Perception Spring 2023 Issue

VOLUME XLI | ISSUE 41 Syracuse University

Perception is a free arts and literary magazine published once each semester by undergraduate students at Syracuse University.

We are now accepting submissions for the Fall 2023 issue. We accept submissions from undergraduate students, graduate students, faculty, and staff. We ask that submitters send no more than five art and five writing pieces. Our writing page limit is four pages, and we accept submissions in any language with an English translation.

Any questions and comments can be sent to perceptionmagsu@gmail. com.

Want to stay connected? Follow us on Instagram @perception_su The opinions expressed herein are not those of Syracuse University, the Office of Student Activities, the Student Association, and the Student Body.

Many thanks to: Sarah Harwell Alicia Kavon JoAnn Rhoads Student Association

Cover Art

Front/Back Cover

Sara Oppenheimer – Space Angel

Inside Front Cover

Nora Benko – Split

Inside Back Cover

(digital)

(ink pen)

Ronan Mansfield – can't hear you (acrylic and graphite on illustration board)

Center Spreads Center Spread 1

Hayden Celentano – Little Colorful Robot (photoshop)

Hayden Celentano – Tim and Moby Gone Awry (photoshop)

Center Spread 2

Sarah Mednick – Swamp Lady (digital)

Dear Perceivers, In his poem “Nostalgia,” Billy Collins writes: As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past, letting my memory rush over them like water rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.

I was even thinking a little about the future, that place where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine, a dance whose name we can only guess.

While we never anticipate or receive a cohesive set of submissions, every issue somehow settles itself into central themes that ripple through its pages and surge to the surface of one’s mind. The written work this semester was deeply personal, describing inherently individual experiences. Reading through these pieces is captivating in that it pulls you from your own world and directly into the experiences and emotions of someone else, leaving you longing for a distant memory that is not your own, and for a comfort that you do not know.

The art echoed this theme of a detached nostalgia and lingering familiarity, but brought along its own contrasting sense of futurism and anticipation. This issue stands out to me in its ability to cascade through and draw together little, vulnerable pebbles of a collective memory, and I would like to thank you all for providing us with a little window into the lights and sounds that make up your existence.

To our writers and artists, it truly is such an honor to work with and experience your work. Without your continued trust and support, this publication would not be possible. This magazine additionally owes its existence to the hard work and dedication of our wonderful team, for whom I have an eternal appreciation. Thank you so much to Brenna Phelan for dedicating your creative brilliance and humor to this magazine, to Kaitlin LaRosa for your endlessly comforting presence during an endlessly chaotic process, to Kate Eisinger for miraculously pulling the most gorgeous and artful concepts from my most incoherent thoughts, and to Katherine Nikolau and Yasmin Nayrouz for finding the harmony in our submissions. I genuinely adore each and every one of you.

I am so excited to present our 41st issue of Perception Magazine, and I hope you each enjoy the warm embrace of little remembrances within its pages.

Yours truly,

Noor Zamamiri Editor-in-Chief

Managing Editors Noor Zamamiri Editor-in-Chief Kaitlin LaRosa Managing Editor Brenna Phelan Asst. Editor-in-Chief Katherine “Katya” Nikolau Asst. Managing Editor

Editors Yasmin Nayrouz Head Editor Katie Wood Asst. Editor Hannah Murphy Asst. Editor

Designers Kate Eisinger Head Designer Casey Fairchild Asst. Designer McKenzie Gerber Asst. Designer

Social Media Julia Gershowitz Co-Head Social Media and Digital Sydney Martinez Co-Head Social Media and Digital Gray Reed Asst. Social Media and Digital Grace Katz Asst. Social Media and Digital Julia Provvisionato Asst. Social Media and Digital Emma Fiorella Asst. Social Media and Digital

Reviewers & Copy Editors Head Reviwers Vanessa Walker Isabella Brown

Reviewers Blaze Ricco Rosemary Crist Michela Flood Julia Pryor Charles Gebbia Sara Oppenheimer Amreeta Verma Maya Kleinberg Maureen Ferguson F. Morris Gelbart

Copy Editors Vanessa Walker Grace Ripperger Eva Aurnhammer Grace Underwood Madeline Sloyer

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pork rinds by Katherine “Katya” Nikolau I MISS YOUR MOM’S ZUCCHINI SOUP by S. Oppenheimer Softer In Memory by Quinn Raven Young A Dream / A Poem by Alaina Triantafilledes Medea by Del Elizabeth Hendrick holes by Carly Cernek Beef Wellington by I. Alvarez To Put Overthinking Into Words by Marlena Duliga September 25, 2022 by S. Oppenheimer Weather Patterns of the Anxious mind by Gray Reed on planet anxiety by Katherine “Katya” Nikolau Untitled by Ryan Topper Alone by Kait Nero sun dial by Melina Iavarone Laundry Day by Eva Greene The Niklas House by Rosemary Crist Day’s Work by Fiona White Deer by I. Alvarez a poem for love of and in a winter’s storm by Alexandra Milchovich seasons of intimacy by Madelyn Gosselin Boozfonger’s by I.G. Chapin Hey You! by I.G. Chapin HIGH WIND WARNING by Roslyn Lydick Grilled Cheese with Parmesan by Audrey Ledbetter Siren’s Call by Charles Gebbia the reality is by Katherine “Katya” Nikolau toast by Melina Iavarone Acupuncture by Alaina Triantafilledes

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becoming by Katherine “Katya” Nikolau 74 late night aromantic phone conversations by Emma Carroll Hudson 76 Sunken by Grace Underwood 77 The Gemini by Claire Aronson 79 Jam for Leo by Charles Gebbia 84 The Coming of Age by Anand Benegal 86 Mature but not Grown by Yasmin Nayrouz 88 Girl by Rosemary Crist 90 cherry tongue by Melina Iavarone 94 melancholy gaze by Julia Gershowitz 96 Soup by I. Alvarez 97 Wordless, Nameless, Real by Vanessa Walker 99 Halloween by Alaina Triantafilledes 101 Yaya by Alaina Triantafilledes 106 Transition to Womanhood by Julia Gershowitz 108 Frater Maeus by S. Oppenheimer 112 encounter with an estranged evangelical by Vanessa Walker 115 When you tell the wolves I’m home by Kaitlin LaRosa 116 angel by Madelyn Gosselin 118 Steel Jungle by Hymm 121 New World by Carly Cernek 123 homage to my legs by Charles Gebbia 125 Ballet of greys, symphony of nothing by Alexandra Milchovich 126 Mayfly by Claire Aronson 127 Afloat by Grace Underwood 129 Chronic Limerence by Olivia Happel 131 wednesday evening tremors by Katherine “Katya” Nikolau 133 mud. by I.G. Chapin 135 Designer Cigarette by Eva Greene 136

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EW! by Sara Oppenheimer Self Portrait by Nora Benko Untitled by Nora Benko Owl Taking Flight by Hayden Celentano Lines and Waves by Hayden Celentano Empty Nester by Nandita Gupta Living Space by Madeline Sloyer in the dream house by Bailee Roberts Passage Of Time by Hannah Landon Warm Heart by Alex Cao Cow Skull Still Life by Sarah Mednick Wise Eyes by Emma Fiorella Wizard on Horseback by Sarah Mednick Frog Teatime by Sarah Mednick Little Colorful Robot by Hayden Celentano Tim and Moby Gone Awry by Hayden Celentano Device by F. Morris Gelbart Therapeutic Endeavors by Olivia Happel witch bar by Ronan Mansfield Prayer is sinner by Alex Cao

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16 18 21 23 26 31 33 35 37 41 48 50 53 55 56 57 60 62 68 73

Refining Touch by Nora Benko Washed Away by Olivia Happel Joan Baez by Sarah Mednick don’t think about the frogs by Ronan Mansfield Baby Steps by Madeline Sloyer Untitled by Bailee Roberts the beer distributor by Isabella Brown Yearning by Caitlin Spillane longworth’s on sunday by Isabella Brown Aubrey in Noir by Hannah Landon Swamp Lady by Sarah Mednick Light the Night by Caitlin Spillane Masked by Caitlin Spillane Family Portrait by Sophie Clinton Parade of Planets by Caitlin Spillane Bloom - In Memory of Gretchen Joyce Dater by Amreeta Verma Temporality by Olivia Happel Crowded Shapes by Hayden Celentano 1980’s Horror Film by Sara Oppenheimer Spin! by Brenna Phelan Little Mermaid by Brenna Phelan

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pork rinds Katherine "Katya" Nikolau ladies and gentlemen of the jury: i’m treading water here. i’m treading water and swallowing salt and shivering under three differently colored sweaters. i wanted to tell you all that i’m sorry, but i think my lips have dried up for apologies. i don’t have an alibi but. well, i’ve been staring at the popcorn ceiling. i’ve been picking up the knife and then setting it down. i’ve been listening to tom hall, who told me over and over how he got to memphis. i wanted to go there too, but then i thought maybe i’d feel just as lost there. i decided to try anyway though, and now i haven’t eaten a bite or slept for three days and nights. the pretty feelings don’t feel safe with me anymore, and i get that. i hope they return soon. i’ll invite them over for tea and try not to talk about myself. sometimes it’s hard. it turns out self-involved and self-destructive share a wall. i have a pretty boy of my own now, like a shiny button shifting around in the fabric sea of my pocket. i finger the space he fills to check that he’s still with me, maybe more often than i should. i love his lashes and his amphibian smile, but i’m scared that i don’t deserve nice things anymore. i’m reaching the end now, or trying to. my neurosis feels like an escape room i just can’t solve, even as you’re giving me fuzzy-voiced cheat codes over the intercom. i’m the same as you remember me. i still pick up street pennies and check for their dates. i still smile when i think about grandpa penny and teenage penny

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sharing the peeling world of my wallet, arguing politics. i still tear up at that scene where joel and clementine cry-laugh in the hallway. it all itches back to what’s whole and what’s empty. the mean isn’t always golden. sometimes it’s just mean. i’m not profound, just pretentious. you surely can see that now. you’ll find me eating pork rinds in purgatory, loving the crunch, hating the taste, reaching into the bag again.

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I MISS YOUR MOM'S ZUCCHINI SOUP Sara Oppenheimer Hold me like water in your hands Like That Phoebe song we used to sing in your car Thighs sticky on the leather seats Sun screaming days turned from hot to hotter In a city burning and drowning all at once Only silenced when the moon came up Artemis defeats her brother night after night In starless summer skies Don't forget my dawnlight silhouette Like i've all but forgotten The glow in your hazelnut eyes When your mother made us popsicles Passionfruit, chicken hearts, her zucchini soup with parmesan cheese Made to make me feel like her own Future Daughter In Law, Mija, Third kid, “Llamame Mama” La pajarita Know i meant it when i said i loved her I hide from these clouded midnights in a city too small Run away dreaming to those vibrant yesterdays of never never land It’s you i see under palm trees and the sea stung overpass Sand filled delight, watermelon smiles Sugarwater, sugarcane, sweetheart Pineapple kissed fingers woven together Waves crashing against sandcastles you begged to stay solid against them

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I stood back as you clawed at their soggy remains Kicked another down before you could see it Do you think about the coral fortress in the hammocks?

Our own ship of Theseus behind the banyans and joshua trees They said it was the spaniards who built it all those years before But it’s got 1950 stamped on its crumbling concrete walls How long do you think before the tide takes it too?

Do you think creek beds and cicadas Sweaty palms and linoleum tile Tarot cards, pink sheets, purple blanket Red Tide in August bringing seagulls to your very back door That tanline you never got out When I spilled nail polish on your favorite shirt And the stain spread like a wound I failed to cover The sweet feeling of sun on your skin you called it prayer To me it was love Does it sunburn sting your heart When a dog brings you a bird?

A bird, a dog?

Which was I to you when I put my very own bloodied Excalibur at your door and told you to smile?

We should have built our castle closer to the Marram grass Is your brother alright?

Is your father?

Are you?

How did you manage to get the fish to North Carolina?

Tell your mother I miss her.

I miss her zucchini soup.

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EW! Sara Oppenheimer | Digital 16 | Perception

Softer in Memory Quinn Raven Young Raspberries grow wild here, In a tangled hedge by the long white house.

Blueberries too, low to the ground and sour, In little sprigs that pop up by the lake.

When night falls, use a red light— Not white, to preserve your night vision— And drag a canoe down the shore, Then into the water, surrounded by reeds.

The sky is clear, so deep in the wilderness.

Lay back to look at the Milky Way. Hear an animal howling far away; Convince yourself that it’s a wolf.

Put on a bathing suit and play in shallow water.

Discover that the lake has tiny leeches.

Get out in a hurry, But the next night, go swimming again.

Crawl into bed in your cabin With the blanket you brought from home.

In the morning, there will be fresh muffins On a pool table in the long white house.

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Self Portrait Nora Benko | Digital 18 | Perception

A Dream / A Poem Alaina Triantafilledes A Dream A dream scurries from somewhere, slips between my teeth in silence.

It investigates my gut, circles itself a few times, then curls into a comfortable position to die in.

It sleeps in me and in my sleep, it leads me through the check-out line of a grocery store that leads me into itself, unless I purchase the right items.

There is a pushpin in my finger.

There are no bandaids, only tampons so I stand in line plugging the piercing with a cotton bullet.

Now I am running even though I did not purchase the right items and beyond the sliding doors, there is a dripping gas station where a man in black comes from a black van.

In my cloak, I am a shadow, but he looks at me like a bomb.

I am a haunted sheet losing sentience.

I drop to the ground, lie on my back in an opalescent puddle of rain and gasoline.

At last, splattered in droplets from an impossible sky.

The man stands above me with a cigarette.

Generously, he lets me lie there before he takes me away.

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By morning, the dream has decomposed.

I only taste death.

A Poem A poem pours from somewhere, escapes through an exhale and drags me from my bed by the hair.

It bangs on the walls of me.

I recite everything it says, my pen’s shadow shaking in my desk lamp’s light, but its voice is muffled by the thick, burgundy curtains between what I think and what I know.

It speaks in spectral memories of cold rain freckling my face, of reaching into the dark for a hand that pulled me into a crumbling embrace, pressing into my palm a torn Polaroid that I didn’t remember taking until that very moment. I remembered everything.

The black van, the tampon in my hand, the grocery store clerk behind a register, a prophecy rippling through her body at 1:11 pm to tell me I am on the right memory path.

When I don’t understand, the poem’s shoulders slump.

It retreats further into a cell haunted by a dream. They sit together.

I can hear them whispering to each other.

They know something I don’t.

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Untitled Nora Benko | Digital Spring 2023 | 21

Medea Del Elizabeth Hendrick i. medea aren’t we all a little angry?

i’m not a bad woman or a bad mother i couldn’t have been a better daughter, in fact. so what,

if you’re afraid of me?

if I’m unpredictable?

lately I’ve really been considering

falling in love with the

feeling of being

a monster. you have no idea the capacity I have to be good

how utterly sick of it I am. if I have to flirt with violence, i promise you that’s not the worst that can happen. what they refuse to tell you about me is that he hurt me first.

all I did was even the playing field. there’s nothing odd about a woman in the colosseum when you think about it blood is my second nature;

and to whoever’s listening

i hope understanding is in yours.

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Owl Taking Flight Hayden Celentano | Photoshop Spring 2023 | 23

holes Carly Cernek the holes have been there as long as i can remember uncomfortable pinpricks overtaking me bullet holes that grew

and grew

and grew i try to fill them with other things i eat as much as i can then starve myself maybe air will do the trick i sit in the dark for hours strangers on my screen they mean nothing to me next i try anxiety it twists my stomach and the holes grow wider and i become lighter soon i will fade away just as i’m losing hope, i find something to keep them at bay i spend days wandering up and down streets filled with people who don’t care about me their indifference comforting it's a feeling i know well and i let it wash over me it takes years of being invisible this feeling of utter peace of distance from my body, myself years until the holes get smaller. they will never fade completely though so i paint over them as best i can but the paint accidentally gets on places where i’m whole

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it’s okay though, all of myself belongs to me now belongs to these indifferent streets and even if i cannot share me with others at least i won’t fade away

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Lines and Waves Hayden Celentano | Photoshop 26 | Perception

Beef Wellington I. Alvarez I decided to become a vegetarian tonight, after my father and I split a beef Wellington and drank two glasses of Nero d’Avola. It was good, nothing too flashy, but a little heavy like I like my red wine to be. The beef Wellington disgusted me. The pastry, soggy from bathing in fat and mushroom sauce, was too small for the chunk of ground meat that engorged the whole plate. I tried to pick around the meal and just eat the zucchini and green beans on the side, but it was of no use. The beef Wellington sat there smugly and would not dissipate until I brought another forkful to my mouth.

I know what he got me for Christmas. I am excited to open my gifts in the morning and feign surprise. Before my parents divorced– a few months prior to their trial separation–my mother and I got into a huge fight right around December 21 or 22. I don’t recall what we were arguing about, but I presume it was some pointless contention that only arose because I was now conscious enough of my femininity to make it her problem. Santa’s not fucking real, she yelled. She threw box after box, pristinely wrapped with the corners all folded to mathematical precision, out of the closet where she’d hidden them. Santa isn’t real, it’s me who does all this hard work while your father sits on his ass.

I wanted to order another glass of the wine, but then I’d have to keep picking at the beef Wellington, so I refused a refill and dessert and asked the waiter to bring our check. The two of us sat there in silence, staring down at our laps or the food or outside the window to the empty Starbucks across the street, refusing to make eye contact.

The act of consuming without thinking about what you are putting into your body seems to spit in the face of womanhood. Doing anything mindlessly is absurdly antithetical to gender performance.

This is a lesson I’ve learned from my mother. After the pandemic

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subsided, it was all she could talk about. I really let myself go after Covid. I got so fat. Look at this muffin top. I don’t even fit into my jeans anymore. I barely exercise. I rarely ever visit her over holidays or summer break, but I went a couple times this year, and each time I would pull back the fridge door in hopes that there was an actual semblance of food within its stainless steel walls, and each time I was disappointed. Little hints of an eating disorder littered everywhere: half-finished juice cleanses, the carrot-ginger-beet mixture disgustingly murky with pulp; three packets of tuna in lemon water; zero-calorie canned mocktails; pre-packaged salads well past their expiration date. The cupboards were even more miserable. Dried muesli, flour, protein pancake mix, an old bag of chocolate chips I knew for a fact she’d bought more than five years ago. How can she subsist? I always ask myself.

Maybe being a woman means teetering on the edge of existence.

I felt the most like a woman when I was 18. I was 5’7” and weighed around 125 pounds and I had long, brown, smooth hair that swam down past my pronounced clavicles. I fell in love with the way that clothes clung to my protruding hip bones and how my ribcage would swell out from beneath my skin as I stretched my arms above my head. When people began to reach out, concerned about my size, I replayed the sound of their inquiries over and over in my mind.

It felt so good to occupy such little space. I felt secure in my thinness.

If men were supposed to swallow air with no regard, then I was supposed to shrink into a small corner, and with that smallness, my body was also supposed to disappear.

Now I’ve put on at least twenty or thirty pounds.

Maybe this is why the beef Wellington tasted so wrong and oily; I knew, somewhere deep down inside, that I should be fasting, starving, wasting away. It was a battle to push the mashed, gray mass towards the back of my throat. It was as if the beef Wellington grew in my mouth, elephantine and voracious, angry.

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The waiter asked if we wanted a to-go box, but my father doesn’t believe in leftovers. He’s like my mother in that sense; he eats in shameful silence, often alone, and from this guilt he vomits up some mean comment about his body or someone else’s. He often talks about women’s bodies when we’re out in public, and he’s old to the point where he shouts because he can’t hear anything. Her ass is huge, or, she has fake tits. It embarrasses me, even though he says aloud what I think in private. It makes me wonder what he would say about me if I were a stranger.

I asked him for a designer bag and I know he got it for me because he called me when he was at the store and the sales associate got on the phone, high-pitched and lilting, breathless because he desperately wanted to close. I wonder how I should react tomorrow when I open it, tearing hungrily past the dust bag embossed in a huge, tacky logo. I like being tacky. I like displaying a wealth I haven’t earned. It’s a distinctly masculine form of shamelessness, like eating an entire beef Wellington and still ordering dessert.

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To Put Overthinking Into Words Marlene Duliga tell me— do you pretend not to hear the branches scratching against the window or do your eyes just forget to look or is it that your breath forgets to hitch or do you just not love me enough to fear alongside me?

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Nandita Gupta | Photography

empty nester

September 25, 2022 Sara Oppenheimer My home hates me, or so I believed when I woke up this morning Sun shining onto my face, I rose knowing I could never go home The deep ache in my bones yearned for palm trees, coconuts, white sands, and Rumba. My hands and heart betrayed it, yearned to hold onto the soft hips of the girl in my english class Pulled my chest towards the faint taste of acceptance As I stayed anchored to a tether buried deep in my skin the day I was born.

My home hates me, but they cannot reach me anymore With their cocoa butter and sugarcane hands they grasp at air 90 miles away I'm free in the home of the brave, but the home of the brave has never greeted me with the warm embrace Of a sticky island morning, cherimoyas falling off a tree into my hand, gifts from god itself Or so i believed This pride is a burning shackle, a superpower, a craze it pounds in my heart, warms my cheeks and the tips of my ears How vibrant I shine, lantern and target together, as it chains me in place Dancing to the merengue beat from a thousand miles away Clapping my hands to the rooster caws, stomping my feet to the breaking shore I can never hear again but know continue in my absence Or so i believed My home hates me, but it still claws at my skin and asks me to stay Sweet sounding memories thicken the ropes that bind my hands to the motherland They scream they dont want me yet here i am Torn by the beliefs of those who will never understand What it is to love a country in the same way that would get you killed if you said it To love a piece of yourself that needs to be hidden To love in spite of death, pain, isolation

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To know you will never Or so i believed Like a hand reaching down from god Cherimoya seeds falling on my lap The sticky summer morning dripping into my nose A majority vote A switch in the code My belief in my isolation no more The pearly gates open My lantern target becomes a beacon As the streets of Havana sing me back home

Living Space Madeline Sloyer | Acrylic, Ink, Photo Collage Spring 2023 | 33

Weather Patterns of the Anxious Mind Gray Reed I’m sorry I can’t come over tonight to sit on your floor and drink the unimaginable like we did when we were young. When we would sprawl on your hardwood and stare into the infinite universe expanding across your popcorn ceiling– reminiscing on our destinies as if the future lay behind us.

I’m sorry I can’t come over tonight; it’s just the wind has started to grow again. It started as a single hum on the streets behind my train of thought but now has picked up into a lone, desperate howl.

I’m sorry I can’t come over tonight, even though you asked so nicely.

You asked with such a nature even bees would cease to sting. You invited me over with the purest of intentions, and I’m sorry I must decline but the wind is getting louder and I don’t want it to drown you out. I can’t let it drown you out.

Forgive me for staying home tonight. For burying myself in the nest that is my bed and staring at my ceiling instead of your own from paneled floors. For listening to the wind instead of the tracks you would have played to inspire us to paint our bare walls a shimmering gold. For allowing myself to drown so I can throw you a life preserver from afar.

I’ll come over next time, I promise. We just need to let the weather run its course. I promise.

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in the dream house Bailee Roberts | Digital Spring 2023 | 35

on planet anxiety Katherine "Katya" Nikolau you see me through with x-ray vision, then turn away with burning retinas. it’s all rubble and red here, and i don’t chase after you because i know there’s no use. back on earth, you and i swim through a wegmans, arms linked, and you can’t find the fruit gusher gummies you want. not everything can be perfect. not everything can be perfect but i still only show you the final draft of myself, hoping you don’t notice all these erase marks. there’s a warmth to you that makes everything else feel synthetic. my life holds nothing to complain about, but i still do, so much, and i can’t stop. i’m turning around in a room of funhouse mirrors, seeing nothing but myself and myself and myself until the nausea sets in. these are the things i don’t tell you. i only tell you that i love you, and then tell myself that nothing else matters because i mean it. here’s a story i like that i keep telling myself: we met each other and it was really beautiful. nothing ruined it. a year later, i came back to your parents’ house and the dogs still licked my face.

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Passage of Time Hannah Landon | Acrylic & China Marker, Cardboard

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Untitled Ryan Topper Come in from the cast the receding shadow your eyes can’t absorb Tug your way up the radio wires speak gently Like grace dripping sweetly from your lips reel in Tell them you went so far & saw more than sanity But don’t lose your footing you will bloom

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Alone Kait Nero Aimless steps through the campus museum.

Guitar strings buzzing atop the highest hill.

Hurried walks with no destination.

A dim warmth, a looming sadness.

There was not much knowledge behind my eyes then.

Notes of bergamot and honey fill my apartment, Reminding me of my mother, And her mother, And her mother before that.

I wonder if they felt uncertainty as I have felt it.

Today I’ll return to that hill And see how small my world is.

Tonight I will look at the moon And realize we are all the same.

We are all the same.

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sun dial Melina Iavarone The sun rose again today, and it taped me to the bed. The light doesn’t feel like a hot hug this morning; sunbeams sting my skin and squint my eyes as I wish a happy birthday to someone who forgot mine. Plaid pajama pants as thin as spider silk introduce the wintery air to my tired body. Decorating my neck is an ancestor’s locket– inside, a creased photo of my good luck charm, but the metal chills my chest nonetheless. My legs seep down the bedside as if they’re soggy slices of buttered toast. I’d like to slip into a drowsy nap or maybe a comatose state; instead, I jot down my sweet lucid dream while it’s fresh in my mind. Scribbling blue ink, I recount a garden, picking every primrose and adorning an outdoor table with the freshly picked blossoms. The sunrise was a harbinger, snapping its fingers and ending the imaginary picnic. Bookmarking the page, I kick at the baseboard, begging it stop its thumping. Hush! I love the sunshine, but why must it burn me so early?

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Warm Heart Alex Cao | Digital Painting Spring 2023 | 41

Laundry Day Eva Greene The walk to your safety is long and winding, Through many twigs, somehow soft, And leaves, somehow silky.

I’m let in only to the frontmost room To meet your parents (but not like that) And to do laundry together (but not like that).

I peel off my sweaty second skin And change for your mirror So the parade procession can begin, Pile per person, Father, Mother, and their Son, – and me.

Me, I feel cleaner already.

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The Niklas House Rosemary Crist The last dying streaks of sunlight fought against the darkening January sky as my mom’s Ford rumbled over the uneven asphalt road. My thumbs thrummed on the steering wheel, only partially listening to what my mom was saying in the passenger seat while I was focused on the movement of my foot from the gas to break to try and control my speed around a woman walking her dog.

“They’re asking for one million seven-hundred fifty dollars, it’ll never sell,” my mom said when I returned my attention to the conversation. We were at a stop sign intersection, and I replied with a small hum of acknowledgement.

“I mean, it’s a classic house, one of the first ones built in Virginia Manor, but they haven’t kept up the place. It would be another million into just modernizing it,” she continued. “They have a stone barbecue in the back, and the lady put it on the real estate form: ‘Stone barbecue in backyard.’ Nobody’s used it since 1965, it’s a hazard at this point!”

I turned up into Virginia Manor. Every house was uniformly massive, with three floors a piece and many with useless yard accessories like pools or gazebos. The air smelled of American capitalism and old wealth, though there remained an even split among my peers between those who grew up in “The Manor,” as it was dubbed, versus those living the more traditionally middle class, suburban life elsewhere in the neighborhood. Though I belonged to the latter group in a completely normal sized home with a normalsized life, my mother grew up in The Manor, and hardly ever ran out of stories to tell about her childhood in the foreign world a few miles away from our present home.

“There was this one time, Mr. Niklas was this big lawyer, and he sued people all of the time. He sued the people in that house”—she pointed to a house on our right—“because they were going to put

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in a pool house. But, he got really mad when we bought the house behind them. So, my sister once had run up our backyard, and cause there was no fence it wasn’t clear where our two yards were divided, and before she could even get halfway up the hill your grandma got a call from Mrs. Niklas: ‘Mary Rose is in our yard!’”

I chuckled at the nasally voice my mom did to impersonate the past Mrs. Niklas. After rolling down the road a little more, my mom told me to slow down on the otherwise empty street and looked out the driver's side window. Then, she said incredulously, “That! For a million dollars, are they crazy?” I stole a glance as well as I could without taking my attention from the road—as I was only driving with my permit and the last thing I wanted was to be stopped before I even got my license—to see a looming tan, stone brick house on our right. It had to be at least three full floors, and it was as wide as some streets I’d driven on. Though I was cruising through the luxe community, I may as well have been on Neibolt Street with the way the home glared down on our car. The shutters were a 70s-style teal, and many of them were either crooked out of place or simply dangling off their latches. Though I couldn’t see much detail, my mom commented on one of the upper windows even looking to be broken and boarded up. The home was as lifeless and still as the crisp January air.

I continued on driving, for a combination of traffic laws and the deep chill the home racked down my spine forced me to, but my mom continued talking. She was gesturing now, explaining, “Their daughter is the one selling it, I guess. Mrs. Niklas is in a nursing home uptown somewhere, but it doesn’t seem like her daughter really put much effort into renovation.”

She paused again, then added something that struck me. “Mrs. Niklas—that is a woman who has never worked a day in her life.”

I pictured a scene of the past. The same road, with a brighter blue sky and brighter green lawns out of a TV show, with the Niklas house stood tall and refurbished, the neighborhood symbol of wealth and modernity. I imagined a woman on their vast lawn with a hose in

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hand and gardening gloves on, waving to the family walking by on the road. Inside the walls of the Niklas house, the matriarch, Mrs. Niklas sat at a vanity, powdering her face while a television broadcast the Reagan assassination attempt. Or maybe Mrs. Niklas preferred tuning into the then-new QVC and left the politics to the other.

Mr. Niklas would come home late, the epitome of “money can’t buy happiness” in a human form. At a dining table, silent, with their daughter, who was probably a recluse due to the scale of the home.

She was probably on track to become a lawyer or secretariat like her father, though it seemed that she was selling her childhood home in decrepit conditions decades later. She had more than likely never grown out of The Manor, the title characterizing her life like a badge of privilege that only meant anything in the small bubble of our own town.

Mr. Niklas’ imprint on the neighborhood was grim. He was a Radley-like figure, with dark features and more than likely a low, commanding voice that had been heard a few too many times by the sweet family below. My own grandparent’s house, bustling with three children and a brand of love I understood to be familial fondness. I pieced together like a historian, only catching glimpses of the end of most of these folks’ lives, their intricate relationships and how each individual laid their handprint into the foundation of the neighborhood itself and haunted the street, like an unresolved spirit.

The dining table would be long—with only the three of them hardly filling it out. The plates teal against the ivory embroidered tablecloth. It would be quiet. I pictured the teenage Niklas daughter dreading the daily meal. Maybe it was a source of confrontation.

Maybe it was a source of silence, a horrifying moment of pulling back the curtain on the tragic reality of the wealthy family.

My attention returned to the car. My mom was planning on ordering pizza for dinner. She had finished talking about the Niklas family, I assumed, however I could not help but keep the image of the withering Mrs. Niklas, lingering in an assisted bedroom somewhere nearby, with her old-fashioned makeup still plastered onto cracking skin and frown lines etched into her face.

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Day's Work Fiona White The Food Network plays in the tin-roof home Crafted with painstaking precision On the glades of Roanoke, VA. The TV is above the makeshift cross, Misshapen and crooked.

Count your blessings for the bad stew and roast, Lose the attitude and “do more.”

Rake, shovel, and forget Mama’s cold complexion when she says “Lower your voice.” walking in After the day’s work, Bringing in mud from the rills.

I refuse to ask for guidance, The longshoreman doesn’t.

We’ll joke on the route home, Watching the seasons change.

It was a tradition for her to love us heathens As a token for the pain.

It’s a new day And the end crowns the work.

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Deer I. Alvarez He tells me over dinner that he’ll die on December 12th. (Not actually).

It’s a little morbid joke, like many he’s made before. A doctor’s humor.

I don’t think I’ll ever really get it because I’ve never been the one biopsing tumors under a transmission electron microscope. Instead I’ve been the little girl standing to the side of the lab, wondering why the smell of formaldehyde is so fucking addictive, watching him slice through tissue. I’ve always been little to him, even now at twenty two.

He doesn’t like knowing I’m a woman. When we moved apartments, he packed up my box of Trojans in silence. But I guess it doesn’t matter, because he’s going to die on December 12th (not actually), and I have to laugh at this idea. I’m twenty two. I know what loss is.

I see it today. The coyotes have already eaten its lower half and shit and bile and innards are spilling out onto the dead leaves, and flies have begun to circle the carcass. One of them lands in its left eye and it makes me sad. I want to close them, but I don’t know if deer have eyelids. I don’t know much about biology, not like he does, and so he explains things to me as if I were a kindergartener. He says, my aorta doesn’t work properly. It has become enlarged. Sometimes I smell formaldehyde in my dreams. It sort of reminds me of the first time I got high off of alkyl nitrites. I inhaled and inhaled and I was flying somewhere in a parallel reality. Maybe it was one where he’s not going to die on December 12th, or any day ever, because I can shrink his aorta and I can unsnap the deer’s neck and I can tell him to stop making those jokes. They taste bad at the back of my throat, like decay or a death rattle.

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Cow Skull Still Life Sarah Mednick | Charcoal 48 | Perception

a poem for love of and in a winter's storm Alexandra Milchovich Cold air transforming my breath to a dragon’s, stamping upon my glass spine, tumbling like a child on a diseased gym mat hunting me like I’m a prize-winning buck.

The silver blanket welcomes me, open-armed, simple, harmless, no fear of tangling my heart within ropes of lion’s mane and coarse bondage.

Innocence falling in heaps from the ocean above, little knowledge of the drowning that awaits, our Garden of Eden, the apple plump and ready to be devoured by whoever swims for air first.

Clutching hands through thick wool, blue eyes absorbing green ones, blood pumping nothing but youthful lust, freezing but a sheen of sweat on eager, round faces.

Delicacy of bijou snow, delicacy of empty words and to be forgotten promises, left as snow angels in the park, crinkling eyes reflecting the sparkle as fool’s gold, enticing, flimsy, but as harsh as the surrounding air.

Is it the wonder of a first love?

The chill of a winter’s day?

For that, I have no answer.

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Wise Eyes Emma Fiorella | White Charcoal Pencil

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seasons of intimacy Madelyn Gosselin winter an afternoon spent inside in hats and coats because cold wind slips through the cracks of your best friends’ four walls, a home inherited from those who came before us. robust conversation warms the room, the raw feelings of confession are insulated by the hoods around our ears and the blankets we share two at a time. spring careful conversation in the dark on a Thursday night. we lay on our backs, fingers intertwined under the sheets. when you stand on the edge, here, there’s only comfort in what comes after. warm tears spread over four cheeks in relief and fear of being known. summer a sore apology takes center stage, now, when you’re too old to barter yourself innocent, but too ambitious to admit you’re entirely wrong. your cheeks fill up; hot and red opposite your best friend as she swallows her drink down hard. it occurs to you that you’ve never felt like her enemy before. fall a moment of knowing between you and a friend you always meant to get to know better. in an apartment full of your twenty closest friends, he contorts his face in just the right way to make you regret that third glass of wine because you can’t compose yourself from laughter.

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winter tucked under the covers when it’s too late to walk home— you’re both awake and you know you’re both awake but silence and street noise fills the air like thick smog. if you open your mouth it will all come tumbling out, splattering the silent air with clumsy, uncoordinated words that you would much rather keep to yourself but they climb up your throat like bile in the bated dark. you imitate sleep until the sun hits the window panes, then you sit up stiffly, reach down for your shoes and take her coat out into the snowy street.

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Wizard on Horseback Sarah Mednick | Digital Spring 2023 | 53

Boozfongers I. G. Chapin Hello there! I see you’ve stumbled into my shop. Allow me to introduce myself! My name is Fellonial Boozfonger, and it is my pleasure to welcome you into Boozfonger’s fine wines, spirits, magical items, curiosities, wares, tears, bits, bobs, and all-around fun little gizmos. Be careful what you touch, let me know if you need any help, and don’t forget: you break it, your soul is bound to it by dark magicks for all eternity (as you can see here on my little sign. Oh, thank you! My grandnephew made it at school.)

I see you eyeing that fine gnomish vintage. It really is a lovely wine, a few hundred years old (to my recollection); it tastes subtly of oak, mulberries, and cobwebs. If you’re looking for something a little newer, we have a 2021 sauvignon blanc from Italy, but it’s really not as good. Not in the market for a fine wine? That’s no problem at all!

I have a whole wall of spirits that will knock your socks off! This one here is the highest proof we have, and that one in the cage on the top shelf will make you breathe fire!

Not into spirits? That’s fine! Then let’s just move past this section of haunted items and into the realm of curiosities! We have anything your mind can conjure, from mermaids preserved in formaldehyde to a small vial filled with sasquatch saliva to the actual whip used by Harrison Ford on the set of the second Indiana Jones movie!

None of those seem to be tickling your fancy but worry not! For you have yet to peruse our section of magical items! Join me, won’t you, deeper into the back of the store (how far back it goes is none of your concern, thank you very much!) Here we have jewels of various sizes imbued with spells of various potencies. This green one will give you muscles like Popeye…or is it this green one? No it’s this other one, the first one will make your intestines fall out of your nose.

Don’t touch that one. This staff here is said to be thousands of years old, used by Druids in an age long past to summon beings of pure elemental energy. I use it to swat flies that land on high-up shelves.

This shelf of books contains multitudes! Tomes with instructions on how to connect with your past lives, tomes with incantations that will

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make your pants fall off.

Follow me to that far shelf, the one with all the vials and flasks. Here is our wide selection of potions and elixirs! Ones that will change your shape, ones that will change the thickness of your hair, a little something for everyone!

And over here is our kid’s section: full of various magical weapons, autonomous toys, and those little die-cast cars that they sell at every Walgreens.

My heavens! Where are my manners, I’ve been talking this whole time and haven’t let you get a word in edgewise. What was it you were about to say?

Oh… No, I’m sorry the bathroom is for paying customers only.

Frog Teatime Sarah Mednick | Digital Spring 2023 | 55

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Hey You! I. G. Chapin Hey You! Yes, You! I’ve been trying to contact you for WEEKS! (or at least it feels like weeks) There’s something very important going on down at the local lake!

Billy Dixon is going to jump the lake on his moped!

We better go fast; he’s going to start in like fifteen minutes!

What? You can go to your dentist appointment some other time!

What do you mean you don’t know Billy Dixon?! His dad is the city comptroller that’s why he’s allowed to do all this crazy stuff!

Yeah! He’s been doing stuff like this for years!

Just last month he shotgunned a beer in the gorilla enclosure at the zoo!

What do you mean you don’t want to see Billy Dixon jump the local lake on his moped?

This is the event of the season, and you don’t want to go?

I thought you were my friend.

What? What do you mean you don’t know me?

You’re in my pre-algebra class, aren’t you?

You’re not even in high school? I thought I knew you. You’ve changed.

Fine then…

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I’ll just go watch Billy Dixon jump the local lake on his moped on my own.

I’ve even heard people saying he won’t make it across so you’re probably not missing anything anyway.

I’ll just be on my way now… sorry for bothering you.

What’s that?

You’re going to call your dentist to reschedule so you can come watch Billy Dixon jump the local lake on his moped?

Well, that’s great news!

And I have one more piece of great news!

I’m Billy Dixon! And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lake to jump!

Hey you! Across the street!

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Device F. Morris Gelbart | Graphite & Digital 60 | Perception

HIGH WIND WARNING Roslyn Lydick I am buffeted to and fro—stumbling off the sidewalk while I try to stuff my expensive-authentic-beret in my overfull bag—honk! a car swerving around-close one, mister I exclaim—now I am slammed the other way into a lamppost with yard sale advertisements torn clean off—tripping back up the sidewalk feet almost catching in the long hem of my coat-yeesh!-which is flapping like laminated paper-fwubfwubfwub—oh shit-I collide with a stranger-oh fuck-he’s walking four dogs—merde!-they run around and around me—I am tangled in leashes—his apologies cannot be heard over the wind— he struggles with the leashes-his face is panicked-he is pulled closer to me-ooh la la I swoon-we are the two of us a maypole-a tornado— the world tilts—we crash onto the sidewalk—he has kept hold of the leashes-and has no hands to catch me—the dogs return en massethey lick my face-they lick my haute couture eyeshadow-they lick my tragically rouge lipstick—he yells-get off her you beastly blokes-I nearly faint at his accent—I am still on the street—a delivery boy bursts out of the bakery-arms laden with cakes-ah no ma chere he cannot see me—he trips—the cakes go flying—they are carried by the wind—they explode on shop windows—they explode on the street— everywhere covered in cake—the delivery boy faints from shock— the dogs break free at last-they lick the cake off his face-he sits up— oh mon dieu-it is my brother Jonathan—I flee the scene—I burst into a used bookstore, back flat against the slammed door, making excruciating eye contact with twenty elegant ladies, and breathing, breathing, breathing!

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Therapeutic Endeavors Olivia Happel | Acrylic on Canvas 62 | Perception

Grilled Cheese with Parmesan Audrey Ledbetter Ingredients: - bread, 2 slices - cheese, preferably American, 2 slices - salted butter, 1.5 teaspoons - grated parmesan, 1 spoonful 1. Butter the top slice of bread and set it aside. Put a slice of cheese on the bottom slice of bread (and take off wrapping first, if applicable.)

2. Add the parmesan next, making an even layer with a spoon. Try not to spill any onto the plate. (And when you do, just add the spilled parm back onto the sandwich.)

3. Then, add some love. (This step is optional, mind you.) (Don’t actually do it.)

4. Turn the bottom-right burner to medium. Don’t turn on the wrong one again. Don’t. Don’t. (Turn off the top right burner. This always happens.)

5. Melt some butter in a pan. Spread it with a spatula. Arrange a little love in a heart on the bread. (You’re asexual. You don't have any love.)

(That’s why this step is optional.)

6. Add bread slice, butter side up, and put the sandwich in the pan.

Flatten it with your spatula and sprinkle love generously on both sides. (That's a lie, actually. You have love. Lots of love, actually. You love your cat. You love writing. You love your friends. You love leaves in fall. You love your family. You love moonlight in the window.)

(It's the wrong kind of love. Frivolous. Childish. Empty poetry. Secondrate in comparison. Third-rate, even, depending on who you ask.) (To you it's the right kind, though. It's the only kind you really know.)

7. Let it cook for three minutes or until the bottom is golden brown.

Brown, not burnt.

8. Drizzle some love overtop. (You dated only once. A simple summer fling. Nothing too physical, of course not—you're you!) (She asked

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you out. She kissed you. But you were hardly bothered when things fizzled out.) (You miss her. You love her.)

8a. (You love all your friends.)

9. (Did you love her? Really love her? ‘Love-love,’ that’s what people call it. Real love. Actual love. Passionate. Carnal. Good poetry. None of that so-called “love,” this is humanity-defining love!) (Did you love-love her? Who else, then, have you love-loved before? Who do you lovelove now?) Season it heavily with love.

9a. (You’re supposed to know what love is. You’re supposed to know it when you feel it. You'll know when you're older. You first heard that when you were small. Very small.) (How would you know?

How does anyone know?)

(You hear people talk about it all the time. You always have.

Attraction: spontaneous or slow burning, it's starting to feel like some sort of prank.)

10. (Falling in love means maturing. Falling in love is healthy. Falling in love makes us human.) (What does that mean for you?) Flip your sandwich and let it cook for three minutes or until golden brown. (Try to scrape the burnt bits off the bottom. This always happens. You really should pay more attention while you cook.) Once it's ready, transfer the completed sandwich to a plate. (Does it matter? You know it doesn't.)

11. Add a small dollop of love on top. (This step is optional. You love that it's optional. You really, truly do!)

(Because it isn't a matter of accepting yourself. You accepted that you're ace ages ago. You've embraced it wholeheartedly. Found solace in it, found community. Comfort. Joy and undeniable pride.

The asexual flag hangs on your wall for a reason, after all.)

11a. (But it's in movies and music and conversations on the street. In books and Twitter posts and conventional wisdom, notions of love that don't click with you. (That can't click with you.) You weren't made for them, not to your current knowledge. And it doesn't really bother you. Sometimes you think it’s fun, even, to watch the sport of romance from the safety of the stands.)

11b. (But sometimes you're cooking. You’re waiting. You have nothing to do but let your mind wander.)

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12. Cut it into triangles (the perfect sandwich shape) and enjoy!

12a. (So you let your food burn and you think.) (And of all the things in the world, you think about this. Like a mayfly buzzing in your ear. (Again.))

13. Put your plate in the sink once you're done. Or in the trash, if it's paper. Waltz out of the kitchen (and learn nothing.)

13a. (Or learn everything.)

13b. (Fuck it, I don’t know!)

13c. (What exactly have you learned from this? What exactly am I supposed to say?)

13d. (How do I make you understand?)

13e. (I wrote this in the second person, in the ‘you,’, as though I could grab you by the wrists and make my kitchen your own, with its creaking stove and stained countertop and just-turned eggs in the fridge. Like you would follow each instruction I gave you to the letter: add cheese, spread butter, think, think, think my thoughts in between each step on the path to comfort food until you're frustrated by the mere concept of romance. Of sex. Of love. Of virgins and cat ladies and naivety and all the other stupid little things people think when you tell them you don’t swing either way. Of being told your lived experience doesn't matter, as though I could make my lack of love your own.)

13f. (You might not even like grilled cheese. That alone might have taken you out of this. I'm sorry, for what it's worth, if it did.

Hopefully it helped you understand what I mean.)

13g. (When I said “you don't have any love,” did you think that was a misunderstanding? When I asked “what does that mean for you,” did you think I was just being dramatic? When I said “it isn't a matter of accepting yourself,” did you think that was all a lie?)

13h. (I’ve spent four pages telling you what I struggle to articulate even in queer spaces. Do you understand? Do you get what I'm saying? Do you think there's even a point here worth getting?)

13i. (Are we just getting angry over nothing?)

13j. (Am I even angry at all?)

13k. (Whatever. Whatever.)

14. Get distracted. It doesn't matter by what, just go do something

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else for a while. Go boot up your poor long-suffering laptop, maybe, and watch the newest episode of that show you like. Or re-organize your rat’s nest of a dresser, which you really should’ve done ages ago. Or write an essay about cyclical thoughts and being in a onepercent. (That “one percent of the populace is asexual” statistic is rather unsubstantiated, did you know that? From a 1940s study and a 1990s survey, even the surveyor said there’s not enough data to know for sure. How many other people out there, then, are burning their dinners too?)

15. Go work until you’re hungry. Watch until you’re starved.

16. Lie awake with an empty plate on your chest. (What’s it matter?

What’s it matter? I’m here and I am, aren’t I?) 16a. (What does the rest matter, anyway?)

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Siren's Call Charles Gebbia I miss seeing her Up on that stage The lights beaming down Like she's the only star in the sky The single guiding light Beyond thousands of flickering souls Commanding us Controlling us Sharing with us a story That only she can tell And yet her eyes only meet mine No matter how big the audience No matter how many fall to her spell She sings for me To me My dearest My muse My love I miss your voice And long for it to call to me Quietly Serenely Beckoning me home To you

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witch bar Ronan Mansfield | Watercolor

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the reality is Katherine "Katya" Nikolau so much of this will be sad. so much of this will be walking around in the cutting cold, aches you can’t name, and people who come and go, then come and go again. we talk about how we’ll decorate these empty rooms, and what kinds of things we’ll do in them. i hope there’s more beauty to this before there’s not. you tell me how much you hate everything, and i want to yank the heavy from you like weeds, the roots of everything bitter coming up and apart in my palms. instead i say it’ll be okay. i don’t know that it will. it’s the middle of the week and i want to fix the world for you. make it shiny and new and facing right towards you, promising to be different this time. instead, i listen and listen and feel so sad hearing you that i almost want to tell you about it. i don’t.

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toast Melina Iavarone Fried. The flat-iron has run over these locks far too many times to count. In an effort to look like a pretty girl tonight, I let the heat frizzle each strand–and I wonder why I have dead ends…I’m the murderer!

I feel a boiling-hot stinging sensation on my knuckle. Fingers caught between the plates again. Beauty is pain. My bedroom air reeks of burnt brunette. I choke on my own heartbeat, worried the smoke will wake the alarm on the popcorn ceiling. I imagine the inhabitants of my apartment complex evacuating, all because of my makeover.

I let the house fire scent fill my lungs, hold my breath, and mumble a prayer for a still-sleeping smoke alarm. I’m cold. The beauty tool might be a weapon to my fingertips but it keeps me from shivering.

I’m reminded that my shampoo has been recalled for hair loss allegations and I swear I can feel a hollowness in each follicle. Back to mumbling and praying. I think my mind is playing tricks on me.

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Acupuncture Alaina Triantafilledes The lady put a needle in my sternum and pressed on my wrist.

To toughen up my heart’s bouncer, she said, and thicken my pericardium.

I am a thing with thorns pointed inward, I replied.

A porcupine inside out.

I was full of winter. She aimed the heat lamp at my feet, placed a sheet over me Like I was pronounced dead—legs elevated, a heating pad Beneath my back. When I said I can’t stop crying and bleeding, she said she had an herb. She lit mugwort on my sternum, below my navel, beside my knee.

Point when it gets too hot, she said. It shouldn’t hurt.

She used up all her moxa trying to purge the toxins from my heart. I let it burn and keep burning. When the heat finally permeated my chest, the lady cheered. I should’ve been scorched, but I was just a bit warm.

Then I was on my stomach, releasing grief through the needles that lined my spine.

The sheet covered everything but my back like a reptile basking. We didn’t know what I was mourning for or if I was more Earth or Metal or Water. Only that I was all clogged up.

I told her my left hip had been electric since the night a butterfly bush cushioned my fall And I limped from house to house dressed as the Queen of Hearts.

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She touched all the tender spots on my right arm and put a needle in each one—a spiked sling.

When it was over, she listened to my pulse and nodded slowly. Much better, she said With her fingers on my wrist, she pressed on the pale valley between tendons.

My heart was still made of lead, but the nausea gave way. My hip felt much better.

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Prayer is sinner Alex Cao | Photography Spring 2023 | 73

becoming Katherine "Katya" Nikolau what am i? small and fragile and perpetually frightened. what are you? quiet and loud and looking at me with those dark chocolate eyes. i love you and i don’t quite know what to do about it. i don’t know where to put my aches so i’ll set them down here, where the white field of the page asks me nothing, just listens and listens, like a good friend should, and the noise of the computer-keys echoes back, mimicking dialogue. i belong on a porch with a mug of hot coffee, watching the world go by, listening to birds chirping away summer days. and you belong next to me, lover, so i can examine the crinkles in your smiling lips and think up too many synonyms for the words pretty and lovely. you make shapes and i make sounds, together we make sense. you answer my questions before i ask them; in return, i bake you pies and cookies and cakes, letting you taste cream and batter off my fingertips before i open the oven door. this love is sweetest when it’s still becoming.

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Refining Touch Nora Benko | Digital Spring 2023 | 75

late night aromantic phone conversations Emma Carroll Hudson keep me up until 3am his deep voice laughs as the sole audience member at my stand-up show.

i fear i’m a voice narcissus,

hogging the audio. my headphones die while my laptop breathes. he speaks and I ask myself is he okay as just a friend?

my heart aches knowing i don’t feel more heat.

the ceiling fan grumbles at my arrogant loneliness. wrapped in a blanket, i google why being alone

is more inviting than hand holds and snake hugs.

people have needs and i have a desire to exist only

in words i conjure as bubble whispers.

they pop and i love you is never spoken.

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Sunken Grace Underwood I dream of skipping stones across a pale blue river With you.

We hunt for stones that are Smooth and round, And fit between our hands when we interlace our fingers.

My rocks don’t skip as far as they used to.

I think it’s because you’re not here to test them with me.

Or maybe it’s because I Chuck them Rather than Flicking them.

Reveling in the crash disturbing our little river.

Our hands would be stained with earth And our feet bruised from pebbles kicked into our shoes.

Our clothes suctioned to our skin from when we dared each other further Into the portal to another realm.

I like to imagine what our world would be like immobile in the dirt and sand; To just let the waves impact and erode.

To stare at the same water around you, Knowing you’ll never touch the same atom twice.

To watch fish fly above our heads.

I imagine what it is like not to breathe.

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Washed Away Olivia Happel | Acrylic, Embroidery Floss, Pen, Ink 78 | Perception

The Gemini Claire Aronson The Guinness in my glass, golden in nature, but glowing blue under the cool LEDs in the back of this bar, resembles a divine nectar. Bubbles twirl up the insides of the glass; I trace their aimless paths with my index finger, leaving irregular stripes in the condensation. My wrist bends awkwardly as my hand moves to lift the cup by its rim, and only the pressure of my five fingertips is keeping the thing from slipping. I take my time, moving the cup first in languid circles, watching the liquid ripple at the surface, letting the whirlpool grow gradually. Soon enough, though, the bubbles who were just performing their balletic dance are now jiving merrily into dissolved non-existence.

A high-pitched giggle snaps my attention away from the performance, and I glance up in time to notice the pair of dark eyes sitting across from me flash left to meet their friend’s responding gaze.

“So,” the gazer—Audrey, I think hums. “Tell me, Aiden, when’s your birthday?” she asks; her playful inflection indicating no genuine curiosity. Opposite me, her friend with the eyes smirks knowingly.

I feel a huff of laughter on my side of the table as Aiden’s clothed elbow, resting adjacent to mine, shifts against my bare forearm. I chance a look at my companion and see that he is already casting his beguiling smile on the girls who joined us mere minutes ago.

“Uh, June tenth,” Aiden answers placatingly. Audrey lets out a faux gasp. I look back at my beer to hide the roll of my eyes.

“Uh oh,” she grins. “You’re a Gemini.”

“A what?”

“A Gemini—you know, like, your star sign?”

“Oh,” Aiden frowns. “Is that bad?”

“Ah, well, you know what they say about Geminis,” Audrey sing-songs, leaning forwards on her elbows.

“I don’t, actually,” Aiden feigns, though his eyes sparkle

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expectantly. He shifts closer to her–mirroring the movement.

“Apparently,” she slows, “they can’t be trusted.” Her friend nods quietly in agreement. I look back at her: exposed shoulders slumped as she leans back to passively observe the two’s conversation, decorated fingers fiddling with the straw in her drink boredly.

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” Aiden gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. Audrey’s chuckle morphs into a considering hum. She takes a slow sip of her blood-red cocktail, shiny pink lips pursing upwards around plastic, before responding.

“No, no, no,” she tuts. “Not necessarily… I’m just saying the universe says I shouldn’t.” Aiden raises an eyebrow.

“The universe doesn’t know shit, then.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yeah, don’t believe that crap. You can trust me,” He reaches his hand out towards her wrist, and when she doesn’t pull away, he wraps his hand around it, staring intently at her. “Promise,” he adds, so seriously no one could actually take it so.

Audrey is grinning. Her pearly white canines glow in this lighting; she moves her unclasped hand to rest atop Aiden’s.

“Okay, I suppose I could give you a chance.”

“You’re too kind.” Aiden smiles back at her.

My beer hasn’t been touched for the last five minutes, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing away from the table, my chair scraping loudly against the floor as I do so, and muttering an excuse about needing a new drink. No one seems to notice, and I’m heading toward the bar too quickly to decide if I care.

It’s a college bar on a Friday night, so the counter is lined with the unfamiliar faces of my supposed peers. I squeeze between two people, both turned towards different conversations. To my left, a girl with straight black hair and freckles dotting her uncovered back is complaining about her economics professor and his inability to follow the schedule on the course syllabus. To my right, some dude who hasn’t fully tucked in his shirt is raving about how well his cryptocurrency is doing on the market. As my eyes linger on his ducktail, I reach behind myself to prod along the waistline of my

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own pants where, thankfully, no loose fabric seems to be hanging embarrassingly.

The bartendress is mixing some obscure drink, the gold bangles on her wrist rattling as she shakes the container. I watch her for a while until we make eye-contact, and she approaches.

“Ian,” she nods in greeting. Georgia bartends on Fridays, so we’ve become well-acquainted over the past few months.

“Georgia,” I nod back. “Fancy seeing you here.” She rolls her eyes.

“Where’s your friend?”

“Oh, you know,” I tilt my head backward in no specific direction; she understands anyway.

“What can I get you, then?”

“Ummm,” I haven’t thought this far ahead, coming here mainly for a change of pace. “Another beer I guess. Something cheap.”

Cheap alcohol for cheap conversation, I think as she slides me a bottle of Miller Lite.

“I’ll add it to your tab,” she winks, then she’s talking to another customer before I can even say thank you.

I turn my back to the bar and begin to scan the room when I notice our table and can’t hold back a snort. I grab my bottle and weave my way back through the high tables littered with half-full plastic cups and people crowding around them. Three empty seats plus a fourth filled by a dejected twenty-two-year-old, wait for me.

He is currently emptying a glass–my glass.

“Oi,” I kick Aiden’s chair, “that’s my beer,” I tell him. He looks up at me and smirks.

“So what? You got a new one anyway.”

“Yeah, but this is the shit shit.”

“Sucks to be you, then.”

“What’d you do this time?” I ask, gesturing to the missing company. Aiden lets out a short laugh and wags his index finger at me.

“Hey, now, don’t assume it was me. Her friend had, like, an emergency so they had to go.” He pulls his phone from his chest pocket and shakes it in my face. “Got her number, see?”

“A bust is a bust, my friend.” I pat his back consolingly.

His only button down shirt is soft from all the wear, but the space

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between his shoulder blades is… definitely not. I move my hand to the back of his chair. “Shall we go?” The grating of wood as he pulls away from the table is answer enough, so I take one last swig from my bottle while he puts on his jacket, and we’re out the door.

Compared to the insulated warmth of the packed bar, the night is chilly. My body instinctively shivers for a second, but I shake it out and start walking. I take a deep breath of the crisp air and feel the cold pierce through my throat and into my chest before exhaling with shuddering relief. Aiden’s right beside me, hands buried in his suede jacket, eyes trained on the path in front of us. I follow their gaze and watch our feet step in sync on the sidewalk.

The grains of cement, still wet from the rain this afternoon, glisten under the streetlights, and our boots squelch lightly as we tread. It's a comfortable quietness, but there’s one thing left to be said.

“By the way,” I say.

“Hmmm?” Aiden shifts his head towards me, ready to listen, and then I punch him hard on the shoulder. He yelps and stumbles to the side before catching himself.

“What the fuck, Ian!” “You deserved that,” I raise my voice. “You’re literally so annoying.”

“The hell did I do?!” He yells back, gesturing frantically. I roll my eyes.

“June tenth, my ass. You were born in fucking November!”

I exclaim. He freezes for a second, processing, and then barks out a laugh. He continues to laugh, cackling maniacally. I watch him lean against the wall of the building and bend over, visible puffs of air escaping his mouth as he gasps for breath. He looks at me from his position, and I roll my eyes again, grinning. “You’re so full of it, man.”

“Hey!” He starts to laugh again. “It’s– it’s not my fault–girls– they eat that shit up! They’re obsessed with it! My star sign, my birthday, if I have a birth chart...”

“Ok, why’d you lie, though?” He straightens himself up, a picture of wisdom.

“Girls, they love a lot about astrology, but they mostly love slandering Geminis.”

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“Huh?” He starts walking, but I’m still in my perplexed state.

“I dunno, it’s just something I’ve picked up, y’know?

Tonight wasn’t my first rodeo.” He turns to look back at me and winks. “Besides, no one gives a fuck about Libras. We’re not good conversation topics.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?!” I cry before running to catch up to him.

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Jam for Leo Charles Gebbia Five friends remain One fallen, honored by A saxophone, two guitars, two voices In a small pub, punk and virgin Loving and full of familiar faces On the walls On the people With music in the air “Remembrance Song” Connecting and crossing languages Low lights and lower stools, CD’s, lighters, cigarettes Memorabilia clutters Love encompasses And joy fills the small pub “Love me tender, love me true” Support in the hard parts, love through the hardest Labradors and leather pants, a kilt and t-shirts, hair as high as a houseplant Beers and daiquiris Tabs and testimonials Friends form new bonds Connections made in sounds of Grief and laughter Song unites between the chalk walls and drawings “In Rock Trust” The “We” left unsaid and unwritten.

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Joan Baez Sarah Mednick | Digital Spring 2023 | 85

The Coming of Age Anand Benegal …the coming of age The vast firmament is eaten by worms …as fire washes the jaded ground. …a last sunset of violent colour as the oceans pour into the skies…

The burning eye dims sinks and cries as the horizon falls…

Her vision grows ever larger… a Circle of stars …a serpent floats …and skulks in the sky… aligns over the desert… …as the tides rise and fall…in a different rhythm… …thirsting for water …and blood.

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don't think about the frogs Ronan Mansfield | Acrylic on Canvas Spring 2023 | 87

Mature but not Grown Yasmin Nayrouz When I was twelve I was told I was mature for my age Spoke nicely, politely, concisely Used my manners and said a smart phrase Found politics and books exciting Education enlightening When I was twelve I was labeled: mature And I believed it Didn’t see the need to grow anymore So I sped through my teenage years Always on the cusp of letting myself make mistakes But I was way too mature to make So with my nose in the air I’d walk away When I turned twenty I realized: I’m not mature Not developed—Always unsure A bit misinformed By a pair of youthful lens that I outgrew But still wore I haven’t seen the ugliness of the world I sheltered myself in this bubble of “mature” A mature person wouldn’t do this or that Go here or there Take risks and make mistakes When I turned twenty I finally matured But not fully At my own pace Life is not a race I will determine how I age I’m still learning to walk with grace As I gift myself patience and understanding And hope others do the same

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Baby Steps Madeline Sloyer | Screenprint Spring 2023 | 89

Girl Rosemary Crist The first time I learned I was a girl, I was seven. My friends were all boys—something that meant just as much to me as words like “algebra” or “taxes.” I had a knowledge of gender by name alone, but it was as blurry a concept as anything else pertaining to the closedoff adult world. My two best friends were David and Reid, and our bond was built on Pokemon Black 2 for the 3DS. David’s house was our stomping grounds, as he lived in this big white, clean house that made you think if you touched anything wrong you might be scolded.

I recall playing hide and seek, where Reid was the seeker, and David suggested we hide under the duvet on his bed. Facing each other and waiting with baited breath, it wasn’t Reid, but rather David’s mom who whipped the duvet off of us. At first I figured I had done something wrong in this fancy, rich-person house, but instead David was taken away and scolded. I could hear the conversation from atop his stairs as both he and Reid were yelled at for acting inappropriately towards “a girl.” I was only after a while able to connect the word to myself.

When I got older, I became friends with more girls and stopped talking to boys like David or Reid. My new friends did all of the typical girly things—sleepovers, truth or dare, boy talk. All of it was a childish perversion of teenage activities, being acted out by nine and ten year olds. But, amid these games, I gained a reputation of being the daredevil. I ate gross food combinations, spoke loudly and confidently, and assigned myself the role as the girl who had kissed the most boys.

I bragged all the time about how many boys I had been able to score, equating this romantic tally to being another mark of being a daredevil. The reality was, I had only ever kissed one boy, and it was moreso an accident than anything. But, their names grew on

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my roster of fabricated stories, equating this sexual overtness with a sense of pride and being “cool.”

The second time I remembered I was a girl was for my second kiss.

Reason being that the second kiss held more weight in my twelveyear-old hands than the first, accidental brush on the playground mulch. In my bedroom, clasping my best friend’s hand, I professed to her that I believed I had a crush on her. She reciprocated, more so than I expected. Martha and I decided then and there that we were “dating,” a word just about as foreign to me as “girl” had been for my younger self. Martha had “dated” a boy before, to the extent that they hung out whenever their parents hung out and were prescribed the label by both parents, but this felt different to the both of us.

We had chosen each other in a way that felt far more intimate than friendship, and we acted out the steps of a relationship as far as we knew how.

All of a sudden, lying about kissing so many boys as a kid was cast into a new form, and my gender was no longer just girl, but the dominant girl. Martha looked to me to make decisions, act more sexual. In my head, I was the boy of the relationship, which felt more comfortable compared to the girl role that I understood from my friends.

“Womanhood” read as a punchline to me in puberty. I hated the concept of “girly” things, as they seemed like a voluntary agreement to be weak and fragile. I was, naturally, being fed the language of the content I consumed, but I still felt as though through dating a girl I had escaped this disgusting acceptance of femininity I feared so deeply.

In the devastation of puberty, I found myself out of love with Martha.

I also discovered a new person on the other side of the relationship— a person who didn’t even think of themselves as a girl. “Mars,” now, identified as neither girl nor boy, which spiraled me into a new role in our relationship. Neither of us broke it off—Mars, because they were still in love, and me, because I was too afraid to say I wasn’t.

Being a girl no longer felt like one long joke I had to stick with my

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whole life, but something that existed inside of me neutrally. I was not pleased to be a girl, but I could not have complained about it. My clothing became loose and casual—with no hint of gender imbued in any outfit I wore.

My first confession to the system of gender roles was makeup, something that enthralled me. I wore makeup almost every day, doing it as an artist rather than for outward impressions. My excuse was that I did makeup not in a girly way, but in the same way that gay guys did. As an art and a subversion of expectation, for I couldn’t fathom the idea of meeting an expectation about myself. The rebellious daredevil kicked inside of me, wanting to claw away from the part of me that was beginning to like the feeling of being a girl.

With time, gender expression became like makeup had been—an art rather than an outward performance. While everyday I dressed ambiguously and casually, I also reveled in occasions that merited a dress and nice hair and makeup. In finally leaving my relationship with Mars, I was left as I was when I was twelve-years-old at age eighteen: I had no clues about my sexuality and felt a ravenous tear through my sense of gender.

“We’re all born queer” is a concept I’ve heard thrown around in recent years to describe the onset social construct of gender and how it affects children. To evolve from a complete ignorance to the meaning of being a girl as a child to a direct repulsion to femininity all the way to an acceptance of being a woman—I believe the concept holds some weight. There were a million times in life I learned that I was a girl, such as, Being groomed on the Internet as a child, Being asked “Do you have a crush on me?” by coworkers, Being dismissed for an eating disorder because it seemed normal to want to lose weight, Being told “That’s how teen girls drive” when getting into a car accident, Being “too loud” as a child,

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Being “too quiet” as an adult.

The weight of the title of girl weighs heavy over my life. I want to beg forgiveness for mocking it as a child, and in the same breath I want to thrash against the identity and rid myself of it. I want to chase after the little girl who was confused when she just wanted to play Pokemon with her friends, and who thought the only way to be cool was to be disgusting and fearless, and who was tricked by every single man into thinking that there was something wrong with the way she was and the meaning of the word “girl.”

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cherry tongue Melina Iavarone I was never allowed to order the cherry flavor: something about a tongue stained red put mother off, so I grew accustomed to lemon and mango and other much-too-mature things for a 7-year old’s sugary palette. I remember racing my cousins up to the Italian ice truck growing up, signing my name on the back in pink Sharpie and getting chills up my sunburnt spine from the sound it would make against dusty metal. A little better, I remember trying to find a patch of shadowed blacktop to stand on while waiting in line—the hot sun burnt the road and blistered my bare feet. I would clench onto mom’s cash so hard I was convinced George Washington’s face would be tattooed on my palm. The air was warm but the wind was fast and I never trusted it with my money, even as a child. Artificial lemon ice left my taste buds sour and my chin sticky with residue. I can hear my cherry-hating mother in the background telling me to catch a wave and let the saltwater wash it off. Running to the shore, I can feel the movement of sandcrabs in between my toes, so I hopscotch the rest of my way to the wet sand and avoid their wiggles. Too ticklish.

Off-putting, like a cherry-red tongue.

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Untitled Bailee Roberts | Digital Spring 2023 | 95

melancholy gaze Julia Gershowitz Melancholia pursed its lips & Kissed your frosted cheek.

Its taste is numb Unaltered by the simple quiet breeze.

Meaning rests on your skin Bittersweet and ambivalent Unsure and ghostly You let out a sigh & The pressure upon your eyelids became too much to bear.

As they Finally reached down Hiding your view of the darkness Protecting your vision from another sorry glance Yet, even with eyes closed, You encounter the darkness again.

An empty unknown And as eyelids begin to raise, The aperture widens, And you can’t help but to blink.

Still stuck in a haze Starry.

Still.

Staring at nothing, but Searching for everything.

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Soup I. Alvarez Men spit their hardened faces towards me and the black road curves too sharp.

Calloused hands and cowboy hats, the sharp smell of spilled beer and Patsy Cline warbling in the background.

I watch you wrinkle, paper skin crumpling like a hotel Bible.

The house reeks of Camel Lites.

We stop for Panera Bread and you pour three, four, five packets of salt into the soup. Humming along to Johnny Cash and you can’t even bring the spoon to your gummy lips without spilling.

At your funeral I can only think of the soup. The ugliness of Iowa on a Thursday, the men with their faces and the Waylon Jennings on repeat, Badlands looming in the distance.

The soup, filmy and ruined.

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the beer distributor Isabella Brown | Film Photography

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Wordless, Nameless, Real Vanessa Walker You give yourself away so effortlessly in these hours between awareness when desire bleeds into your dreams and animates your sleeping body outside your own command, revealing to me what your tongue cannot.

You must feel more here than we allow outside these walls beyond these lips as they dance and exchange wordless affections affirming the existence of that which we refuse to subject to arbitrary titles, at least we convince ourselves they are.

What else could account for warm breezes that glide on my neck grazing cool skin that ripples and bends at the sensation, pulling me into an embrace which screams that no closeness short of merged souls could ever satisfy you, layered gestures wrapped in unconscious minutes we won’t dare discuss when we wake and acquaint ourselves with reason again, banishing that nameless love into its rightful, resigned state, shielding us from the world’s presuming stares and binding names safe, foolishly safe.

Stubborn creatures we are, pretending we could be anything less than this.

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Yearning Caitlin Spillane | Photography

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Halloween Alaina Triantafilledes Ella wasn’t fond of parties, but if she went, she spent less time at the party and more time outside of it. The outside of a party was someplace liminal. It was for seltzer cans in wet grass and laughter in passing. It was for hiding or for telling the truth. Tonight, Ella found herself on the porch steps of a stranger’s house. She sat with her chin propped on her hand, her cheek squished into her palm. As usual, she was in strange company. That is, after all, the most common kind of company. After twenty resilient minutes in the sweaty basement, Ella wandered up the stairs and out the front door.

She found herself among silent smokers and passionate couples on their way to one of their bedrooms. Ella wondered if their roommates were home. On the sidewalk in front of the house, girls who were only partially dressed were dressed as bunnies. They were all talking over each other. The outside of a party was a place for comers and goers, but Ella was prone to lingering. It was in these in-between places where you could observe or sometimes overhear the most interesting fragments of things that were none of your business.

The cotton-tailed girls were calling their friends. They asked in slurred, panicked voices where the others were and insisted they come outside before the Uber arrived. Past the girls pacing on the sidewalk, a boy leaned against a tree. Ella could see the shape of his breath leaving his mouth as smoke and he could see hers as heat in the cold. If they could help it, their eyes never met.

“That party was so dead,” one bunny said to another.

“It’s always dead,” the other bunny said. She was typing on her phone and her eyes hadn’t left the screen for at least forty-five seconds. A third bunny recommended a party two streets over.

“It’s always dead there,” said the first bunny.

“I’m tired,” said a different bunny. This one held her detached puffball tail in one hand. Before they reached a consensus, they piled into the Uber driver’s SUV. Ella wondered what the destination was set as and if the driver would be annoyed when they

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changed their minds and what time the driver would go to bed.

Ella’s friends were inside somewhere. She wasn’t worried. She’d managed to slip away while they were singing through drooping smiles and swaying on the sticky dance floor. Sometimes she’d say to one of them that she needed to use the bathroom or get a drink of water. She’d wave her hand in a reassuring way, like she’d be back soon, though she had no intention of returning. They both knew this. Ella trusted that they would find each other one way or another before the night was over. They always managed to find her. Any minute now, her phone would buzz and keep buzzing. Her friends would come pouring out of the house onto the porch.

“What’s wrong?” They would ask in that voice.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ella would answer as many times as they asked. And she would mean it too. She didn’t mind the solitude and she needed the air. Ella could only inhale so much of the thick, wet, recycled breath inside that house. Ella preferred the air she was breathing now—frigid and sharp and turning her nose pink.

Ella was a well-practiced wallflower. She’d find a corner to haunt with a good view of all the tangled bodies changing colors in the light. For the sake of camouflage, she’d try to make her own body as gelatinous as possible. It wasn’t easy because she had stiff shoulders. The music was usually synthesized or bouncy and made her organs buzz. She couldn’t pretend to know the words, but she did weave her head back and forth like she was having a good time.

Sometimes, she didn’t have to pretend as much. Not often, though.

Once, she’d occupied a corner that was next to a pool table.

There had been a girl in a trench coat playing against a duo of curlyhaired boys with glow-stick bracelets. Ella couldn’t tell who was winning. Neither of the teams seemed particularly invested in the game. When only a few striped balls remained on the table, the girl in the trench coat offered Ella her pool stick.

“Oh, no,” Ella said. “I don’t know how to play pool. I’m a mess.”

“Me too,” said the girl. “You can do it.”

“No,” Ella insisted. “I’m a mess that can’t play pool.”

The girl then beckoned Ella to the table and gave her the stick. Her body was tense when the girl stood behind her and moved

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her arms into the proper position. It was like they were spooning, but they were standing, and they didn’t know each other’s names.

Ella felt like she was aiming a rifle. If she had been aiming a rifle, she would have put a bullet through someone’s neck. When Ella jerked the stick forward, the tip slid beneath the cue ball. It did a little hop, rolled a few inches, then stilled. The ball she’d been aiming for hardly moved. It was an undeniably terrible shot, but nobody mentioned it.

After the match ended, Ella danced with the girl.

“I don’t really like dancing,” Ella told her.

“My name is Genevieve,” the girl said.

They kissed passionately.

Before the party ended, Genevieve gave Ella her business card. She was a spiritual healer. They went outside and Genevieve draped her trench coat around Ella’s shoulders while she smoked a joint. Ella took one puff but hardly inhaled it because she didn’t want to cough too hard and look uncool. If Genevieve noticed, she said nothing. Ella was grateful. After the joint was finished, Genevieve took her coat back. They kissed goodbye. They hadn’t crossed paths since then.

That was the nature of people. All unknown to each other and pretending or attempting to be known to each other. Nobody would talk about how they were either going to part ways or die.

They draped themselves over one another. They exchanged more spit than words. Close friends and strangers alike practiced this habit of being temporary and keeping secrets. At parties, Ella could see it in every heavy gaze. She scrutinized their irises for strands of truth, peered into their pupils like shouting into a tunnel and waiting for an echo. Ella looked hard behind those red solo cups and that was the fun of it. Until it wasn’t fun anymore. Until she remembered if she could see their eyes, they could see hers. They fascinated her briefly but eventually suffocated her with their secrets.

“I’m going to get some air,” Ella would tell a friend when that happened.

“Where?” the friend would ask.

“Somewhere,” Ella would say, and they’d nod at each other.

Neither of them could really hear the other. That was fine.

Then Ella would get her air. She was getting air now, on

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those porch steps. Ella was sure she looked bored or distraught.

Passerbys probably thought she’d had her heart broken or her night ruined. Ella’s nights were rarely ruined, although sometimes they were. Normally, they weren’t terrible, only forgettable. They all looked the same: a street of dark, sleeping houses interrupted by one house’s enthusiasm. A blue-black sky polluted by suburban light. A subtle escape to somewhere eerie yet placid. The moment would cease to exist once it passed, so she tried to soak in it. There were only a few stars out and one bright planet. She could feel the music’s rhythmic thumping like a distant storm. It was better that way.

“Alice.”

Ella raised her eyes to the smoking boy.

“From Alice in Wonderland,” he continued, exhaling smoke.

He was looking at her now. Ella looked back but only in flickers.

Mostly, she looked at everything around him. She looked at the smoke.

“Yes,” Ella replied and smiled, very faintly. The smile startled her. Why did she smile? She hadn’t meant to smile. She hadn’t felt the smile bubbling in her chest or rising up her throat. Ella realized she was not smiling about something, but instead was smiling for something. The smile had an agenda. It came to fill the awkward pockets of uncertainty that fill a conversation between two people who don’t particularly want to speak to each other. So why do they speak to each other? Maybe he felt compelled to address her. Maybe it was the silence. But the smile, that gesture came inadvertently but not naturally. The smile came to accentuate her blue puffed-sleeve dress and white pinafore, only she hadn’t realized when she was putting it on like a performance. Although, she couldn’t really take a performance off or put it on. It wasn’t exactly a costume, but a fact of having a body. It was like skin. “What are you?”

“It’s up for interpretation,” he answered. He was just wearing jeans.

“Then you’re the caterpillar,” Ella decided. “The one that’s tripping balls.”

He almost smiled. Ella liked his almost-smile. It made him look human.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “The one that’s tripping balls.”

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The caterpillar boy put out his cigarette on the tree. He twisted the ashy stub against the bark. He flicked it onto the porch where it couldn’t technically qualify as litter and crossed the street.

It took another half an hour for her friends to decide it was time to leave. On the way home, Ella sat in the very back row of the Uber driver’s seat staring out the window. Some kids her age were walking home. It was late and they walked in groups with their bare skin flushed pink and their hunched shoulders quivering. By the time Ella heaved herself through her front door, it was nearly 3 am.

Her cat sat halfway up the stairs, staring.

Ella sighed and said, “You are very lucky you aren’t human.”

The cat didn’t respond. But she knew, Ella thought. The cat followed her up the stairs to the bedroom. Ella peeled off her everything. She didn’t bother with putting the clothes in the hamper so the dress sat like a puddle on the floor. Ella sunk beneath her blankets while the cat hopped onto the bed next to her. Ella had been waiting all night for this. She and the cat stared at one another.

The cat’s pupils were round and dark in a pool of pale green. Ella looked closely into the darkness, searching for something. She could only see herself. But still, if she looked past that, she imagined there was something at the end of the darkness. How else could their warm silence need no explanation? What else could explain how the cat curled into the crook of Ella’s arm and fit perfectly? What led her to rest her small head on the back of Ella’s hand, to choose Ella’s thin bones and tendons over the plush foot of her bed?

“Please don’t die,” Ella said to the cat. The cat’s expression did not waver.

Ella imagined, then, that there was nothing to be found behind her feline gaze. Ella was only body heat. The cat’s voice was only instinct. The silence was only silence. The room felt a little emptier then, so Ella tried to stop imagining. The air in Ella’s room was light like incense smoke. The yellow glow from her desk lamp cast stretched-out shadows on the walls. She fell asleep with the light on.

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Yaya Alaina Triantafilledes You walked alone along the side of the highway in slippers, Brushed by the breath of passing cars, your cotton clothes rippling, Muted and loose like skin. Like laundry walking.

I imagine you looked doughy Too soft for the tire tracks at the gas station But too stubborn to leave Until my dad picked you up.

You wandered into bad neighborhoods on nighttime strolls.

Was it aimless or purposeful?

What were you looking for?

All the things lost and losing still: your strength, your recipes, your husband— Did he ever emerge from the fog? Papou’s thick mustache and aviator sunglasses, Barely lucid eyes widening, mouth opening at the sight of an olive From a hospital cafeteria salad.

Do you follow Bladensburg’s cement streams like they’ll lead you back to the shoreline of Greece?

My dad says you hate it there Someplace with white walls soaking up natural light, Billowing curtains and twin-sized beds.

I wonder if they let you watch Greek soap operas So you can chuckle and mumble and tsk at the screen With your arms folded on a couch While someone nearby tries to predict the plot based on your sounds And the actors’ faces.

I wonder if you miss your vegetable garden And your house and your husband Like I miss your house and your husband And your cooking.

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Isabella Brown | Film Photography

longworth's on sunday

Transition to Womanhood Julia Gershowitz If rain is the tears of the clouds, Why don’t we wonder why she weeps?

We say it’s normal.

Maybe it’s just that season.

That time.

We use explanations to sum her up. To downplay her emotions.

She feels pain in her stomach, and we simply call it thunder.

We say that life must go on and it’s not an excuse.

She gets angry. Who doesn’t?

But when it’s her it’s called dramatic.

Just another way to make each mystery more mysterious and each horror more horrid.

Who knows who hurt her or who made her mad?

Society only says it messes with their plans.

They just want her to be silent. To ignore her rage and just smile.

She blends into the background sometimes.

Ya know. Into the sky.

Nobody cares to check in.

Does anybody even realize when she isn’t there?

She shows herself. She opens up.

And what exactly do we do for her?

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Aubrey in Noir Hannah Landon | Acrylic Spring 2023 | 109

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Frater Maeus S. Oppenheimer You speak my name and I lament The timing of our meeting At the edge of the sulfur pit You shouldn’t have met me When I searched fire and funeral pyres for purpose Stained hands sifting For something Even pitiful things To complete me Will me to life In the fallout of my damnation And so I found you Bleeding neon luminance Clinging to a broken halo of radiance An amalgamation of broken hands- hands which Raised you to the stars and whispered “This could all be yours” Your child-eyes looking on in awe They fell silent as they threw you from your pedestal meant to break Built from dreams thrust upon you Which pierced your skin from the inside out as you fell I met you after my dreams left- I pulled them out like teeth How did it feel, reaching for your promised stars Only to touch scar tissue From the same pain of which you bleed?

Your demon eyes search the sky in desperation For redemption, I tell you this is the end Burning your palms on boiling sands

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Clawing upwards, outwards on blistered hands You should have met me in the sky- radiant Basking in pyrite euphoria Bright, brilliant, beautiful Before I danced in my own ashes Before I found peace among the damned How did it feel, seeing again A new fate, hand extended, watching you in awe Beckoning your broken grace towards bleeding warmth?

You flinch as I touch Your ash dusted skin My radioactive fingertips pressing your cheek Burning you with the trace Of the cleaning fires from which I forged myself You twitch with throbbing pain as I lead you Walking endlessly Hand in unforgivable hand How did it feel to sin?

I’ve grown to accustomed Learned better than to try and curse careless gods With the hands they sculpted- with my own pain upon them In their reflections- they were promised to us In my heart I still pray to them, still hold their light But my fingers are far too broken to clasp themselves So I clasp them in yours You don’t have to walk alone I will guide you home You should have met me when I knew what that was You speak my name now

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Shaking off the last of your pillar debris Eyes adjusting to the dark Releasing your grip from your new-formed crown I lament I first saw you as a means to completion I say your name back The same one you damned in the sulfur pit As I pulled you by your burning wrists Our goal- to rise- the same As I guided you step by shaking step I understood “demonic” is not a fate but a name For a searing trail of love, a broken chorus of false angels Sealing us together in the fires of absolvement Our own holiness- redefined- in the intersection Between grief and love We don’t have to walk alone We are each other's home Frater Maeus, I will always guide you home.

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encounter with an estranged evangelical Vanessa Walker danger of relapse plainly lurks in this herd on the street she weaves for fear she’ll crack if she by chance is forced to meet with great displeasure one so cruel as to hand her a tract and scold a stranger who would dare neglect to heed the pact between her and that faceless man she once so blindly served sitting with mother quietly and masking slim new curves behind the drapes in her bedroom when pastor came to call and even then his booming voice seemed hypnotic to all with scorn abounding thundered forth and gospel soured quick and leers and jeers from holy men now leave her dryly sick enough to eye the chapel’s spire standing ornate and tall and wonder if He could forgive if she might headfirst fall into a void between two realms with no intent to wake for full hips and a bleeding tongue do not an angel make

Spring 2023 | 115

When you tell the wolves I'm home Kaitlin LaRosa I will not ask you for your excuses.

No detailed Doctor’s Note asking for insurance against myself and assurance that I needed saving in the first place.

Doctors don’t prescribe aloe vera — not the good ones anyways and besides, I have always cut through burns myself.

Nothing is complex about sugar cubes fitting into mason jars or cookie-cutter stairs to the — When you tell the Stars I’m home, tell them I’ve missed their twinkle at night.

Tell the Wolves that I used to shine once too but that iridescent blades do the trick when daylight needs its saving hour and all we have is strikes against the clock and a pocketful of sunshine to be our saving grace this time. Or so, I thought.

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Light the Night Caitlin Spillane | Photography Spring 2023 | 117

angel Madelyn Gosselin nestled between a bustling city and the salt of the sea is a little town where the blue sky glows bluer and balmy wind blows warm against bronzed skin seemingly all year ‘round. under the North American rays he sits, back to the waves. hands are too hot to hold, but they lay close on the sand, pushing and pulling like metal to a magnet. when the sun has set, the world changes. cool to the touch, his skin glows red against the fire. his lips are candied in chocolate and marshmallow, crumbs coat his upper lip. he is sweet both inside and out. his skin is warm and dark from days in the sun; flecked with spots you can see under dim light. the warmth is all-consuming now,

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red and orange flames blazing under his hands. he smiles the type of smile that you can’t help returning. a tender touch to the neck. a fit of giggles as you catch your breath. when orange light comes through the open window, it casts him in a halo. one i am sure he does not deserve, but he may wear it for now against my better judgment. here, the summer sun shines for him.

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Masked Caitlin Spillane | Photography

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Steel Jungle Hymn Steel jungle Walking down the paths Surrounded by the bushes, the rusty branches Search for moisture.

At dawn,

Take a deep breath Feel the scent of hellfire.

Steel jungle Delicate grasses raise their heads And are oppressed by unknown heaviness.

A step and another step, until the road of civilization Appears on blood and lives.

Desire for identity

To build a sweet iron home Steel jungle Oozing out of the land, the greasy Liquid flow back to where it comes from.

A place once called the ocean.

Let it evaporate And come back as heavy rain Sill jungle Between the valley of skyscrapers, car-rivers flow You and I are fallen leaves and weeds

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Family Portrait Sophie Clinton | Mixed Media (Newspaper, Pencil)

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New World Carly Cernek Officials believe they should act now Until today, they sat and watched us fall apart What once was contained spreads like wildfire Stores closed, schools long gone–what’s next?

Anger in the streets; people are finally breaking We haven’t heard any news in a long time Our world balances on the edge of catastrophe On the street, I see a mother abandon her child The margin of error now is very thin The child is crying now, tears blurring his infant face I watch from my window and try To remember what life used to be, But I am drowning under the child’s tears.

An announcement wails from loudspeakers It tells us not to panic; order will be restored soon People don’t seem to hear, they keep on running And burning and killing and screaming And on the street the child has now disappeared

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Parade of Planets Caitlin Spillane | Photography

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homage to my legs Charles Gebbia these legs were strong legs they needed room to roam around. they don’t like to sit still. these legs were running legs. they like to move. these legs bounce in place, they move how they want, unless they don’t want to. these legs are bad legs, at least one of them is. this leg moves when it wants and stops when it wants. this leg locks and limps, drags and trips. these legs carried for years, ran for years, moved in their own right, but now they stumble. and yet they carry still, lumbering as they may. they still need room to roam, and want to run.

Spring 2023 | 125

Ballet of greys, symphony of nothing Alexandra Milchovich Americana glimmers in you, forgotten red, white, and blue daze, flags smoldering to crisps of nostalgia, lit up by trust fund teenagers, their hand-rolled cigarettes wafting violence in silk puffs.

Granulated memories are rolling films, shaking upon the silver screen, in my chest, the rock rumbles, clattering against broken, bloodied ribs, it’s smothering you, isn’t it?

A ballet of greys, a symphony of nothing, its weight squashes my feather lungs, You pry my eyes open, ripping out my scorching tears and I’m screaming into the void of your full eyes and off-kilter nose; I pray for a You without a woman so hellbent on her quest for martyrdom.

Wishful sweetness in your wasteland, a fat pomegranate’s scent wafting for a wandering zombie with a fruitless mind, a barren womb, and a rumbling stomach of ice.

Familiar splotches of heady purple on skin, chapped lips prodding at used flesh, eroding that stone under my breast.

The scuffs on my knees, despair follows: digging reddening nubs of fingernails into bars of the cage.

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Mayfly Claire Aronson [For Thomas—Tommy]

A mayfly has made acquaintance with December.

The desk chair is well worn, by you, who never could sit still.

A mother, who lays sliced fruit like flower petals Eats a yellow egg and curses Pigeons perch on green copper shoulders while The frigid cat slinks through your door for her Nap all too familiar Four white walls stand bare, overbearing If I could, I’d tug at your ears until they’re hot red magenta Pull out your hair until you can see And cup your cheeks, more freckles than face And say, As many times as I have to, that your day is not done.

Not just yet.

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Bloom - In Memory of Gretchen Joyce Dater Amreeta Verma | Alcohol Ink

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Afloat Grace Underwood I keep my eyes closed when I float in the ocean, And let myself be lulled into a false sense of security.

The world has devolved to a black nothingness, Stained with the yellow, red warmth of a dying star.

The break between air and sea, dropping and rising against my neck and stomach.

The white noise sounds like my hands are pressed over my ears.

The chill hasn’t yet set into my bones.

For now, it soothes sun dried skin.

The smell of hours old sunscreen still lingering by my nose.

And salt melts on my tongue, Where it has traced over desert lips.

The little knot of panic keeps my face held higher than the rest of me, Pressed into a breeze that promises more oxygen than hydrogen, Despite the invisible fog that slips into my lungs.

I keep my eyes closed when I float in the ocean, And pretend I am nowhere at all.

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Temporality Olivia Happel | Watercolor, Pen, Ink, Marker 130 | Perception

Chronic Limerence Olivia Happel why does each and every side plot manage to uproot my existence derail my plans and encase my body in simultaneous fear and fantasy? how does every new person i meet manage to manipulate my mind tickle my feelings in such a way that i cannot let go? not meant for permanency, but for thrill; for the means to what end? an end of pleasure via substance and sex for a feeling of numbness to conceal an insecurity of fear, fear of not being remembered in someone else’s plot they all become chapters of my story book main characters in my plot’s tangents whom i slowly repress, but carry with me indefinitely i fight the urge to keep a tab on every side plot for they are what i make of my identity in these chapters, as i abandon my inner self to allocate space for such thrills perhaps deep down, i long for the day that i comfortably drive my own plot, in solitude the day I no longer tolerate the thrills of deep infatuation and the scars it leaves on me

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Crowded Shapes Hayden Celentano | Photoshop 132 | Perception

wednesday evening tremors Katherine "Katya" Nikolau the earth shakes and i shake with it, hold my hand to the grass to feel its breath. at night i dream of orange peels and neon signs that buzz like hornets. i turn the bend on rollerskates and think only briefly about my hands in your tangled hair. in silence we find the rhythm again and i dream of nothing this time, sleep with heaving, restful breaths. you make it into my poems like a footnote, and i audition for a part in your life without remembering any of the lines. it’s easy to love you when your eyes are closed.

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1980's Horror Film Sara Oppenheimer | Digital 134 | Perception

mud.

I. G. Chapin You stand before me, your head heavy from the weight of your transgressions.

I stand before you, knee-deep in an oak barrel full of mud.

You confess to me the things you have done: The betrayals, The lies, The third, more nefarious thing.

I cannot hear you, for the mud blocks my ears.

You cry, you beg for forgiveness, But my head has gone under, I am submerged in the mud.

“I never meant for it to end up like this,” you say.

I do not respond, only a few bubbles on the surface of the mud, and then, they stop.

You dig through the barrel, but I am gone, Nothing more than a memory, Nothing less than a barrel full of mud, Nothing at all.

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Designer Cigarette Eva Greene Your new girlfriend– The one who has a stack of seven novels by her bed That she uses as a pedestal for her iPhone as she sleeps Because seven is a magic number and she’s hard to read, The one who cries rosewater and drinks cereal milk And smokes designer cigarettes, the single pack “Ready To Smoke” in Tiffany blue, The one who has a pocket peacock as a pet And flips through a vintage Vogue on the toilet, The one who smells like a Christmas tree farm And picks up aluminum cans off the street on her way home From house parties for her “Personal Project” – She came up to me yesterday and brushed the hair Out of my face and smiled at me so gently That I earnestly apologized for things I wouldn’t dream of doing.

She’s an altar to be worshiped day and night.

I can’t fathom how you’re strong enough not to.

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Spin!

Brenna Phelan | Pen and Marker Spring 2023 | 137

Little Mermaid Brenna Phelan | Acrylic on Canvas 138 | Perception

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PERCEPTION your| student fee 140 Perception