Perception Magazine Spring 2018 by Perception Magazine

VOLUME XVIII | ISSUE 30 Syracuse University

Spring 2018 | 1

Dear Perceivers, When I came to college, I had never really written poetry or even thought about it that much. I didn’t expect anything like Perception to be part of my college experience, and now I can’t imagine what the past few years would have been like without it. It has been exciting and a little nerve wracking managing Perception, with all its staffers and contributors and submissions and changes. Perception has sometimes made me stressed and tired, but it has also always made me proud and happy. I am thrilled to be passing the magazine along to people who will care for it and nurture it the way it deserves to be nurtured, and I’m particularly excited to leave you in the hands of Perception’s next Editor-in-Chief, Julia Leyden. I am extremely, sincerely thankful for everyone who has been involved in Perception in some way over the past four years for your help. As we say in the magazine business, that’s gravy baby. Good night and good luck, Katherine Fletcher Editor-in-Chief

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 2018 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 10 pages, and we accept submissions in any language with an English translation. All submissions and correspondence can be sent to perception.syr@gmail.com. 2 | Perception

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The Insiders

Katherine Fletcher

Elyssa Thomas

Bridget Slomian

Bridget Gismondi

Julia Leyden

Sophia Pennacchio

Thomas Beckley-Forest

Jeff Nathan

Editor-in-Chief

Asst. Editor-in-Chief

Managing Editor

Communications Director

Editors

Head Reviewers

Rhonda Chester, Nikita Kakani, Lindsay Patterson, Hyerim Ryoo

Danielle Bertolini, Nikita Kakani, Lauren Mulcahy, Hyerim Ryoo, Danielle Schaf

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Chief Designer

Designer

Head Editor

Asst. Editor

Reviewers Desjah Altvater, Danielle Bertolini, Matthew Cleary Visker, Noah Cousineau, Clare Crane, Erik Erbes, Liz George, Catalina Giraldo, Akanksha Gomes, Ray Juarez, Nikita Kakani, Eden Laur, Maizy Ludden, Morgan Lyons, Kayla Marie, Bethany Marsfelder, Megan Massey, Lauren Mulcahy, Sarah Pickering, Hyerim Ryoo, Olga Shydlonok, Larry Stansbury, Laurie Thompson, Noa West, Natasha Yurek

Spring 2018 | 5

The Insiders

Katherine Fletcher

Elyssa Thomas

Bridget Slomian

Bridget Gismondi

Julia Leyden

Sophia Pennacchio

Thomas Beckley-Forest

Jeff Nathan

Editor-in-Chief

Asst. Editor-in-Chief

Managing Editor

Communications Director

Editors

Head Reviewers

Rhonda Chester, Nikita Kakani, Lindsay Patterson, Hyerim Ryoo

Danielle Bertolini, Nikita Kakani, Lauren Mulcahy, Hyerim Ryoo, Danielle Schaf

4 | Perception

Chief Designer

Designer

Head Editor

Asst. Editor

Spring 2018 | 5

The Contributors Writing Brian Hamlin

Larry Stansbury Cristina Colรณn Feliciano Fern Durand Lindsay Patterson Natalli Amato

Lianza Reyes Alex Piagentini Nicole Jenkins Joshua Anite Eden Laur Natasha Yurek Karli Gasteiger Lyla Rose Erik Erbes Denise Romero Gillian Pelkonen Caryn Corliss Katie Lucchesi Briana Dorley Bethany Marsfelder Alice Chen Lauren Mulcahy 6 | Perception

9 61 131 12 14 16 57 129 18 111 20 46 89 106 23 72 27 91 31 32 75 34 36 38 43 63 45 48 51 53 59 54 76 58 81 78 80 84

Fox News A Bump and A Birp and A Summer Gone By Gravy Baby Respect Lesson Plan Mother Always Wanted a Boy The shortest story ever in two chapters Robinhood Unblind Recursion Smoking Radio An Addition to the Lore of Creation Stories Forgiveness Not Fade Away Thick-ing Out Loud Arson After the Smoke Hang Time Untitled God Cry Shoo-wop MEADOWS The Somewhere No One Looked light pollution Body of a Man Ode to Breakfast Hollow Embrace The Question deadbolt Houses Addict Mona Lisa Bird House The Little Things Deep Breathes for the lost ones A Nod to Life Playing the Guitar

Matthew Cleary Visker Desjah Altvater Olga Shydlonok Maizy T Ludden Rachel Saunders Evanna Ojeda Catalina Giraldo Jeff Nathan Katherine Fletcher Harrison Goldspiel

87 88 114 96 98 99 101 105 108 112 115

The Ellipsis Love, Mother Nature Take a hint Silver Creature Meditations on Sleep Remember Remembering Thomas Numb The Finish Line Edges The Far Far What If

COVER ART Front Cover Back Cover Inside Front Cover Inside Back Cover

Zoe Karikas - Peachy | Acrylic Paint and Ink Mel Wherry - Unplug | Ink Adham Elsharkawi - Peering In Maizy T Ludden - Undertow | Pen and Ink

CENTER SPREAD Noah James Cousineau - Deux Soldats | Oil Paint Alexa Anastasio - Yellow Tears Morgan Lyons - us in the nighttime | Acrylic on Canvas Akanksha Gomes - Freddi | Acrylic on Canvas Hannah Gross - Iceland | Photography Noa West - The Rhythm | Oil on Canvas Adham Elsharkawi - Vices Chad Singh - Marrakesh, Morocco | Photography

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The Contributors Writing Brian Hamlin

Larry Stansbury Cristina Colรณn Feliciano Fern Durand Lindsay Patterson Natalli Amato

9 61 131 12 14 16 57 129 18 111 20 46 89 106 23 72 27 91 31 32 75 34 36 38 43 63 45 48 51 53 59 54 76 58 81 78 80 84

Matthew Cleary Visker Desjah Altvater Olga Shydlonok Maizy T Ludden Rachel Saunders Evanna Ojeda Catalina Giraldo Jeff Nathan Katherine Fletcher Harrison Goldspiel

87 88 114 96 98 99 101 105 108 112 115

The Ellipsis Love, Mother Nature Take a hint Silver Creature Meditations on Sleep Remember Remembering Thomas Numb The Finish Line Edges The Far Far What If

COVER ART Front Cover Back Cover Inside Front Cover Inside Back Cover

Zoe Karikas - Peachy | Acrylic Paint and Ink Mel Wherry - Unplug | Ink Adham Elsharkawi - Peering In Maizy T Ludden - Undertow | Pen and Ink

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Noah James Cousineau Akanksha Gomes Kat Sotelo Chad Singh Catalina Giraldo Katherine Fletcher Tina Mitchell Colin Maguire Bridget Slomian Noa West Mel Wherry Adham Elsharkawi Jeff Nathan Elizabeth George Emma Jacoby Pauline Pauwels Sophia Pennacchio Andrew Maercklein Hyerim Ryoo Bridget Gismondi Zoe Karikas Hannah Gross

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11 26 15 17 22 135 25 47 33 35 86 42 44 52 107 55 130 56 60 113 73 74 77 83 90 128 97 104 110 133 134

Art To Wait Passchendaele Indian Trails Bar Drawings Cairo, Egypt Jardin Majorelle modern days predators passengers / cargo State of Mind First Bike Untitled Narcissus Lights On Toxic Alone Trash Forest Fadl Plumb Island Sunrise Foggy Golden Gate Slow Burn Type B Untitled FACE. Scenes from the Serengeti Scenes from the Serengeti Untitled Sunflowers The Many Faces of Bill Murray Six Feet Under Cinque Terre

Fox News brian hamlin

Watching Fox I heard Pop-Pop asking for a rationale on why food stamps are sometimes used to buy things other than plain pop tarts and whole milk. I'm white so I write these things down because I'm too damn yellow to tell my grandfather how to think and feel. Pop-Pop’s got a hearing aid, too, and even when the dials are up to eleven, he still can’t hear what you’re saying. But, he can read. So Pop-Pop: What do you need? A soliloquy to understand why some people can't get off the curb and into the suburbs? A news article, written by a white man, no less, in the Times about the injustice in justice? You place the blame on media and Young White Liberal Americans. But Pop-Pop I see them, or me, the problem too, for we cannot understand what it's like to walk a mile in the other’s heavy shoes. Young White Liberal Americans who read the New Jim Crow in AP Gov think themselves New John Lennons Does it offend you that these kids think they can be your brother? I'll take offense on your people's behalf and call it, at most, our best dressed backhanded compliment, As we try and fold over 400 years of the things we chalk up as true American history, with a class full of Young White Liberal Americans, whose only "real world" literacy in Race Relations in their country is Spring 2018 | 9

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11 26 15 17 22 135 25 47 33 35 86 42 44 52 107 55 130 56 60 113 73 74 77 83 90 128 97 104 110 133 134

Fox News brian hamlin

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| nero oil pencil on paper noah james cousineau

To Wait

A mission trip to Haiti, A network documentary on Rodney King, and Cuba Gooding Jr. And still They write college applications about the melting pot we've become and about the Need for diversity in the classroom. Do we even know what diversity looks like? You think diversity wears gold chains and Jordans, Cooks with kamodos, and considers cows deities. What you see on National Geographic does not make you an expert on what Diversity looks likebecause it doesn't look like anything at all. it just doesn't think like you do. And whatever wonderful world they come from lays heavy on their backs. And that's why it's so hard to hear them telling us to: "Listen." because, "You don't understand."

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| nero oil pencil on paper noah james cousineau

To Wait

Spring 2018 | 11

Respect

I accept their insecurities because it’s what makes them beautiful.

larry stansbury

Because I didn’t get into your program, you’re not going to accept me For who I am Because of the way I dress, my talk, and sexuality But you know what It’s okay because I still respect you And I kill you with kindness and you don’t know how to react

Because I’m a man of color, I am unapologetically black and beautiful. I questioned whether or not if you still want to be my friend “I’m sorry,” if I want to get things back to normal You will laugh or say it's up to me to figure out what I want You do not acknowledge my assistance, my atmosphere, my character. Why did you make me weak? So you could feel conquered?

So I can tell you this, I’m an unapologetic person who respects everything Because that’s what matters.

I learned the word unapologetic that summer 2016 That’s something I have to be to move on I forgive myself and that you who hurt me I made mistakes, yes and I grow up and learn from them. Because I dress different, I get judged because of the color of my skin. Guys who are the same skin color as me Judge my outfit and make snide remarks on them Telling me I try to be white But I never try to be the same I dress like I go to work Never go out of style, Never leave the house looking like a thug on the streets, asking for a dollar to go spend on alcohol at a liquor store. Because I am a virgin, friends tell me I need to put myself out there. I know, I put myself and body first before anyone and have no one play my emotions. I know, I am a sociable person who gets asked why I never experience sex, love or relationships. I am pansexual who knows their worth. If they do not accept this, they cannot accept me in their presence. Because I have female friends, boys think I’m gay. I hang out mostly with girls everyday Reason because I have utmost respect for my mother. She’s my mother and she always support what I do. Yes, I am an activist who believe women deserve equality, not to be objectified. I empower women to be women 12 | Perception

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Respect

I accept their insecurities because it’s what makes them beautiful.

larry stansbury

So I can tell you this, I’m an unapologetic person who respects everything Because that’s what matters.

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Lesson Plan cristina colón feliciano

Okay, kids, today’s lesson: What to do in case of an active shooter at school. First, when you hear gunshots, remain calm. Look around you and try to find a place to hide, a place to possibly die Make sure to lock the classroom door, make sure to create a barricade of desks, books, closets full of construction paper and crayons and scientific calculators. If you believe your hiding place is not good enough, see if you can escape. Is it safe to go out the window? Make sure to leave your backpack behind. Have your phone with you. Text a Congressman. I may die right now. Text your representative. I am being shot. I am bleeding. I am dying. I am dying. I am dying. Next, be very very very quiet if you have chosen to hide because you can’t go out the window and the shooter is down by Tracy’s locker because you can hear the weird sound the tile makes near it. Shhhhhh. Tracy was getting her book for her science class. Next, text your mom, your sister and your brother. Make sure to turn off the volume on your phone. I love you. I’m going to be okay. You aren’t sure, but make sure to write that. The shooter is by the girl’s bathroom. Jamie had just gone to pee. She was on the last stall. No window. Next, you wait. If you jumped out the window, run. Call a Congressman. There’s a shooter at my school. You’re out of breath, but keep screaming. There is a shooter. They are killing us. I heard ten shots. Call your representative. This is on you. This is on you. You you you. For those of you who are waiting, hold each other. If you hear the door being forced, be quiet be quiet be quiet. If you hear the books hitting the floor If you hear the desks sliding on the floor, close your eyes and hold each other. You might be murdered. Your friends, teachers might already be dead. Text a Congressman, your representative: I am bleeding. I am dying.

Indian Trails akanksha gomes 14 | Perception

| acrylic on canvas Spring 2018 | 15

Lesson Plan cristina colón feliciano

Indian Trails akanksha gomes 14 | Perception

| acrylic on canvas Spring 2018 | 15

Mother threw the apple out the barred window In flew a rainbow tailed, orange haired flamingo Dressed to celebrate Master’s birthday She buried her husband before he was gray Danced on his grave as she reached for heaven Begging God for a son she’ll name Evin Who feels when grass is pushed by the wind At the sound of the boom it shall begin Not the end, but the soul’s desires To charcoal master’s leashing hand in hell’s fire

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| pen ink on the back of dinner orders

Mother always wanted a boy to kick Red balls fly across the field into a ditch Father gave her in a cup for drinking rum Poison turned into the spirit of Jane’s drum

kat sotelo

fern durand

Bar Drawings

Mother Always Wanted a Boy

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16 | Perception

| pen ink on the back of dinner orders

Mother always wanted a boy to kick Red balls fly across the field into a ditch Father gave her in a cup for drinking rum Poison turned into the spirit of Jane’s drum

kat sotelo

fern durand

Bar Drawings

Mother Always Wanted a Boy

Spring 2018 | 17

Unblind lindsay patterson

We all know people who say the only thing they really want for their birthday Christmas whatever is world peace or to end poverty or hunger or sex trafficking or something else overly broad that would take far more than one person far more than one birthday wish to fix. And all those people are sitting here acting like they’re heroes patting themselves on the back as if parroting noble clichés is enough for humanity to do a collective facepalm as they suddenly realize: “Oh, I get it! Sex trafficking is bad!” and all wars would end and all crime would cease and they all lived happily ever after The End. I know you’ve all heard that Justice is blind and maybe that thought is where all the noble clichés come from. Justice may be blind but not for the reason they tell you. Justice is blind not because she cannot see gender or color or criminal record but because she refuses to. She hides behind her blindfold pretends that everything is ok: True and Fair and Just. She chooses 18 | Perception

to be blind to the pain blind to the hardship blind to the world, the actual state of the world, so different from the world that she stands for. But she’s not going to do anything unless you show her she can. You want to change the world? Then do something besides wish on a dying star. Rip her fucking blindfold off show her what’s really happening out there and maybe she’ll think twice about her complacency. The reason her blindfold needs to be ripped off the reason people make idealistic birthday wishes without following through is that they have blindfolds too that need to be ripped the fuck off. Justice isn’t the only one who needs to pay attention. Before you decide to “change the world” rip your own blindfold off, because I bet you can’t see as well as you’d like to believe. Justice is not a naïve ideal Justice is something that’s blind yet real in the people who say that they fight for the weak but tighten their blindfolds, don’t so much as peek at the nameless emotions that nonetheless grind at the hearts and the souls and the bodies and minds of the thousands of people who learn every day that a blindfold’s a privilege that life steals away.

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Unblind lindsay patterson

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Smoking Radio natalli amato

Twang of the man in black escapes the radio to square dance in circles with cigarette smoke, bitter smoke whose essence will linger on the girl longer than the faltering hug from her father. He had not watched her cross the road, only mumbled and stumbled over reasons he is late.

exit signs point to acceptance, that quiet town, beyond the road before this scuffed up dashboard. A lifetime of flat tires later, the girl will know an FM dial can't be forced to read an AM radio. Her face nearly comes into the father’s focus, when the radio quiets with the still engine. But still smoke eclipses the girl. The moment arrives late. His eyes revert to the road.

The rearview frames final fall leaves lingering late, ones who cannot recognize when to let go. Radio voices warn of frost. He does not remember the road, the necessary left turn. McDermott's barn reduced to smokethe lowly landmark leading towards home that the father shouldn't need. Being lost does not yet bother the girl. Hunting boots and their cracked mud coat hog the floorboard. The girl clutches her backpack; she can always be smaller. Too late for comfort. He does not ask, yet she recites the Our Father, hardwired to repeat her day’s lesson. Her squeaky words are radio waves he does not have correct receptors for, like smoke they linger, demoted to join the exhaust, trailing behind the road. Broken, bumpy, barely maintained, the road buckles under expectation’s dead weight. The girl will learn memory, like an organ, is susceptible to smoke, the all consuming intent for destruction. He was always late. This will remain untarnished whenever she scans past a radio station nostalgic for country music’s founding father. But for now, every other Thursday, John Deere green means father and storybooks give her the confidence that every road brings adventure. He does not look at her, but lets her turn up the radio, unreachable from mother’s backseat by her American Girl doll hands. Invisibility’s thrill will sustain her until she learns late apologies are not to be accepted, no more steadfast than smoke. Her throat will wrestle with its challenger, smoke, until the sheepish truck bids her goodbye. The father will protect her by making a U-turn from her direction. Late, 20 | Perception

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Smoking Radio natalli amato

Spring 2018 | 21

| photography

Cairo, Egypt

chad singh

Thick-ing Out Loud lianza reyes

When men say they like thick girls, They don’t really mean thick. They mean size 2 waist, They mean bikini hips, They mean 38D tits In a lace bra too expensive to buy They mean astronomical ass That falls out of a skirt That the second, thick women Size large, rounded body Steps into the room They say No, not that thick. Because men are scared of the thunder in my thighs Terrified of clap, lighting that strikes them, Swoosh, the rain that drenches them, But if they were brave enough to stick out their Tongue and taste my storm, They’d drown in me, not regretting a thing. Men are scared of my stretch marks, Maybe it’s because they remind them of Stripes on a tigers in the zoo that are caged Except instead of a glass wall Separating us, I am right in front of him. My tiger stripes plain as day What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? Men are scared of the rolls of my stomach, The softest part of my body, I want to lead them and let them rest on me Realizing they can fall asleep to the sound of My breathing, but if they call my stomach Gross one more time, then I promise, I can digest and annihilate them whole Just like the cake they say I shouldn’t eat

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| photography

Cairo, Egypt

chad singh

Thick-ing Out Loud lianza reyes

22 | Perception

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Men are scared of my flat ass Because it doesn’t bulge in my jeans Ironic, isn’t it, That they judge the bulge in my jeans When I am told not to judge The non-existent bulge in theirs. I am not scared. Not anymore. I used to be, back when I saw Cellulite as swords that poked The tight, glowing skin under. I had hoped I was a model Underneath all this. But now I glance at my thighs And wonder how many miles it has brought me. My stomach and the memories of good food These fingers might not be long enough To give you the movements you like But my hands can create a movement Sparkling a revolution I am my own brave warrior, My pillow and my world Explore the continent that is my body. And see that there is a war in different parts My mind, my heart, But there is peace in my smile There is rebirth in my blood, And if you can’t get past the land And go into my sea…

modern days catalina giraldo

| magazine collage

Well here’s what I say What men have to do Men aren’t real men If they don’t like how I look.

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modern days catalina giraldo

| magazine collage

Well here’s what I say What men have to do Men aren’t real men If they don’t like how I look.

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Passchendaele

noah james cousineau

| ink drawing on paper 26 | Perception

After the Smoke alex piagentini

I’m sitting in the waiting room, listening to Julie’s scream, which is louder and closer than another woman’s, and sipping some flat ginger ale. Danny’s in there, having the anxiety attack of his life. I’m thinking a lot now, looking at all these expecting families. People watching. Marie’s almost seven months. Our baby’s going to be just fine. Handsome, smart, one of a kind little boy. I do feel sad for those who already had kids with the lip thing, that’s got to feel weird. The discomfort and anxiety hang in the room, an invisible haze that everyone breathes. Not much conversation. In one of the white walls there is a fresh-looking dent, where I imagine some dismayed man threw something, or went full fist in horror. There’s no T.V. either, unusual. Mostly everyone sits heads down, looking at a screen. Usual. Three rows of pamphlets lay in their transparent glass cases on the table beside me. Between the Ages of 29-41? Find out more about your ancestral history now Are you part of Generation Unidentified? Read to find out how you can qualify for DNA testing today! Information for Those Thinking of Conception: Myths and Facts About Familial Ties and Birth Defects Resources for Expecting Parents and What DNA Compatibility Testing Can Do for You Julie’s been in labor for hours. I wonder if she’s dragging it out a little, her nerves a too much for her. Her and Danny are from the same county and they’re nervous. I look over at Marie scrolling, even she has got to be sick of waiting here. “But it’s our best friends!” she’d hit me with. She’s showing, we’ve gotten a lot of stares on our way through the hospital. Everywhere really, people stare. We’re the right age. Occasionally I get angry and snap at them, annoying Marie, upon which she hits me with the “Chill out and go have a cigarette somewhere.” The other woman’s screams dwindle down into nothing. The family she belongs to notices. One man jerks up out of his chair and rushes over to wait outside her room, out of sight. Someone must exit the room where the family’s woman is. I hear him say, “Did you see the face, the mouth, you see anything in there?” He gets no answer. I picture him flustered; poking holes in the answerless staff person with his eyes as they walk away. Worried. Sweating. “Marie I’m gonna step outside to have a cig, I’ll be back in a few.” Spring 2018 | 27

Passchendaele

noah james cousineau

| ink drawing on paper 26 | Perception

After the Smoke alex piagentini

She doesn’t look up. I stumble around the hospital hallways for a minute, searching for an exit. Everything looks the fucking same in these things. I join, from a distance, a couple nurses enjoying cigarettes of their own. Close enough to hear their exchange. Far enough that they don’t notice me, or choose not to look. “Man, they don’t pay us enough for this bullshit. Harassed day in, day out. I’m putting a sticker on my forehead: ‘I signed a contract, I can’t tell you shit’. Wild time to be a nurse,” Nurse One shakes his head, wipes his fingers over his forehead as he mentions the sticker idea, and squishes his remains with a generic looking sneaker. “My sister just got pregnant, and she’s asking me stuff all the time already. I can’t deal,” Nurse Two takes one last drag and throws his butt off to the side. They seem unaware of who could be listening. Either that or very indifferent to it all. Not the kind of people I would want to handle my baby. “And we all have to act like security guards for the little things now! After that guy went nuts last month. Who tries to kill their own baby man?” Nurse One runs his hand up and down his neck and through his hair. The chilly air has his pale face blushed, and I notice they both look almost identical from behind. Uniform haircuts, same age, same build, same attitude. Speaking way louder than they should be. Reckless. Overhearing them just has me irritated and uncomfortable, ruining the point of my cig break. I stomp on it halfway through and head back in. Marie isn’t in her scrolling position. No screams. I peak around the corner and find Marie with Julie’s parents waiting outside the door, taking their turn in the anticipation. Danny comes out, perspiring, somehow aged a few years older than I saw him last. I stand leaning against the wall and decide not to join the group, but watch. He is smiling and gives everyone a hug, good news. I’m excited to get out of this clustered hell. Marie comes over and I get the good news a second time. I conjure up a “I’m really happy for them” and throw out my drink and chips bag, hoping to signal to her it’s time to go. “I think they’ll let us see Julie now, c’mon,” Marie turns and starts back toward the room before I can plead my case. Julie’s holding the baby, and everyone’s aweing and heart eyes over it. Marie pulls me over and has me look. Jesus Christ, the baby only has one arm! I can’t see the stub, the way it’s wrapped up, but can tell one is missing. Poor girl. Could’ve been worse for Danny and Julie, but damn, poor girl. *** Okay, okay, phone, phone charger, wallet, keys, got it. We’re good. Marie’s in the car, breathing intensely, loudly. I run out and have to 28 | Perception

turn around halfway because I forgot to lock the door. “Fucking come on!” Marie exclaims, gripping her outward belly, clammy, head tilted back. “I’m here, we’re going,” I slide into the car, zipper down, phone charger cord hanging out my pocket, panting. I pull the car into the lane in front of the emergency ward and run through the first set of doors, almost slipping as I rush back with a wheelchair. A nurse sees me and follows. “Do you need help sir?” New Nurse asks. “She’s going into labor, she needs to get into a room, now,” Marie’s secure in the chair now and I’m wheeling her in. “Okay, let me see her, we’ll get her there,” New Nurse moves toward Marie. “I can wheel my own damn wife man, now tell me where the fuck we go.” “Look, sir, I know you’re nervous, but we need your cooperation for this to go smoothly,” New Nurse has an attitude that I’m not a fan of. “I am not nervous, what do I have to be nervous about? I just want to stay with my wife, now take us there.” Like that’s too much to ask? “Hun just work with him! Please! I will be fine. Go move the car,” Marie snaps at me, I obey. Her dirty blonde hair is now dark and soaked where her forehead ends. The car’s running so I jump in, the tires shriek as I whip around the corner toward the lot for emergency. *** I step in and a crowd of seven people circle my wife. Four nurses, two doctors, and a man whom I can’t identify what he is. Just dressed in all white. Black fading to gray hair, wrinkles, over six feet, glasses, clipboard. “Dad?” one of the doctors turns and says to me as I enter. I nod, and he grabs me by the arm and sets me next to Marie, the rest don’t even look my way. They seem far from open to any questions. I am feeling like a spectator more than any kind of participant. The emotion I’m supposed to be feeling seems distant. The delivery room seems surprisingly dark to me. There is a florescent lamp hanging above the bed that gives doctors a better view than from where I stand beside Marie. She is the only one delivering right now, I heard nothing as I hurried down the hallway to our room. Two security guards eyed me on the way in. They have a few of them waiting in the corridor outside the delivery rooms. The man in white approaches me. “Can I see your cell phone sir? We prefer you don’t use them during delivery.” My instinct is to let out a “who the fuck are you” but I realize it will upset Marie. I take my phone out and hand it to him. The room has the delivery bed and no other furniture, just a chair in Spring 2018 | 29

the corner next to a bathroom. It’s dark but there is something on the arms of it. Straps. Marie’s delivery is much shorter than Julie’s, thank God. Still hours, each one feeling longer than the last. “One more push, honey, come on,” Girl Nurse coos, and Marie takes a deep breath. We are both perspiring now; I needed a cigarette thirty minutes ago. Jesus, I just want to see my baby boy. Hold him. “Here he comes sweetie, keep going!” Marie is drained now, emptied of energy and the obscenities she’s been yelling. My hand is shaking and pattering the hospital bed’s arm. I just need him to be here. The hospital bed is damp, Marie’s face tightly scrunched. Girl Nurse scoops him in her arms and they wipe away the slimy, bloody matter all over him. She doesn’t ask me to cut the cord or show me him. I’ve had enough. Marie is sitting back, winded, and silently thanking God it’s over. An employed barrier builds between me and the baby. “Let me fucking see him! Let me see my boy!” I’m ignored as they wrap up and group around my son, acting like he’s some trade secret instead of my baby. “Let me see my son! His face, his lips! Now, I can’t handle it any longer!” “Sir, I’m going to need you to sit down over here.”

Untitled nicole jenkins

As I ride back to school in a bus Full of white students, I look outside And see snow. Whiteness is covering the top of the mountains Whiteness is above me I look up and wonder if I can ever be At the top of that mountain When my ancestors rest At the bottom of the sea NO. no. It’s me. Thinking too much again When I know My ability But Fear and Doubt Are embedded in This brown skin They could snatch my art away from me The same way they stole my identity And then who will I be? Just some black girl with a dream? The mountains are getting lower now. The top seems More attainable. That’s the problem with me.

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Untitled nicole jenkins

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God Cry joshua anite

Prying above a pear-shaped pink horizon Lies a swathe white rug Clouded by suave white fur And dust amassed by times past Sunrays peek in on Sunday Sabbath light springs Encountering withered floors Of which sabbath chord strings Battered tears Sneering at a wicked backdrop Are brightened blighted eyes A mysterious heaven Grunted a loud raspy cry Ridiculous rampage of reluctant scorn Scoring binocular look deep into summer sun As winds began to hallow west He felt unmatched vastness As though yet been born

passengers / cargo katherine fletcher 32 | Perception

| satin acrylic paint on canvas Spring 2018 | 33

God Cry joshua anite

passengers / cargo katherine fletcher 32 | Perception

| satin acrylic paint on canvas Spring 2018 | 33

i would run through the meadows and leap towards the stars, i could climb all the mountains and take you with me far.

| digital photography

what if we lived in a wonderland world where no one knew my name and they’d just call me that girl.

tina mitchell

eden laur

State of Mind

MEADOWS

what were to happen if the clouds didn’t cry if the birds didn’t sing and the moon didn’t shine. who would you call. who would you seek. why do we live in a universe game where tear stains show love and wound scars show pain.

34 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 35

i would run through the meadows and leap towards the stars, i could climb all the mountains and take you with me far.

| digital photography

what if we lived in a wonderland world where no one knew my name and they’d just call me that girl.

tina mitchell

eden laur

State of Mind

MEADOWS

34 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 35

The Somewhere No One Looked natasha yurek

The people of Somewhere settled like dust on a broken, soundless music box, planting roots in the delusion that it will once again play it’s old and beautiful tune. But that well of hope runs dry now, and the people have just grown mad from the drought.

defeat. And thus the hum drum roll of the slowly passing time would continue. Until the relentless sun rose and the corn went from grey to gold, and everyone again fell for the romantic and misplaced hope that, for some reason, today would be different.

Because the town of Somewhere was really a Nowhere. A place where all Somebodies eventually descended into Nobody-ness, where the Are’s slowly become Once-Were’s, in a land of corn husks and Nothing. Emily thought back to life with her father before he became depressed. How he would cook everything from enchiladas to potato latkes, all the while singing Louie Prima and playfully snapping the kitchen towel at her mom’s rear end. How her mother would go up to bed first, her father second, and then Emily last, escorted by Oslo, following her into her room and curling up on the bed. How every room of the house was a different color, and how when her father would play tag with her as a child, she’d feel like she was running through a pastel rainbow. How they’d go biking and find adventures in the nooks and crannies of Somewhere. Emily thought this was just a family. She didn’t fully realize its perfection until she grew older. Now, she looked at other families and realized how different hers was, how vibrant and dazzling it was. All the other families, she thought now, looked the same to each other, in a kind of sad tableau. All of fathers and husbands being nothing like her father, how her father painted pictures of love that purpose that she saw illustrated nowhere else. All the other husbands were in the local bowling League, the 12 Pounders. They’d go to their mundane jobs and then come home to their tepid, beige dinners, their peaches-and-cream wives and their ungrateful children. Then they’d put on their red and black bowling shirt, and like metamorphosing into some valiant merc, would escape into the late hours of the night to fill some sort of contrived selfpurpose. They’d bowl with similarly directionless men, drink cheap beer and laugh at jokes they’ve all heard before. They’d come home and try to have sex with their already sleeping wife, get quietly rejected, then brush their teeth and take an antacid. They would look into the mirror at their own droopy, hound dog face then stumble to bed in accepted 36 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 37

The Somewhere No One Looked natasha yurek

Spring 2018 | 37

light pollution karli gasteiger

i'm a smokey quartz & blood-tangerine Heiress to the knowledge that the prettiest of All, The Fairest of our golden-hour lit evenings; those picturesque, pastel panoramas of our tie-dyed, hung to drip-dry earthly natural ceilingsAll of those sheer skyfuls of Sunsets [the surrendering, unapologetically beautiful kind] come to our Horizon -Because, their elemental source of Purity has died & we, We are the vanishing point on that very landscape's Borderline. and I've come to profess, not confess that -You- [most likely] Won't want to hear this, but...all of these wonders, that Beauty, -those colorsmostly Exist only because we Ourselves have been, And still are, ourselves Very Ugly. and i'm sorry, But I've always thought that 38 | Perception

those starless skies and this washed-out night -In essence, all of this Polluted Light is so, so beautiful. Graceful, even. So Gorgeous it doesn't know how to be Vengeful. you are the time of night that's like twilight. Becausei do not know whether or not your Sun has set, Or if my moon has risen yet. & your eyelids are Dusk, so close them your lips are Dawn so expose them caress me with your purple-blue-indigo, 'in-between' sort of light, your pale half-truths, and your go-between Lies Creeping -like shadowUnderneath my heart and Between my thighs -I want You ...to transition me, while we're still so unsure of our Sky(ies). (it's too late now, far too dark; opaque. [oblique]) for me Not to be able to telescopically see: your constellations, Spring 2018 | 39

light pollution karli gasteiger

My galaxies ... ...so Yes, i thinkThat tonight i'd much rather prefer in our universe's skies that pretty, deceitful candy-glow Lens of alluring Demise a neon aura of orange-ish â&#x20AC;&#x201C;(purple-y?) wonder that defies Give me that Front-row seat to this stage set design that is humankind's folly. Give me that kind of light show. - a charming, artificial one An entirely overcast and spacedust-laden, cosmically faded and man-made poisoned kind of one, and carelessly smear itno, Deliberately Dump it All across the Atmosphere in hopes of fearlessly glossing over all those Stars Which i do not -wish uponAnd so, do not Wish to see, becausei refuse to shoot for Them. and marking my life in years with your comet as a guide That slides past my horizon and never returns from 6+ decades of orbiting this dependable path of a well-calculated Hide- You, a fleeting hope of a lifetime in the lives of many anxiously awaiting eyes, You are no better than me. That childlike wonder that once took me for a rocket-ship ride is cooling down its engines now so Cover the night with a quilt all patched up with urban decay; one with the texture of lackluster maybes, 40 | Perception

of -sometimes-, And of Sundays, And make sure it's one with the relative warmth of its threaded-through, running-stitched 'someday's; & tuck me in under the blanket of this sugarcoated sky. Will you do this for me, my toxic bright Night? Send me to bed without a guiltless Goodnight then, Sing to the following, a lullaby: - first: your Darkness; & thenmy Light And if I do not reach those Stars that, [by the way] don't make god[esses] or horoscopes out of Me, anyway I want to lay me down my restless soul [to sleep] and Shoot for my Moon -[which we both know I'll miss when your Dark sideâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cast upon it]& so even though i'll dearly miss it, it'll be You who I land upon at dawn. and you know what it means to finally get to stargaze up toward my own muddled Universe Through your far too bright skylight -[So that i might Meditate] on this dimmed-down and washed-out self Alone and bereft -at midnight-, like always. Yet you always let me anyway; you don't try to stave away my insomnia with a familiar fairytale, or two- [you used to]. Even so, I'll at last Go to sleep. and rest assure, there as well, I will Pollute the light and corrupt my own Dreams. Spring 2018 | 41

Untitled

colin maguire

Body of a Man lyla rose

| photography

A cold forest laid with roses A secret hidden behind your lips You make my body quiver A river I wish to drink You give me no hints or clues Just a maze, I run through you But I can never catch my breath For every door I open, another room I pick branches from the ground And mold them into your arms I lie among cold dirt In the company of the stars And I hope and pray that you find me here like this Something to tend to, to kneel down to and to kiss But I see your footsteps have already walked this earth alone So I lie here, in your cold forest, a rose among the thorns

42 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 43

Untitled

colin maguire

Body of a Man lyla rose

| photography

42 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 43

Hollow Embrace erik erbes

As I laid beneath you, Instincts laid bare, Your fingers ran through And pulled at my hair In the quiet cold hours From the top of your throne I read your decrees In your sighs and your moans When you’d fallen silent And all became still I felt only longing, A void unfulfilled You hadn’t cut clean And in that I saw hope, The chance to return, And some means to cope But something had died, And now in its place Stood the pretense of passion An empty embrace To this sinking ship I tried to hold on, But when I looked in your eyes You were already gone When you’d taken away What mattered the most I didn’t see you, I saw our love’s ghost

Narcissus bridget slomian 44 | Perception

| digital painting Spring 2018 | 45

Hollow Embrace erik erbes

Narcissus bridget slomian 44 | Perception

| digital painting Spring 2018 | 45

An Addition to the Lore of Creation Stories natalli amato

Woven with wildrye and cattails I was born in a watercolor palette Where the sky bleeds into the lake and Strength is sculpted from red dirt and silty soil Roots entangled with those of the willow tree There was never a distinction Between myself and the world surrounding The waves and my heartbeat bow to the same celestial power Dancing to the rhythm of an offshore breeze I share my soul with the wildflowers, The wildflowers that decorate all the paths you may follow Admire, and leave us wild.

predators catalina giraldo

46 | Perception

| magazine collage

Spring 2018 | 47

An Addition to the Lore of Creation Stories natalli amato

predators catalina giraldo

46 | Perception

| magazine collage

Spring 2018 | 47

The Question denise romero

The Question: ‘Am I Pretty?’ The Answer: 'Have You Lost Enough Weight Yet?’ Te vas a parecer tan bonita I’ve come to you crying at age 18. My mother’s step-father had taken my hand in his dark, course and burly ones. We were in the spacious and sunny living room in my grandmother’s apartment. He looked at me from the boots on my feet to my reddened and rounded cheeks. He pouted his lips, shook his head of gray hair and said, “Pero e que te paso mi niña? te has engordado tanta, ay que pena.” He continued to look over at me and say the same thing,” ay que pena”. He let go of my hand and I quietly sat on the windowsill, lips pursed together, eyes stinging, and a feeling that I’ve just been slapped across the face. My grandmother and my mother carried on a conversation with him and each other, both of them glancing to see if I was okay but knowing their place to not say a word for it will be argued and bashed down until he proves himself innocent, that he wasn’t been rude simply stating the truth. I grew up with you telling me that I am beautiful, a flor de oro, whether if my toes were visible when I looked down or when rolls of fat would hang over my jeans. Why is now, when there is an opportunity to change me, am I no longer beautiful enough? Vas a parecer una muñeca I hate dolls and you know this. I hate the way their bodies don’t give way to any pressure on them. I also hate the fact that they have a thigh gap and that they don’t have any curves. I like the way my body looks under fit and flare dresses. I hate they I can break them and mangle them as easy as you can break and mangle me. Sí, eras linda antes, pero ahora vas a ser hermosa It is a few days before the surgery. I’ve been on liquids for two weeks. I’ve already lost some weight. We know this because they make me get up on the scale almost every day and when I look in the mirror, my cheekbones look more like my mother’s, high and sharp, and I can’t pull my double chin as far as I use to. The circles under my eyes have also become more apparent and I’m always tired. I know you’re not trying to insult me and you’re just trying to make sure I go through with the surgery (I won’t lie, it’s working) but I’m curious to know if people told you the same thing before your surgery? Did I make you feel that way? Are 80 lbs. really the difference between being pretty and beautiful? ¿Cuantas pesas ahora? 48 | Perception

I don’t know. I don’t have a scale. No, I don’t want one. I’d rather throw up because my stomach is now too small and my brain can’t comprehend that and I accidentally ate too much and not because I know I’m gaining weight. ¿Te has encontrado un novio todavía? I’m starting to think boys care less of whether or not I’m smaller than them and more about how much of a frigid bitch I can be. Don’t get me wrong, there isn’t a lack of interest, I just don’t know how to reciprocate that interest back. I also don’t think it would be the best idea to fall in love with someone else when I’m still trying to figure out if I even love myself. Esta cirugía fue la mejor decisión de tu vida I guess so. The anxiety of weight gain, the throwing up because my stomach is the size of a walnut and my brain can’t seem to grasp that yet, the hair loss, the scars, and the constant doubt that we will ever be satisfied with how I look was definitely worth dropping two pant sizes. Ahora eres perfecta Why should I believe you? If I gave you the scalpel, what else would you change? They’re not the only ones to blame Denise. We agreed to this. Don’t look away from me now. Stare at me. This is what you wanted. This is what you thought would finally get you what you wanted. The friends, the boys, the happiness. You thought it would fix the leaks and rolls of anxiety, of sadness, of loneliness. Don’t you like the way you look? Your fingers are daintier and elegant. Your arms are no longer as flabby and when you hold them by your side, there is now space between the dip of your waist and your arm. When you shrug your shoulders, your collarbones show up the way you envied the other girls. For once, your neck looks long and slender and not like it belongs on a linebacker. When you glance down, you no longer have to pull your shirt over your chin to hide the rolls of fat. When you smile, your eyes are no longer hidden by swollen cheeks and you have saved so much money on makeup now that we don’t have to contour a smaller face. You’re beautiful. Aren’t you? Why did we go through with this? I think I thought that he would finally fall in love with me. I’ve realized I do this quite often. I preach about loving yourself and to always put yourself first and yet there is always a guy, always a different one, that makes me feel like it’s okay to give up a piece of myself. We were convinced that a smaller waist would mean a bigger attraction but he still rejected you. HA. Remember that? We were wearing the dress that we brought before the surgery, the one that dug into our stomach folds and we got shy about it because it was too short and rode up our huge ass thighs. After the surgery though, it was just tight enough to show off the curves (who by the way, were there pre-surgery too.) and the way that it rode up was now sexy and teasing. It was exciting and pathetic and we knew the response you were going Spring 2018 | 49

The Question denise romero

to get but by this time, we just wanted to feel something besides hunger. We wanted to be sated for once. How does it feel to finally be pretty? Hungry and anxious. When we take photos, we have a bigger selection now and we no longer have to practice our angles or worry about how big we look. Are we gaining weight? Please don’t ask me this. I know that my hipbones aren’t as pronounced and that my skin doesn’t stretch across my collarbones so much and that my jaw line and cheekbones aren’t as sharp as mom’s anymore but please. Please don’t think that. Not now. Stop eating, go to the gym, who needs class, we need to be thin. If I gave myself a scalpel, what else would I change? A lot. And yet, I don’t think it would be enough. I think a needle and a thread might be a better instrument. We need liposuction, lip fillers, how about a nose job? Can they make us shorter? Make our ankles smaller? Our butt bigger? Our eyebrows thicker? Our boobs perkier? Our jawline sharper? Our feet archier? Our hair curlier? Our lashes longer? Our eyes wider? Our cheeks hollower? I thought we hated dolls?

50 | Perception

deadbolt gillian pelkonen

I know it is wrong to let you in give you a key when I should switch the locks and bolt the door at least let me show you your way out the front door instead of sneaking out while I sing love songs in the shower.

Spring 2018 | 51

50 | Perception

deadbolt gillian pelkonen

Spring 2018 | 51

Houses caryn corliss

Hollow Holy Home Devine Built upon a latent mine Fragmented bone dust keeping time Collecting on a broken spine Brother, sibling, friend of mine Carving out some truthful lies Brother, out there, eating time Brother, worn and weary I recall those things you carried: The dead dog that you buried Your aftermath, from worded hits Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve forgotten things You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget

Lights On noa west 52 | Perception

| reductive relief print Spring 2018 | 53

Houses caryn corliss

Lights On noa west 52 | Perception

| reductive relief print Spring 2018 | 53

All I could notice were the walls. Splotchy, brown, wilting. The room was rotting around her Her castle crumbling. They looked like the walls of a dentist’s office She didn’t seem to fit, A dull beauty surrounded by decay.

| mixed media

I went to see her. Longing to see something of her in myself, Something of myself in her. Beauty perhaps.

mel wherry

katie lucchesi

Alone

Mona Lisa

Nothing special Poor girl, I can’t imagine the pressure.

54 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 55

| mixed media

I went to see her. Longing to see something of her in myself, Something of myself in her. Beauty perhaps.

mel wherry

katie lucchesi

Alone

Mona Lisa

Nothing special Poor girl, I can’t imagine the pressure.

54 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 55

The shortest story ever in two chapters fern durand

Chapter 1: Spell Missing Out in 6 Words I never loved, I only worked Chapter 2: A 6 Word Story About Being Young: Does Age Determine Youth? I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what love is

Fadl adham elsharkawi 56 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 57

The shortest story ever in two chapters fern durand

Chapter 1: Spell Missing Out in 6 Words I never loved, I only worked Chapter 2: A 6 Word Story About Being Young: Does Age Determine Youth? I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what love is

Fadl adham elsharkawi 56 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 57

The Little Things

Addict

briana dorley

caryn corliss

Don’t hold my hand. Don’t kiss me when you walk through my door. God why did I let you in? Don’t text me often. Don’t hold me too tight. Don’t say the big L word. Don’t give me the big L word. Don’t whisper sweet nothings to me. Don’t let me lay my head on your chest. Don’t call me. Don’t think of me. Don’t hold my hand. Cuz if you do - God if you do? I just might have to slap myself. Nothing now is sacred. Bodies are vessels for empty souls to wrestle with. Bodies are sugar rush facilities always on the hunt driving us around for the next ultimate high. Bodies collect the love DNA we all want to overlook because a quick fuck gets us all through the night. Instead of working that extra hour on something important we schedule dick appointments on a whim. And before bodies as empty vessels rustle together like leaves in the wind, we pray that our Tinder date is far from the one. In the name of the father, we beg for our hearts not to be broken. And of the son, cuddles are the devil and we must run from pure serotonin lovescapes. And of the Holy Spirit, we ask ourselves how we could let them destroy us. In the name of lust, longing, and loneliness, we pray.

Fruit turns to hair in my mouth, long, clumps of it, long strands, that get stuck along my throat. Hair clumps at the drain in the sink, circle, circle, circle, with black, long strands stopping up water, that swims with food specks. I’ve eaten tonight a jar of marshmallow fluff, an entire jar of the stuff, sugar on sugar, sugar like cream, like clouds, clotting up inside my veins, turning my blood white. I’ve got some sort of problem. I’ve got a faulty heart, and I’ve lost the taste for things that are good. Vegetables, cantaloupe, make me sick. I take a bite and my mouth is filled with hair. Long strands. Why do I condemn myself in this way? To such a stationary existence, devils know what they’re doing, generation of dead before mother, daughter, daughter, You’ve got coal dust in your eye.

Leave me on read. Ignore my messages. Don’t tell me anything. Say nothing, so you can say everything. Don’t… Just don’t. Don’t hold me. Because as your thumb strokes my arm and the world around us becomes a Van Gogh painting, we become infinite. Like twin flames… across divine vibrations, curving and curling and swirling and seeking, always seeking, we are linked by don’t know how to be. You see, I don’t want you to hold me like everyone else; Promise to adore me and then leave. Fuckin hold me right. And I’ll never let you go. 58 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 59

The Little Things

Addict

briana dorley

caryn corliss

Spring 2018 | 59

A Bump and A Birp and A Summer Gone By brian hamlin

Plumb Island Sunrise jeff nathan 60 | Perception

In my exodus from the Great Stomach, which belched me out towards Jersey, above mine and other pot holes, which too came from someone’s westward expansion, I knew I should not hold myself too hard but, nonetheless, accountable, for the stones I'd left behind in New York. There were hundreds of them. Great big, and terribly tiny adventures, beneath and in and above the lower halves. I’d like to think I left some there for safe keeping, all of those empty hands and full glasses, all of those subway conversations and all of those ways you find your reflection in the face of a stranger. I tucked them away like canned foods, knowing they'd be there some day when I sought out podchody, Or when I had to eat something to remind me of what it felt like to be lost in the bigness of things. I know these feelings lose their wax over time, and each fall everyone in New York, even those who are not from New York, finds themselves in a similar stroll with the ancestors of aboriginal immigrant islanders, the Real New Yorkers, in Midtown dull drum, hoping to find some kind of quest or grail or Fischer king to chase or believe in. In her obliques , the city speaks Not in ebonics or jive or broken this or that but in the small shuffles, elbow grabs and spit shakes, and the, “Say, can you spare a square?” Spring 2018 | 61

A Bump and A Birp and A Summer Gone By brian hamlin

Plumb Island Sunrise jeff nathan 60 | Perception

Still. I’ll come back for a neon slice of Americana, the chance to catch the coattails of some great big or terribly tiny adventure. Still. My mouth might become immune to the salt on the sidewalkStill. I’d die to be learned in that ancient American form, To earn tread on an asphalt tongue, to be a native to that nature. *podchody - a Polish word for a kind of scavenger hunt

62 | Perception

Ode to Breakfast lyla rose

The eggs With eager, yellow hearts Dancing in butter And crying for salt I shower them in adoration Black and white snow And I break open an old friend Some bacon that has grown cold I reunite them in a most joyous occasion And place them on a plate for my taste buds’ entertainment

Spring 2018 | 63

62 | Perception

Ode to Breakfast lyla rose

Spring 2018 | 63

Everything about you radiates heat. Your skin, a blanket. Your fingers, a match, While I am the box where you rub against to create a spark. Your eyes, with steam. I wonder if that’s all you Ever wanted to be. And I, defenseless, tell myself To learn how to be immune to burns. Craving for some air, A breeze. Should have known that the wind only carries the fire Further.

| charcoal on toned tan sketch paper

You committed arson under my throat, Lighting a wildfire that killed the meadow in my voice, And your mouth was the sole firefighter With a hose that has left me wanting water since. How does it feel, being a criminal That’s wanted alive?

elizabeth george

lianza reyes

Slow Burn

Arson

You committed arson under my throat, Burning down everything in the meadow of my voice. Leaving nothing alive. You can call me the victim, but I’ve been looking for that warmth ever since.

72 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 73

| charcoal on toned tan sketch paper

elizabeth george

lianza reyes

Slow Burn

Arson

You committed arson under my throat, Burning down everything in the meadow of my voice. Leaving nothing alive. You can call me the victim, but I’ve been looking for that warmth ever since.

72 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 73

Type B

emma jacoby

74 | Perception

Shoo-wop joshua anite

Flailing arms, Duckers and Night-time ferries Fleeces of warmth by butters willowed cause Spiderheads, Black Cat loving widows Accompany such silent sorrow Within the whims of loveless living And empty euphoria Triggered by a sensational lust And fantabular finish Crash Neptune with funk Of bodily movements Drawn by Independent seeking And hapless mishaps Walks to cold parks By Morning due Night-time poetry Red Human Stew Vulturously gazing At a hazy youth Teeth sink into flesh And panic turned terror arouses love

Spring 2018 | 75

Type B

emma jacoby

74 | Perception

Shoo-wop joshua anite

Spring 2018 | 75

A place of my very own The doors locked and I planted a garden of words The owl was my only company And it sang every song I needed to hear I built a bookshelf on top the fireplace Now, thoughts live on my shelves I needed to keep their words warm I know how it felt to live inside your walls But this time they are my walls & only mine

76 | Perception

| fujifilm finepix s series S9900W

In my 20th year I moved into a birdhouse It was pale and wooden with a pink thatched roof Albeit it's a bit snug, it suited me

pauline pauwels

katie lucchesi

Untitled

Birdhouse

Spring 2018 | 77

76 | Perception

| fujifilm finepix s series S9900W

In my 20th year I moved into a birdhouse It was pale and wooden with a pink thatched roof Albeit it's a bit snug, it suited me

pauline pauwels

katie lucchesi

Untitled

Birdhouse

Spring 2018 | 77

for the lost ones bethany marsfelder

and we are stronger than you.

you think our souls are beautiful. you think we are sweet and kind and petal-soft

(we are kind and soft and gentle a calloused thumb brushing a dewdrop tear only because we know how it feels to be t o r n a p a r t, to be unmade and burned and nothing and god forbid anybody else feels the same.) and that we need to be saved by you in gleaming armor from our towers. carried away from the demons in our mind on the back of a white horse and glittering saddle. our arms around you, our hero.

nobody saved us so we saved ourselves. we are strong and we are powerful and we are WARRIORS. iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to see you pick up the FUCKING sword.

so yes, we are beautiful. we are broken. we are hurt and angry and human 78 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 79

for the lost ones bethany marsfelder

and we are stronger than you.

you think our souls are beautiful. you think we are sweet and kind and petal-soft

nobody saved us so we saved ourselves. we are strong and we are powerful and we are WARRIORS. iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to see you pick up the FUCKING sword.

so yes, we are beautiful. we are broken. we are hurt and angry and human 78 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 79

A Nod to Life

Deep Breathes

alice chen

briana dorley

In the silence of my room, I sat still, thinking, pondering and considering. Shadows danced around my room and a part of my heart urged to dance with them as well, but it all felt too fake. I threw myself onto the bed and inhaled the dirty sheets, whispering of secrets and betrayals, something I was never part of. I groaned and rolled onto my back and images of my past swam in front of me. Eight years old and the girl was crying. I think I pushed her down, but I told the teacher that she tripped and fell in front of me. The confused teacher comforted the girl and told me to be careful. As soon as she turned her back, I smiled. It felt good to be bad. Twelve years old and staring down the bottle. My parents were on a weekend trip to my cousin’s wedding and I found my dad’s stash of beers. On TV, there were always movies of people laughing with their friends and I wondered if I could get the same effect. No one laughed with me, my stomach felt full and my head hurts. Fifteen years old and I’m holding her hand. I think I liked her, but her hand was really soft. I wonder how soft her lips are. I wonder if she would mind. I think I can do it; I’ve seen people on TV do worse. Nineteen years and I’m holding my child. Take-out boxes lay on the floor and my phone vibrates, it’s a different girl. “Hey hun, I have to go now.” I say to my girlfriend as I hand her my daughter. “I’ll be back in an hour.” She smiles at me, exhausted and relieved to have a healthy baby and lets me go. Twenty-three and I’m meeting up with my lawyer to file for a divorce. I guess she found out, but it’s okay because I have the other girl with softer lips and a kinder soul. Twenty-five and I lost my job. I’m back at McDonalds and my pants are getting tighter, but at least I get dinner and some spending money. There’s no need to rush anyways; I’m still young enough. Twenty-eight and I finally moved out of my parent’s house and into an okay apartment. At least there’s hot water, but the view outside is just a brick wall — a true image of my life so far. Thirty-years old and by myself, but I guess I’m okay. I guess I’ve lived and learned. What’s there to remember? My failures? My successes? Or the little steps that I’ve managed to take. I sit up in bed and realized that night had fallen. A cool breeze slips in between the cracks and brushes over my face. My indifference transformed into a simple gratitude and nod towards life.

In perfect love and perfect trust… Speak not of sin, but of flesh. Bodies were never meant to be empty so the gods created souls and spirits. Speak of flesh. Never sin… When you bring your head to my pussy altar, when your cum fills my mouth, when the candle on my desk blows out, when my nails dig deeper into your back, when the stupid soundcloud audio makes the music unbearably loud, and we laugh it off, when our eyes roll back into our heads, what have we gotten ourselves into? We’ve forged our bond in sin and sealed it with a deadly kiss. You give me forlonging looks and they cut deep into crevices of my soul. You hint at the future and then lay your head on my chest while you go on and on about how nothing is ever constant and change is inevitable and in your voice, I can hear the swirling anxiousness within you crave stability. And so you lay your head on my chest and my heart opens its door because in this new chapter of life, taking a jump forward makes all the difference. When you call me ‘babe’- when you ask to hear my voice, When all you want to do is run away, And I’m here… When you tell me to ask you anything, when the sun reaches its peak and glistens on our coconut oiled bodies, when I can no longer hear the birds cawing through the parking lot, nor hear the cars buzz by, Cuz in the vortex we’ve created where it’s just you and I, what have we gotten ourselves into? When you stayed the night, in perfect love and perfect trust I begged the gods and powers at be to hear me clearly: “I refuse another dagger to the heart. Let there be no more sacrifices of this soul. Brittle and broken, we can only take so much of the same pain.” See love is a never something that dies, not completely, not willingly, not naturally.

80 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 81

A Nod to Life

Deep Breathes

alice chen

briana dorley

80 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 81

No… The love I gave, I thought I would never get back. And one day I will restore what’s been stolen from me, but until then here we are. Stuck in the middle between diving deep into an ocean of risks and staying uncomfortably boring. You and I. Like a candle flame in the dead of night when all is silent. You and I, two empty cups, looking to be full. You and I, grow completely with thicker roots that punch holes into mother Earth, yet last thousands of years. Call me ‘babe’ and I’ll leave a million messages just for you. And when you come back, I’ll be here. my chest ready to collect your sorrows and sacrs. Baby boy I’m here for you. Speaking always of our beautiful mangled flesh. Dreaming always of you…

FACE. sophia pennacchio 82 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 83

FACE. sophia pennacchio 82 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 83

Playing the Guitar

Organized alphabetically of course

lauren mulcahy

But when you open the file, the words explode, ink decapitated the paper spiraling and growing hot

Do you think you will ever be able to play the guitar? To learn exactly where to put your fingertips to be able to somehow develop the part of your brain that can think and do and create In the way that you need to keep the instrument alive Do you think the chords will ever be in key Or will you continue to drop fingers, never aiming well, never hitting the bullseye The guitar will continue to freeze The strings will shatter and the neck will melt and the wood will crumble You might be able to find the notes, somewhere in some file cabinet in the back of a closet You could dig through tunnels of clothing, of colorful fabric, of sequins and glitter Of multiple bras, strung up on a single hanger But by the time you emerge They have all burst, cotton and underwire painting the walls slowly dripping down You might be able to reach the file cabinet Decorated with bumper stickers from previous cars And flags and the pictures you’ve viewed a thousand times But the metal has all grown over itself, grey vines raking over the seams Open space drowned in brittle roots Maybe you can get it open

You’ll throw the file You’ll say you’re sorry You’ll wonder if you will ever be able to play the guitar You could try to remember what you wrote Fumble through your memory But you can only see picket signs And fire hoses And confetti caught in hair But your brain has drowned in marches and tear gas And high heels But you can’t see through the bodies and mascara And police lights And you think your guitar, sewn with rainbows and baked with hair dye might know the tune That it might remember, even if you couldn’t But your guitar has congealed a gray mass of wood and metal And you do what you have always done And you float it with the rest

You could find the files under “notes” 84 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 85

Playing the Guitar

Organized alphabetically of course

lauren mulcahy

But when you open the file, the words explode, ink decapitated the paper spiraling and growing hot

You could find the files under “notes” 84 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 85

The Ellipsis matthew cleary visker

What I wouldn’t give to be… It wouldn’t have to be a lot. Then why can’t I just stay… I just need to follow the dot. When I’m at the end I’ll be… But I keep getting stopped. Why can’t I just run away… And lay as the river dropped. I could spend all my time… Be stuck together like glue. To do something profound… But I have so much to do. Everything is so sublime… Maybe I just need to ask. But am I up for the task, To be on hallowed ground… … Contigo (With you)

First Bike tina mitchell 86 | Perception

| charcoal on construction paper Spring 2018 | 87

The Ellipsis matthew cleary visker

First Bike tina mitchell 86 | Perception

| charcoal on construction paper Spring 2018 | 87

Love, Mother Nature

Forgiveness

desjah altvater

natalli amato

I’m sorry it thunderstorms But the flowers needed to grow I kept away my tears too long Because I didn’t want to inconvenience you

was the gravel road where my car broke down where I sat in the front seat wide-eyed before the dashboard nothing but wild fields all around waiting for someone else to appear in my rearview mirror with the gasoline the spare tire the heart all the tools that keep a person driving. Forgiveness was the gravel road where my car broke down and I was the only traveler when purple dusk threatened to phase into indigo night and I had the choice to lock the doors when coyotes howled hello harvest moon or to roll up those flannel sleeves and pop the hood open by starlight. Forgiveness was the gravel road where my car broke down and it was up to me to make it home.

I’m sorry your girlfriend bleeds once a month But the temple of life needed to be renewed The pain of life is more important than your pleasure And from an egg blossoms Earth’s treasure I’m sorry you get sick twice a year But with every night of a stuffy nose You remembered how you took for granted the ability to breathe Oh, how the ashes covered in dust wished for one last attempt I’m sorry you will not live forever But Spring eventually leads to Fall I wanted you to live your best life So that you did not need a second chance

88 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 89

Love, Mother Nature

Forgiveness

desjah altvater

natalli amato

I’m sorry it thunderstorms But the flowers needed to grow I kept away my tears too long Because I didn’t want to inconvenience you

88 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 89

Hang Time alex piagentini

Scenes from the Serengeti andrew maercklein

90 | Perception

| photography

The figurines walked the ground carrying cotton candy and stuffed animal trophies. The air was saturated with moisture and familiarity. Anthony sat peering over the ocean, searching for a comment. A boat, a constellation, a wave. He was too scared to pull his phone out at this height. We talked little, we were floating. The rides began to feel like a part-time employment I pushed myself through, clocking in and out, my coworkers push and release the safety bar. We were on the top shelf. This was supposed to be romantic; yet I felt we were sitting on opposite sides of the boardwalk. Such was the distance between us. He didn’t understand that romance was more than once a month trips to the beach. Or flowers twice a year. I didn’t know that I ever met a man that did understand. Perhaps that was my own fault. In the recent months leading up to our floating, I had been feeling like a spectator. I had been feeling that way in my relationship much longer. All my girlfriends envied me. Anthony being a handsome, successful thirtyyear-old, out of my league. In his prime. What more was there to desire? My mother, oh mother. She was a woman so aware of her worth and her wants, that I always imagined living life that way. I never found myself able to wear my worth with my dress. Her and my father seemed always happy, in love. That comfortable, established love. Not the constant romance, but the completeness. She seemed so complete. There was no messy divorce or infidelity to pass on to me, no relationship faults. My issues there seem to be a fault that sprouted in me for no reason at all. “Do you want a milkshake after this?” he asked. I had given up sweets for a bit, starting two weeks before that night. “Sure, if they’re still open,” I said, and he returned to the water. Our hands both sat at our sides, inches apart. I looked upon the riders below us. We had to be some of the oldest people on. I had grown tired of this tradition eight rides ago. That was the first time it had lasted so long. I always envisioned myself holding my child’s hand down there. Saying “No” three or four times before giving in and letting them have the ice cream. Or paying for another ride, a demonstration of kindness. It replayed every month. I know Anthony never saw it. But within himself, detested the fact we could never have that come to life. Detested me. I had been waiting for him to leave. Spring 2018 | 91

Hang Time alex piagentini

Scenes from the Serengeti andrew maercklein

90 | Perception

| photography

Someone on the shore set off a firework. The burst forced a jump out of me, our hands remained separate. As a girl, I would hear such bursts from my twin mattress, and dream of hand-holding on the beach. The obnoxiousness of the place was impossibly distracting when you just wanted to sit. I wanted to look and see nothing. I wanted rain, or a power outage. Every time it was clear skies and illumination. Every time it was jazz music on the ride over and asking how I liked the coffee. How dim that becomes. Anthony had one of my hairs on his shoulder. I left it. His black olive hair trickled down to the rigid strands on the back of his neck. I could see them all. After shopping for him, I knew more about his hair products than he did. If I asked him “What is my favorite perfume? What shampoo do I use? What deodorant?” All would illicit a giggle and a look to the floor. So was the distance between us. It is hard to guess what things about me he did consistently notice. He noticed me in the restaurant where we met. He noticed me when we sat in the doctor’s office. He noticed me when he chose to be intimate. I grew up not far from that boardwalk. Too poor to see the other side of the county until eighteen. I admit, the first time Anthony brought us there, I was full. Of love, appreciation, and of reaction. I dreamed before of vacations to the beach, long car rides. Snack bags, and “this is my grape soda”, and secondhand smoke. Watching everything through the glass. And now I had given up sweets. How prude I had grown. One thing I missed from being a girl was the lack of options. The narrow choices I had made everything I got that much sweeter. When you just have things, just get things, it’s more a shot than a draft. You become tolerant to possession. I think one of the things that pushed me back from Anthony was how little he ever said “no.” When I pictured bringing our little child here, I knew he would never want to tell them “no.” Anthony only knew one side; I think his ignorance to that kind of longing had made happiness very easy for him. He never spent his energy on equations of our differences, he didn’t have as much time for hobbies. I knew my mother would spit on the ungrateful perspective I had adopted. She had retired to her shelf, but I could feel her disapproval from the other side of the glass. How I missed her guidance, her endless knowledge on how life was a bitch, but that you had to be alive. But did she ever know the avenue to discontent? Did she ever dare to try it? I never heard her complain about our means, about my father, only about grocery stores or neighborhood women. Never about the stresses that 92 | Perception

turned her gray by thirty-three. Though I met Anthony at twenty-four, and hadn’t had a lifestyle worry since, I aged much like she did. Hard, cracked skin, early gray, patience dwindling. “You would think they would have a better mechanic here, maybe I should call and complain,” Anthony was finally showing his signs of impatience. Finger taps, neck cracks, statements of dissatisfaction or authority, often both. “I doubt it would make any difference.” “Maybe, maybe not. I’ll give them some more time.” “At least the breeze is nice.” “I’m cold.” “I told you to bring a sweater,” That was the wrong reaction. “Jess. It was warm when we got here, if it wasn’t for this shit show,” he throws his right hand upward, looking down and then cocking his head back, “we would be at home already, so I wouldn’t have needed a sweater.” His response answered a question I thought about asking when we got home. A job at the drug store, even just a few days a week, preposterous. As a girl I slaved, child care, garden work, chores. As a woman, I cowered. I was too afraid to move from this part time job to a real one. I hid behind mahogany curtains and dish soap. I was never meant to be a mother. It was becoming more and more obvious. Even God knew. I was not fit… And so how was I fit to do anything at all? Anthony knew it. He knew a drug store job was too much. There was nothing for me to miss out on. I would look forever, and I would find nothing. Anthony would provide the support, not the comfort. And that was to be enough. That was my script. And if I ever left it, I would live forever a failed, starving artist. I watched a mini figurine from the sky. The plain colors in place of details, I pictured pigtails and a flowery dress. I wanted the courage to ask for one. We certainly had the means. On paper we were a most fitting household. But Anthony’s obsession with ownership, I didn’t see it breaking down. Not even for our family. It all had to be his. In saying this all, I do hope you don’t get the wrong image of Anthony. All my friends wished they were with an Anthony. None of them knew of my unhappiness, they could never. It was something dysfunctional in me, I couldn’t find the serenity my mother lived in. Or the relaxation young me thought I could never have. I don’t know when it all went into the dark. Spring 2018 | 93

Madness had just thrown me into depression. It was sudden. I just stopped looking for the sun. I stopped walking, I smelled no lilacs. The garden withered, I blamed the weather, a bad season. Anthony hired a gardener. All of my duties were replaceable if needed, by hire. If I chose to stop doing anything at all, Anthony would keep hiring and hiring. He would come home to me just the same. And leave the next day just the same. He loved me, he loved me. I just expected far too much. I, through malfunctions, was blinded to my blessings. I couldn’t help but feel certain my mother was the only person who I could ever admit anything to. She couldn’t listen. I wanted to tell her. I knew she would have scolded my outlandish demands, the response was not the reason I needed to tell her. I was still longing to discover she, at least at one point, knew what I sometimes wished for. She never understood why I felt so incomplete. How it pinched me every time I came to work here. I had always been a nobody. An exchangeable body. I don’t know why growing up made being a nobody feel so much worse. It had to be all the shows I watched; day in, day out. Every woman on them knew exactly who they were. They were somebody, and the real women behind them were all kinds of somebody’s. The only way I had ever learned was through constant reading and watching. The more I watched, the more I hated my time acting. I looked across the sky and saw her. A bun with hair out of place, brushing her shoulder. Apron tied into place, hunched over the sink, the way I always pictured her. But this time she turns around, drying her hands with the air. “Oh, Jess. Look at you getting yourself all worked up.” I had grown very good at keeping my emotions inside and the made-up face intact; my mother inevitably saw my invisible tears. “I’m far from worked up. I would say I’m too empty to get worked up. I’m not you, I’m nothing like you. I am nothing at all. You always knew exactly who and what you were. All these women around me, they know.” “Honey, just because you never saw it, doesn’t mean there wasn’t any sadness. You learn to see through it. You learn to move just the same.” “See through it. That’s what you have to offer?” How could I still be angry enough to ask that? That was wrong. “Life’s a bitch. You just carry on.” “My life is a bitch in an entirely different way than yours was, mother. It’s nothing. It’s an empty well. You don’t know that kind of sadness.” “That drama has never done you any good. And I do know. I feel it. I see it.” “Even from up here?” 94 | Perception

“Jessica, I feel it all. Your heart beats and I feel it. I’ve felt it slowly break, and I know why.” “Yet all you say is to carry on.” “You have it in you, honey, oh yes you do.” As if anticipating my head shaking no, she doubled up on the reassurance. “I can’t tell you how to keep going, only that you must. There is no quitting. There are no rainbows. There are fairy tales, but only in books. There is only life.” “Jess, what are you looking at?” Anthony’s voice broke in and my mother fades away, a pollen in the sky. “The birds.” My mother’s words didn’t feel like what I needed. But she heard me. And knowing she felt it, that was everything. To know you have not lost your mind and your heart. I thought about just stealing a mini figurine of my own, running away. Or no, no, too dramatic, too daring. And where to go? Maybe a puppy then, yes, adorable, soft, loving. But no, too messy, too demanding, too much work. Anthony would never allow it. In my domesticity I had forgotten the solo life! How would I ever compensate for the gaps Anthony fills for me? I would not. How desperate I was growing! Hysteria, hysteria. It was bubbling to the surface. I had become a figurine. My mother was nowhere to be seen. But I heard her. Her soft, conversant whisper, “Oh, and Jess, please don’t forget, it’s all in your head.” “All set folks!” the Fixer yelled up to where we are floating. “Fucking finally.” Anthony was drained of his apprehension. I descended back to my seat.

Spring 2018 | 95

You were a heron silver creature in the mist, surrounded by the stillness of a crystal lake. Your slender silhouette carried through the water each long stride creating ripples, that rolled against the edge where the tall grass grew.

hyerim ryoo

olga shydlonok

Untitled

Silver Creature

I was a hummingbird a flickered shadow. In the summer fields before me, the sun tasted of honey the liquid syrup flowers, enticing and calling me forward. I wanted to drink the colors, let them soak through me and use my wings to paint our world. The soft flutter of my wing, an echo reaching your stillness calling to you from across the lake. Come fly with me heron, free with the wind, wherever it may go. We were birds for a moment adrift the current above the earth. We beat our wings against the green sea below, each dip, rise, and swell synchronized with a human heartbeat.

96 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 97

hyerim ryoo

olga shydlonok

Untitled

Silver Creature

96 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 97

Meditations on Sleep

Remember

maizy t ludden

rachel saunders

Meditation One: Within the cavern of my ribs expands A silent sea, that laps at moonless sands Each breath a wave that swells inside my breast Beneath the starless vault that is my chest. Across the blackness drifts a tiny boat A wooden bed to hold my heart afloat I chart an aimless course, in fragile sleep Above the flick’ring nightmares of the deep.

Sometimes life Will make you think twice For those low moments I offer advice: Though you may not Be the best of the best Not all life knowledge Can be measured by test

Meditation Two:

So while sometimes the answer May seem like, “goodbye” In those dark moments I ask that you try

From the bleached white sheets of desert, Rise the ruddy mountain peaks, Blankets for a sleeping giant, Flung away in restless dreams.

Try to remember That sometimes you’re broke And more often than not Life will go up in smoke

Limbs of stone form crags and valleys, Breezes catch his sleepy sigh, Morning hangs his blue silk nightgown Low across the bright’ning sky.

But smoke is a chance To then start anew And it’s perfectly fine To not know what to do Because you are you Which is more than enough And though life is hard Remember you’re tough There are places to see And dogs to pet So many friends You haven’t yet met Take care of yourself And make sure to rest

98 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 99

Meditations on Sleep

Remember

maizy t ludden

rachel saunders

Sometimes life Will make you think twice For those low moments I offer advice: Though you may not Be the best of the best Not all life knowledge Can be measured by test

Meditation Two:

So while sometimes the answer May seem like, “goodbye” In those dark moments I ask that you try

From the bleached white sheets of desert, Rise the ruddy mountain peaks, Blankets for a sleeping giant, Flung away in restless dreams.

Try to remember That sometimes you’re broke And more often than not Life will go up in smoke

Limbs of stone form crags and valleys, Breezes catch his sleepy sigh, Morning hangs his blue silk nightgown Low across the bright’ning sky.

98 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 99

And I know once youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re ready Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll conquer your quest

Remembering Thomas evanna ojeda

Written for Remembrance Week 2017 Dear Thomas, I thought of you today But that's nothing new, I thought of you yesterday too Thomas, I am sorry I'm sorry if I stutter, if I can't get the words out right But how can I speak smoothly when what happened to you wasn't right When you were robbed of a future When your house was robbed of a brother When your team was robbed of a friend When your mother was robbed of a child Thomas, I am sorry I'm sorry there was nothing we could do That this pin and pen and ink portrait is all I have to show of you, to remember you That I have to talk about you in the past tense instead of the present Thomas, I am sorry Sorry that you never got the chance for that internship on the hill That you never got to finish that law school application That you never got to experience making change That you cannot see the impact you have already made Thomas, I am sorry But this, you, make me proud Proud that I get the chance to learn about you, to talk as if you're here today I'm proud that you are never forgotten That your mother gains a representation of you every year That you can walk with me, in this pin, in my heart That your face is immortalized on pen and paper That I have the honor of teaching the world about the beauty of your 20 years. Thomas, 100 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 101

And I know once youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re ready Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll conquer your quest

Remembering Thomas evanna ojeda

Spring 2018 | 101

20 years. That's all the time you were given No, that's all the time it took for you to learn, live and love 2 decades. The time you had to show this world who you were and all you could be The time it took you to light a flame in the lives of family, friends, to light a flame within me

For making me look back and showing me that together we can make the future good Dear Thomas, I thought of you today But that's nothing new I'll think of you tomorrow too

29 years. That's how long it's been. Since we got to see your smile and hear your laugh Since the pain and grief started to kick in That is nearly 3 decades 3 decades of remembering and wishing you could be here now But you're not Dear Thomas, I'm thinking of you now Sometimes I imagine where you'd be today In an office or a courtroom? Making decisions or presenting arguments? Running sprints or teaching track? Still managing your fraternity house or raising your children? None of us know where your footsteps would have taken you With a mind as bold and engaging as yours, you could have run around the world and back You have run around the world and back For 29 years your memory has run through the minds of millions Your dreams have been preserved Your accomplishments engraved Your hopes, attained Your face, framed Thomas, I am sorry If the words don't come out right But I thank you for giving me this light For humbling me and affecting me in ways I didn't think you could 102 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 103

For making me look back and showing me that together we can make the future good Dear Thomas, I thought of you today But that's nothing new I'll think of you tomorrow too

Spring 2018 | 103

Numb catalina giraldo

1. I want to cry, Because after I cry I feel better. I want to cry but I can’t. Crying quietens sadness, I’m not sad. I want to cry, Because if I cry It would mean I can feel. Maybe I can feel. 2. Having felt, there is nothing I crave more. I make myself cry, relief takes over and I feel numb again, only this time I don’t care. 3. Please let there be a way out, what an overwhelming lack of feelings.

Sunflowers bridget gismondi

104 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 105

Numb catalina giraldo

Sunflowers bridget gismondi

104 | Perception

Spring 2018 | 105

106 | Perception

| reductive relief print

Simply, humbly, you reach for a resting book only to be accosted by a photograph once used as a bookmark when the pages were new and the person whose essence has been preserved alongside yours in that 5 x 7 timeportal still loved you and you were certain that for as long as you lived you would recognize yourself in every mirror you passed by. Nobody else will understand why, suddenly, you are convinced that the security of the world is hinged upon locating that dirty brown stones shirt, why after throwing every garment you own into a reject pile on the floor, remembering how it shrunk freshman year the first time you did laundry on your own and how you sold it to the thrift store for extra beer money will knock the wind out of you as if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d just been learned of the death of an old friend you were always counting on seeing once again.

noa west

natalli amato

Toxic

Not Fade Away

Spring 2018 | 107

106 | Perception

| reductive relief print

noa west

natalli amato

Toxic

Not Fade Away

Spring 2018 | 107

The Finish Line jeff nathan

He pushes his way through the throng, dodging elbows and haymakers alike as he tries to keep the sign in his arms from folding. At last he sees the finish line dotted with balloons and confetti. The tape broken by the lucky victor flutters in the breeze, waving at the runners still passing through. His progress is slow, his pace steady. As one couple leaves from their spot at the barrier, he takes advantage, eager to rest. He parked far, and hasn’t walked this much in one day far since he was a floor manager at the automotive plant. Years ago. He ambles over and settles on the cool metal, slinging the sign over the bars. He looks out for the tell-tale pink hat and cloudless blue tank top. Nothing. He saw her off at the starting line, and remembers the way her heart was hammering as he pressed her close. He remembers the sweat on her lips, and the eagerness in her voice, telling him she’d see him at the finish line. He surveys the final corner as he searches for the pink and blue that meant she had made it to the last stretch, the final .2. Here and there, people are starting to make their way to their cars, losing interest in those who did not finish atop the medal stand or make it to the front page of the paper the next day. He looks down to readjust the sign, fiddling to ensure it hangs straight and even. She would have laughed at him if she saw. Called him a perfectionist. He looks back up and suddenly spots her. Blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, pushed through the back of her pink hat and swinging rhythmically. Her cloudless blue tank top is darkened with sweat, but a broad smile stretches across her face. She starts scanning the crowd, squinting at the sea of faces swimming past. His eyes fill with pride. All the months of training, changing her diet, missing last year’s marathon due to the stress fracture that hinted at osteoporosis, the ample time she taken to recover so the dream would not waste away. The meetings, the magazines, the car rides and road trips filled with endless, mindless chit chat of dorsiflexion and endorphins, carboloading and cleansing, PR’s, mile times, and, of course, the fact that it was her fiftieth. Her final race, in her home state. Not where they lived, but where she was born. He picks up the sign and waves it in the air, but she still doesn’t see him. He goes higher up on his toes and waves the with more vigor. He moves to push the barrier forward a little with his belly—as it had grown considerably in the past few years despite her best cajoling. She turns her 108 | Perception

head back in his direction. That’s when the blast sounds. He shields his eyes as the shockwave rushes through him, rattling his old bones. Ears ringing, eyes watering, he looks up and sees a crater in the pavement where the other runners around her had been. He feels his spine go cold. He searches frantically through the smoke, sure that she will emerge at one side, coughing and dirty. Maybe helping another runner, or calling for help. She is CPR certified, after all. They did it together last month at the local YMCA. But she hasn’t emerged. He cranes his neck so hard he feels the muscles start to seize. Suddenly he sees something tattered fluttering down among the growing screams and settling dust. Something tattered and pink.

Spring 2018 | 109

The Finish Line jeff nathan

Spring 2018 | 109

Recursion lindsay patterson

Reverie interrupted by a car screaming by. I wasn’t even that cold. I’ll never know who was in the car, yet still compelled to head inside by an instinct to not seem weird, standing on my second-floor apartment porch with my fluffy green robe and fluffy pink slippers and fluffy unshaven winter legs. Closing the sliding porch door has a strange finality to it shhhhh thoom. Like the vitality of nature is too pure for my living room and must be relegated to the outside. Warmth tingles my skin—maybe I was cold after all. I smell dog, I think, which confuses me until I remember I don’t care about that anymore. Compelled to write: “Reverie interrupted by a car screaming by. I wasn’t even that cold […]”

The Many Faces of Bill Murray zoe karikas

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| screenprint

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Recursion lindsay patterson

The Many Faces of Bill Murray zoe karikas

110 | Perception

| screenprint

Spring 2018 | 111

blue savanna edge of a bruise, and what are you? a traceable ache half seen through purple shades half closed, sifting softened colors with you. we

jeff nathan

katherine fletcher

Foggy Golden Gate

edges

paint backwards pictures of american legends, bedtime stories for less lonely times. i find your shapes at night, sigh blue edges to frame us.

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blue savanna edge of a bruise, and what are you? a traceable ache half seen through purple shades half closed, sifting softened colors with you. we

jeff nathan

katherine fletcher

Foggy Golden Gate

edges

paint backwards pictures of american legends, bedtime stories for less lonely times. i find your shapes at night, sigh blue edges to frame us.

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Spring 2018 | 113

Take a hint

The Far Far What If

desjah altvater

harrison goldspiel

The ground whispered to me Leave, run, don’t come back I thought I was hallucinating So I refused

“The far far what if,” I said, after searching for the right words.

The Bricks on the walls came tumbling down Must be a coincidence I choked on the dust that replaced my oxygen As you watched me grasp for my life My window shattered It had been years since the sun licked me But you bought curtains And said I didn’t deserve to see the light I built a new home to house my soul in But some cracks couldn’t be mended My body was crushed from the world coming down on me I wish I listened, so it didn’t have to end this way Those weren’t hallucinations but my heart telling me I deserve better

“What’s that?” Annie asked. I thought for a moment. The air was cold, sending a shiver up my spine. Annie and I walked a few feet apart, plodding through the fresh snow. “You know. Many years in the future, I’ll come visit you with my wife and kids. It will be like an old family reunion, but we’ll all be seeing each other for the first time. My family will meet yours. Our kids will become fast friends. We’ll go hiking with our child and she’ll want to know how it all happened.” “She? How do you know it’ll be a girl?” “I just have a feeling.” “Is that right?” Annie asked playfully. “Yeah! And then our kids will tell all their friends at school about their new relatives across the ocean. They’ll send each other postcards and holiday gifts. And you guys will come visit us in the states. We’ll be all nostalgic and visit our old places. But as a weird extended family. It would be nice.” Annie laughed. It was the first time either of us laughed that night. “What would her name be?” Annie asked. I thought seriously for a moment. “Emma,” I exclaimed, the first name popping into my head. “Why Emma?” Annie asked, half in her own thoughts. “I don’t know. My grandma’s name was Emily. Jews name people after dead relatives.”

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Spring 2018 | 115

Take a hint

The Far Far What If

desjah altvater

harrison goldspiel

The ground whispered to me Leave, run, don’t come back I thought I was hallucinating So I refused

“The far far what if,” I said, after searching for the right words.

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“Oh so she’s going to be Jewish too?” Annie teased. “That’s entirely up to her. I just think it’s a nice tradition.” “Hmmm…” Annie mused. We were both quiet for a few minutes, racking our brains for names for our fictional children. “How about Willow?” Annie asked, her mind made up.

The surface was ice cold. She leaned on my chest and I stroked her hair gently for a few minutes. It was sprinkled with snowflakes. “Yeah,” Annie finally replied. We sat like that for a long time. I was holding her, feeling her warm breath on my neck. Imagining our future, for the first time positively. It didn’t seem like the end of the world anymore. I was happy. Even if we lived across an ocean from each other.

“Willow is good,” I replied. It was good. “See, it could turn out okay. Maybe it’s not the end of the world,” I said, resolved.

Annie shifted on my chest. I looked down and her eyes were facing mine. She had the slightest smile on her face. I bent down and kissed her. Her lips were cold.

“It does sound nice,” Annie responded warmly.

The geese honked again in the distance.

We walked in silence through the dark. Both exploring this fantasy in our minds. It was a nice image.

The bar was quiet. I stared at my beer, searching for something on the rim of the bottle.

The row of houses glowed faintly across the pond. The ground crunched with every step, our heels digging into the snow. The air was brisk, but not as biting as before. We crossed the brook again. It felt like we’d been walking for hours.

“I can’t believe you got so worked up about nothing!” Annie teased.

“It does sound nice,” Annie said again, letting it sink in. “Now I might feel happy, if you really are pregnant,” I said, lost in my own fantasy. Annie stared at me coldly. “Don’t get carried away.” “Sorry.” The moon escaped the clouds for a moment. It was bright. The pond shone, half frozen. Geese flew overhead, calling through the night. They sounded sure of something. I paused by the bench. “I think we should call it a night. This was good. I feel a little better now. Thank you.” Annie didn’t respond. She took my hand and drew me toward the bench. 116 | Perception

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I said again. “It’s okay. You almost got me worried! At least we can celebrate now.” “Hah. No baby for us! It feels so good to not be pregnant!” “Hey! Calm down mister, you wouldn’t have been pregnant!” Annie kicked me under the table. “I know,” I said. “You know what I mean.” We drank our beers, joking about a pregnancy that never came, about a family reunion we would never have and, about postcards our kids would never send to each other. Annie was beaming with relief, laughing and teasing me about overthinking everything. I drank the rest of my beer, thinking about Willow. About her soft brown hair. Her green eyes. Our hike in the mountains. Suddenly I was there, raising her with Annie. Starting a new life, far away from home and school. Leaving it all behind for someone I’d only just met. Spring 2018 | 117

“Willow is good,” I replied. It was good. “See, it could turn out okay. Maybe it’s not the end of the world,” I said, resolved.

Annie shifted on my chest. I looked down and her eyes were facing mine. She had the slightest smile on her face. I bent down and kissed her. Her lips were cold.

“It does sound nice,” Annie responded warmly.

The geese honked again in the distance.

We walked in silence through the dark. Both exploring this fantasy in our minds. It was a nice image.

The bar was quiet. I stared at my beer, searching for something on the rim of the bottle.

“I can’t believe you got so worked up about nothing!” Annie teased.

Annie gazed at me, with a smirk on her face. “What?” She asked. “I really needed this beer.” I was in love for the first time. If only she knew. If only I’d told her. It’s been ten years since Annie left Orono. She departed as quickly as she seemed to arrive, with a tour de force that sent shockwaves through those of us around her. It wasn’t a surprise that she was leaving. Her home was thousands of miles away, and she missed it terribly. Our last conversation still echoes in my head, though more faintly these days. It was a long drive to Boston, where she was flying out of. We tore through our favorites – Cat Stevens, Death Cab, Big Tree. Even with the music, the silence was deafening. Annie broke the ice. “You’ll tell me how the defense goes?” “No, I’ll just leave it a mystery as to whether I graduate,” I said, knowing immediately it was the wrong thing to say. “Hey, no need to be an ass,” Annie said angrily. I flinched. Why did I have to be sarcastic? “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. You know I’ll tell you how it goes.” “Good. You’re going to be great.” “You think so?”

We grew quiet again, as the guitar melody of Into White came on the stereo. What was there to say in a moment like this? “So, what are you going to do when you get home?” I asked. What a stupid question. “Oh, so many things! See my mom. Go biking with my dad. Finally meet my sister’s baby,” Annie said. “That’s right! How old is she now, one year?” “Just about. Time really flies.” It only dawned on me then that a year had passed since the night by the pond. I became quiet, dwelling in that moment again. Thinking about the alternative reality we invented. I bet Annie already forgot about that evening. About Willow. As if reading my thoughts, she spoke up. “Hey, what’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “It’s okay. I’m sad too,” Did she remember? “Do you think we’ll see each other again?” I asked. “Of course. I’ll come back to the States. And you’ll come visit with Luna,” She said, sounding confident. Luna was Annie’s housemate in Orono. We worked together at the university. If anyone was as broken up about Annie’s departure as I was, it was Luna. She already had tickets to visit – a full year in advance. “I’d like that,” I said, not sounding confident.

“Definitely,” Annie said. “Your thesis is massive! And you’ve been working so hard.”

“And we’ll keep talking. I want you to be a part of my life. I want to hear about your adventures and know how you are doing. And your sister and parents,” she said, putting her hand on mine.

“Yeah, but it could have been so much better.”

“That would be nice.”

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“Definitely,” Annie said. “Your thesis is massive! And you’ve been working so hard.”

“And we’ll keep talking. I want you to be a part of my life. I want to hear about your adventures and know how you are doing. And your sister and parents,” she said, putting her hand on mine.

“Yeah, but it could have been so much better.”

“That would be nice.”

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We were silent for the rest of the ride. It was raining when we arrived. The parking garage was full, but there were some open spots on the roof. I parked in a corner overlooking the terminal and the landing strips in the distance. The airport had tall glass windows and we could see all the movement inside. We sat in the car for what felt like hours, quietly looking out on the scene in front of us. Where were these people going? Why did they all look like they were in a rush? It all felt so meaningless at the time. Nothing seemed to matter outside of that car. The same car that we always lingered in after a long drive, Annie leaning on me as we pondered our time together, noting how it always felt so limited. Our time was more limited now than ever, but she didn’t lean on me anymore. An hour later I sat in my car again, searching for Annie through the terminal windows, half hoping she would walk out the front door and realize what she had left behind. The planes took off, each as furiously as the one before. True to her word, Annie did keep in touch for some time. She called me to say congratulations when I successfully defended my thesis. We spoke about her new housemates. They took in a rescue dog named Jojo and taught it yoga. Annie told me about her new work with the university. She was excited to keep writing and finally share her work with her family. I sent her some letters and postcards from my travels after graduate school. She was excited to hear stories from Baxter, where she escaped to in her last weeks before flying home. We spoke once during the trek, shortly after I made it over Katahdin. The sound in her voice was full of distant nostalgia. We talked like that for some time. Every week or so I would send her snapshots of my hikes. She would respond with pictures of Jojo’s newest yoga postures. She seemed happy. Annie skyped me after hearing about my thesis getting published. “You finally published! I’m so happy for you!” She cheered, sounding ecstatic. “Thanks! To be honest, I wasn’t sure it this was gonna make it. If you think writing a thesis is hard, just wait until you go through three rounds of peer 120 | Perception

review. I was certain John was going to tell me, ‘I think you gave it your best shot.’ He was almost more determined than meI was.” “Your advisor was never going to give up on your thesis. Even I knew that. You’re still underestimating yourself! You earned this.” “I guess you’re right,” I conceded. “How is Jojo these days?” “This dog!! Her chaturangas are insane. Even I can’t keep up anymore,” Annie joked. Before long, our conversations became less frequent. Weeks turned into months. We’d set aside an hour every few months to catch up, but eventually those faded away too. I’d see occasional Facebook posts and scroll through pictures from her new life. Biking adventures with her dad. Selfies with her niece, who was already walking. Eventually, I came across an album with Luna, who finally made it out for her honeymoon. It looked like the reunion of a lifetime. We became more distant after Facebook went down, exchanging the usual birthday and holiday greetings over email, but not much else. She sent me a short poem in the mail once. It was about Willow. She imagined hiking with her in Acadia. I was instantly projected back to Maine. I could see Willow kicking the pine cones into the sea. Ocean mist spraying her face. There was longing in her words. But also, acceptance. The conference hall was crammed with overly eager students and tired faculty. The main session just finished, and the attendees filtered into the lobby to mingle and seek out their next rounds of talks. Students mostly huddled in compact circles, with the occasional person approaching an older researcher with well-prepared compliments and overly recycled questions. The faculty congregated at the hotel bar, oblivious that it was still morning. Everyone seemed to be in position, engaged in the same routine as last year. I wandered the hotel floor, disinterestedly scanning the titles on the various lecture boards. I already gave my presentation about the Pacific Spring 2018 | 121

giant salamanders and decided to stay and enjoy the last two days of talks and events. My wife was spending the week in British Columbia with her parents, so I didn’t have anything to rush home to. It was nice to turn off for a few days and absorb new ideas, like a sponge that has wrung itself out for too long. I stopped to glance at one of the boards and spotted Luna’s name at the top. Backstabbers and saboteurs: sexual selection in Ephemera vulgata – Luna Buckingham, PhD, Associate Professor of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology, University of Cambridge Luna’s talk was nearing the end when I slipped inside. The room was packed. She was wearing a T-shirt with a pair of mayflies on the front, clearly displaying some sexual act. It looked homemade. Her tattoos reached her wrists, finishing the outfit with a menagerie of insects and earthy tones. I watched the rest of her talk from the back of the room. Luna was full of energy. She worked through a series of images, building a narrative around a single pair of male mayflies deep in combat. The audience was captivated by the scenes. I was captivated by her. It didn’t seem so long ago that Annie and I were sitting in the back of another packed room, watching her present her dissertation. Aside from the new tattoos, she hadn’t changed much. I was glad. As she left the lectern Luna spotted me in the corner of the room. She was grinning. I couldn’t tell if she was excited to see me or just beaming from her performance. She took a few questions and started walking toward me as the room cleared out. We hugged for a long while, making up for the past few years. I suggested we grab lunch, so we left the hotel and walked a few blocks downtown to an Indian place. “This brings back memories,” Luna said as the waitress brought over a basket of roti and an assortment of curries.

“Sorry. This is just bringing back a lot.” “Yeah.” We were quiet for a few minutes, digging into the various dishes laid out on the table. Luna and I ordered drinks. I stared at my beer, searching for something on the rim of the bottle. “How are things going in Corvallis?” Luna asked. “Oregon is a magical place. I took Jacob into the field last month. He held his first salamander. Or rather, it held him. The thing was practically the size of his face.” “Please tell me you have some pictures.” I rummaged through my phone, finding the photos from our recent field trek. “Oh my god. These are glorious,” Luna said laughing. “Yeah. Otherwise, work is going well. My sister is coming out in a few weeks. We’re all gonna take a trip out to Crater Lake.” “Aw, that sounds great!” “So, how are things going at Cambridge?” I asked. “Pretty good. My lab is finally starting to shape up, “ Luna said, preparing another piece of roti with curry. “We just got a new postdoc . Turns out he grew up in the same town as Annie.” “Small world.”

“Yup.”

“Not the same though.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Annie?”

“You’re quite talkative today.”

“Yeah.”

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Spring 2018 | 123

“Yup.”

“Not the same though.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Annie?”

“You’re quite talkative today.”

“Yeah.”

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“She’s doing great. I think she’s about to publish a new book.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Poems?”

“You should ask her that yourself.”

“A novel. She’s been working on it for years.”

“You’re right. But I don’t know how to reach her these days.”

I remember when Annie sent me her first book. A collection of poems, some of which she wrote in Maine when we were together. It arrived without warning, soon after I started my job in Oregon five years ago. There was only a short note on the cover page – ‘Thank you, for everything. – Annie.’ It was strange to receive something so personal after not speaking for years. There was a small portrait of Annie on the back cover, taken with mountains in the backdrop. She had longer hair, but the same gentle smile.

The waitress came by with the receipt. Luna snatched up the customer copy and scribbled something on the back with a pen.

I opened the book and worked through a few of the poems. They were brilliant. But they brought me to a deeply sad place. I had only been dating my wife for a few months at the time and she picked up on my sadness over dinner. I told her about Annie and our time together. My wife read some of her poems that night and embraced me. We didn’t talk about Annie or her poems, but I could tell that she understood my pain. She held me tightly in bed, as a bandage might wrap a newly reopened wound. It was the only time we ever spoke about her.

“Now you do,” she said. “Thanks.” “She’d want to hear from you. Really.” “Okay,” I said, cramming the receipt into my jacket pocket. We left the restaurant and returned to the hotel. It was quiet in the lobby. The afternoon sessions already began. Luna and I scanned the nearest conference brochure and picked our talks for the rest of the day. “It was really good to see you,” Luna said.

“That’s amazing,” I said, trying to sound excited. “I can’t wait to read it.”

“Yeah. Likewise.”

“With her job and kid, I’m impressed that she found the time to write a novel at all.”

“Let me know if you are ever planning a trip to Europe. I’ll bring you to the only decent bagel place in England.”

“Her kid?”

I laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

“Really? How long has it been since you spoke to her?”

We hugged again and parted ways in the lobby.

I confessed. Luna looked at me with frustration. She seemed personally betrayed. They keep up regularly and visit each other every few years.

When I was in college my history professor took our class on a fall hike through an old forest near the university. The trail started in a clearing along an old railroad track overgrown with vegetation. The forest was massive. We walked for close to an hour, navigating the winding trails past large swamps and scattered red pine groves. Our professor would point out random natural features, like the collapsed stone walls that appeared intermittently. Or how some parts of the forest were bumpy with irregular pits and mounds while others were perfectly flat.

“Hold on,” she said, now searching through pictures on her phone. “Here.” She handed me her phone. There she was, sitting with a small girl on her lap. Brown hair, green eyes. Maybe three years old. She was beautiful. They both were. 124 | Perception

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“She’s doing great. I think she’s about to publish a new book.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Poems?”

“You should ask her that yourself.”

“A novel. She’s been working on it for years.”

“You’re right. But I don’t know how to reach her these days.”

The waitress came by with the receipt. Luna snatched up the customer copy and scribbled something on the back with a pen.

“That’s amazing,” I said, trying to sound excited. “I can’t wait to read it.”

“Yeah. Likewise.”

“With her job and kid, I’m impressed that she found the time to write a novel at all.”

“Let me know if you are ever planning a trip to Europe. I’ll bring you to the only decent bagel place in England.”

“Her kid?”

I laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

“Really? How long has it been since you spoke to her?”

We hugged again and parted ways in the lobby.

I confessed. Luna looked at me with frustration. She seemed personally betrayed. They keep up regularly and visit each other every few years.

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Eventually we stopped by an intersection in the woods and he directed us to make a map of the surrounding area. But rather than illustrate the forest as it stood today, he asked us to describe how it appeared in the past. We were dumbfounded. How should we know what the forest looked like hundreds of years ago? How did we know it was any different from now?

A little girl picks up. “Hello?” “Hello,” I respond. “What’s your name?”

Frustrated, we began to reconsider those features from before, suddenly realizing what we missed. The flat and rugged areas now contained different types of trees. The collapsed stone walls stretched for hundreds of feet in straight lines through the forest, intersecting each other at right angles. The railroad track extended as far as the eye could see. The forest told a story. But only to those who cared enough to look. It was beautiful. How something so massive can experience such loss and be reborn. How despite so many changes, there was no denying how it still thrived. On our way back from the woods, our professor pulled over on the side of the road. We got out of the van and stood on the sidewalk as he stared intently at a sunken patch of grass next to the curb. “A tree once stood here,” he said. “An American chestnut, six feet wide. It died fifty years ago.” We stood in silence on the sidewalk. Large Victorian houses stood behind us. Across the road was a church, with a large steeple built of irregular glacial stones. Two women jogged by our class, deep in an active conversation. Cars whizzed by, oblivious to the patch of grass that was once a large tree. The world moved on. But we remembered. Lying in my hotel bed, I feel the crumpled restaurant receipt in my jacket pocket and take it out. On the back is an international phone number scribbled in pen. I close my eyes for a moment. I want you to be a part of my life, she said. I thought I did too. I dial the number and hear the phone ring. 126 | Perception

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A little girl picks up. “Hello?” “Hello,” I respond. “What’s your name?”

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Robinhood fern durand

Because Robinhood, master of stocks would not settle for a chipmunks pleasure Because his rib sings joyous songs versed in lies about honoring her fidelity Because the tissue paper had not yet been invented she used a leaf, and Because she used a leaf the Devil gave her a rash for her lies, an even exchange Because the Devil is a player, he strings you along a fiddle, carefully plucking you Because it makes him feel good knowing you are foolish beyond belief, even to a dummy Because you let her move back in. She will do it again friend despite the water in her eyes Because to you she is an angel despite her lies. Real eyes realize real lies, you are blind

Scenes from the Serengeti andrew maercklein

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| photography

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Robinhood fern durand

Scenes from the Serengeti andrew maercklein

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| photography

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| digital

Trash Forest

mel wherry

130 | Perception

Gravy Baby brian hamlin

2 P.M. Chewed in cheeks. Purple arms. Belly aches. Aspirin, tap water in paper cups and a flip phone. “We can meet him but we need the money first.” “Okay. How much?” Thumbs without nails swap spots between teeth as headaches tick-tock hammers between their temples. “We need to scrap.” “How about a hit?” “Who on?” “Liquor store.” “Those stores are state owned.” “So?” “Them guys to got guns.” Beat. “So do we.” “Well I ain’t intend on shootin’ or bein’ shot at.” “Okay. You can drive this time.” “Let’s eat first. Dollar slices.” “That ’n two cokes will fly for four seventy five.” A sticky checkered tablecloth was the perfect place to map out a cheap crime. 6 P.M. Gotta go straight for the register. Gotta keep the gun in the jacket pocket. “Gotta keep the gun in the jacket pocket.” A white Camry. One driver. One gunner. Sneakers and white mid calf socks. Two junkies and one loaded gun. “And then we’ll be good? For a while? I don’t want to have to do this anymore.” “We’ll be good. We’ll be good like gravy.” 8 P.M. “Any word from you know who?” “Big Cat?” “Yeah.” You have no new messages. “Well, let’s keep ‘em crossed.” The gunner looked nervous. “You look nervous. Don’t shoot.” Spring 2018 | 131

| digital

Trash Forest

mel wherry

130 | Perception

Gravy Baby brian hamlin

Neither of them spoke for a little while. 8:57 P.M. Camry humming. Out in front of state store no. 47. Frost on windshield. Veins like ice. “Let the engine run.” Out jumped the gunner and into the store he went. In a pool of yellow light, the white Camry played possum in the parking lot, and the man at the register read his sports magazine, and the driver talked to Big Cat the phone and said “I’ll meet you in 15 minutes” and the gunner kept his right hand in his jacket pocket. In the Camry. “What’s the count?” “More than enough.” “Next time too?” “Next time, three.” “That’s good.” “That’s gravy, baby.”

Six Feet Under zoe karikas

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| photo plate print

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Six Feet Under zoe karikas

132 | Perception

| photo plate print

Spring 2018 | 133

| photography chad singh

| photography

Jardin Majorelle

Cinque Terre

hannah gross

134 | Perception Spring 2018 | 135

| photography chad singh

| photography

Jardin Majorelle

Cinque Terre

hannah gross

134 | Perception Spring 2018 | 135