Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan

ANGER is a way of seeing yourself through your enemies’ eyes think of it as empathy on steroids where you reach out with fist and fiery tongue for a scrap of flesh or a handful of hair a keepsake for the moment you came to your senses and realized the depth of your affection ENVY gives you everything you’ve always wanted as a bitter pill too big to swallow it won’t bounce and it makes a lousy soup bone but it’s no cause for concern because the essence of everything desired is in the inexhaustible spark envy engenders that little light almost as bright as the diamond on your neighbor’s bony finger GREED goes a long way towards setting you free from the responsibility of being more or less human it pinches every penny and hoards hell-fire and heavenly peace holding in every thought and feeling like constipated turds until your death grip on life becomes a ruby studded collar around your wrinkled neck

LUST turns a lazy libido into love just long enough to scorch you to singe the fringe around your soul so that whatever petticoat you prance around in can go up in an amoral flame of irresponsibility

and bury you again in the sticky ashes of a slippery moment

GLUTTONY empties you of your last morsel of good taste it plucks whatever fruit grows in your mind and shovels it in with both hands until you sink like a waterlogged spud in an undulating ocean of fat rolls a warm and wonderful place to be where no one goes hungry except those trying to suck satisfaction through a straw

PRIDE fits nicely inside a silk purse as long as it isn’t stuffed with used tissue and is easily carried to any occasion where you might be humiliated berated or embarrassed if spent wisely it could last a lifetime but good luck trying to buy off death SLOTH secures you in your own inertia it anchors you in ambiguity and puts a seal of approval on procrastination “who cares” is its prayer “so what” is its mantra and when the inner sloth is enthusiastically embraced a fart is as good as an orgasm

look at my garden!

Noor Zamamiri

Brandon Clesen

I get woken up by the screams of my brother. I feel his hot breath on my ear as he yells, “GET UP. IT’S CHRISTMAS.” My blurred eyes try to adjust to my surroundings: my brother’s bed with the teal comforter with tiny black dogs, the accessories to dolls on our desk, and my brother’s annoyed face above me. “Why are you so slow Brandon? MOM. DAD. BRANDON WON’T GET UP FAST ENOUGH!” I maneuver my body so that my feet are touching the ground but my body and head are still grasping to the comfort of my bed. After slowly moving from the bed, I tiptoe across the carpeted floor trying not to fall on the train set we created earlier that winter. I see the cross outside the door, trudge over to Jesus, kiss my hand and place my fingers on the cross saying the customary, “Happy Birthday Jesus.” I view my dad from the hallway walking into the bathroom. “MOVE IT DAD. I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR FIVE MINUTES NOW!” My mom dashes down the stairs, either to grab the camera or run away from her child. My father leaves the bathroom after what my brother says was an eternity and escapes downstairs, locking the gate on the top of the stairs before he goes. My brother and I sit next to the gate (previously used so I wouldn't sleepwalk downstairs), waiting for my parents to finish their annual Christmas routine: turn on the Christmas music, get the camera ready, place the coffee cake on the table, and pick up my grandpa from a few blocks down the street. He loved watching his grandkids open their gifts as he loved to watch the smiles on their faces when they did. I hear the door open and the voice of my grandpa after fifteen minutes of my brother asking, “When will they be here?” It’s finally time for presents. My dad appears at the bottom of the steps holding the camera saying, “Christmas 2008. I wonder if Santa came to visit. I don't think he did.” “Stop dad," my brother and I say in unison. We sprint down the stairs, our eyes widening on the bottom step as we see the toys in the living room: the American Girl doll Mia and her accessories for my brother and Ben 10 figures for me. I grab one of the figurines and shove it in front of the camera. “Isn’t it cool?” I say. 90 | Perception

“Go show poppop,” my dad tells me. I move away from the camera and amble my way to the chair next to our Christmas tree. There he sits: a bald scalp with white hairs on either side of his head, visible blue veins wrapping around his arms, a yellowing smile, deep ocean blue eyes, pure joy on his face. I can smell the smoke lingering on his clothes. “Poppop look at him!” “He’s very cool bud,” my poppop says. My dad interrupts my showcase with, “Let’s go outside and see if the reindeer ate the food we left out.” My father leads me out the front door, the brisk air sweeping across my exposed cheeks. A chill creeps inside me as I begin to walk into the depths of the cold.

He seemed cold. I felt frozen in that room. My body ached with a sense of grief: a profound and heavy grief not on the account of what was about to occur but what I couldn't feel internally. I could only feel the physical sensation of the pamphlet in my hands. “September 7, 1928- August 5, 2011,” I read. I heard whispers everywhere, quiet sounds of brief tears escaping the eyes and the sniffling that accompanies it. It was motionless in there. I looked over to my mom; she tried to convey a calm composure but I knew she just wanted to scream in agony. She didn’t want to deal with a wake, yet the rest of the family wanted some time with the body before the funeral. My Aunt Kim walked up to my brother and me. “How are you guys? I know you know this but you’re poppop isn't hurting anymore.” “We know.” She knew we were too afraid to see the body by ourselves, as we were huddled in the farthest corner from the coffin. I knew they covered up his bruises, but the makeup now made him look so pale, so lifeless, so unlike himself. I didn't know the man in that coffin, nor did I want to meet him. After telling us that this would be the final moment for us to say goodbye, my Aunt Kim took our hands and told us to walk with her to say farewell.

Holding baby TJ in her arms and wiping the sweat off her head from the heat, my Aunt Kim walks into the kitchen and announces, “Happy Gotcha Day Brandon!” I tell her thank you and start playing with my newborn cousin. My brother glares at this sight, since he is no longer the youngest in the family. My Aunt Kathy walks in from outside and tells Aunt Kim, “I’m glad you Fall 2020 | 91

guys could make it. Mostly everyone is in the pool.” I beam with excitement on the idea of going into the pool soon; I am just waiting for my brother to be in the mood to go in. It was my favorite time with my family, as, each Independence Day, my Aunt Kathy would throw a pool party with fireworks to conclude the night. I open the back door and stride my way to the table outside. My poppop accompanies my mom who watches my other cousins splashing each other in the pool. He asks me, “What shirt is that?” I grab my shirt and do a little twist while I say, “It’s a tie dye guitar. Mom got it for me.” “Looks very good. You going to go into the pool shoeless?” He loved to call me shoe or shoeless, my family’s secret name for me. While my grandma was in the hospital, my mother would take me, as a small child, to go visit her. Always an antsy child, I would kick off my shoes. My uncle laughed at my rebellious act and said, “That’s our shoeless B.” It was then that I would be called “shoe” by my closest family members. “Soon," I reply, as I plan to force my brother into the pool. My mom winks at me, signaling that this talk with my grandpa made him happy. She has told me before that he misses spending time with his entire family. As I walk back towards the door, my cousin announces in the pool, “Get your butt in here” while spraying me with her water gun.

The rain hit my face while we departed from the funeral home. I watched as all of the cars formed a line behind the hearse. My family said very few words in the car, each of us looking at our surroundings passing by. I focused on the tiny raindrops hitting my window; I just wanted to skip today, pretend like he was still alive. “We’re here”. We quickly escaped the car, as it had begun to rain harder. My mom tried to not step in any puddles with her high heels as she held both of her sons’ hands. We entered the church, the lights illuminating the dark atmosphere seen outside; the marble exterior looked particularly beautiful today as the light danced on its reflection. People began to approach my mom. She told my brother and me, “Go to your Aunt Mary.” We obliged and walked over to my Aunt Mary.

the door to my grandpa’s house. My Uncle Tom and Aunt Kim have already arrived to the home, as my poppop invited us over for a family gathering. “Aunt Mary!” “Brandon,” she says as she hugs me. “How’s my favorite nephew?” “Hey! I thought I was your favorite,” my brother says from inside the kitchen. My aunt and I walk into the kitchen and form a group hug with Patrick. My mom sits beside my grandpa at the dark blue table. She has Lou Malnati’s Pizza on the phone. We end our hug and my aunt begins to talk with the rest of the adults. I wander into the living room which held the Lego Duplo blocks he bought for us. I start to play with the blocks, creating a giant tower first and then a tall giraffe. I can hear them talking to my grandpa about how he cannot drive anymore. He isn’t capable enough to do it anymore they say. The delivery man outside the window draws my attention away from their conversation. “Mom the food is here.”

“Mom, is Aunt Mary going to give the speech now?” My mom nodded. My Aunt Mary walked onto the marble altar. The light from the stained glass projected an array of beautiful colors on the floor. My eyes tried to focus on this, as I did not want to make eye contact with anyone else, especially my aunt at this time. She stood behind the wooden podium, stared out at the crowd for a moment and began, “Dad was always a good man. I remember a time when my car got stolen. It was taken from the driveway. He spent the entire day searching for it and asking people if they had seen anything. He was always that kind of father. Later that night, he came home with my car. He had found it within the neighborhood. He had spent that night searching for my stolen car which I never asked him to. He was such a kind and caring father…”

I sit in the backseat of the car on the way to my grandpa’s house. I know my mom didn’t want me to come with her today as she did not know what condition he would be in. I pestered her though saying, “But I want to… Don’t you want me to be with poppop?… He’ll love a visit from me.” She told me it was going to be a quick visit. I don’t mind. I am happy that I get to spend short time with him but I am even happier that I had won this battle with my mom. As I gleam in the backseat, I notice the places that indicate I Fall 2020 | 93

am almost to my poppop’s house: the playground, the hedge outside the grey house, the large blue porch with the wooden bench. My grandpa’s home was only a five minute drive. The brick bungalow exterior held an array of flowers, each with their own significant beauty of colors. Today, it felt unusual. Maybe it was because we didn’t walk and use the wagon to pull my body to his house. Maybe it was the odd detail that the day seemed so bright and everyone played outside, yet my mother’s demeanor exuded isolation and dread. I walk into the living room filled with the smell of his cigarettes. My mother hated the smell and would often comment on how suffocating it was; I, however, found it to be welcoming, as it invited me on my visits to my grandpa’s house. I listen for the distinct sounds of numerous figures shuffling but there were none. I figure that his caregivers were given the day off. Disappointed, as they would make me smoothies with my grandpa, who would use them to swallow his pills easier, I continue walking to the back of the house searching for him. “Hi dad how are you doing, “ my mother says from inside the kitchen. “Good good.” I walk back down the hallway into the kitchen to finally greet my grandpa. “Hi poppop.” “Hi shoe. How are you?” “I’m good poppop. I just wanted to see you today.” “I’m happy to see you too.” My mom tells me to go play with the Legos in the other room. I oblige, since I don’t think I am going to win two battles with my mom today. I spend the next few minutes trying to build a giraffe. After playing for only a few moments, I hear a loud thud and my mom yell, “Dad. Dad. Can you get up? Please can you get up?” “Mom what happened?” “Stay in there Brandon.” I know he has fallen before. He fell and spent hours on the kitchen floor a few months ago. Then, it happened again. And then he tripped and couldn't get back up a month ago. Finally, my parents got him a caregiver. But they weren't here today. It was only my mom and me. My mom runs over to me and says, “I called 911. Don't worry. Everything will be fine.” She takes me outside and tells me 94 | Perception

to wait there. I stand there listening to the children laughing, the birds chirping, while my poppop sits in his home in anguish. The paramedics come and bring him into the ambulance. My mom grabs me and tells me to get in the car. We drive to the hospital. My dad meets us there. I sit in the waiting room alone, as my mom gestures for my dad to talk to her in private. I can still hear them though. “I don't know what happened. He just fell down the stairs. I don’t know what to do.” I only have my thoughts to keep me company. The sirens blare in my memory. The thud rings in my ears. I wonder if my friends were still at the pool as I sit in the quiet, empty space of the hospital.

“He is in a better place now. Better than the hospital,” I heard someone say. I couldn't tell who said it, since there were many people who came to the reception held at the local Irish pub after the funeral. I tried to maintain some composure. I walked over to the table with my brother and friends. To get our minds off this moment, we grabbed all of the desserts off the table and began stuffing them into our mouths. As a joke, I kept taking the cookies and lemon squares off my brothers and began eating them. My brother then kept taking more and more, with me continuing my process. Soon enough, my brother said he felt sick and threw up. Anger fell over me. How could I make this day a joke? I am disgusted with myself. I walk over to my mom and beg for forgiveness, “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to make this day worse.” “Okay.” “I really am sorry.” “Okay.” I don’t forgive myself though. I made my brother throw up on the day of my grandpa’s funeral.

As I sit at the table doing homework, my mom tells me she has to leave and visit my grandpa at the hospital. He choked on his food. They had to take a metal hook and grab the food out of his throat. That made me gag thinking about a sharp tool in my poppop’s throat. He almost died that day. She tells me that dad will finish cooking us dinner. I want to go and see him though, as does my brother. My mom looks at my dad and sighs. She agrees that we can go with her. Fall 2020 | 95

We drive together as a family, but there is very little talk between us, especially mom who only utters a few words, “Everything will be fine.” Once we approach the hospital, my mom tells me that only she and my dad would actually see him. We have to stay in the waiting room. I try to remain calm for my brother, since he fears poppop would die today. I want to take away as much pain for my brother as possible. I have to remain optimistic for the sake of Patrick.

“You were always so hopeful Brandon. Your grandpa would be so happy that you believed in him so much,” someone told me as I sat at the corner table inside the pub. But that wasn't true. I remembered when I lost hope. My mom, after many sleepless nights in the hospital, decided it would be best for her children to stay with their Aunt Kathy for the summer of 2011. My brother and I didn't mind since we got to spend time in their pool and play with their dog Finn. Yet, as the days drew closer to the 5th of August, I could sense my aunt trying to hide something from us. One day, she took us and my two cousins shopping. While at the store, Aunt Kathy told her sons to look for suits for the funeral. I realized at that moment everyone had given up hope except for me. Everyone was now awaiting his death. Later that day, my aunt came up to me and told me he was going to pass soon. A week later, my mom came to their house to finally see her children again. She came into the door holding back tears. “Guys your grandfather passed away… He loved you dearly…He will always love you.” We stood there holding each other, while I wish I could have said goodbye. I stopped thinking about that summer when I felt tears starting to form. Even though I was alone at the table, I didn’t feel safe to cry. I didn't want to show my pain in front of these mourners, especially my mom. I still needed to be strong for her. I was happy when people began to leave shortly after, since I could tell the emotional toll this event took on my mom. We quickly went home. My mom was silent throughout the drive and, even at home, she spoke no words, only taking off her shoes and walking into her room. My brother tried to make small talk with me, but I gave him a look that showed I had no energy left. I followed my mom and closed myself off in my own room. I sat on my bed, finally letting myself 96 | Perception

cry. It felt relieving to let myself feel regret, anger, resentment, sadness, pain, after making myself feel nothing to protect everyone else. I closed my eyes, picturing all these memories I held of him. Tears streamed across my cheeks and a smile grew across my face as I began to remember him.

Sameeha Saied

The space between my ears swirls violet. Flashes of fulgent eyes, Of fingers setting lambent fires, Of distinct and fumbling pressure, Flood evanescent.

You are a fusion of every stranger, Every fictional love. My eyes close to red, pink, yellow. They open to brown, gray.

Your chimerical touch spreads from the inside. Trembling vines travel down, up, back down, Flame and frost. Your impression is arcane. I ponder how reality will contend.

My totem spins, unwavering. A stark contrast to my conviction, Which oscillates in a gentle, wild breeze Bending further with each despondent day.

I am, suddenly, floating. Not in water, though my skin is washed clean. My left arm ghosts across a sphere of light 98 | Perception

With a soft haze in place of an exterior. I look up, eyes met with an off-white crescent.

Nebulous orbs languidly drift closer, Dull heat approaching from all angles. I feel a white-hot flicker attach to my shoulder, Followed by my elbow, hand, hip, Until I am bound by a pulsing glow.

The lights detach from me but maintain shape. I move up and to the right. Looking back, I see a silhouette. Not shadowed, but lit a pale, shimmering pink.

It has my head, my body, But it feels awry. A pulse of cinder smolders in my abdomen. Looking down, I see a lone freckle of light, The same sparkling blush, Below my chest.

Waking Up

Maya Gelsi

There is a certain way I stand so I feel my skeleton. Everything else— fleshy fig-bits and tough muscle— hangs like empty clothes.

Flowers speak to their stems, I hear it when I press an ear to the wind and the other to the soil. They chant thanks, grateful for their xylems and phloems, for being held aloft, sipped by bees and ants.

We stretch always toward the sun, moored to grass and mud. Hinged between these two gently opposing forces, our frameworks and fulcrums, water and sugar and bone, faithful, unfelt.

From Me to You

zuzanna mlynarczyk