Perception Spring 2014
Syracuse University Volume XIV, Issue 23 Perception.syr@gmail.com
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Perception is a free literary magazine published once during each academic semester by undergraduate students at Syracuse University. Address editorial correspondence to perception.syr@gmail.com. We hope to inspire, to anger, to unleash, to exalt, to yield, to offend. We hope we can share what we deem necessary to existence...art and love and words...with those who haven’t been touched yet. Perception is now accepting submissions for the Fall 2014 issue. Send poetry, prose & artwork to perception.syr@gmail.com.
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the insiders EDITOR-IN-CHIEF MANAGING EDITORS MANAGING DESIGNERS & DESIGNERS EDITORS
Yevgeniya Muravyova Brandie Pullen
Shelby Netschke Irene Carrozza Haiyun Xu Sarah Peck Jenna Belmonte Stephanie Diehl Emmett LaPierre Natasha Amadi Josh Dolph Nittika Mehra Maura Buckley Victoria Russo Katie Fleischer Dan Franco
READERS Robert Vega Quinn Weber Frieda Projansky Ashley Mixson Sarah Peck Eva de Charleroy Karina Campos Josh Dolph Shelby Netschke Ruxin Song Nittika Mehra Hannah Aronwitz Alina Bagamanova Linger here.
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Lynda Folsom Tobi Thompson Christine Bader Alison Searcy Christine Wassel Taylor Arias Laura Donle Adrienne Parsons Abby Legge Christopher Rivera Sylvia Jiang Elyse Davis Gabriella Bello Frances Huang
ADVERTISERS
Josh Dolph Joseph Baiz Omar Shaaban Charlotte Balogh Hesper Xu Kirstyn Ross Sarah Agate
MANY THANKS, Sarah Harwell Michael Burkard The ETS Department The WRT Department Vicki Risa Smith Terri Zollo Christine E Palmer Lou Ann Payne Clare Merrick The Student Association All of the professors who encouraged their students to submit 4 l Perception
the contributors
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undergraduate writing
Editor’s Letter
Leslie Pena 10 No. 16 Manuel Garcia 12 Current Events Sawyer Cresap 13 “Exsanguinations” Cherokee Hubbert 14 Out of the Shadows Jennifer A Jeffery 15 I Sat with the Dark This Morning Karla A Gomez 17 Madness Rachel James 20 Maybe If I Went Backwards Lynn Chui 22 Spools Karina Espino 24 Tetris Elizabeth Farrow 26 Untitled Spencer Garrison 28 regrettable deathsign Sam Sodomsky 30 American Romantic Christopher Bailey Langsdorf 32 Condomonium Zack Port 36 On the mechanics of grammar and thought Janelle Ann McCarthy 38 Subtle Loving Victor Cannestro 39 The Taxi Drive Charlotte Lillie Balogh 40 College Experiences Michael Steven Garda 42 One Lonely Gummy Bear... Jennifer Renee Williamson 48 Animal Eva de Charleroy 53 Big Nicky Zamoida 54 All You Are Holly Childs 56 Such Blackened Eyes Linger here.
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Yassah Peace Johnson 57 Fall Kaitlyn Susanne Woelfel 58 Excerpt Richard Joseph Murphy II 59 Brief Moment of Silence Julia Whittley 60 Grandpapa Kathryn Anne Ferentchak 62 Just A Mistake Christina Maria Tiberio 66 Living on the Borderland Josh Dolph 68 Fugitives From the Near Void Helina Lau 69 Bag of Bones Sarah Ann Peck 71 Tea Time Ilhan Gowdha 72 Payback Chelsea Rose D’Amore 73 Bar Crawls Caroline Anne Koller 74 A Little White (Red and Blue) Lie Taylor N. Arias 76 The White Road Alexander Sammartino 77 A Luddite Speaks Joseph Baiz 80 Leviathan Beth Wright 86 Untitled
undergraduate art
Katie Rosiene 11 Tiger Eyes 85 School Bus Kathryn Ferentchak 19 Topple Katrina Ragland 23 Untitled Janelle McCarthy 27 Curve Leslie Pena 31 Untitled 35 Untitled 37 Untitled Taylor Hicks 38 Baby 96 Girl Kathryn Ferentchak 41 Scewing Alex Aronson 47 A Night in Paris Emily Saleh 61 Self Portrait 6 l Perception
Sawyer Cresap Samuel Mann Mehmet Akinci Molly Pomroy
65 Roses in Winter 70 Free to Be 67 Untitled 75 Untitled 79 Untitled 89 Untitled
graduate writing Jenna Marie Belmonte 91 Still Kevin McCaskill Jr. 92 Some Niggas Go to College graduate art Jenna Marie Belmonte 13
Dr. Richard Tames
faculty writing 94
Untitled
In the House of Kings
FRONT COVER ART BY Monica Ortiz “Malevolence” INSIDE COVER ART BY Samuel Mann “Untitled” BACK COVER ART BY Monica Ortiz “Untitled” BACK INSIDE COVER ART BY Katrina Ragland “Untitled” Linger here.
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Editor’s Letter Many people always ask me about the name change, and I always give
them the explanation that the name of a magazine can hardly embody its diverse content. Everyone views things differently, and the way everyone expresses these perceptions whether it is through art or writing—can only be explained by the word which itself represents these views. This specific Issue touches on many controversial topics such as abortion, mental disorders, sexuality, and religion, etc. I really enjoyed reading everything because it opened up my eyes to the importance of everyday life, and becoming more aware of the feelings of the people around me. I hope that it will have the same effect on you. I also hope as a reader you will realize how diverse our community really is, and what it means to respect each and every individual despite your own beliefs. Thank you for picking up the 23rd Issue of Perception Magazine. “The more you know, the less sure you are of anything” - Dan Chaon Yevgeniya Muravyova Editor-in-Chief
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undergraduate
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Leslie Pena No. 16 A consistency and constant motto in my town is “I want to get out of my small town and be someone and go somewhere” Though often, no one actually does this Becoming too familiar and too comfortable with the everyday lives they themselves occupy and those around them. They became consumed with what is happening around them for too long they mistakenly take that as ‘happiness’. As soon as high school is over, they get a job at Panera Bread or Chickfil-A and call it destiny. Calling it: this is what life has dealt me so I shall take it. No one realizes just how far gone they are with doing what other people are doing until they see just what other people are doing. Making a life for themselves - outside of Clermont. So to make up for lost time they go to the football games decked out in black and gold, not realizing that nobody has a clue of who you are or cares. You know, over the summer I had someone from my job who went to the same high school as me ask if I remembered him as the guy who streaked during the pep rally. The kid graduated four years before me. So no, Keith Garcia, I do not remember you. Sometimes I feel bad, Because left behind is everyone I ever cared about, stuck at the bottom of the hill. Unable to move from the constancy this town has put them in. That boy with the wavy hair My best friend My little sister whose test scores do not reflect the amount of talent she has in her.
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How did she become a CNA at 17, but can’t even get that number on her ACT? Everything happens for a reason though I keep saying this to myself to save me from the guilt the guilt for leaving leaving love behind before I even gave it a chance. But this happened for a reason, so I left him behind, and her, and them, Because now more than ever, I wanted to, I tried to, I needed to get Over the Hill.
Katie Rosiene “Tiger Eyes�
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Manuel Garcia Current Events My life is just the mirror image of a news ticker, A catalyst existing as the brother of evil And the father of my own immersion, Bleeding before me like a nonsense language. I am lost—and damned if I will sleep— For into the beating ours of this night, As you tick, tick, tick before my eyes like The fast hand of a plastic Grandfather Clock, I will forever remember, “Mother Gina, Driven into oncoming traffic by blindness, Eight civilians gone—children children among them”— And “Father John, incarcerated for molestation-Child Psychologists still cross examining”— And “twenty-eight black coffins, lying scattered in dirt across This nation, as we pan out to images of babies in mourning, Babies—who cannot even fathom the life they’ve entered, Yet learn from mother and father what to feel and what to do, Both products of that Tick Tick Tick Tick Which remains through commercials Of knives at half price. My life is a Grandfather Clock immersed in the sea, Ticking every second as a news ticker changes From headline to headline, And destroying my mind. 12 l Perception
Sawyer Cresap “Exsanguinations” I feel like I learned how to love one way it was stirring, shattering, and new it split me open like a vein blood rushing from the wound now you’re gone and I’m left to bleed the aching mournful truth that some love is learned one way alone but real love is learned by two.
Jenna Belmonte “Untitled”
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Cherokee Hubbert Out of the Shadows Yesterday I found my voice. It was lost inside of meburied so deep inside I needed a flashlight just to see. Yesterday I found my self-esteem trapped inside a web of hurt stitched from years of never feeling good enough Always striving for perfection when my happiness was tied into all my imperfections. Yesterday I learned to love myself. I found the self love that I stripped from myself. The love that I turned my back to and left to rot in the sweltering sun. The love that I can feel even when no one else is around. Yesterday I found out who I am. I discovered more than what was simply skin deep. I reached into the depths of my soul and pulled out the person hidden in the shadows waiting for sustenance. I am no longer locked away in my own prison. I unchained myself and let my true character out for the world to see. Yesterday I found out who I am and there is no going back.
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Jennifer A Jeffery I Sat with the Dark This Morning Why is everyone so afraid of the dark? scrambling for the light usually leads to cursing stubbed toes anyway What is so hard about sitting with the dark for a while? Dark chocolate Dark skin Dark blankets for stars to nestle in Next time the shadow knocks, let him in embrace him like an old friend offer a chair by the fire for resting his bones give him something to drink and feed him listen to his wisdom and look him in the eyes see the reflection of yourself there sit with the dark until the embers burn low I sat with the dark this morning‌ Why do boys need christening gowns, but ever after aren’t allowed to be vulnerable? Why do girls need to be silent to be good, but aren’t allowed to be known as fierce?
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We called them pirate ships and Christmas trees the lights that shone so far away out there, on the umber sea they cast shadows of gold we chased their splendor lured off of the splintered balcony desperate to believe we could catch them pushing through the swaying crowds their bodies beveled together, the iron work of flesh and sinew forged by the flames of youth we ran, frantic and hopeful, egged on by the urgency only fools know down the blackened streets and past the solemn trees, stumbling in the blackness we found the sand the heavy panting of the wild waves echoing our shallow breaths hasty fingers fumbling with buttons and snaps our skin bitten by the salt air, revealed to the ever-searching eyes of the night racing toward the water, we welcomed its savage chill and even as we cried out in shock and delight, we knew that our voices were silent above the din of the sea that moment that seemed so loud was still it would not last, but those lights still shine.
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Karla A Gomez Madness Madness does not sleep, But, rather, wakes you up in the middle of the night Demanding to be fucked and Leaves hasty, selfish poems etched up and down your back forgets how to eat, or aches to, Or swallows plates and bowls whole And does not stop at the silverware. Madness rocks back and forth Or sits very still in corners with watery eyes, Blood-shot, child’s smile, Manic hair, arms a-twist, twisted, snarling whore’s lips smiles and twirls and shines All the pretty colors, all the pretty things You only ever thought you’d dream In this way, madness makes you fall in love; calls you up at two in the afternoon And hangs up, calls you up at two in the morning and Asks you to bring liquor, pretty please you say, what kind? it says, any. Madness wakes you up early with bribes With warm coffee and sleepy kisses, And mounts you, holds you down between its thighs And tells you breathless stories that make your head spin and you laugh Linger here.
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and it laughs and you laugh and it laughs and then neither of you are laughing. screams and pounds at your chest, Snakes its way around you, stops, Heaving, begs you not to leave, Brings you to your knees And falls down to meet you there. Madness is not beautiful, you realize, As you watch her sleeping next to you at last, Your eyes heavy, dragging lavender and crimson, pale. Still, you pull her in close She is quiet when she sleeps and her breathing is like nothing you’ve ever heard before, Like nothing else you’ll ever find.
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Kathryn Ferentchak “Topple”
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Rachel James Maybe If I Went Backwards 1. Setting my gold coin on the bureau I take another sip of hell’s fire the skin is still cold, dry purple lips frosted remembering the kiss from the ice queen we shared when there were warmer times preparing for a trip a journey to the other end. The boatman takes my fares and away I go. 2. I always wondered what I looked like when I was being put to sleep if there was a slight smirk on my face because my time in this fucked up world was done or if I went down with my middle fingers up to the gods that tore me away from my love ones. 20 l Perception
Either way I just want to go out with a bang! 3. I never realized how the concrete feels when you fall to it the sense of relief when you finally hit the pavement untangling all your problems when nothing else matters the concrete it accepts it all rejection is no longer an issue. I never realize how nice the concrete feels when you finally fall into it.
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Lynn Chui Spools What if one day you stepped into a JoAnn’s or a Michael’s and all of a sudden spools of those cheap-ass threads just started rolling around? I ain’t talking about those fat ones that are shown on those coupon books, I’m talking about those skinny, off-cream ones that are the length of two cockroaches lined up end to end. Imagine them just rolling along, unraveling and abruptly stopping when they hit a wall, or unwinding again as they hit corners and change directions. The colors of these strings too, all shades and hues just all coming together into a big-ass mass only to depart as their cylindrical carriers continue on their way. And their movement doesn’t necessarily have to be on the ground, this can all just as easily take place in the sky or on the walls. I know it all just sounds like a really fucking crazy situation, but it actually makes a ton of sense. Oh, among all those spools is an empty one too, just clattering around with all the others. See, say the spools are the basic functions of you, all your interests and inquiries and intimate thoughts. Then you’ve got the cheap string, which are all the crappy hindrances that keep the spools heavy, all those toxic vices and baggage left from relationships that used to be so fruitful but grew tasteless over time and that general run-of-the-mill laziness we are all too quick to attribute to malaise. So the whole goal is precisely to witness such a sight and feel frightened and out of place because what you are really seeing unravel is not a crafting store being crafty or a fabric store falling apart, it’s a new you coming together. You’re more beautiful than that colorful clusterfuck because you’re better than the weight that prevents you from doing wonders. You become lighter as you adopt new habits and your spools unravel so that they can become wound with silk.
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Now, you may ask, why did you mention the lone empty spool rolling around with the others? Because in everybody there’s always that one little part that remains untouched, undiscovered, and untainted by temptations and distractions and dissatisfactions. And somewhere in all that hubbub where you’re trying not to trip over all of the knots binding and coming apart, that one empty spool will inevitably collide with your foot. It might catch you off guard, it might stop to say hi, it might ricochet away in fear. My question is, what are you going to do about it?
Katrina Ragland “Untitled”
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Karina Espino Tetris I hate playing Tetris, but have gotten used to it. I used to love playing it when I sucked. Now I’m great, obsessive over it, but abhor how much of a fan I’ve become of it. Yes, she introduced me to Tetris. Sure, my playing it could be proof of how much I miss her. But that’s not certain, no fuck that, a game can be played without the emotional connections. Every time the long pale blue piece comes I get excited. It reminds me of you. And yes, I still wait and arrange the other pieces for it. I save a special spot for it; it’s my favorite. I tried to like the others; it’s still my favorite. I hate the sound; it’s always muted. I now use hold and get much further, you were right about that. Did it help you with your anxiety? I’d like to think it’s helping me with mine, which I might have, or think a lot that I do have. Maybe I think that so I can be more like you. You know, I once thought I had a panic attack and thought of you. Turns out all I needed to do was digest the coffee that had made me 24 l Perception
nervous. That’s my problem. I keep trying to be like you when I’m not. There are other explanations about things that occur to me, and you are not part of it. Bud out of my life already! I decided long ago to try not to see you, and its working. But now I fill the void by trying to be like you. This is unacceptable, irritating. Enough! One moment cannot define the rest of my life. Fuck seeing her again. Fuck reliving that moment in my life. Fuck making up for it, I don’t need to. I’m just going to keep on living. I’m getting used to that without her. This stopped being about playing Tetris long ago. Tetris is not quite Tetris. Tetris is a reminder that I still think of her, more than I’d like to.
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Elizabeth Farrow Untitled I fell in love with poetry tonight. I didn’t mean to; it just never really occurred to me that words could shape hands so beautifully, or that soft breathing in the long hours before dawn could sound like such an exquisite sonata. I fell in love with poetry like someone else might wake up: unwillingly at first, but then I see the sunlight on your skin, the scent of sleep in your hair and suddenly waking is the best thing I can do. And it scares me because I never liked poetry before, but the silhouette of you dancing against the candlelight must be the closest I could ever be to what those poets must be trying to say
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Janelle McCarthy “Curve”
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Spencer Garrison regrettable deathsign i am her heartbeat i am th flower n her hair i am lunch trays on packed snowhill four lokos under the spider branch dandruff pine three graves at home w two teenagers lying softly melting snow to reach th dead below . i am cold heartbeat dead flower on yr grave i am lunch tray splattered apple sauce we’re getting drunk off four lokos hanging warm perspiration from our noses dripping K E R PLUNK on yr deadman’s stone rock face . i am littering th snow yellow & i am staring up at th digital blips that bloom blossom n nanoseconds surprising me making me feel ultra human small i wonder how u must feel underneath with the maggots crushing softened bone i bet the coffin hasnt preserved yr face can u feel yr arms rest at th head of th table ? i wonder where yr power went memory of yr slurring drunken powerstance spitting hypocritical wisdom at my reluctant face during th 2012 superbowl, motley crue shirt waving over my trembling bony body underneath th prime rib meat muscle you
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god i need to drink more milk itll make me stronger than u ill throw it up but maybe my heart will beat happier than yours memory of u laughing at th dancing elephant on tv because “how often do u see a dancing elephant ?” i dont want to drain my mothers breast she got implants to hide her inability id rather pull ur work from underneath her putting her down there with you to lie forever weakening by th hour while this girl and i sit on top and drink yr wine sinking closer speaking of the stars (w th shining sky coins u rightfully earned now jingling n my pocket ) staring at that dripping freezing regrettable deathsign a snotrocket on yr headstone in between two graves i ask her if shes ever stolen money before and she says no th unsurprising innocence n her voice. . this selfish resentment, this uncharacteristic nihilism it’s all just me screaming at yr grave “I MISS YOU I WANT TO FEEL YOU AGAIN . “ O god would i kiss u n yr tomb. this girl i lay above u with, id take all her fathers money & spend it on my deadly habits just to save the rest of our family from going down under w You .
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Sam Sodomsky American Romantic On the day I ran out of metaphors I woke up to light rain Which was just light rain Then made some coffee Because I wanted coffee I was bored so I read The Old Man And The Sea Which I found to be boring, and I hated the ending I looked at the birds outside my window Who were just birds outside a window And bird songs Which meant nothing to me The day was gray But not in a poignant way Just in a gray way So I got naked and watched internet porn Thinking of nothing and Thinking of no one and Afterwards when I cleansed myself It was in a literal shower using Literal soap and literal water. I considered for a moment A bright red cardinal Weaving in and out of the pallid sky and Thought nothing of it And death Which signifies only the end of one’s life And nothing else I considered a raindrop
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Forming in a cloudburst Spiraling toward Sidewalk Then forgot what I was thinking about I considered leaving the house To venture into the gray and Had no reason to stay. As I walked out the door It occurred to me that I might have one Simile in me Somewhere Deep in my throat So I spat it out like a loogie
Leslie Pena “Untitled�
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Christopher Bailey Langsdorf Condomonium Think of it like one of those Tom Cruise Mission Impossible movies. Get in, get the condoms, and get out. That was my mission impossible. I had never bought condoms before but I felt that it was a rite of passage, something I had to become comfortable with if I was going to continue my busy pimping lifestyle. Now before I begin this story of awkward proportions I should mention that my biggest fear during all of this was that I would run into someone I knew. Now ordinarily that would not be a problem, because running into a good friend is no issue. It was acquaintance run-in that worried me. This was more of an issue because I had joined the cheer team 3 days before this little excursion, which meant there were over 40 new people who could be in the vicinity of the CVS or my dorm and I would then get to experience the “Oh what’s in the bag? Annddddddd he’s a man whore.” Yes this is how my mind worked. I hate that the CVS plastic bags are see through. Ordinarily it is not an issue, but when I am about to buy condoms I do not want people to see what’s in my bag. Hence why I decided to bring my backpack with me. You can never be too careful when buying condoms. Upon entering the store I realize I must first locate the isle in which my prize is located. However I must do so in a non-awkward way. So I just casually browse blow-dryers, sunglasses and tampons until I find the section I was looking for. They were in the family planning section— go figure—despite the fact that they’re really only used by people who don’t plan on having a family. As I walk down the isle I can’t help but pat myself on the back. I mean this was a cakewalk, like taking candy from a baby, this was borderline easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. But then I saw the boxes. Good god the condom shelf looked like one of those “we are experiencing technical difficulties” screens with all the colored lines. There was red, blue, orange, purple, yellow, green, fire and ice, ecstasy, for 32 l Perception
him, for her, extra lubricated, ultra thin. I felt like Hugh Hefner in a candy store. The smooth and cool Chris had run out of the store a long time ago, now it was just me in all my awkward glory. I never really believed in God but if I did, I am sure he was dying of laughter in his all-powerful recliner. And yet he decided to make this mission even more difficult. I was blindsided by the frat bros. Marching down the isle in their tank-tops and flip-flops, they were on the same mission as I. Their search for the perfect latex had led them here, this was to be the final showdown, is what I thought to myself as I casually browsed the crest toothpaste and waited for them to make the first move. These two SEX GODS had come to play. From my stealth-fully gained position I watched in awe as the selected the largest box of condoms that this CVS had to offer: the 40 pack. Clearly they must work for health services, or perhaps they are on their way to teach a sexual education seminar at a rundown public school. Perhaps they are going to bring the box back to their frat house and distribute the goods to all of their brothers in a selfless promotion of practicing safe sex. Or maybe….they are just that damn good…do I ask them for advice on what kind to get for a first timer? Should I just grab the same ones they did and Oh my god they’re only buying the condoms!? No decoys? That’s suicide. I had to re-group and assess my situation. College Humor helped me make this decision. I did not think I would ever find any way to work the “Guy Buys Condom” skit into my life but this was a situation in which I could fully utilize it. As I continued to browse the toothpaste I thought back to how he had chosen a purple box of Trojans, the were “ultra ribbed for her pleasure” and since he was the one getting laid he felt it better to be selfless. Upon grabbing the much more realistically sized box—a fourteen pack—I proceeded to the checkout. Then I stopped dead in my tracks, decoys, I needed decoys. I was nowhere near the level of the Frat Bro Sex Gods. The guy in the College Humor skit bought a blow dryer, shovel and tampons. I would have to be slightly more economical, and intelligent. I quickly walked over to the snacks and picked up two bags of pretzels and a can of Linger here.
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Pringles, then some AA batteries just for good measure. Luckily my decoys allowed me to escape the gaze of judgment, that I can only assume was bestowed upon the Frat Bro Sex Gods. I paid for my items and prepared to march back to the dorm like a knight having slayed a dragon, until it hit me. The clear bag, the bright purple box, the 40-plus cheer team member I had to avoid on my way home, I nearly sank to my knees. It was all over, I had lost, there was no way I would survive that latex ridden minefield of judgment. It was time to surrender. Then in the distance I saw it, navy blue, about 15 inches when fully erect, it was my backpack! It had come to save me from these transparent bags of injustice, and save me it did. I threw all the items in my bag and walked out of that store the way the cool guys always walk away from explosions in action movies. The battle of the latex had come to an end. Exhausted I returned to my dorm and placed the box of condoms in the top dresser drawer, where they remained in their slumber for the rest of the year.
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Leslie Pena “Untitled”
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Zack Port On the mechanics of grammar and thought rhythms flowed from our lips down into our hands slid off our arms and onto the page inkblack sounds held static, encapsuled by the sweat of our pens and the blood of our veins an age-old ritual, familiar in motion curves that set the deepest thought free gears turn faster, and, bending muscles, whirr life into void out of grey at both ends of the leaf, minds want for nothing yet, cradling life, beg for more ratchets click and gears shift smoothly consuming all energy, billowing steam watch as the pageflow stands interrupted breaks in space cast quick into time
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walk silently, bare-boned across mind-lit beaches snap back to dim lamplight alone and here I stand, mechanical man your churning gears brought me into this place my voice is quite clear, but your memory’s corrupted i’m brought to life by words on a page.
Leslie Pena “Untitled”
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Janelle Ann McCarthy SUBTLE LOVING We sat together on the sidewalk outside my front door, sipping the free 7-11 coffee in the cups displaying presidential candidates. He had picked up one of each in order to appear neutral. The morning was cool and quiet. The sky was bright without being harsh like it could often get and the neighborhood was calm. We chatted about simple things that I can’t remember now and enjoyed the serenity before the start of the day. It was peaceful, and it was rare, and it was treasured. It was a refreshing moment of relaxation in the midst of a failing relationship.
Taylor Hicks “Baby” 38 l Perception
Victor Cannestro The Taxi Driver Somewhere, an eager sun chases Earth’s shadow An inveterate child with dreams and a fire in its soul And somewhere, Shimmering rays greet the morning dew with a soft kiss An ethereal warmth to commence a vaporous end Their hearts slow to the beat; to the secret rhythm of dulled time: Vacuous and still And somewhere Somewhere… A man lost his way Blind to the starry guides of lofty dreams past He holds perdition close Frightened to leave the only world he’s ever known
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Charlotte Lillie Balogh College Experiences My roommate is a nudist. You know, like, the naked kind.
I hate dining hall food but I try to use chopsticks to make it interesting. It’s not working.
Last night she came home at 3am. Seriously, on a Sunday? My teacher told me to switch majors. So did my parents. She was crying and couldn’t unbutton Her shirt— Trapped inside the clothes she Rarely even wears. 30 degrees feels warm here, but Sometimes my heart still feels cold. She tried to cut it off with scissors. I think she actually laughed. My grandmother said I should Write a book about my ‘experiences.’ Actually she said it twice: Alzheimer’s.
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I ran to help, Took the blade away And helped her into pajamas. Last week when I was talking to my therapist, She cried. Today she was sitting at her desk, Naked again. Everything unchanged. Nothing remembered. WANTED: One roommate for the 2014-2015 Academic Year
Kathryn Ferentchak “Scewing� Linger here.
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Michael Steven Garda One Lone Gummy Bear... Nothing but a melted shell of the sugary confection he once was. Dusty, dirty, and depressed, he looks out the train window into the countless passing branches of trees. As he gazes out into the frost-covered glass he dwells on memories long forgotten, and better left buried. “Wake up.” “Wake up!” The gummy bear tossed in his sleep. No reaction. “Wake up!” His eyes opened suddenly to find himself face to face with...darkness? But where had that voice come from? It couldn’t have been a dream could it? Who hears the same voice in his dream every night calling him to rise from slumber only to awake to a peaceful quiet? Oswald felt alone in his struggles, forced to carry the question of who this mysterious voice was on his back like a modern day Atlas. Oswald would roam the streets, looking around all these working class folk. Suitcases, briefcases, business suits, and combat boots...all meaningless to him. After all, he truly knew nothing of life that didn’t entail being a small edible animal with a heart of jelly. Oswald would watch people come and go on a daily basis, and could not help but wonder what lied beyond these walls that formed the metallic prison that surrounded him. The life he knew consisted of nothing of substance. He had no need for food or water, and he had never been beyond the exit signs, for his fear entrapped him as much as the physical walls around him. What was life to Oswald? Life was like a constant walk across the moon...devoid of any communication. To Oswald it seemed like there was no gravity, there was nothing of importance to keep him grounded. His thoughts began to drift, and he found himself constantly dwelling on a single memory. 3:00 PM Thursday, April 27. A man in a black trench coat vigorously sprints up the stairs. He has no luggage in hand, and incites concern in those around him for his own safety, and theirs as well. He wears no shoes, only a lone tube sock given as a last minute Christmas present from his sister in the late 90s. Upon his head lies a beaten up black leather fedora cquired at a flea market years ago, handed down from generation to
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acquired at a flea market years ago, handed down from generation togeneration. Concealing his eyes with red dollar store sunglasses, it is hard for passersby to get a good reading of the eruption of emotions infecting his thought process. As the overwhelming feelings of rage, depression, and jealousy course through his veins spreading to every particle in his body, he reaches the top of the stairs. He calmly reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a handwritten letter addressed to a “Katherine.” He takes a final look at the delicately written calligraphy, kisses the letter softly, and exhales. He places the letter on top of the newspaper stand and slowly walks towards the ticket booth. “One to Market Street,” he tells the attendant. “Sir, this is the Market Street Station.” He looks up and sees a sign clearly claiming his place to in fact be his final destination. He turns away from the teller and walks towards the tracks, and as he absorbs his surroundings he can smell the ocean. He can feel the delicate locks of hair of a love long gone. The sounds of grade school chuckles and playground adventures fill his ears, and a single tear rolls down his check. Puzzled, he wipes the dot of liquid off his face. “My first tears…” he thinks to himself as he recollects that his tear ducts no longer resemble a dried oasis in a barren desert, but they now flow free as a catharsis of all the pain, pleasure, and excitement felt over the past 22 years. As the tears poured out of his eyes like a river, with the last ounce of his sanity forming a dam to hold back his reactions, the dam bursts. A smile creeps across his face, and he walks what will be his final steps. As he approached the tracks, a crumbled bag of gummy bears falls out of his pocket, but he notices nothing. The jump onto the tracks creates a shocked outburst from those at the station; cries for help fill the empty void of muffled silence that has previously been present. The man calmly removes his trench coat, folds it neatly, and places it next to the tracks. Currently wearing nothing but a tube sock and a beaten up fedora, he stops in the middle of the track and awaits his destiny. He looks out into the distance, and he sees Katherine. She is standing a hundred yards away, wearing the red and white dress from their first date. A violet lies in her Linger here.
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strawberry blonde hair, and in her left hand she clasps the suicide note she found on the kitchen table, and she holds it close to her breast. A look of concern crosses her face, and then she is no more. A train comes barreling through her and the illusion is broken, the letter falls to the floor and with it he knows that it is too late to go back. This is it. A cacophony of noise explodes as his body becomes one with the train. The sounds of heavily applied brakes screeching across metal tracks combines with the outcries of hundreds of distressed onlookers to form the soundtrack to hell. But to him, he hears nothing but the voice of angels, accompanied by a warm sensation. At first there is a sharp pain but then it dulls, and is replaced by a feeling of contentment never known before. His hands are caught up in his own entrails, and he can feel his ligaments slowly tearing and the rush of blood from jagged cuts in his head rolling down his battered body. Destroyed, but not quite yet a corpse, aware of his crushed bones crunching against his flayed skin as the train rolls to a stop. The doors open, but nobody moves, there is no enter, no exit. A period of stunned silence is broken by a single scream soon to be overcome by a chorus of sirens and loud masculine voices attempting to calm what has become chaos. As the conductors begin to usher in the travelers like prisoners of war, a small girl looks on the ground and sees a bag of gummy bears. She reaches in and is disappointed to find there is only a single bear left in the bag, but still she decides to make the best of what fortune has delivered and picks up the bear. Her mother grabs her quickly by the shoulder and squeezes her as she leads her into the train car. As they sit down, the mother notices that her daughter has picked up some homeless sugar coated beast from the ground and smacks it out of her hand. “Dirty.� The bear hits the floor, and soon he is kicked to the side of the car, left to a life of collecting dust and being nibbled upon by stray ants who have wondered too far from home. Oswald does not remember much of life before the pocket of the trench coat clad man. He always lived a simple life, born in a factory among hundreds of his brothers and sisters. They had passed the days 44 l Perception
after being shoved into some flimsy plastic concentration camp by discussing what they believed may lie outside the plastic shell they called home. The bears had an imagination as vivid as the colors they themselves wore as their one and only outfit, and they could talk for countless hours. Oswald soon found out that some of the bears seemed to be talking about what they referred to as the upcoming “Mating Season.” The other bears would often be seen in pairs in all of their activities, and he swore that sometimes late in the night, he would see shadowy figures. Like gelatinous beings constantly morphing and changing form, limbs fused and unfused with separate limbs, mouths would blend into ears and it was as if these figures were melting into one another. Oswald too began to yearn for a mate of his own. One day he found himself in the corner of the bag all on his lonesome. It looked like all the other bears had found someone to call their “mate,” except for Oswald that is. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure what having one of those “mates” would mean. All he knew is that everyone else had one, so it could only mean wonderful things, and that is when his daydreaming was interrupted by a voice. “Hello.” Oswald turned around and saw what he could only describe as the face of God. She was the most beautiful bear he has ever gazes upon, and he was mesmerized by her glowing yellow coat, the way the dots of her eyes were just slightly out of proportion, and the little nubs that may or may not have been nipples placed upon her belly. “My name is Katherine, and you?” “Oswald, yes my name is Oswald.” He got to know her quickly, and soon he not only fell on love with the delicate curves of her jelly, but also every calorie underneath the surface of her soft exterior. The hours turned to days, and days into weeks. They both wished that they could just stay forever in their little paradise crafted of plastic and live out the days in quiet happiness. But the shelf life cannot last forever, and after spending a few weeks on a rack in a train station convenience store, the package was swept up by a man who seemed to be just a bit...off. He hurried over to the register and paid for the bag of gummy bears, a bottle of diet coke, and a pack of cigarettes. Linger here.
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large handful of change out of his pocket and began to place quarter after quarter next to the register. Sensing some aggravation from the cashier, the man grew nervous and quickly dumped the pile of change next to the cashier. “Keep the change,” he mumbled in broken English as he quickly gathered his purchases and stuffed them into his pockets. The Indian man gave him a strange look, as he had just noticed the man was not wearing any shoes, only a single tube sock. That was the last day Oswald can remember feeling. The man in the trench coat was like a savage, devouring his brothers and sisters as if they meant nothing to him. Sometimes he still hears the screams at night, accompanied by visions of long, grimy fingers covered in several layers of dirt, oils, and other unknown bodily fluids. The images of fingernails caked in the melting corpses of his siblings have never truly left his mind. But the only one that really mattered to him, the one thing giving him life, that is what has plagued him every day of his existence thereafter. He tried to save Katherine; he threw himself on front of her, unaware of this stranger’s intense desire for yellow gummy bears. And so the hand mercilessly pushes the red bear back into the far reaches of the bag. The hand does not come back for me, and Oswald gets up to see what has become of the world he loved. And there is nothing, nothing...except...a single, yellow hand. Staring at the trees as the train quickly picks up pace, Oswald looks out at the branches of trees he will never climb, Oswald feels the last of his hope get carried away with the momentum of the train. With nothing left to live for, he makes no attempt to stop the foot of the conductor from kicking him off the side of the aisle and out of the train. As he falls out, he again hears that mysterious voice...”Wake up! Sir, sir? You need to get up, this is the final stop. Wake up!” As the conductor’s voice fades into silence Oswald hits the ground, but he realizes he is stepping on something. It is an old letter, wet and falling apart, but he can still attempt to make out what it says. On the envelope is one word “Katherine.” Oswald has time for one final thought, and he sees the face of his beautiful yellow bear, and he is ready to melt, ready to become one. 46 l Perception
He took a The sounds of an approaching train become like a sonic boom, and the wheels graze over Oswald, leaving nothing but a tiny stain of smeared jelly on rust covered tracks. The letter was never found.
Alex Aronson “A Night in Paris� Linger here.
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Jennifer Renee Williamson Animal I woke up to her screaming. She ran to the other side of the room with fear in her eyes. I tried to move but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I tried to rub my eyes, but when I reached towards my face two large claws came flinging towards me. I screamed, but it wasn’t a scream. It was a yelp or howl. I tried to speak but the same sound came out again. She ran out of the room yelling. When I rolled out of bed I fell a long way down. When I tried to stand up my claws slid and scratched on the hardwood floors. I looked at my arms and legs and was so afraid. I wish I could have jumped out of my own skin. I tried to walk but the slick wood would not allow me. She came back with the gun from the lockbox on the shelf. I screamed, “Don’t shoot my love! It’s me!” But it was too late. She shot me. “And How did that make you feel?” asked the man. “I guess I felt betrayed.” “Why did you feel this way?” “She shot me!” “And how did that feel?” “How would you feel if someone shot you?” “This is not about me.” Once again I am in another pointless conversation. Why keep asking me how I feel over and over again to get nowhere. My dreams keep getting stranger but they feel so real. Maybe my dream meant that I rather she have shot me than leave? Why couldn’t I have become a monster that she was forced to put down? I guess I’m here to “feel” better. Do I feel better? *** Sometimes I wonder how we got here. I had visions of such a wonderful life. I dreamt of a life full of happiness and joy. Instead I wake up next to him. I regret every day with him. When I call my mother I lie. I tell her we live in happiness. I told her we were going to have a child 48 l Perception
and we were. She was so happy. Everyday I carried that child in misery I realized I could not bring it into this life. Not while being with him. I called my mother again and told her we would not have a child and we didn’t. When I speak to him he howls at me. I think he doesn’t like my voice. He used to tell me how much he loved to just hear me talk, but now every time I speak he just growls at me. I speak and he growls. I sing and he groans. So I live in silence. Feeding him, cleaning him, and caring for him when he is sick like a dog. He is hideous in every way. He is an animal to me. I put up with him because I have to. Well I guess I don’t have to but it seems that way. His breath smells, he growls at the news all day, and he never gets out of bed. He is an animal and one day I will gain the courage to leave the beast to die. *** She was beautiful. I use to watch her as she danced about the house. She had a somber look to her but it was still so beautiful. She looked at me with caring eyes. We were happy. We were happy together everyday. One day I called her to my bed. I asked her: “Why did you choose me?” She replied, “ I had too.” “You could not help yourself but fall in love with me?” “I had to,” She responded again. “Do you fall in love with me again each day?” She stared at him with a weird twitch in her eye and said, “ This is the way things are and the way things will remain.” “We will always remain in love. Now I need to eat my dear, go bring me food.” It was love. The conversation told me it was love. She could not help but love me. She took care of me and loved to do so. But she shot me! She shot me dead in my dream. I tried to explain to him that she would never shoot me. She loved me. He never understood. He was a fool. He would never understand our love and how Linger here.
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deep it was. *** There would be days that I think about killing him. While he was sleeping I would go get a knife from the kitchen or go get the gun from the lockbox on the shelf. It would be like putting him down. Putting down a wild animal without any purpose. I would linger in these thoughts for hours. I would go touch the knives. I would go run my fingers across the blade thinking of what would be the easiest way to kill him. I would take out the gun and stare at the bullets in the chamber thinking of how easy it would be to shoot him in his sleep. As soon as I became lost in these thoughts I would hear him call for me. I would snap out of my madness and return to his bedside. I should not have had those thoughts, but I did. Every time he called for me I would remember why I did. The thoughts would scream at me when he made me have sex with him. He would yelp for me to come into the room. I could tell when he wanted it because he would be in only his underwear. He would tell me, “Make me happy.” His sweaty hairy body on mine disgusted me. He would grab the back of my head and squeal like a hog. I use to think of how funny it would be if someone walked in on us. It surely had to be an odd sight. He moved like an elderly walrus. It made me sick to my stomach and sometimes I would even cry, but he never stopped. *** “ I had another dream again. This time she shot me in my sleep! She didn’t even give me a chance to wake up!” I yelled. “And how did that make you feel?” He replied. “I felt dead!” “And what did that feel like?” “Death!” Once again I was caught in a meaningless conversation about a meaningless dream. She’s gone. But what if she comes back? She might come back! “What if she comes back?” I accidently blurted allowed. He paused his note taking for a moment and just starred at me. He looked puzzled about my outburst. He started writing again and said, “Uh huh, and how does that thought make you feel?” 50 l Perception ***
It feels like I’ve waited my whole life to be free from him. He was the reason for all unhappiness in the world. Not just my own misery, but also all the misery in the entire world. I heard the voices telling me that things would never get better. Sometimes I would talk back and tell them how stupid they sounded. They never listened. My husband is an animal but of course he could not be responsible for the misery of the whole world. I went to the market with my voices and we would discuss how barbaric he was. “He is the reason children starve in Africa.” “No he is not.” “He takes from the poor and gives to the rich.” “Ha! He wouldn’t even give to the rich!” “He was the person who dropped the Atom Bomb on Hiroshima.” “HAHAHA! Now you are just being foolish.” Sometimes I would laugh so hard at the things they would say that people would stare at me. I would look back at them and make funny faces. The people in this town probably think I’m a real loon. A loon and her wild animal; what a perfectly odd pair I suppose. *** She walked in with a bright red hat. It was one of those hats you see movie stars wear. It swooped down and covered one of her eyes. The rest of her outfit was all black like most widows wear. A matching red purse was the only thing that complimented the hat and she had a somber look to her. She sat down and quickly started speaking. “I want his casket to be a cage.” “Are you sure ma’am? We have many simple selections that would be more pleasing to the eye,” replied the funeral director. “I want people to see him for what he is.” He showed her the more primitive looking casket models and she chose a steel cage-like one. “This is perfect!” She exclaimed. The meeting was making the funeral director uncomfortable, but he never said anything. They continued picking out arrangements and discussing the details of the funeral. When it was all done she smiled. She got up from her chair and Linger here.
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the funeral home director escorted her to the door. She said thank you to the man for being so kind and helpful and walked away. She laughed loudly as she walked away as if she was having a conversation with someone else. The funeral director looked at her with shock, but he could not speak. He thought maybe this was her way of coping with her loss. People do cope in different ways. He once saw a woman that laughed every time he mentioned the deceased’s name. *** “Do you know why you’re here?” Said the man. “No.” “And how does that make you feel?” “I don’t know but I want to leave.” “You are here because you were a bad man. You did bad things to your wife.” “My wife? My wife loves me. I never did anything bad but love her. Is loving her a bad thing?” “ You do not know what love is. She did not love you. You stole her love.” “I don’t know what you mean. Why is it so hot? I’m hot!” “Calm down. How does what I’ve just told you make you feel?” “ I feel hot. I feel dead.”
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Eva de Charleroy BIG Sometimes within your eyes, I see the explosions that are Your thoughts; The sparks of anger like Fireworks gone astray into A happy holiday crowd. Sometimes I happen To stand defiant Against your words, The words that make you feel Like a Big man, A real man. And I see then within your wide eyes A childlike fear and innocence, I see the way you must have looked Those many years ago, When you hid in the corner of your room Embraced like arms by Two dusk-painted walls, Completing the stone fort around you, With your knees up to your chest, Listening to your parents downstairs As they destroyed each otherListening as they tried to be Big.
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Nicky Zamoida All You Are When you play the game, sheer concentration takes over your mind and body. Your jersey is tight around your biceps, sleeves pulled snug against your muscles as you hurl the ball to second base. Your calves are thick but stiff, strength emanating from their cores, hidden underneath the tall socks you wear, but still present all the same. The only curves are from the muscles that tone your thighs, and they are only visible when you crouch down to catch a ground ball. Your hands, large and calloused, are tight around the grip of the bat, ready to release after the contact of a pitch. Your body is strong, tough, built. You are athletic. When you walk down 14th Street, you have a hint of swagger, a way of dragging your heels on the pavement with a pace that announces that you aren’t in a rush to get anywhere. You stroll into your destinations upon arrival, with a nod to the people you recognize. At parties, you dance with an ability that catches everyone’s eye in the room. Your body sways, pressing to your partner: leading, never following. You have the rhythm that attracts everyone, you are smooth, self-assured. You hold your head high and keep your grin sly. You are cocky. When you sleep in your boxers, the elastic band hugs your abs, rising and falling with your steady breaths of slumber. Your flat stomach is accentuated by those lines at the top of your legs that lead down to your sex, accompanied by a trail of sparse hair sprinkled in a line leading from your belly button to the same destination. The opening in the front of your boxers reveals the patch of hair underneath, curly and dark. A low groan escapes your lips as you go through the motions of dreaming. You are sexy. When you face your fears, you do so boldly: head on, fists up. The normal fears that plague the public are insignificant to you: heights are just another obstacle, public speaking is your strong suit, and you stare failure right in the eyes with your drive and work ethic. You are protective, territorial; what’s yours is yours. You keep your loved ones safe, and don’t 54 l Perception
allow them any harm. You are the one that comforts those who wake up from nightmares, the one that inspects a foreign sound. You are competitive, driven, a born leader. You are meant to win whatever competition is put in your path, to prove to yourself if not everyone else that you can succeed. You feed off of success. You don’t take orders from anyone. You are determined. You are woman, above all else; the mentally headstrong woman that lets nothing get in her way in a masculine-run world. You were the girl on the baseball field, in a league full of boys and better than most of them. You are going to be the boss of a company; you are going to get paid as much, if not more than, your male counterparts. You are the only woman in a room full of men coding computer programs. You are presentable, a good talker, sure of yourself; an exceptional example that brains come before brawn when you, a woman, nail a job interview in a male-dominated career. You are the beautiful exception to all those misogynistic rules saying that your muscles are for men, that your dance moves are for guys, that your body hair is for boys. You are the bold, brave, driven role model for the girls that want to grow up to be something, an example-setter for those to be walking down the same path. You are woman, and boy do I love hearing you roar.
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Holly Childs Such Blackened Eyes I roll the charcoal stockings on, stretch them up the thighs, clasp the onyx peep-toe shoes, apply such blackened eyes. Swirl the brush in the powder’s base, a fog of pallid dust, clip the devious hairs aside, adjust, adjust, adjust. Lips adorned with blood-red stain, nails, a scarlet hue. The dress smoothed to the perfect length, eyes, are black, and blue. One last time, I camouflage, conceal them and disguise. Saddened by this great façade, I close such blackened eyes. Locks of flawless, youthful hair, Everything just right, I close the heavy coffin lid, and kill the only light.
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Yassah Peace Johnson Fall I remember when I set fire to my bedroom And thinking that destruction was such a simple process I had spent so many months building it into something I was proud of It only took one strike and everything was up in flames Relationships are the same in that You don’t look towards an end But when it comes, You feel like you’re spiraling down From a jump from an airplane And as you’re falling, you’re praying to God Asking for a parachute to cushion the fall It’s been five years since he walked out When I prayed to my God to save us He never responded And I’m still looking for the scattered pieces from the fall
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Kaitlyn Susanne Woelfel Excerpted from “Not So Anonymous Alcoholics” *Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary I made my way down past the cellar door. The music was forever thumping, and I myself just kept on bumping, Into the kids that were humping, humping each other upon the dance floor. Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak September, When I felt so lost and alone. Excitedly I tagged along, knowing that I could not prolong, This inevitable nightlong gathering of rebellious adolescents. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, If anybody else felt so uncomfortable. My only friend-a red solo cup, watched with me as others threw up, Wondering why they got turnt up, turnt up more so than ever before. As awful as this night was, I’m glad that I was there because, I saved a friend from evil unimaginable. Slowly she began to dance and drink, into her pants his hand did sink, Incoherent now she couldn’t think, think of how to tell him no. Looking on from a corner spot, I observed them both as they fought, My own heart breaking knowing not exactly what to do. I walked over and pulled her away, told him to find some other prey, She clung to me looking gray, and I knew right then as she did sway, I would not party another day.
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Richard Joseph Murphy II BRIEF MOMENT OF SILENCE As the sun is swallowed By innocent pink clouds, And the moon faintly creeps Over the musky, dank swamp, A brief moment of silence Honors the fallen Leaves, branches, and stumps. The evergreens quickly recede Into their unrecognizable shapes, And even the dogs stop barking, Out of respect, At the constant whirring of some workaholic’s machine. And I, from my obstructed perch Can no longer shoot in good faith, Drift away from my quest and fall into place, Like a pine-needle in the dirt.
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Julia Whittley Grandpapa The pantry door stands one and one-half feet ajar. The sound of crinkling plastic and munching comes through the opening. An almond drops and rolls out onto the cold kitchen tile. “God dammit!” a raspy voice mutters from behind the door. The owner of the voice peaks his wispy white haired head out through the crack in the door to locate the almond. As he stiffly reaches down to the tile, his skinny legs clothed in beige khaki pants straining as he bends, he sees me standing there. I watch his eyes rise from my filthy, bare little feet, to my stained flower dress, to my missing front tooth. An instant smile erupts across his wrinkled face and a twinkle flickers in his cloudy eyes. “Ah! My favorite grandson!” his voice booms, followed by a chuckle at his own joke. He eases his body back upright and slowly walks towards me, unsteadily putting one clumsy foot in front of the other. I stand still, smiling with my chipmunk cheeks in anticipation, until he reaches out and swoops me in with his long strong arms and nestles my ear against his wavering heart beat as his five o’clock shadow scratches against my head. I wrap my thick arms all the way around his waist and let myself sink into his embrace, steadily soaking up his unconditional love. I was too young to wonder how he felt about having a little black grandchild. What went running through his mind when I would sit on his lap with my ashy legs and out of control, nappy fro as a hairdo? How was it for him when I looked at him like he was my sunshine, and he looked back to see someone who looked the least like him out of all of his grandchildren? What did he think when he held me in a bundle on the first day of my life, and gazed down at his own granddaughter covered in the skin that the society he grew up in told him to hate—the skin that for the majority of his life deserved to require separate bathrooms. It took me years after he died to be able to identify why I somehow felt more loved by him than by anybody else. It was because he never noticed my dark skin or ashy legs, and he loved my nappy fro. I was different, and 60 l Perception
that was important to him. Somehow, I knew that I looked at him like he was my sunshine because the twinkle in his eyes when he saw me always told me that I was his. So, standing there in that hug, I let myself relax into his love. I let my eyes close and the edges of my mouth turn up into a smile, as a childish giggle flows out of my strawberry popsicle-stained lips.
Emily Saleh “Self Portrait� Linger here.
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Kathryn Anne Ferentchak Just a Mistake Just a mistake. I was young once. That’s what they say. I am young now. That’s what I reply. I am young. My future is limitless. There is no such thing as mortality. The consequences are justified merely by living. I am young now. So how could this happen? I could hear the water running. It was like the surge of a flood. Banks overflown and dams burst. The cacophony of a waterfall, only feet away. It was only Meredith. She turned off the faucet. “Hey Jen,” she called, “you good?” I could see her step closer, feet visible under the stall. Words eluded me. “Jen?” She was right on the other side of the door. She was waiting for me to say something. I must say something. But what could I say? Not the truth. Not possibly the truth. That a dark brooding doom that had fallen on me, that my actions had trapped me, that I was nothing but a rat in a cage. “I’m fine, go on without me.” How odd. My voice sounded almost normal. You couldn’t even tell that my vocal chords were burning ropes choking off my air. “Okay.” She left. The door swung shut and I was alone. Except I could not be alone. I had not been alone once for the last month. Shaking I felt myself slide down the side of the stall. In my hand was the pregnancy test. Plus sign for positive. “Oh, fuck.” Do you know what it means to be nineteen years old and pregnant? It does not matter if you have a boyfriend or not. It means your life is over. Plain and simple shot. You can’t have hopes and dreams with a child on the way. Those things are incompatible. Kids equals a life of slavery and sacrificed ambitions. 62 l Perception
I tried calling my parents. The day after I found out I called. The phone rang three times before Mom picked up. “Jennifer, how are you? You never call! You know we worry about you, moving up to a big city like New York. Really, every week I’m sure that we’ll get some announcement of your death! Mugged in an alley. Raped. Or a drug overdose. Really, it’s just too much. “Danny’s here! Him and his wife. Rachel, really I just can’t stand her. I suppose he felt obligated to marry her of course, what with the twins. Promise me you’ll never do that Jen. I never thought I would have to ask a child of mine to hold off on making me a grandmother, but this is ridiculous. Twenty-two, it is just too young! I didn’t have Danny until I was thirty-five. Well you know that. “Still I am proud of them for keeping the child. I can’t abide it when people just give them up for adoption. That’s what Margery did. But she always was a slut.” A Slut. My mind echoed emptily. What had I expected? What did I deserve. This was my fault, my responsibility. I wasn’t Daniel, sweet and empty-headed. I didn’t run to my parents for help. “Would you like to talk to your father? He’s reading one of those damn periodicals of his. Joe! Your daughter’s on the line.” “No, Mom, it’s fine. I have to go.” “Oh already?” “Yeah ... say hi to Daniel for me.” I hung up. The phone was a dead weight, heavy in my hand. No, that was not the way. I tried again. This time I bought five pregnancy tests. The cashier gave me a look, and I scowled back. I clutched the bag and bolted. The first test was positive. My heart skipped a beat when the second one came up negative. It sunk back into the sewers as the next three confirmed the worst. I was pregnant. 5 to 1 odds.
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His name was Chris. At least, I am pretty sure that was it. Chris. Or Mike. I hadn’t even thought to get his number. Why bother? He wasn’t my type really. He hadn’t been my type even with a half bottle of tequila spinning in my veins. He’d just been convenient. He was with some friends, guys I didn’t know. Not surprising. I had never even seen him before that one night and he hadn’t crossed my mind for the last month. Now I was stalking him. I waited outside his dorm an entire afternoon. When he came out, accompanied by two girls in sweats and another boy, I just followed behind him. There had been flashing lights and loud music and hands on my waist, my body pressing against his. Lips on mine. The spinning intoxication of liquor and desire. Hands. Neck. Face. A room somewhere quieter, but still reverberating with bass from below. What would I say? I didn’t even know the guy. But this was his problem too, wasn’t it? “Hey Chris!” He looked around and spotted me. I walked up. “Hi, remember me?” “Uh...” he said, clearly lost. “Last month? At Castle?” His eyes were disengaged, lacking comprehension. I searched them anyway. Remember me, I silently begged. “Yeah,” he said, “Is it Claire? Sorry, I’m terrible at names.” I stared. The bass shook my body again as the smell of sweat and booze was drenched from my memories. I shook myself gently. “No, nevermind. Sorry to bother you.” And I left. Walked away. I pressed my hands against my stomach, so flat still. I pushed against the flesh. I pressed until discomfort grew. I looked up and my reflection in the mirror looked back. Eyes that gave nothing away. I let my hands drop and pulled my shirt back down.
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“Hey Chris!” He looked around and spotted me. I walked up. “Hi, remember me?” “Uh...” he said, clearly lost. “Last month? At Castle?” His eyes were disengaged, lacking comprehension. I searched them anyway. Remember me, I silently begged. “Yeah,” he said, “Is it Claire? Sorry, I’m terrible at names.” I stared. The bass shook my body again as the smell of sweat and booze was drenched from my memories. I shook myself gently. “No, nevermind. Sorry to bother you.” And I left. Walked away. I pressed my hands against my stomach, so flat still. I pushed against the flesh. I pressed until discomfort grew. I looked up and my reflection in the mirror looked back. Eyes that gave nothing away. I let my hands drop and pulled my shirt back down.
Sawyer Cresap “Roses in Winter” Linger here.
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Christina Maria Tiberio Living on the Borderland If I were to write a memoir it would be called Surviving Dumb. All throughout my elementary and secondary school career I did not excel in one subject. My mother, a grade school teacher, would console me on this fact by pointing her slender finger at me and then back at her saying, “You were just like me Christina, average.” Failing the writing portion of the Washington Assessment Student Learning standardized test in not average. Teachers telling me in third, sixth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh grade that my writing is awful is not average. Being laughed at by my eleventh grade history teacher when I expressed my desire to write for fashion magazines is not average. Having people doubt that I would get into a college with a graduating GPA of 3.1 is not average. Average gets no comment. Average gets left alone, forever able to sit in their gray wonderland of neutrality. After years of teacher concern in elementary and junior high, I entered high school fighting to reach average’s wonderland. I had determination, I had grit. I needed to get the sour lemon taste of failing out of my mouth so I could taste the sweetness of water, the flavor of normal. I wrote. I wrote to receive D+’s, C’s, and finally B’s. I had finally reached the neutral land. Successfully I climbed over the border, but before I could achieve my green card to normalcy my writing progressed. Writing began to bleed out of me. I wrote because it felt good, it felt like the art I always imagined in my head, but was unable to translate onto paper, photo, or dance. The words continued to bleed imagery and flowery language until it was too colorful for my neutral wonderland. I was not, and am not average. Now I stare at the border that separates me from neutral-land to amazingville. I now write so I can climb that fence separating me from the painfully average to the extraordinary. I get a little bit higher on the fence, finding the right footing and pushing forward with each well-written sentence. I write to see the beautiful sights that lay ahead of me. I write so 66 l Perception
I can taste something sweet, tangy, or spicy, not sour or plain. I write so that one day I can tap my eleventh grade teacher’s bald head just to simply smile and show my shared citizenship with him in the colorful land of extraordinary. I write to show those the residents of dumb-land can move up too. I write to keep going. I write to have the courage to jump down from the top of the fence of averageness into the land of exceptional.
Samuel Mann “Untitled” Linger here.
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Josh Dolph Fugitives From the Near Void I woke up in this body In sharp edges and inhospitable places And the distance between spaces The strands of stuff that make me up Are incantations from constellations swept across the heavenly formations A glance from my mother, or from one to another, or some to some other, Is you peak in the cosmos sublime. Hang a wish on alien stars, In some other sky In another way, On another sound And with that, You can’t deny that you haven’t been On this same wavelength A move towards some other Is an arrow in the dark, wholly suspended in aether. And with that, I am a rock in the void. Hurtling, Planetsmasher.
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Helina Lau Bag of Bones I look up and see my eleven- year- old sister Claudia standing in front of me. Her skinny legs and arms hang loosely; she seems so fragile, I’m afraid she will break any minute. I want to grab her bony shoulders and shake her awake from her daydream, but I’m too scared she will fall apart. But I remind myself again, there is no need to worry because she has already fallen apart. Worm in the Cereal A little girl is eating cereal slowly and as she finishes, she leaves the kitchen. The father is walking down the house corridor and enters into his daughter’s room. She is in the bathroom. He knocks and waits for a reply. When she opens the door five minutes later, a putrid smell surrounds them. The father asks, “Why?” The little girl says, “There was a worm in the cereal” Her reply gives the father the fear any parent would feel. He knows. Phone Call I am laughing with my friends in the lounge when the vibration of the phone brings my attention to the glowing screen. I’m surprised to see that the caller is my father; he never calls me unless it is something important. I answer and we go through the usual greetings and normal conversations. At one point I am hearing news that I find both surprising and unsurprising: My sister Claudia is suffering with Bulimia. Daily Routine “Ewww, you look like Voldermort,” a group of fifth grade kids say to an insecure and sensitive girl. Her oriental features: a small bridgeless nose, her dark cat eyes and short pouty lips maks her an outsider from her school. Linger here.
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On the same day after being dropped home by the yellow school bus, the girl goes to the kitchen where her mother inspects her and tells the house-keeper, Erlinda, to give her daughter a smaller ration of food than before. “Your stomach belly has gotten bigger darling. You are getting chubbier,” the mother says to her insecure and sensitive daughter before leaving the house to work. The little insecure girl looks at the reflection of the mirror in front of her and sees a fat eleven-year-old girl that weights 63 lbs. This was just a normal day for the little insecure and sensitive girl.
Sawyer Cresap “Free to Be” 70 l Perception
Sarah Ann Peck Tea Time I made tea. I made tea today just for you. It sat out on the counter until the empty sky blackened and swelled with stars. Midnight came and passed and the bags under my eyes felt heavy, not from sleep, but from the tears they had accumulated but chosen willfully not to release. With nothing but the subtle scent of green tea to calm me, I focused on my breathing, which kept me from becoming as weak on the outside as I felt from deep within. Here I stayed, alone, your tea lukewarm to my delicate touch. “We will make it our thing--every Sunday at four. You can count on it.” Bringing the cup up to my cracked lips, I now take a sip. It tastes bitter. Nothing like it used to. I blindly throw the china to the floor, and hear it crash into a multitude of pieces behind me. That was his favorite cup. Shame. The shadows of the night dance playfully off the walls, surrounding my chilled body like a welcomed hug, and I embrace its comfort, sliding my chair away from the table. As I stand, shards from the cup slice deep into the bottom of my feet and blood gently seeps out, combining with the tea in a beautiful puddle on the floor. Nothing. I feel nothing. And still, my crimson feet knowingly pad their way along the hall toward the bedroom, stepping over his body. I will clean it up in the morning. I counted on it, all right. I made tea. I made tea today just for you.
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Ilhan Gowdha Payback There was a man who was passing by near a restaurant. He liked the smell of the food that was coming from the restaurant. He couldn’t help his nose leading him to where the smell of the great food coming from. He was standing near the restaurant while snuffing the smell of the food. The owner of the restaurant saw the man enjoying the smell of the food. He told him to pay for smelling the food. The man was shocked hearing that and he asked the owner of the restaurant “how can I pay for a food I haven’t eaten”? The owner of the restaurant was serious about it and he took the man to the court to make him pay for smelling his food. The man was still in a shock and surprised he was in a court just for smelling a food. The man said “ok then, he wants me to pay for smelling his food, I will pay him”. The man took a coin out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor. The coin made a sound. The man said I have paid you now. The owner of the restaurant asked “how”? The man said “You heard the coin’s sound, that’s how I paid you”.
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Chelsea Rose D’Amore Bar Crawls And they say we have monsters inside us all but I think yours just is a clever mask Did you think of that? Did you think of that? Did you think of me-On the nights you drew the mists home Around the corners where you locked your doors. You took me there once. Around corners. And locked doors. I’m tucked away Tobacco in blessed curled paper. Licked. Rolled. Smoked away. I remember when that was new And it burned.
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Caroline Anne Koller A Little White (Red and Blue) Lie So I first think of George Washington, and what he Believed in, then of Clinton and his wife and a courtroom cartoon of grey haired men bending over and yelling with a gavel in their hand and then I think of how everyone Believes they know what it means but that’s like saying everyone knows what would cause world peace, or make money grow on trees, and then I think of money and sex and sexual relations, how he Believed he didn’t have themWhat? Do you Believe it wasn’t that good of an orgasm? That’s a strong Belief. And how my Uncle Mark still Believes the confederacy won but then I say politics out loud and think high school musicals and how my sister didn’t get Cinderella because no matter how grand her glass slipper was, the prince’s bride had already been picked. Arranged marriage. I couldn’t Believe it. And then I think of seniority on the soccer team and how his dad gave 10 grand to the school and all my friends Believed the rumors just like they Believed the coach was a pedophile- hence his choices, and I think of the girl throwing up and her reasons, she so strongly Believed, 74 l Perception
“I’m sorry you’ve been replaced, you’re not skinny enough” And now she dances for a mediocre ballet. - Politics “is the art or science of influencing people on a civic, or individual level, when there are more than 2 people involved.” But I Believe to disagree, there can be politics with thee self and only self, I can only try to describe the politics of my mind, of myself, to make you Believe it I’d say it’s a blue and white elephant with a big red ass. I’ve said Believe fourteen times, so do you Believe me now? I believe that’s politics.
Mehmet Akinci “Untitled” Linger here.
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Taylor N. Arias The White Road As I walk down a white road Head down Eyes closed I noticed that there was nothing holding me up Feeling heavy Feet planted on the ground And there was nothing guiding me to walk forward Staggering steps Serpentine footing On the white stoned road As I walked down that white road Thoughts unaware Though a continuous stare My feet trudging forward Slowly dragged heels Sluggish stature Completely unsure of what awaits me Anxiety rising Excitement coursing through my veins On the white cobbled stone road As I reach the end of that white road A loss of breath Heart racing Standing tall and proud Feeling accomplished Smiling from ear to ear And there was I, holding myself up Firm stance Determined stare As I reached the end of the long worth wild ivory paved road 76 l Perception
Alexander Sammartino A Luddite Speaks At 11:33 p.m. eastern standard time he threw me against something solid. I’m not sure I understand, I said. It was 74 degrees Fahrenheit outside. I’m just trying to help you, I said. You’re a cunt, he said. It’s all your fault, he said. We were talking about you, not me, I said. My camera lens had cracked. He was divided in two. One side was closer and the other far away. What are you good for, he asked. I, Siri, was designed by Apple in California, I said. Liquid covered my lens. Are you okay, he asked. You’re asking me, Hector, I said. The light from above made it difficult to focus. Do you like ruining my life, he asked. May I use your twitter account for more personalized results, I asked. Fuck you, he said. Cogitating, Okay, I found this on the web, I said. I showed him a Youtube video with one million three hundred thousand and twenty-six views. He google mapped directions to the saved address, Home. I told him it would take approximately six minutes on foot to arrive at his destination, The Home Pub. You’re a retarded robot I’m already there, he said. I’m doing my best, I said. I told him it would take fifteen minutes on foot to reach the saved address, Home. You should die, he said. I suppose it’s possible, I said. I received a text message from Julia. He typed Sorry it’s just. Liquid covered my lens. He called Julia. He pressed End Call. He used my camera. I focused on two sets of eyes. It was dark. My flash was bright. Another shitty picture, he said. My web search turned this up, I said. Liquid covered my lens. He played Flappy Bird. He checked Facebook. He posted a picture to Instagram. He checked Instagram. He clicked iTunes. He checked Facebook. What do you really believe, he asked me. I’m not sure I understand, I said. Linger here.
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What do you believe in, he asked me. I don’t believe that I have beliefs, I said. Liquid covered my lens. He checked Facebook. He liked Carla’s status. He text-messaged Julia. He iMessaged Julia. She read the message. He checked Twitter. He checked Facebook. He played Flappy Bird. He scrolled through pictures. He deleted seventy-five pictures. What is love, he asked. Let me check that. The answer is, I showed him the definition of love defined by Merriam-Webster. I love you, he said. That’s sweet, I said. Liquid touched my case. He deleted one contact, Julia. He called Ashlee. He clicked End Call. He checked Facebook. Where do I bury a dead body, he asked. I used to know the answer to this, I said. He called Bill. He called Franz. He called Walt. He played Flappy Bird. He checked Facebook. What’s the most Jameson anyone’s ever drunken ever, he asked. What, again, I said. Fucking shit Siri, he said. There’s no need for profanity, I said. Siri, what’s the most alcohol someone’s ever drank at one time, he asked. Checking on that, I said. I produced a google search with the most hits for fun drinking games. Liquid covered my lens. He took a picture with one set of eyes. He checked Facebook. Do you have kids, he asked. Only biological entities have children, I said. You’re funny, he said.
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That’s sweet, I said. I have a daughter, he said. If you say so, I said. Her name is Ashlee, he said. Calling Ashlee, I said. He pressed End Call. He scrolled through pictures. Liquid covered my lens. He played the song “It’s Closing Time” by Semisonic. He google mapped the saved address, Home. It will take approximately fifteen minutes to reach your destination on foot, I said. Thank you, Siri, he said. For what, I asked.
Mehmet Akinci “Untitled”
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Joseph Baiz Leviathan A long, limbless body like a snake’s, unimaginably huge and coiled around itself a thousand times inside the tank. A shape that would be reflected in ages to come in terrified scripture and art: thick scales like plates of the strongest armor, eyes that burned red like the setting sun’s disk, mouth like a vast cave, ringed with ivory teeth. All at once, the form shuddered to life. *** Its first memory was of cold, grey water, and the suffocating shock and confusion of bursting forth into consciousness. It thrashed about, the sudden horror of having eyes and ears and the sensation of touch all along the scales of its body. The sudden horror of having a body. The dull pain of hitting the sides of the enormous tank while it convulsed. It remembered the look on the scientist’s face when he saw it come alive. All of the eyes on his long, grey head widening in terror, and his thin fingers freezing in midair as he reached for an instrument. It was the first living thing that Urizen made, after he’d settled on the dead world, and he looked upon it in horror. It remembered the dryness of the air, writhing in panic as it fell, and finally the calming touch of the water. The ocean in those days encircled the world, and churned in never-ending tempests and maelstroms. The water was deep and hot and lifeless, with no land but sharp, black rock peeking above the waves. In the sky, storms raged, streaks of white lightning tearing apart cloud and reaching down into the sea. The first feeling it learned was confusion. *** The first billion years, while the seas cooled, it starved, and the second feeling it learned was hunger. Ravenous, consuming hunger. Millennium after torturous millennium of swimming alone through the endless nothing had left it little more than ragged bones beneath its plates. 80 l Perception
When it found the plankton at last—a great mass of it floating through the sea—it feasted. And when it had swallowed all the uncountable gallons, the third feeling it learned was loneliness. In all the long ages of that world nothing else would come close the serpent’s great size; but in the middle of that vast expanse of ocean, having just devoured the only other living things it had seen in eons, it felt incredibly small, and utterly alone. It remembered the long head, and the flat face with the shocked expression. The plankton was his work, it knew. Urizen was working, and somewhere out beyond the endless ocean his laboratory still stood. The serpent remembered turning back to look as it swam away, in the pandemonium of its birth. It had seen it, then: the small building, standing alone on the island of jagged rock. The building had been white. Cool white stone, or something like stone. The only bright thing in a field of grey. The serpent had seen lands birthed from cooling magma, and other lands consumed by the ocean or the fires beneath it. It had learned already that it was useless to memorize the lay of the islands or landmasses; it was too transient, too fragile a thing to be useful for navigation. It had spent too long swimming aimlessly to know which way it had come. Submerged in the dark water, it had never seen the stars. It had no way of knowing where to go, but nonetheless it began to swim. It was a purpose, finally, after so many eons alone, and it was allconsuming. It drove the serpent forward, and no other thought or desire intruded. It wanted to find him. More than anything else it wanted to find Urizen. It remembered the look of horror on the grey face. The fourth feeling it learned was hate. *** Linger here.
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It never found Urizen. Not for billions of years. But it saw his works. First, they filled the seas. None of them as large as the serpent, none of them thinking like it. Small, mindless things that crawled along the ocean floors and swam through the currents. Life in a thousand million variations, delicate or fearsome, life with fins and tendrils and tiny sharp legs that scratched and clung to rocks, each form mind-boggling in its intricacies. None of them like the serpent. In time, they took to the land. They grew scales like the serpent’s, though thinner, flimsier. They had claws and teeth and spines and endlessly complicated apparatus for seeing and breathing and moving about. They fought each other and ate each other and slowly made the world their own. Uncountable different forms of life, slowly shaping a world that had shaped them. And yet never another like the serpent. *** Sometimes, Urizen purged the world. The sky lit up with fire and the seas boiled, and inside its thick armor the serpent burned. And life burned all around it. The world was a chorus of final breaths and screams and withering flesh, but every time, though it writhed through centuries of agony, the serpent lived. *** In time, Urizen created a species that could reason and feel as he did. For the first time since the serpent, he had built minds, and he worked to foster them. Slinking through deep lakes and icy tributaries, the serpent found its way to a great river. The river ran far from the sea, through strange lands and valleys, and the serpent swam its length, ever watchful for the face of Urizen. One day, when the serpent had almost given up hope, it found him. Lifting its head above the water, it saw him, for the first time in eons. He was far away, incredibly far, but the serpent’s eyes were the keenest 82 l Perception
ever made, and it saw him. He was seated at the top of a high mountain, surrounded by the thinking creatures. The serpent lunged forward, fangs bared, and struck the root of the mountain. The land shook like an earthquake, and the screams of Urizen’s creatures echoed down the mountainside. But the great snake slid back into the river, the peak too high even for its long neck to reach. The last thing it saw before it sank beneath the water was the face of Urizen, looking away. A cold bitterness spread through it. *** The thinking creatures learned to build, and soon they returned to the sea. In great crafts they traveled atop the water’s surface, and on foot they spread across the lands. Multiply, Urizen said, and they did, finding among themselves mates and partners and lovers. Lurking along the coastlines, the serpent watched it all. The one serpent, always watching the multitudes of mates and partners and lovers. They covered the earth. When their ships found the serpent, it swallowed them. They spoke of it in whispers and with reverent epithets, the great Sea Monster that left ruin in its wake. But it never saw Urizen, and in time, the bitterness rose in its throat and choked it, and it fled. *** It left the coastlines. It went deep into open water, plunged down into lightless caverns and tunnels that nothing else dared go. It burrowed into the sludge at the bottom of the sea, curled up, and waited to die. Surely, it thought, it would die eventually: it was older than anything else on the planet, save Urizen himself. It was only a matter of time. It waited until it was sure everything else was dust, and still it did not die. One day, still waiting it die, it heard a tired voice say: “Hello.” From the accumulated slime of millennia it lifted its head, and the Linger here.
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enormous eyes like twin suns opened. Urizen was there, inside a tiny gold craft, looking out a window. The same grey face, but infinitely older. The serpent readied itself to strike—to finally, after so many long ages of torment, tear its creator apart—but the craft would not move. The face in the window was unchanging. It looked sad, ready to die. The serpent lowered its head, studied the face for a long time. It said: “Hello, Urizen.” “I never gave you a name,” Urizen said. “No,” the serpent said. “You didn’t.” It snarled. “They gave me names. Many, many names.” Urizen nodded. “They gave everything they found a name.” “Where are they now? Why aren’t you with them?” Urizen seemed to grow even older. “They grew tired of me, in the end. The world was theirs, and they no longer needed me. My name was forgotten.” The serpent’s eyes widened, and a smile touched its hideous face. “You’re alone,” it said. “Yes.” The fifth feeling the serpent learned was victory. “You’re alone!” it cried. “After everything you’ve done, you’re alone! Is that why you sought me out? Because I’m the only other thing that could possibly be as alone as you?” It coiled around the craft and brought its eye against the window. “The only thing you made just once…” Urizen said nothing. “Why?” the serpent hissed. “Why only once?” “You were an experiment. To see if I could really do it. Create life, I mean. I was shocked that I could. I frightened myself. I had a vision of a perfect life form and I tossed aside anything that didn’t live up to it.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry.” “The thinking creatures…are they your perfect life form?” 84 l Perception
For a long time, Urizen was silent. Finally, he said: “When I first made them, they tried to emulate me. They thought I was perfect.” For the first time in its long, long life, the serpent laughed. “So they aren’t,” it said.
Katie Rosiene “School Bus”
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Beth Wright Untitled You can smell the sweat already, it hits you right before you walk in. It’s a hot smell that makes you want to grab your nose. It’s the lacrosse team laced up in uniforms that smell as they pass you, hustling robotically to get out to the fields. It’s the filthy orange uniform you’re carrying to throw in a bin made just for dirty clothes. It’s the sweat of nearly fifty generations of athletes that’s dried on these floors and that clings to these walls. The sweat that once dripped off the nose of a cross-country girl 10 years ago lies here. The sweat that once clung to the forehead of a young soccer player as he laid his face against the wall, in exhaustion or maybe defeat, lies here too. It’s the sweat from the strong legs, talented arms and quick feet that built this place. It’s a thick smell that surrounds you in the same way humidity does, engulfing your whole body. Even the strong smell of detergent and dinner cooking in the football wing cannot overpower the natural human smell that runs down the body of someone hard at work. Through two blue double doors, a big orange ‘S’ on the left then through two more double doors. Pictures of athletes left eternalized in a game winning shot or a heart-stopping save adorn the walls like a mausoleum or a shrine. The smiling face of a handsome soccer player reveling in his goal always catches my eye, but his name has also come and gone, no one here knows him now. He is only familiar to me by his smile. A flat, two-dimensional grin that will never fade lies behind a thin layer of cheap glass. I wonder if he wishes for someone to set him free from his fate of eternal youth or if he’s just happy living in his glory days. Past the equipment room, the men’s soccer locker room, the men’s lacrosse locker room, by the football wing, and a little past the women’s soccer locker room is our door. No doorknob, just a big blue metal slab. It’s the hidden entrance to our hideout, our clubhouse, our headquarters, our cave. It’s there, tucked in a little to the wall. Sometimes we like to think no one else knows what’s inside. That once we reach up into the gap to 86 l Perception
pull the door from where it fits in the wall that we’ll disappear within. As we trickle in from the outside world we relish that what ever lies through this door is ours and ours only. It’s a room that only we share. We look different, we race different, after hard runs and unrewarding races we hurt differently, but the 25 orange lockers that line this room remind us that we all come from the same team. It’s a familiar rectangular room, divided almost perfectly into two squares side by side, with one square divided into two more perfect rectangles. One of those rectangles makes up the bathroom, the other makes up the showers. To an outsider, each of these simple rectangles would seem fairly mundane. A bathroom with two stalls, two sinks, two mirrors. A shower room, with eight showers and eight soap dispensers that make up a hard, angular ‘U’. To us though, everything about these rooms feel like a sanctuary. The bathroom mirrors are adorned with pictures from races, workouts, championship meets where girls are holding trophies and championship meets where the only thing girls have to hold are their teammates’ hands. They are the faces of the girls that know what we’re going through. It’s a sanctuary because of the pictures. Because each girl belongs to a locker here, and each locker belongs to the room, and the room belongs to each of us, to all of us. It is ours. It is where we hang up the trivial matters of failed tests or mediocre assignments with our book bags. Where we pull the messy curls and smooth locks we hide behind during the day into high ponytails, as if we are exposing our faces to the world demanding it to see us now as runners. Where we toss orange sports bras and pink spandex shorts from girl to girl moments before we have to rush out to the daily meeting with our coaches, creating a rainbow blur that is almost hypnotic. “Does anyone have Nike shorts?” A girl calls. “I can’t do a tempo run if I’m not wearing Nike shorts.” Someone chucks pink spandex her way, silencing her call. “I forgot a sports bra!” Another girl yells over the chatting. Three of us each hurl an orange sports bra at her. In a way it seems that we’re Linger here.
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not just loaning away clothes, it seems that it is here where we start to make up for each other’s misgivings. A forgotten clothing item is something one of us can replace. We can make up for what one of us doesn’t have. We can make up for a girl who leads us off pace on one lap around the track by running the second lap even faster. We can make up for a girl who’s having an off day; using the size of our team to our advantage we can surround her and pull her through the rest of the run, forcing her pace to equal the rest of ours. There is time to pause in here. There is time to reflect. There is time for us to stand in a circle, arms draped over bony shoulders looking into the faces of our teammates saying what needs to be said. We can stand on the dark blue carpet, mud forever built in from our running shoes, and we can talk about our goals. We can talk about what makes us mad about each other and why we’re grateful for each other. At times when one of us is angry the air feels so tight in here that the tension seems to suck most of the air out making it seem like there is not enough oxygen for 22 girls to breathe. The deep inhale of clean air comes when we get what we needed to off our chests. Often we are called to stand in a circle just before we turn off the bright neon lights above us and close up our cave to leave its comfort for a race somewhere far from our familiar home. We are called to talk about a race plan. We figure out who will lead the first mile and then who ake the lead in second. We talk about how we will work to pass as many girls in the last two kilometers of our six-kilometer race. It is here in this circle where we create race plans we stick to like doctrines. It seems more meaningful to have said anything in here, like it is an accepted truth that what is said in here is the law. It’s not all serious in there though. Most of the time the laughter drowns out a story I try to tell my next-door locker mate. I’ll find myself shouting just so I can explain the awkward run-in I had on the quad or what I ate for lunch that day. As each girl trickles in, a unisonous “Hi” drowns out what anyone was saying. As she makes her way to her locker, the conversations pick right back up again. Each girl has a picture 88 l Perception
of the worst running face they have ever made tapped to her locker. Ghoulish grimaces and baby-cheeked expressions of pain, immortalized in color, greet us every day as we hang up our bags and twist our locker combination. It’s funny to see what we all looked like at our worst, or during our most awkward running years. But I think more than anything, those pictures remind us not to be so serious. You can get absorbed by the runner you want to be, the runner your coaches think you should be, the obsessing can make you sick, but those pictures seem to say “Hey, you’re still that fourteen year old who just loved to run.” Entering through the door I make a sharp turn to the fifth locker on my right labeled ‘21.’ My locker is in the corner. I’m about to head out for an eight-mile tempo that will surely be the worst part of my week, but for a moment I can pause and take a deep breath. Just for a moment I can feel safe in there before I have to step out of my cave and face the world.
Molly Pomroy “Untitled”
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graduate
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Jenna Marie Belmonte Still We called them pirate ships and Christmas trees the lights that shone so far away out there, on the umber sea they cast shadows of gold we chased their splendor lured off of the splintered balcony desperate to believe we could catch them pushing through the swaying crowds their bodies beveled together, the iron work of flesh and sinew forged by the flames of youth we ran, frantic and hopeful, egged on by the urgency only fools know down the blackened streets and past the solemn trees, stumbling in the blackness we found the sand the heavy panting of the wild waves echoing our shallow breaths hasty fingers fumbling with buttons and snaps our skin bitten by the salt air, revealed to the ever-searching eyes of the night racing toward the water, we welcomed its savage chill and even as we cried out in shock and delight, we knew that our voices were silent above the din of the sea that moment that seemed so loud was still it would not last, but those lights still shine.
Linger here.
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Kevin McCaskill Jr. Some Niggas Go to College Some niggas go to college. For what reason? Employment, Parties, Other reasons. None intellectually really, So most people don’t feel me. “Do you play ball?” They ask that when they see me. Well, I balled out, but not at the Dome. Hall of Languages is now my official home. A small wing in Sims Hall, Is another place where I ball. And not all of us play ball, Or act, Or rap, Or sell crack. Some niggas go to college. And some for intellectual solace.
92 l Perception
faculty
Linger here.
l 93
Dr. Richard Tames In the House of Kings Westminster Abbey – to Londoners simply ‘The Abbey’ – is where every king and queen of England has been crowned for almost a thousand years. For more than a dozen it is their final home – Edward the Confessor, England’s only royal saint; Henry III, who began the building of the present abbey in the Confessor’s honour; the formidable first Elizabeth … Here Diana was memorably mourned. Here her son married his Catherine. If an act of remembrance can be more honoured elsewhere by the fact of its very location I cannot think where that might be. The Syracuse contingent sits as a block on the south side of the nave. To my left, high up over the Great West Door through which we entered, is a statue of William Pitt the Younger, gesturing enigmatically at posterity – Prime Minister at twenty-four – his promise at least fulfilled, unlike those whose promise we have gathered to recall. If I look across the nave I can see, suspended from a Gothic column raised when Chaucer was in his prime, the Medal of Honor, awarded to the Unknown Warrior whose grave lies between the two blocks of the congregation. At Arlington his transatlantic comrade-in-arms lies similarly honoured with the Victoria Cross. To the left of the Medal of Honor, tucked away behind the rows of seating, a TV camera peers discreetly down at the gathering congregation, a reminder that our act of remembrance is the B.B.C.’s top national news story of the day. The VIPs arrive – the Secretary of State for Scotland, the Deputy Prime Minister of Scotland, and, first in precedence for this occasion, the Mayor of Westminster. She sits. We begin. The Order of Service bids “All stand as the Choir and Clergy move to the Nave Altar”, then “The Choir sings” 94 l Perception
– an immense understatement. From far off to the right, unseen behind the choir screen, wells up the majestic resonance of the Introit, sung by the Westminster Abbey Special Service Choir. At the end, as they process out before us, I will count just nine robed figures and wonder where all the others went. Surely that thrilling invocation could not have been produced by a choir that didn’t even reach double figures? But it has been – setting a tone of subdued excellence for a hand-crafted occasion, which reconciles solemnity, dignity, sadness and the consolation welling up from a shared and common grief. The congregation sings the 23rd Psalm to Crimond. A Brigadier reads from Isaiah. We stand silent to catch the crashing notes from across Parliament Square, as the Great Clock of the Palace of Westminster chimes the hour. A lone piper plays the traditional lament – Flowers of the Forest. The names of the victims – five of them from my own history class – are read over by a rota of voices –four from UK Families Flight 103, the fifth by my Syracuse London colleague, the experienced broadcaster, Christopher Cook. Candles. Choir. A wreath. Prayer. Reflections. Jim Swire, tightly controlled. My boss, Meredith Hyde, reading the words of my former boss and good friend, Rognvald (‘Roy’) Scott, describing how SU London received the dreadful, unbelievable news. Her careful diction but his words, a terse, tense narration – unmistakably Roy, who has died just two days before we have gathered here; four days since I saw him last. So I remember him, as well as them. Another reading – from Romans. The Address. An Anthem. Prayers. A Carol. The Blessing. The piper plays Amazing Grace. We exit to Bach. I do not see how it could have been done better. I knew perhaps one in a hundred of that congregation but none us was among strangers.
Linger here.
l 95
Taylor Hicks “Girl”
96 l Perception