the years I’ve seen plenty of tags, often meant to throw gang signs.

Dayzie and Gladys come in together. They love Mrs. B. and shout “Hola!”

“Como estas?” she asks, and the girls respond in Spanish. Mrs. B tries a few more sentences in her new second language. The girls giggle and are kind when they help her pronounce words the correct way.

Pretty soon, the room is full of people, and the smell of free or reduced breakfast. Some trays hold the bagel stick, others a corn dog. No trays have fruit or vegetables.

When breakfast is over, Eric sits in the chair by me but we don’t touch. Voices over the loudspeaker are drowned out by the racket in the room. Mrs. B. seems to not notice as she helps Karma solve a tough equation.

Kevin stands behind them, saying he needs help. Nineveh is waiting, too, but then gives up her spot and runs over to Sydney, who sits in the row in front of Eric. Ninevah whispers, “Kevin has ear wax,” loud enough for me to hear.

Mrs. B. must have heard, too. She turns her gaze from Karma, catches Ninevah’s attention, and motions for her to come stand by the flag, all without saying a word.

Luckily, Kevin had started talking WWE with Amir and didn’t notice any of it.

Mario and Jesus begin kicking a blow-up globe around the carpet in the front of the room. Luis jumps in and kicks a shot that grazes Nineveh’s arm.

“Mrs. B. doesn’t like that,” Dayzie says. She and Nineveh always work together on projects and create huge blowouts with professional-grade penmanship and lots of glitter.

“Yea, stop it right now, booger-eater,” Jessie says to Luis, her expression like that of a disgusted, scolding mother. Jessie is in the group of girls who wear matching sneakers and straight-leg jeans and always have their hair done in an expensive style.

“Mrs. B. doesn’t like that,” Luis says, talking like a girl to mimic Dayzie.

“Shut up, Luis. Estupido!” Jessie rolls her eyes.

“Teacher’s pets! Teacher’s pets!” Mario yells as he points at Jessie and Dayzie.

Unafraid, Jessie says, “You’ll never be Messi, yo!”

Luis puckers his lips and makes smooching sounds.

“You girls kiss ass. That’s the only reason Mrs. B. likes you best.”

“Boys!” says Mrs. B in an even tone with a headshake and a stare. They return the vinyl globe to the counter. “And I don’t like any one of you better than the other.”

She glances at Eric. He doesn’t notice. I hold his halfeaten breakfast while he plays Fortnight on his social media device.

“Oh my God!” he shouts. “I just got my 100th kill!

Jamar! My 100th kill!”

Jamar had been sitting next to Eric and me.

“Man, I got more than that,” says Dea’vion, who is sitting on the other side of us. “You’re a pussy, anyway.

You suck.”

“Yea?” Eric replies. “You’re momma told me she don’t mind if I suck.”

Dea’vion stands up so fast he nearly knocks over his chair.

Even when Mrs. B. seems like she can’t hear what’s going on, she still does.

“Boys! Dea’vion, sit down in your seat and finish your breakfast. Eric, you know there are no devices allowed in this room.”

“Yes, Mrs. B.” They answer like puppies would if puppies could talk and put away their electronic toys, but it won’t be for long.

Dea’vion mutters to Eric, “I’ll get you at recess, pussy.”

Eric grips my leg.

I want to tell him it’s going to be okay. That boys go through this.

But I can’t.

By the time all but one of us are in service, breakfast is over and fifteen minutes have passed. Omar and the boys who love science and get pulled out of class to join the other Gifted and Talented students are working out some kind of math problem on the corner of the white board.

Dea’vion stands right by me. At five feet, six, he’s taller than Mrs. B. by a couple of inches. He’s glaring at Eric and asks, “Why you always in that seat?” “‘Cause I get to it first. I’m quick like that.” Eric’s voice is smooth. I’ve never heard him raise it to anyone.

“Boys!”

I certainly hear Mrs. B. But Dea’vion pushes me so I fall to the floor and land on my side. Eric helps me to stand upright and then faces Dea’vion.

Mrs. B. comes over fast, wearing an expression that says, “Why are you being ridiculous?”

“Please,” she says, “We’ve discussed this. You know you’re not to sit next to each other. This is not worth hurting one another. Choose that.”

Activity comes to a halt. Everyone waits for what comes next.

“Or I’ll call an administrator. We don’t want that, do we?”

The body language of each boy relaxes.

Eric puts a hand on me and leans with his head hanging down.

“Just…” She looks at all of us. “Let’s do what we’re supposed to do. Please get your rows in order. It’s time to use the social community skills we’ve been working on.

(Continued on page 15)

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 14

Let’s get through this day together, okay? Help each other out.”

She checks faces, then says, “Who wants to hand out the papers for today?”

Dea’vion and Eric raise their hands. Dea’vion gets the job.

As morning cycle gets under way, Mrs. B. comes over and discreetly thanks Eric for not making a scene when she gave the job to Dea’vion. Eric nods, as he does whenever she depends on this favor.

The papers for the day are worksheets on Greek and Roman geography, with a sub-focus on Latin root words.

Maps are fun. I can see Eric thinks so, too. He also likes learning about root words. On these topics he does his most productive work without being pushed by someone else. Somewhere along the way, he’d heard that doctors and lawyers needed to know Latin, and ever since, he’s been a scholar of the dead language with his eye on law school.

Danika comes in late. She sits next to Eric, on his left. Each day, they pass notes and share colored pencils.

When the assignment allows, they work as a pair.

Exclusively.

On a hook by the door hangs Danika’s backpack.

Every square centimeter of the bag is covered by aquablue and silver sequins. The thing sparkles more in morning sunlight than anything Cher ever wore. I know about Cher because of research for a biography last year.

Eric notices the sparkles— from the backpack, and Danika’s smile. He does every day.

Dea’vion does too. “You’re a cow,” he says to her.

“Aw, you know what you can do,” Danika shoots back, unfazed. She’s smooth, like Eric. She works on her geography lesson.

“Hey, Dan. What’s number seven?” asks Dea’vion.

“Do your own damn work.” She doesn't look up from her paper.

“Dang, why you gotta be that way?”

Still no response.

“Dea’vion. Leave her alone and do your work.”

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. B.” I see Eric checking his answers. He and Danika quiz each other on Latin words.

Dea’vion is writing away on his paper, finally.

Marcus wanders around by the reading nook.

“Marcus, have a seat, hon. We’re ten minutes yet from shifting cycles.”

“I’m bored, Mrs. B. I don’t wanna do it no more.”

“I’m coming over to help.”

As she crosses the room, he says, “You don’t need to.

I don’t wanna do it.”

“Please, Marcus, I want to help. It is fun to work with you. I care about you getting smart. Knowledge is power.

I tell you that every day.”

“I know. I don’t ca…I don’t want to be smart.

Average is fine.”

“Why would you say that? That’s settling, and you are smart.”

Marcus responds with a slow shake of his head.

“Yes you are. And you need an education to make a decent if not fantastic living.”

“I don’t need no education. I’m gonna be a drug dealer, alright?”

“No, you’re not. Will you please sit down and let’s talk?”

Marcus clicks his lips like he does when he’s reluctant and sits down. She joins him and they converse in hushed tones.

After a stretch of relative peace in the room, Tony, who had finished creating his abstract art finger paint, whispers to Mrs. B, “Can I wash my hands?”

Receiving approval, he proceeds to wash and then dry his hands. He wads up his moist paper towel and wings it at Noah’s head. The soggy ball bounces off of Noah and comes to a rest as a blob on me.

“Hey!” cries Noah.

Tony and other students laugh.

Eric and Danika watch, look at each other, and shrug.

“One moment,” says Mrs. B. as she holds up her hand to Marcus. “Tony. Pick it up, throw it away, and sit over by the bookcase for ten minutes. Alone. No talking.”

Tony does as told. He grabs a piece of dry paper towel and wipes off the spot where the wad landed.

“Tony! Class! You just earned silent lunch. This is not the behavior I expect of fifth graders about to move up to middle school.”

Frustrated, Eric rests his arm on me and says, “Man!” I’m always here to support him. He’s one of the nicer guys I’ve known, even if he is one of the kind who never gives a second thought to me and the others like me.

At the sound of the bell, Eric stands up and leaves his pencil in my holder. Some who sit around him let their pencils drop to the floor, but not Eric. He’s very particular about having a sharp pencil with a good eraser at the ready.

What had just been a noisy room filled with random and meaningful conversations and strange sounds made by the mouths of humans, has become a quiet space free of electric light. Our rows are not so neat. I wait to be needed again, knowing it won’t be long.

Keri Vilchinsky is a social studies teacher who is fascinated by the constructed nature of place in America. She has traveled over 30,000 miles around the United States by RV in pursuit of her passion. Another favorite pastime is examining primary source materials and performing field research on a variety of topics, especially the Civil War. She wrote the thesis for her M.A. in American and New England Studies during an RV trip where she focused on the American West. Keri is working on a historical novel that takes place on the Rocky Mountain frontier just after the Civil War. Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 15

I hope you enjoyed the object and animal perspectives.

Come back in December 2019 for more.

Perspectives ~ June 2019 ~ 16