Perception Magazine Spring 2016

PERCEPTI N Volume XVI | Issue 27

Linger here | 1

Perception is a free literary and arts magazine published once during each academic semester by undergraduate students at Syracuse University. Address editorial correspondence to perception.syr@gmail.com.

We hope to anger, to unleash, to exalt, to yield, to inspire. We hope we can share what we deem necessary to existence, art, love and words, with those who haven’t been touched yet.

Perception is now accepting submissions for the Fall 2016 issue.

Send visionary pieces of writing and art to perception.syr@gmail.com.

2 | Perception

DEAR

PERCEIVERS,

When creating Perception, it truly takes a team. Production of the magazine is filled with many tedious tasks. It would be impossible to list them all here. Without our dedicated team members this publication would not happen.

Although I have only been the editor-in-chief for one academic year, I am passing it on to a new leader. I believe rotation of leadership is important for growth.

Speaking of next semester, I am excited to announce Perception will have 25 more pages to showcase art and literature! This is a big deal since we always get way more submissions than we have room. The increase in pages will facilitate even more growth for the publication.

And lastly, I would like to give a shout-out and huge thank you to my managing editor, Nittika. She has been abroad in Florence all semester and is always emailing and messaging me about the magazine. Nittika is the best managing editor I could have asked for.

Happy reading and viewing, Sarah Peck Editor-in-Chief

Linger here | 3

THE INSIDERS

Sarah Peck

Editor-in-Chief

Yat Sze Austin Cheng

Managing Editor

Natalli Amato

Chief Designer

Assistant Managing Editor

Katherine Fletcher

Allison Leung

Assistant to Editor-in-Chief 4 | Perception

Nittika Mehra

Designer

Christopher Rivera

Thomas Beckley-Forest

Karli Ann Gasteiger

Carol Pelz

Director of Communications

Outreach Coordinator

Head Editor

Treasurer

DANIELLE BERTOLINI KATHERINE FLETCHER KARLI GASTEIGER AND AMANDA GIBBS CHRISSY BADER AMANDA GIBBS SARAH IBRAHIM GINA REITENAUER SHAINA SHANNAN AND WILLIAM SMITH IV ADVERTISERS NATALLI AMATO YAT SZE AUSTIN CHENG KARLI GASTEIGER ALLISON LEUNG SARAH PECK CHRISTOPHER RIVERA AND TOBI THOMPSON READERS NATALLI AMATO THOMAS BECKLEY-FOREST EMILY MARKOWSKI SARAH MARTINEZ NITTIKA MEHRA KELLIE MILLER CAROL PELZ EMERA RILEY ELIZABETH TARANGELO LAURIE THOMPSON AND ERICA WRIGHT DESIGNER & PHOTOGRAPHER VICTORIA AMOROSO HEAD READERS

EDITORS

Linger here | 5

THE CONTRIBUTORS Writing

Tiara Kristina Lowery 11 Candle Lit Lover Jacob Gedetsis 12 Of Brick and Martyr 86 The Morning

Lili Burch 14 Sneezy Christopher Rivera 17 The illusions of a city 27 802 to 10,000 saints

Lynn Chui 19 0208

88 Grey Lady

Danielle Bertolini 20 Tuesday Miracles Forrest Florsheim 24 Résumé

28 Soup & Surrealism

Zoya Davis 38 Thoughts I’ve chosen not to share to

Dylan Carroll Lyssa Thomas Jasmin Park Claudia Chen Karli Gasteiger Cody Benbow Laurie Thompson Anjali Alwis Carly Elizabeth Benson Farrell Greenwald Brenner 6 | Perception

myself, about myself, until now.

40 “Feeling a little nostalgic/ Do you want to

hear it?”

43 Post Script, Things We Wish We’d Said 47 Naked 44 Photograph of a Photographer 70 Standing On My Toes 48 we should all read coloring books 71 one-two 50 Untitled 90 Untitled 52 memento mori 56 Mutiny 96 The Square 60 Entranced 98 Lost luster 61 The Dinner-Date 62 Chasing Nightmares 106 2:43 am 63 To Stand at the Edge of the World 107 Painting Self Portraits with Vincent Van Gogh 64 Apple Watch Man 108 Dust

Eugene Kortez Butler III 66 Pretty Boys

115 The Miseducation of A Black Kid

Christine Nicole Bader 69 New Rhymes 123 Pinpoints

Lauren Hannah 80 Twenty-Something

109 Tasting Voices Again

Hairol Ma 83 Euthanizing Poppy 135 stockholm

Frieda Projansky 91 Formaldehidden 95 Femininity

Cristina Colón 92 Measurements 93 Turntable

Brittany Rich 94 In the Chair- You Rocked In Rhythm Sawyer Cresap 99 I Was Born in the Suburbs and I Still Emera Riley Lyla Rose Amanda Gibbs Kathryn Cassidy Alexa Leigh De Paulis Yat Sze Austin Cheng 鄭逸思

Alice Chen Christina Tavera Briana Dorley Katherine Fletcher Carol Pelz Danielle Schaf

Believe in Beauty 101 The Man I Sit Behind In Class On Tuesdays 102 Middle Children 104 Why I Hate Small Talk 105 I am here 110 still 112 Calculus: A Sonnet 113 spring cleaning 119 Fragmentation 130 雙星 [Binary Stars] 120 Eleanor 125 Beautiful Humans 124 Nebraska 137 Boy pt. 2 126 Enthralled Obstruction 128 apocalypse 142 Promotional Tour for My Crippling Depression 139 Second Nature 149 Daddy’s Little Girl

Linger here | 7

Art

Hanneke van Deurson 10 Collage Alex Aronson Yat Sze Austin Cheng Leah Vallario Victoria Maria Batista Emily Saleh Colin Maguire Melanie Rose Judson Carly Benson Nittika Mehra Adham T Elsharkawi Allison Leung Oriane Playner Melanie Ann Dujmich Ahmed Hmeedat Michelle Velasquez Sawyer Cresap Yoon Ah Jeong Kelly Veshia Guaier Huang (Dorris) Alena Sceusa

8 | Perception

26 Stress 150 Ice To Light 13 Abandoned Art House 16 Lux/city 134 Starkholm 18 Minimally Simplistic 25 The Aqueduct 127 Purple Chains 36 Vasari Corridor (Intaglio Print) 37 Vernon Forest 42 Kaleidoscope 46 silent giant 49 bed of nature 55 Intensity 146 In One Line 56 Water Series 59 Untitled 82 Untitled 87 Untitled 100 Waiting the Palestinian Right of Return 103 Imperfection 113 Celfie 148 Pawprint 114 Untitled 118 Frosted Boston 129 Jelly 122 Untitled 138 Leonardo Dicaprio 147 Surreal Amtrak

Cover Art Front Cover Art by

REBECCA SORKIN | ILLUMINATION

Inside Cover Art by

YAT SZE AUSTIN CHENG | WEBST/DUCK

Back Inside Cover Art by

LYLA ROSE | CIARA, THORNDEN PARK

Back Cover Art by

ADHAM T ELSHARKAWI | FRIENDS

Center Spread

In order of appearance

Adham T Elsharkawi Alena Sceusa Carly Benson Yat Sze Austin Cheng Lyla Rose Nittika Mehra Yoon Ah Jeong Allison Leung

Noon Nap Grandpa Sublime Syring Annabelle, South Bus Assisi, Italy Untitled Tsunami

Many Thanks to Sarah Harwell The ETS & WRT Departments Vicki Risa Smith Melanie Anne Stopyra The Student Association All Of The Professors Who Encouraged Their Students To Submit

Linger here | 9

Collage

Hanneke van Deurson

10 | Perception

Candle Lit Lover

Tiara Kristina Lowery An old flame lights my most worn wicks And releases an essence of caramel and vanilla Upon his nose of temptation.

Then, I graze his hot zones.

A volcano, he erupts smoky, Sweet absolution within my grasp And under his fiery body I melt.

My wax cooling and hardening against his skin; Beige rock against bronze wax.

When I'm ripped off his skin I take his outer layer with me His secrets forever against my being.

Linger here | 11

Of Brick and Martyr Jacob Gedetsis

There’s never a moment when I can’t remember the name of your lover’s sister with large, hanging breasts and a face like a crane.

It’s strange what we remember My brain like a spoonful of sugar The hands of knowledge and memories slowly sprinkle supersized, crystals onto the surface.

As I grew so did the small hill, the white cap swallowing the mountain whole But now I am old and worn out, and my spoon-handle is rusted sugar spills over the edges goodbye Jenny in ’69, goodbye Miss Noble ’82, goodbye derivatives and lovelust The night sways with the rhythm of the headlights turning down the avenues I half remember.

12 | Perception

Abandoned Art House Alex Aronson

Linger here | 13

Sneezy

Lili Burch and unintentionally

— i sit in the grave of my brother

-which could and will set fire cross rivers blow smoke into the wind across mountains and mountains of tissue paper and i will be here, where i knew i’d die with him but never believed i’d die with him here peeling back the tissue paper, tissue paper, tissue paper here, i feel him here, in his grave-to-be in his chariot, chariot, chariot suddenly i— twitch, — my palms itch

he is frozen and i am rotting here peeling back the tissue paper

the tissue paper, and the tissue paper he should be gone by now he should be ash and wind ash and wind and ash and wind and gone by now and, i should not be standing here he should be gone and i should not be standing here ash and wind and — twitch, — another itch

14 | Perception

right — left, left, right twice, left, we’re running out of tissue paper, tissue paper, tissue paper or, i suppose — i’m running out of tissue paper

Linger here | 15

Lux/city

Yat Sze Austin Cheng

16 | Perception

The illusions of a city Christopher Rivera

A small mind within a city.

My knots always coming loose.

Now I just wear lace-less shoes.

Skipping down these streets.

Just to think living here was a childhood dream.

The taxi cabs honking and the big overhead billboards.

The lights twinkling in every direction.

The people never stopping.

Somewhere always to go.

Yet when I close my eyes.

Pain strikes my heart.

The child in me cries.

For that city I’ve dreamed of no longer exists.

A figment of my childhood imagination.

Now all I can see is a polluted industrial jungle.

One in which you can climb from vine to vine.

Yet it will never matter how high.

There will always be a predator lurking in between the trees.

They own these buildings.

The dank alley ways are enough to be considered caves.

Those taxi cabs are monstrous beasts, their honking could make my ears bleed.

The denizens keep running. Almost like a stampede, get out the way or get stomped.

The lights glisten from the sky, the only solace in sight.Yet round and round this place goes.

I close my eyes and pain strikes my heart. The adult in me cries. For the city I live in has become a nightmare that I can’t escape.

Linger here | 17

Minimally Simplistic Leah Vallario

18 | Perception

0208

Lynn Chui a mariposa flutters and lands on my shoulder legs folding gently a blue-black nocturnal dream weaver steel tipped wings full of promise and hope, tremble in its wake but float in its shadow beauty taking refuge in yin and yang waiting for quiet moments in the change to come, pleasantries skipped for time is fickle and slips at our fingertips strands of memories both concrete and infinite vast swirls of starlight glistening with subtle smiles, glimmering galaxies bitter and sweet solace as sustenance for silent flights into quiet bliss.

Linger here | 19

Tuesday Miracles Danielle Bertolini

It somehow felt as though we were destined to meet that night, the headlights, the darkness, and me. Fate stirred each breeze to an unusual thickness, and I remember choking on the black air. Sandra was still at the office, the kids in bed, and I was on the shoulder of the highway, easing stars into the coursing river, my body shrinking against the heavy cold. The horn came too short and too late, the pain not late enough. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and suddenly, there are no more tomorrows to be had. And all you’re left with are the headlights, the darkness, and a broken body leaking black onto the asphalt.

In the beginning, it was Tuesday. Minnie had stolen the words from my mouth and now displayed her proud plagiarism in letter magnets on the fridge. She was her mother’s daughter—a fact I never felt worth fighting—though I was often told she had my eyes. I rarely revealed it, but those eyes bore into me. It’s like how only diamond can cut diamond; I was so hardened by life that only another piece of me was strong enough to drill holes in my façade. Max was another story altogether. I didn’t understand that kid; I just didn’t get him. He was always so temperamental, so affected by anything that happened. He couldn’t ever let something go, and most of the time he wasn’t clever enough to solve it on his own. Maybe it was just because he didn’t like me. If something went wrong he would cry for his mother, unrelenting until secured in Sandra’s calming grasp. They played each other, and it was fascinating to watch their co-dependence. If she wanted him to do something, she would just stoop down, pout her lips, and ask in an irritatingly childlike voice “pwease?” Max would smile and shake his head, but he would always comply. Always. In return, when he wanted something all he had to do was look at Sandra with his wide blue eyes, and she would melt for him.

These are my wife’s children, I often thought. She owns them far more than I ever will.

This is what I was thinking about when I started walking that Tuesday night.

Crumbs of asphalt crackled under my well-worn loafers, filling the air with echoes of my solitary steps. The sky revealed streaks of highlighter blue, and I contemplated divorce. I thought about it a lot these days. Disillusioned with marriage, unsatisfied with mid-life monotony, I felt the cliché yearning for some masculine escape that drew men of my age out of their homes like moths to a light. I took walks almost every night now, daring myself to keep walking away, never back towards the life that trapped me. If I risked driving, I knew I wouldn’t return. I would place my foot on the accelerator like a body grown heavy with sleep, allowing my somnambulism to carry me into a better dream.

This is what I was thinking about when the stars fell.

I was standing at the corner of 4th and Jefferson when it started. It was a stunningly clear night, and I looked up at the sky, the only place as empty as I was.

Only, the sky wasn’t empty; it wasn’t dead. The upper atmosphere appeared to be 20 | Perception

molasses. Stars were suspended there, but they had a sort of restricted freedom, and as I watched there began a slow churning of the heavens. I was entranced and stood there mesmerized by the spectacle, like a little boy seeing God for the first time. The viscosity gradually loosened, and the churning became a spinning and the spinning became a sloshing until some of the stars began to splash out of the sky.

They fell slowly, like when you’re watching a fireworks show and the embers drift lazily toward the ground before fizzling out. Except these didn’t fizzle out. In fact, when I first saw them, I thought I was dreaming, or hallucinating, or simply miss-seeing what I thought I saw. After all, it’s physically impossible for stars to fall from the sky.

Everyone knows that. They’re huge balls of gas and fire burning billions of miles away.

I took an astronomy course in college once and I assure you it never came up that stars were capable of falling from the sky.

And yet they were.

If I catch them will they burn holes in my sweater? Probably. But Sandra’s mom bought you this sweater, and you’ve never really liked it anyway. You’re right. Fuck the sweater.

I pulled at the red knitting, attempting to give myself the largest surface area possible to catch the stars. What if they’re bigger than you think? Sure, they look small now, but they’re still far away. I took a step back. What if they burn you up before you get a chance to say goodbye to Sandra, to the kids? No movement.

Then, a new voice: this is amazing. This is the most amazing thing you have ever experienced and ever will. Two more shaky steps forward.

The stars were coming fast now, and I didn’t have any more time to think.

It was okay, I didn’t need it. Light was raining down around me and it made every nightmare I’ve ever had into a dream. They were coming faster, and I felt indescribably romantic as every memory transformed into glowing nostalgia and each pain of my body made way for raging euphoria.

They hit the ground like hail. They were small pearls of radiance, each no more than an inch in diameter, never perfectly round, but perfect, bouncing off of the sidewalk. Separately, they were blinding. Collectively, they were magnificent.

The fury only lasted for about fifteen seconds, at least this is what I’d calculate later. I remained paralyzed in awe as the dark void of sky loomed above me, deprived of its former brilliance. But the ground, the ground was littered with them. Thousands of stars. Millions, probably. I looked down at the cradle I had made of my sweater.

Only two stars had landed there, but fortunately they had not burned holes. I began the frantic motion of sweeping up stars from the asphalt and collecting them in my palms. The ground scraped the edges of my hand, reminding me that I was alive.

No, this was not some forgettable dream, it was an unforgettable reality. I filled the sweater until the seams were burdened under the weight and threatend to come undone.

How amazed Sandra would be. It had been years since I saw any sense of wonder cross her face. The last time I had managed to astound her, Minnie was two. It was a Tuesday in March, the kind of day that makes you forget miracles aren’t real. The Linger here | 21

sun broke through the clouds in places, making the world feel small and bathing us in clear winter air. I led her to the back of the house, between the creek and the tool shed. Since I had refused to tell her what we were doing, she was stubbornly wearing slippers, white and soft and wet with dirt.

“Is this really necessary?” she asked, her eyebrows arching skeptically.

“No. That’s why we’re doing it.” I responded.

Her hand was ice as I guided her, and mine was fire. I stopped at a soggy cardboard box, dripping with the unwelcome thaw. I reached inside, pulling out a rusted metal cashier’s box with a broken lock. I set it down in front of my wife.

“What is it?”

“Don’t you know?” I asked.

She looked at me quizzically, as if expecting me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she picked it up and fumbled with the rusted lock. She pried it open, and her face turned from ice to water.

She mumbled something.

“What?” I said.

“What?”

“What did you say? Just now? I heard you murmur something.”

“I just... where did you even find this?”

I smiled. “You never buried it” I told her. “I don’t know what kind of nine-yearold makes a time capsule and doesn’t bury it, but it was hidden in your parents’ basement. Your mom called me when she found it.”

She stood there, pulling out drawings and bits of ribbon—things that would never make sense to me but meant the world to her. Yes, to her these were the trophies of childhood, the sweet reminders of a more perfect time, a time before our marriage was burdened under a weight that threatened to make it come undone.

Two weeks later we got into an argument. I yelled and she screamed and in a final fit of adulthood she took the box and threw it into the creek. It seemed wrong, and I don’t pretend to understand why she did it. I guess she just gave up on the idea of perfection.

The stars are perfect, I thought. This was my moment of wonder, the closest to heaven I would ever get, and it suddenly felt cheap. She had given up on ideals, given up on miracles and here I was, catching stars in my sweater, stealing all the miracles for myself.

I looked out to the horizon, pulling my eyes along the faint edge of earth before it dropped into water. It would take five minutes to get to the highway, I figured, and the river was right there, waiting to quench my dreams.

In the end, it took me eleven minutes. Seven to reach the river’s edge, three to gather courage, and one to release the swarm of stars into the current. They floated. I held the last one in my hand, my last little miracle, my last perfection. I rolled it between my fingers for a moment. Then, I unceremoniously dropped it in the river, watching it bob in the lazy tide.

As the light died out in the water, two more appeared on the road. I was 22 | Perception

confused until I heard the horn. There was a split second before we met, the headlights, the darkness, and me, a fraction of a fraction of time in which I pondered the meeting. And then it came and passed, and I was just a broken body, lifeless and lightless on a starless night.

Linger here | 23

Résumé

Forrest Florsheim 3 time jv tennis captain Once ran an 8 minute mile Can eat a 20 piece chicken McNugget in under 3 minutes Aspiring brunch con·nois·seur Never been in a fight Serial procrastinator Got a 100 on the SAT Hawaiian shirt enthusiast Statically platonic, cautious optimist Unstoppable left Skyhook Amateur finger painter Once high fived Paul Rudd in a Chili’s bathroom Part time treasure hunter Full time lover Wanted in Montreal Student of the culinary arts Teacher of how to open a beer with a lighter Proud owner of a crossbow Broke my nose 4 times Missing a front tooth Drink of choice: ice tea and tequila Tentative record holder Well versed knowledge of 90’s rap Wool sock collector Half Jewish, half Canadian 100% Wisconsinite Ardent defender of justice Certified scuba diver Relentless competitor with a strong sense of danger Looking for an unpaid internship

24 | Perception

Linger here | 25

The Aqueduct

Victoria Maria Batista

Stress 26 | Perception

Hanneke van Deurson

802 to 10,000 saints Christopher Rivera

802 to 10,000 saints Which one do you pray to when you lose your faith?

When all seems lost When you’re given false hope Which one do you pray to when your mother has been abused?

When the yelling won’t stop When your blood runs from your veins Who do you pray to when your lust corrupts you?

When love seems to no longer exist Who do you pray to?

When your noose is tight and fit Who do you pray to when you stop breathing on a whim?

When your sister destroys her life When your father is sick Who do you pray to when you want it all to end?

802 to 10,000 saints Who do I pray to…?

So they can stop me from gambling my life away like a poker chip?

Linger here | 27

Soup & Surrealism Forrest Florsheim

Reuben was nervous. Reuben was nervous because he was going on a first date with a pretty girl that he really liked. Because Reuben was nervous, he was biting his fingernails. He was biting his fingernails like the time he snuck into an R-rated movie when he was in middle school. He got kicked out after the previews. Reuben always bit his fingernails, it was his nervous habit.

“It’s better than smoking cigarettes, Mom,” he said when his mother told him it was disgusting.

It was disgusting, but Reuben couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop until right before he pulled up to his date’s house. He was gnawing away at his middle finger, it was a big sucker, when he felt a pop in his mouth. He looked down at his hands and stared face to face with his worst nightmare. It was the crown of his fake front tooth.

“Oh shith,” Reuben lisped to himself as he looked in the rearview mirror and confirmed his biggest fear.

There was a big gaping hole where his left front tooth should have been. He looked like a forward for the Boston Bruins, but not in a cool way. He tried fitting the tooth back in place, but it was fruitless without any adhesive.

“Maybe she won’t notice,” Reuben thought, “Yeah, I’ll just order a soup and let her do the talking.”

Reuben swallowed his pride and a bunch of saliva and got out of his car. He walked up to his date’s town house in a similar fashion to the time he ascended the steps to the coffee shop where he originally met his date, by tripping in awkwardly, as if he had rusted ice skates for shoes.

“Yeah, I’ll have one medium latte and one of those biscotti’s,” Reuben said to the barista.

“What’s the name?” the Barista blankly said.

“Reuben.”

“Cuban?”

“No, Reuben, like the sandwich.”

This happened a lot.

As he waited for his latte, Reuben took a bite of his biscotti, carefully avoiding his front tooth to chew and instead employed his molars to do most of the dirty work. This was a technique he had mastered over the years after his front tooth was shot out by a BB gun at his 10th birthday party.

“How’s that biscotti?” a voice pitched in.

“What?” Reuben mumbled, his mouth full of biscotti crumbles.

“How’s that biscotti, I was thinking about getting one but went with the blueberry scone," the voice now had a face, a very cute face.

“It’s pretty dry," Reuben said with the confidence of someone eating a biscotti for the first time.

She laughed.

28 | Perception

“You’re funny. I’m Lucy," Lucy said, extending her right hand forward to seal this encounter with a handshake.

“Reuben, nice to meet you Lucy."

“Cuban?”

“No, Reuben, like the sandwich," Reuben said for the second time that morning.

“Oh I’m sorry. You probably get that all the time."

“Sorta. Not that it matters or anything, but I’m not even named after the sandwich. I didn't even try a reuben until after I graduated high school."

Lucy laughed.

“My dad felt the need to honor our Jewish heritage and he chose the one name that is also a sandwich. Couldn’t Aaron or Daniel have sufficed? Sorry.”

“No don't worry, I get the I Love Lucy thing a lot."

“Hey, I don't usually do this but would you wanna grab dinner sometime? I’m new in Portland and it’d be great to get to know someone."

Lucy happily agreed. Reuben was now beginning to question if she would have happily agreed to dinner if he had been missing his front tooth in the coffee shop. It's amazing how quickly the absence of a front tooth can distort one’s entire appearance. One minute Reuben was a semi-respectable college grad with a taste for ham and cheese sandwiches, who loved the idea of traveling and preferred not living with his parents. And the next, he was a toothless vagrant who threw ham and cheese sandwiches at people, traveled by empty train car and thought his parents were house cats.

“Shitballs," Reuben thought as he rang the doorbell, playing with the front tooth gap with his tongue.

Lucy appeared a few seconds later, looking pretty, like Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane.

“Hi Cuban," she said and laughed.

Reuben nodded his head.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

Reuben gave her a thumbs up.

“Anyways, where are we going?”

Reuben cocked his head slightly to the right, and covered his mouth with his hand as if he had to sneeze.

“It’s thistth new placeth called Auth Courthanth, supposthed tooth be very good," Reuben muffled.

“Reuben, is everything okay?”

“Yesth," hand still covering his mouth, “welhl no."

Reuben bit the metaphorical bullet that shot out his front tooth. He moved his hands and smiled, revealing the black hole in his mouth that’s gravitational pull was so strong Lucy couldn’t divert her eyes even if she tried. Her face looked like she saw someone chug an entire gallon of ketchup, disgusted. She quickly realized how insensitive her reaction was and tried to play it cool.

“Oh my god, what happened?” she asked.

Linger here | 29

“It’sth a long shtory. I can tellth you abouth it over dinnther, ifth you stillh wanht tooth go. I totally underthstandth ifh you don’th," Reuben lisped “Of course I still want to go, this is Portland, I once went on a date with a guy who had a face tattoo. You’d have to be a meat eating scientologist from Alabama to scare me away from dinner. You’re not a meat eating scientologist from Alabama are you?”

“No," Reuben laughed but it sounded more like a whistle, “don’th worry, I’m a meatt eathing scienthologisth from Alasthkah."

Lucy laughed, probably out of pity, “Where are we going again, I missed it the first time you said it?”

“Auth Courthanth, It’sth justh openedth."

What Reuben was trying to say was Au Courant, a pompous word that meant “well informed," and was only used by the West Coast hipster community and small literary circles in Paris. Au Courant was a fitting name for Portland’s newest niche restaurant. They focused on a locavore infusion of farm to table small plates that were influenced by postmodern French inspired Vietnamese cuisine and protest. It was as pompous as their name.

Two miles west of Lucy’s town house, Luis was at Au Courant, adding the cilantro garnish to a bahn mi appetizer before bringing it out to table 16. Luis was a recent LA to Portland transplant who had accepted his fate as a failed actor at 27 and after an LSD bender decided the Pacific Northwest was the place for him. He traded in his Prius for a single speed road bike, grew a handlebar mustache, brushed up on Steinbeck and bought a bus ticket. As a veteran of the waiter game, Luis was quick to find work at Au Courant serving tables during their opening. He figured it’d be a good gig to support himself while he tried to make it as an organic surrealist writer.

“Luis, a couple just came in and are sitting at table 12, the guy is missing a front tooth, try not to stare," said Leonard, Au Courant’s manger and part owner.

“Gotcha," Luis replied.

Luis grabbed the bahn mi and swiftly brought it out to table 16.

“How are those beers tasting?” Luis asked the three men who occupied table 16 as he delivered the bahn mi.

“Sublime," they all said in union while nodding.

“Yeah, that’s one of my favorite beers that we have on tap and brew in house. It’s an innovative fusion of Eastern and Western culture that combines age old American craft brewing techniques with Vietnamese tea leafs, giving it a nice full bodied fruity aroma. You can really taste its worldliness. So, are you guys ready to order a couple more plates? Or do you need some more time?”

“I think we’re ready," said one, looking around at his compadres for approval.

The other two nodded in agreement.

“Alright, I’m probably gonna butcher the pronunciation of this, but let’s get an order of the Nem Cuon and Cha ca La Vong to share.”

“Flawless. The Nem Cuon and Cha ca La Vong, great choices," Luis lied as he had never tried either.

30 | Perception

“Let’s add a Banh Bao and another round of beers."

“Sounds good," Luis said and pointed his pen at the last of 3 men.

“How’s the soup special?” he asked.

“The Bún bò Hué? You would be a fucking idiot not to order it. It’s a rice vermicelli base, Bún, with beef, bò, all in cased in the rich culture and heritage of the royal Vietnamese city, Hué. You can really taste hints of post-French colonialism in it ," Luis said.

“Alright let's get three of those for the table.”

“Perfect, anything else I can get you guys?”

“Kind of," the man closest to Luis said, and motioned for him to lean in.

“I have a job proposal for you," the man whispered. He removed a small vile about the size of a fun sized candy bar from his jacket pocket. “We will tip you $500 cash when the bill comes if you mix this into the Bún bò Hué soup special."

“What is it?” Luis asked, intrigued by the proposal.

“It’s a moderate grade psychedelic drug that mimics the effects of Acid but enters the bloodstream tenfold faster.”

“Make it $600 and a couple hits of that shit and you got a deal," Luis whispered.

The man slipped Luis the vile.

“Alright, I’ll go put your order in and grab that round of beer for you guys," Luis said while winking, regaining his composure.

Luis put the vile in his front pant pocket. At this point his motives were just as unclear as the protagonist’s he had crafted up in his most recent organic surrealism short story. Luis’s latest literary adventure entailed a man who was trapped in a coma after a circus incident and relived his life through the eyes of his fish but developed an Oedipus complex towards a vacuum. It would later be reviewed as nonsensically brilliant.

Before returning to the kitchen to put the order in and spice up the soup, Luis swung by table 12.

“Chào bån, hello," Lewis said as clasped his hands and bowed, “welcome to Au Courant. I take it you haven’t dined with us before?”

“Nope, first time," Lucy said.

“Perfect, can I start you guys of with some drinks, maybe a bowl of the soup special?”

“Sur the, I’llth havthe a whisthkethy sour th and somthe of thath soupth," Reuben lisped. Luis tried not to stare.

“And for you?”

“I’ll have a vodka soda with a lemon and how’s the soup special?” Lucy asked.

“The Bún bò Hué? You would be an idiot not to order it. It’s a rice vermicelli base, Bún, with beef, bò, all in cased in the rich culture and heritage of the royal Vietnamese city, Hué. You can really taste hints of post-French colonialism in it ," Luis recited.

“What exactly does post-French colonialism taste like?” Lucy asked.

Linger here | 31

“It transcends the fusion of Eastern and Western flavor, giving you the sensation of an out of body experience. It’s really good."

“I’ll get a cup of that as well."

“Excellent choice," Luis said with a wink.

As he made his way back to the kitchen he felt the vile of the psychedelic liquid. There were probably 60 to 70 hits of hallucinogenic incased in his pocket. Luis’s own experience with psychedelics was merited. In high school he ingested an 1/8 of mushrooms and watched A Clockwork Orange. He ran through a glass door when he confused the diegetic police sirens for real ones. After 16 stitches and a $200 savings withdrawal to fix the glass door, Luis was not deterred from going deeper down the rabbit hole. He tried acid in his college dorm room and wrote a 600 page manuscript determining the meaning of life. After reading it with a sober mind, Luis concluded there was more to life than The Doors, lava lamps and pop-tarts. While living in LA, Luis tried peyote at Joshua Tree and got lost in the desert for 2 days after making friends with a sand lizard. A couple of hitchhikers found the estranged vagabond on the side of the road and nursed him back to life with their camelback. Luis hoped that tonight would eclipse any and all trips he had tripped and inspire him out of writer’s block, not that that was his motivation though. He really needed the $600.

As Luis made his way back into the kitchen to spice up the Bún bò Hué, Leonard emerged from the kitchen.

“Luis, how's table 16? Anything strange?” Leonard asked.

“Strange, no, they ordered a shit ton of plates and beer, why?” Luis said.

“Do you know who those guys are?”

“No, should I? I’m still pretty new to Portland."

“Those are the Springfield brothers. They own and operate Mélange, Portland’s very first cubist restaurant to capitalize on the Ostrich Egg craze. They wrote the book on how to create a pre-materialism inspired menu that includes poultry, fish and a hamburger. They have a white knuckle grip on Oregon’s farms and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were trying to sabotage our opening weekend," Leonard said.

“Sounds fishy boss, I’ll keep an eye out for anything strange," Luis said, his hand clenching the vile in his pant pocket.

“Good, because Michelle Mackenzie just walked in."

“Who?” “She’s the linchpin of Portland’s restaurant scene. She’s the Godfather, I’m gonna go and pay my respect."

Leonard bounced and Luis made his way to the back of the kitchen. He walked past the deep freeze where Alfonzo, the head chef and co-owner, was smoking a skinny joint. The Bún bò Hué was resting at a low simmer and smelled like the opposite of a pumpkin spice candle. Luis took the vile from his pocket and emptied it into the broth. He used a straw to suck out the remaining drops and gave the soup a quick stir, infusing the Bún bò Hué with a little mojo.

“Lift off," Luis whispered.

He dished out 5 orders of the Bún bò Hué for Lucy, Reuben and the 32 | Perception

Springfield brothers and for a brief moment Luis felt like a demonic cult leader that was about to make his disciples unknowingly drink the Kool-Aid. He decided if he were to start a cult it would be called Surrealogy and it would operate under the guise of enlightenment but was actually just a giant pyramid scheme, but that would be ridiculous.

“The Bún bò Hué special," Luis said as he delivered the soup to the Springfield brothers.

“Excellent," said Jerry, the oldest and fattest of the Springfield’s.

The Springfield’s first wafted in the steam of the soup, appreciating the aromas, as if it were a fine wine or an artisan pumpkin spice candle. Bottoms up.

“Shit fuck, this is actually unbelievably good," said Jim, the Springfield brother who wore leather pants.

“It’s a roundhouse kick to your taste buds that leaves you with an odd feeling of nostalgia," said Lou, the most poetic of the brothers.

“We might be fucked,” said Jim. “Our ringer just ordered the Bún bò Hué," said Jerry pointing to a lone figure who occupied a back corner table.

The Springfield’s ringer was Michelle Mackenzie, Portland’s top food critic, AKA The Palate of Portland. One bad review from her and a restaurant’s doors would close within the month. When D.C. Kitchen served her a pasta that was 30 seconds past al dente she compared the chef ’s effort to that of a sloth on a treadmill. Harsh.

Soon everyone in the restaurant would be tripping balls.

“Do you feel that?” Jerry Springfield asked. The spoon was beginning to feel like an extension of his hand.

“Yeah, the air definitely feels warmer on the right side of my body and colder on the left," said Jim. They ate their soup in silence for a minute.

“I think I can feel my brain inside my head," said Lou. “How strong is this stuff?” asked Jim. “Strong enough to make me see in slow motion," said Jerry.

“I’m definitely starting to gain a new appreciation for purple," said Lou as he looked at a painting of an eggplant.

“Like the color?”

“Yeah, it just makes sense, like Velcro shoes for old people."

“Or little sweaters for little dogs," Jim pitched in.

“Exactly," Lou said as he took another spoon full of his soup.

“I feel like I’m in a Dr. Seuss book," said Jerry.

“We should order some Green Eggs and Ham," suggested Jim. “Has it hit Mackenzie yet?” asked Lou. “Take a look for yourself."

Lou turned around to see a kaleidoscope of color and energy dancing together.

A fusion of reds, blues and yellows waltzed across the restaurant, bringing the walls to life. Lou felt like a conductor of a symphony, orchestrating time and reality. Smashing.

Linger here | 33

At a table not too far but not too close to the Springfield’s, a man and a woman were petting each other. To the right, a herd of miniature elephants stampeded out of the kitchen. The walls were definitely changing color and everyone was pounding the Bún bò Hué. Lucy was staring at Reuben’s mouth, transfixed by the missing tooth, as if the gap was a portal to a different dimension of consciousness. Reuben was confused.

Suddenly a wave of interconnectedness overwhelmed Lou’s senses and focused this dream-like wonder into a succinct tunnel vision that drew his dilated eyeballs directly to Michele Mackenzie.

Mackenzie sat hunched over with her head cocked to the right. Her ear was inches away from the Bún bò Hué, listening to it. The Bún bò Hué told her old family secrets, directions to where the treasure was buried and the motivation to start doing Pilates. She had eaten a lot of great food in her tenure as a critic but no food had ever instilled a lifestyle change. Trippy. She scribbled down some notes that upon reflection looked like a child’s rendition of a palm tree. It didn’t matter. Her review of Au Courant was published that Monday.

The Palate of Portland Reviews Au Courant Few culinary experiences transcend reality. Eating Rendang in the Indonesia countryside opened my mind to flavors I never thought conceivable. Rice, salmon and wasabi proved to be the best three-way in Japan. A margarita pizza from Milan taught me what separates good food from excellent food. These meals were fundamental moments that changed the trajectory of my life. No meal comes close to what transpired at Au Courant this weekend.

An order of Bún bò Hué, a soup special that will cer tainly be a staple, stimulated my taste buds with the power of 50 heart defibrillators. Head chef and co-owner Alfonzo Santana concocts an elegant mixture of rice vermicelli, beef brisket, port leg, pig blood and an ancient spice, unknown to my pallet. The broth compliments the noodles and beef in a reflection of culture that is as rich as it is rural.

The linchpin of experience hinges on the spice, the mojo, the hootch. Not but a few spoonfuls into the Bún bò Hué, my tongue bypassed new channels of communication to my brain. Electrons fused with unknown levels of dopamine which opened a new segment of reality that I or any patron was unaccustomed to. Time and space became one entity and a third eye opened on my forehead, a sensation I had not felt since my college years. The flavors continued to blend and began communicating with me, telling secrets and offering advice. Never before has a meal influenced me in such a way. Enlightenment could be used to describe the Bún bò Hué. Colors became brighter and my existence became clearer.

In wake of this semi-religious experience, I shall announce my retirement as the Palate of Portland to pursue a mastery of pilates. Bún bò Hué at Au Courant is the pinnacle, the peak, the apex, the summit of food and flavor and to write about other restaurants, meals, dishes and desserts my palate would be tainted with bias for nothing can compare.

34 | Perception

“Fuckballs," Jerry said putting down the newspaper.

“Shitbag," said Lou. “Dang," said Jim. “Lets high five," said Leonard.

“Yes," said Alfonzo.

“Far out," said Luis.

“Kiss me," said Lucy.

“Okay," said Rueben.

Linger here | 35

Vasari Corridor (Intaglio Print) Emily Saleh

36 | Perception

Vernon Forest Colin Maguire

Linger here | 37

Thoughts I’ve chosen not to share to myself, about myself, until now.

Zoya Davis

You knew I was a gamble But you still let me blow on the dice Your first mistake was thinking me lucky, Calling me a blessing As though my name was an anagram for “divine intervention” But baby, my body is not a temple, My body is a coliseum With rows of crooked columns on either ends, burdened with the task of holding me up Fissures in my walls, cracks against the stone I wasn’t good enough, strong enough for anyone to worship in And though you tried I left you with bruised knees and palms bubblegum glued together As punishment for the blasphemy How dare you to try to praise in a place so unholy, a place too unworthy to be considered a sanctuary The uneven flooring of my mind, a smorgasbord of disaster for you to sort through: Insecurity, inability to love, tendency to ruin relationships, unhealthy dependence, fear of loneliness a cornucopia made up of a broken human, no meal suitable for just anyone to digest but you ate…well, opened up my skin, my bones and flesh filled the gaps in your mouth and fixed itself in the spaces between your teeth juices dripping down the sides of your face, you were hungry but all for the wrong reasons, all for the wrong person, I am not that person I am poison, You Feel that?

That feeling inside your gut like fingernails clawing at the warm skin, scraping at your bones, it will eventually find its exit up your throat and out your gaping mouth in the form of every disillusioned body I’ve left in my wake, you will be one of them if you continue to swallow, I say But you’d end every night, on a full stomach I wonder, how can someone so full of someone else manage to remember what their own eyes look like before?

And then I realized, they don’t.

I don’t see you anymore, 38 | Perception

All I see is that the bags under your eyes have sunken to carry the plight of the night before All I hear are the ends of sentences I can’t recall you ever beginning So I put my hands over my ears to hear the ocean The harder I push, the farther away I become The harder I push the closer you become So, I thought about writing a poem, But you don’t deserve that, You’re far too worthy of the words that would tumble form my mouth in a clumsy escape You aren’t poetry I can’t hide the depth of a person in any of the 26 letters No, I cannot string your smile between the words of a metaphor And I can’t just thread your skin like lace through a neat simile My play on words would be a disservice to the extent of your being People are not poetry, you are not poetry The limits of my words, a dishonorable attempt at summarizing a person No, a poem just won’t do So how else do you tell someone, Someone who aided and abetted in the crime of their own destruction all for the sake of fixing you, “I am sorry”?

How do you apologize to someone, open wounds and bloody where skin used to be, wondering how they got this way, asking you how they got this way?

Waiting for the answers and are so trapped they don’t notice your clenched palm, the one where you’re holding the knife that destroyed the person who dared to love you

Linger here | 39

“Feeling a little nostalgic/ Do you want to hear it?”

Zoya Davis

You didn’t give me any time Any warning, no flashing red and blue lights No whistling siren to follow in the distance Not a sound where your body erupted from the ocean bed And crashed down above my head like unruly waves at 3 am No, you didn’t give me any time Any time to hastily gather up our last nightly conversations The ones where we shed our coffee and skim milk skin, Voluntarily exposing our bones to the wind, Flesh raw and bare, souls bruised, minds cloudy like the morning after a late night out with Jack and Daniel No time to tuck your last words within the slight crack you left on my skin the day you left me No time to quickly hide the sudden glances you stole, before you took that away from me too, the ones where your eyes caressed mine, almost weary but not enough tear for me to notice No time to turn off the lamp before the lampshade spitefully displayed the shadow of your figure against my walls, as if to say, I could turn you off but never turn you away No time No time to un-see, to un-know, to un-feel to un-love you No time before your words broke the floor between my toes and your face tore threw my brain, Oh, but you were skilled, you performed an unprofessional lobotomy without morphine Revealing the mis-firing neurons that were not used to your absence just yet No time…or maybe you did and I just didn’t allow myself to look hard enough I didn’t see that you were stained glass, weakened from too much sun in a place that required a little too much praise I didn’t notice that you were gentle porcelain, delicate china The kind your mother took out and tenderly wiped down once a year I didn’t see that you required so much more maintenance I didn’t see that you were broken And you didn’t see that I couldn’t fix you But after all we all know light travels faster than sound And I did see your eyes that used to be my lighthouse flicker then decease long before I heard your goodbyes But I told you I hated you way before my heart meant it, the light trapped within the dents of my soul shone just a little too bright for your eyes; weak from receding into the darkness you let build a home inside you with a 40 | Perception

lease you couldn’t quite break You said, I was too good for you As if to ignore that you were once the only good in me And yes I imagined you in me In more ways than one, and baby you can take that how you want to you took root into my earth, convincing me you’d stay a little while and let me count your tree rings But instead of reliable soil you settle in loose uncertain sand, and though a lightning strike could mold you into beautiful crystalline geometry I wasn’t enough to set you on fire Like metal against metal Scraping to see who erodes the most, Who ruins whom first?

You won So, to let you know that I’m alive More or less, But more so the latter I just wrote a poem about you Do you want to hear it?

And You know how clumsy I can be Two hands that resemble two left feet That couldn’t quite put your pieces together

Linger here | 41

Kaleidoscope

Melanie Rose Judson 42 | Perception

Post Script, Things We Wish We’d Said Dylan Carroll

P.S. I wish I could have gone with you.

P.S. Could you tuck the kids into bed tonight? I’m running late at work. Don’t forget to read them their bedtime story.

P.S. Sometimes I imagine what it’s like to kiss you. When you talk to me I find myself staring at your lips and wondering what kind of deep cotton candy sweetness it tastes like to press my lips against yours.

P.S. Every time I fly I bring the letter you wrote me in high school. I’m terrified of airplanes and running your words under my thumb during take-off keeps my head on the ground.

P.S. Could you pick up more milk at the store? I’ll go next time, I promise.

P.S. I had a crush on you for three years. I’ve always wanted to tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t.

P.S. I lie in bed some nights and pretend you’re with me. You hold me and we laugh and I fall asleep smiling stupidly at myself. I know you’re not really here. I just wish you were.

P.S. You know when I told you I had a crush on you? Well that’s not exactly true. I think I’m in love with you.

P.S. I miss you guys. I know I’m an adult now, but you and dad always made me happy.

I know I never said it enough. I love you mom.

P.S. I almost killed myself that night. I never told anybody before. I ran the razor over my wrists and I walked out to the bridge and stared down at the winter water. I heard you crying once you heard the news and I just couldn’t do it.

P.S. You’re beautiful and brilliant and I know you’ll do great. Have a great day at school, sweetie.

P.S. I hate sunsets. It always looks like the world catches fire before the darkness. I much prefer sunrises. Birds don’t sing when the sun dies.

P.S. You have an incredible laugh. I know we’ve never officially met but God your laughter makes me want to believe in something.

P.S. I’m sorry for everything that I did.You deserve better. I just don’t know how to be better.

P.S. Thank you for the coffee this morning. It must have been hard for you to come back. It was so nice to see you.

P.S. You’re truly remarkable.

P.S. I think I found myself again. I couldn’t have done it without you.

P.S. I went to the store today. Can’t wait to see you at home. I missed you today. I don’t know what it was, but I just really missed you. Anyway, I got the milk. Love you.

Linger here | 43

Photograph of a Photographer Lyssa Thomas

“Lyss, turn your head that way more,” my mother nods in the direction she means. As I move, she brings her camera up to her eye, a looking glass through which she can see the world and show others what she’s found. I recognize the way she says my name. Lyss when all is well, Elyssa when it’s not. The grass tickles my ankles on the warm spring day. The sun beats down on my face illuminating my freckles in a way I know she’ll play up on Photoshop later. When each location on the mansion grounds is finished we pack up all of the props and shove them on a cart. It would be fair to take turns pulling the cumbersome thing across the cobble stone hills, but she insists on doing the dragging. As we walk through gardens, bugs buzzing around our sticky skin, I watch the sun and how it reflects off of her smile. Taking my graduation pictures gives her a reason to stand taller, be better. Me not being a screw up means she wasn’t a screw up either. It’s our next stop to take a picture. As she looks through her lens to see me, I see her.

My mother is 115 pounds with a stomach full of food and wet hair. She walks with swinging arms, head back, and chest out. Her confidence beams from the smile she is occasionally able to keep for extended periods of time. If someone were to know her not for her size, but only for her attitude, she’d probably be more intimidating than she already is. Her teeth are straight when she smiles, tinted yellow at the cost of smoking. Her eyes crinkle, crow’s feet forming at the edges. In my mind, she’s much too young to have wrinkles, but forty is creeping up on her. Her hair is long, wavy, dark brown. Previously in the year the ends were self-dyed purple ombré and she was convinced all of the soccer moms in minivans stared because they were jealous. When we talk it is like a spot the differences puzzle that only I can see. She’s skinny and you can point out all of her knuckles; I’m still fighting off middle school carbs. She grins and laughs with no insecurities; I hide my teeth when I smile. She is outwardly so alive, but sometimes when it’s late at night on one of her bad days, she wants to be dead. She tells me to be confident. I try. She lives through my current successes. She’s proud of her ‘genius daughter.’ I know, for she’s told me so every time she drinks her vodka and cranberry.

My mother pretends to be strong, never wavering, and she is, but not always.

Sometimes she is weak. She needs to learn that that’s okay too, so that when it all comes out at once, her emotions aren’t so explosive. My mother has a voice that can soothe me when I’m upset. The rhythm of her breathing when she used to do my hair I can easily recall. I can also recall the way it cracks when she screams. Her sunglasses fall over her eyes and she moves the camera down, flipping her hair back the way I knew she would. I notice that my mother has freckles that dot across her nose just as I do.

I can remember the first time I told her about my wintertime sadness. The sun went down and I went too. She told me I sounded like her and apologized for making the mess I would have to learn to clean up.

44 | Perception

I cried the first time my grandmother told me I was acting like my mother. The spot the differences puzzle was fading into something too difficult to solve. When I come out of my thoughts, my mother is a few steps ahead of me, huffing as she pulls the cart along. I follow her cautiously down the perilous cobblestone path.

Linger here | 45

silent giant

Carly Benson

46 | Perception

Naked

Dylan Carroll We never took our clothes off, but we saw each other naked.

You unbuttoned your fears one by one and collected butterflies under your skin as I saw you bare for the first time.

I looked at every inch; the airplanes and the judgement, the spiders, the loss, your father’s voice.

I dropped my thick emotions heavy on the floor and you explored their curves and colors.

You connected dots between every freckle, drew celestial stories around every scar.

You unzipped your layers until I could touch every question, every suicidal thought, every moment of doubt dripping like syrup from your eyelashes.

I shed my ideas, my shaken midnight phone calls, every regret laid out before you, shivering as you searched them a hundred times through.

And I know, I never saw the stories written beneath your collar bones or touched the anthems tattooed under your belt, but I did see you.

And you saw me.

Both naked, uneven, not perfect and sometimes tainted.

I know you never saw past my cotton, but you did see me undressed of every ribbon I laced to try and make myself seem like something worth opening.

I know I never kissed your chest, but my lips did know the taste of every unrestrained tremble of your heart.

Linger here | 47

we should all read coloring books Jasmin Park

the whole thing becomes monochromatic eventually try your best to separate but they blend I am dark blue other deep colors welcome pastels and brights can move along thank you you are pink bright with purpose(?) really bright but not really offensive(?) interesting you’re pretty but still ruining my palette I would ask you to leave but you’re so close already might as well observe I show you my shades you show me yours I appreciate the common courtesy the distance you keep so all colors stay fresh now you drip and slide it’s annoying but I’ve done it too so I don’t have much to say I would say I’m sorry but have you? well I can go on about the color wheel and where I come from, where you come from but unfortunately, now, you and I— blend tried our best to separate but eventually the whole thing became monochromatic 48 | Perception

bed of nature Nittika Mehra

Linger here | 49

Untitled

Claudia Chen here’s a poor people tactic: eat as much as you can even after you’re full just keep eating until there’s no food left in front of you and if you can’t finish it, stuff it somewhere to finish later twice a month on saturdays my dad cuts out the coupon for hometown buffet he makes us go around four every single time he says it’s just the time to get lunch prices and still be there when the steak and ribs come out he goes for the salad bar first, piles the plate high and topples it with dressing more side salads some hot dishes the meat comes out he pushes me to the line to get him extra plates because you can only have two per person he does this for a third, fourth, fifth round before going back for more hot dishes and then desserts twice a month on saturdays my dad cuts out the coupon for hometown buffet and i learn what it is to eat my fill even after i’m full in high school, we all picked up a hoarding habit from a friend who used to be homeless my pockets were constantly full of granola bars, fruits, and bagels i’d never end up finishing it was fun to do it for a while, like we were getting away with something and we reveled and giggled hoarding food like social capital i work three work study jobs in college to supplement my rent there’s lots of free food on campus : it’s there and i feel like i need to keep eating it until there’s no food left the cheese and crackers are brittle, empty, harsh on my gums coworker asks, where does it all go? i shrug, smile and pretend like i don’t know a nagging feeling tells me my stomach will pay for this later i keep eating til food services takes it away, or i have to go this is a poor people tactic i learned for survival on days when i wasn’t sure my dad would bring home food when free school lunch wasn’t enough 50 | Perception

to gnaw on granola bars and five dollar little caesar’s pizzas until full and empty were words to describe my plate and not my belly it’s silly to think i still think this way , that i still do this even though i don’t need to i don’t need to just survive anymore i make some income now i buy groceries now i eat to love myself and to nourish my body is not a receptacle i deserve to thrive to eat what’s best for me, not what’s best in competitive eating and eating until i overflow is not loving myself eating until i overflow is not loving myself eating until i overflow is not loving myself repeat to remember repeat until remembered memorized imprinted on the walls of my mouth

Linger here | 51

memento mori Karli Gasteiger

i surely got dosed by you, as the chili peppers would say. night and day you, my drug. darling. you look just like ezra miller. i watched madame bovary and felt just as restless as emma how he acts, he speaks, he looks just like you and lamentations of secrets between the sheets go untold. they should be told. dammit, they should be told like fairytales with plot twists in which i’d ride off into the sunset with rose gold dripping from every orifice and you under my skin like you always like to get underneath like that. how you melted into me, breathed into me, do you want to see yourself? yeah? yes, i moaned. you dangled me precariously off the edge of the hotel bed, and I watched you fuck me in the mirror. i looked into my own eyes as you came. it was perverse. kentucky, 4 o’clock hour. “sonny’s real pit bbq.” i ate well more than you did; the cornbread was remarkable.

52 | Perception

we learned at your little brother’s baseball game down in georgia that you don’t have to cook a corn cob to eat it. a nearby picnicker showed us just how fresh sweet corn was meant to taste. you got irritated with me for licking the bowl. using my pointer finger to catch all the icing and residual brown sugar, i didn’t want to miss a thing, still don’t. why did that bother you so much? why? huh? why, i said. i’m enjoying myself. i was too self-conscious to yell “i’m king of the world” from that archway we climbed up in chattanooga. i wish i had. remember how i was adamant we blow out candles on our birthday? you should always open presents and have a cake and blow out candles on your birthday, my dad would say. his voice rang in my ears like tinnitus – annoying, nagging, something you can’t ignore. so we looked. you didn’t see the big deal. i became tinnitus in your ears. in all my 17 birthdays, that was the only one where the flames were extinguished in one fell swoop and there weren’t even any candles. and i never got to make my wish. or at the art museum.

Linger here | 53

modern art, to be exact. you didn’t think it was art at all. you thought it was bullshit. things happened. i can’t even remember when the last time we made love was, or if it was even any good. or if it was even love that was being made. and you called me over the summer just to fuck with me take that how you will. because it was meant both ways, and it wasn’t appreciated. and how it sickens me to say, i heard your voice again and i was home.

54 | Perception

Linger here | 55

Adham T Elsharkawi

Intensity

Mutiny

Cody Benbow Captain, I cannot move your face.

Does blood flow through that statue?

Always still as the sea I treaded to make waves I Thought you would see.

Out there on the sea, Captain, do you remember me?

I wasn’t born from that sea.

I’m no Venus cosseted in some Shell. My eyes aren’t pearls birthed In sea foam silk. The clearness of The sea evades me. Still I hoped You’d see my hazel eyes shimmering In marlin skin or my voice echoing in Your sea. Like when you cast me in the Deepness and told me, “swim.” But The shore kept slipping into a starkness Of blue I can’t forget. I cried terribly, “dad, don’t leave” but the horrible engine took you far from me. And it’d be years Until I’d meet a swimmer who could Save me. Captain, what haunted vessel Do you steer? What keeps your eyes Drawn away from me? I bought you a lure But you lost it in the sea.

Some days I thought it was just me.

But your sister died and I couldn’t see The paths your teardrops took.

Captain, tell me, in what hidden sea Do you keep your tears? Were you quietly Waning like a long-drawn breeze?

All I saw was an evergreen in a sea of Dead leaves. My dreadful dear Captain, I declare my mutiny.

Even sugar must burn to be sweet.

I reject the Captain’s Orders, in fact I cast them in the sea. You were looking For stars in a rainstorm. I abandoned The bunnies nudged between breasts On the cover of Playboy Magazine.

56 | Perception

I kissed my first boy under a Moroccan Moon in the cerulean city of the Rif.1 Captain, here I was, in my own Sea of blue, still thinking of you saying, “I’ll kill you if you’re a faggot,” Saying, “I’ll leave you in the sea.”

But the boy was a swimmer and he Kept you far from me. I bloomed Like the hibiscuses you planted for Mom. It’s a shame you couldn’t see.

I danced like a madman in a sea of sand, Let you go in a Saharan breeze. You said, “don’t turn your back on the ocean, the waves will sweep you off your feet.”

When I turned my back on you I thought I’d be swallowed by your sea.

But instead I found that old glass lure And I kept it all for me. Captain, stick to Your Kona shores. It suffices me to leave.

Captain, please, abandon ship.

Do it for you and me.

1

Large chain of mountains in northern Morocco famous for its blue cities Linger here | 57

Water Series Allison Leung

58 | Perception

Linger here | 59

Untitled

Oriane Playner

Entranced

Laurie Thompson Green green green, verte.

An emerald green. Not lime, not seaweed, not fern, not mint, not even a forest of leaves sprinkled with green.

She floats and Her invisible tracks leave scents of anise and fennel, lacing the air with licorice locks of imagination.

Dusting the rims of lip-stained glasses, tip-toeing across lovers' collar bones, gentle but precise, landing a liqueur-loaded kiss on plump, rosĂŠ cheeks.

Faint females, faint smells of after-shave, faint lights dimmed a luminous, aspiring green, coating the scene with lust and envy.

Ssss. Sssshhh. Shush. Listen to the green.

Closely, closely, you'll hear the prick of ivy t-tickle up your spine, hear the beats of the emerald cat's lashes, hush hush. Listen and you'll hear the fairy lay down Her wand upon a silk pillow, billowing with bizarre rarity, roaring a silent call, humming Her to sleep.

Welcome: In Her labyrinth, hyacinth trellises drenched in absinthe line the halls; It is where one finds other synths and scents and sins and songs sung in the present; Beware: In the mist, the serpentine Snake wraps poisonous wreaths around rueful victims too entranced by the green song.

60 | Perception

The Dinner-Date Anjali Alwis

A droplet of water rolls down the wine glass, carving a glistening trail through the frosted crystal, My fingers dance around the stem of the flute, Clenching tightly, anxiously.

I’m not sure what I’m nervous about but Something about dining alone is an altogether Heart-stuttering experience.

Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order.

A classic play on words springs to mind: If you are waiting for the waiter, are you not the wait-er?

A nervous chuckle escapes as I scan the room.

Dim, romantic lighting, thick red draping tablecloths, Piano music plays; soft enough to add ambiance but loud enough To drown out the conversations at nearby tables.

I focus in on one couple, leaning in talking softly to each other, The way he looks at her is beautiful.

He stands up suddenly, looking nervous and dropping to the floor.

On one knee, he stares into her eyes, pulling a ring from his coat pocket.

She lunges and kisses him as the entire restaurant explodes into thunderous applause.

I hear none of it.

I can’t stop looking at the light shining from his face.

Pure unadulterated joy; my heart stirs as I vaguely remember the concept.

It’s beautiful to watch. It’s painful to watch.

I can’t believe it’s been a year.

Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order.

Linger here | 61

Chasing Nightmares Anjali Alwis

I didn’t dream of you last night.

Didn’t picture your arms pulling me into your chest.

Didn’t feel your kisses on my back.

Didn’t listen for the sounds of soft snoring in my ear.

Or watch the flutter of your impossibly long lashes.

I didn’t dream of you.

I thought about his arms, strong and secure, wrapped around me.

I imagined kissing him, legs tangled, his hands in my hair.

Rolling over in the middle of the night, Biting his neck until he awoke, Looking into his dark eyes

And not wanting to see your hazel pools.

I dreamt about telling him I loved him.

Sober.

Unashamed.

Knowing I meant it. And he meant it.

Not being afraid that he would run away.

Not feeling like he deserved more than me.

I did not dream about you last night.

And for the first time

In a long

Long Time...

I did not wake up empty. ?

62 | Perception

To Stand at the Edge of the World Carly Elizabeth Benson

Standing at the edge of the world Looking into the eyes of a trying sea, Her toes curl around Weathered rock That grows slippery With each Wave’s lickRefusing the Wind’s forceful scripture That is preaching gusts To blow her backwards.

The surface chops and spews In every direction As it yells Deprecations That balance within Delicate glass bubbles of Sea-Foam That pop at her feet In crushing trickery.

Standing at the edge of the world Looking into the eyes of a trying sea, Keeping her ankles above the water line So that the Sea does not lap at her open wounds Pretending It is here to heal her With nothing but a tongue That feels as warm As a freshly salted road Before snowstorms.

But OhHow it feels to be Standing At the edge of the world Where she is begged At the ankles By a force That shares the Anatomy Of TsunamisTo sit.

Linger here | 63

Apple Watch Man

Farrell Greenwald Brenner The Apple Watch Man standing so tall wrist glowing beneath his brass cufflinks little golden stars like a phosphorescent lamp in a koi pond tells me as he ejaculates onto an open-mouthed auditorium “It is the 21st century!” as if I didn’t know that already from the polished rock with human-like sensitivity on his arm “It is the 21st century!” as he lectures with all of his silken might on Sierra Leone and Syria those sad and sexy prostitutes “It is the 21st century!” as if modernity were some deadline or a state of the art stainless steel John Deere lawnmower sitting in a shed intended for a grass field bled dry The gall to be ungrateful for generous gifts of guns and germs The Apple Watch Man clicks to a slide that reads: THE SYRIAN CONFLICT… BRUTAL! KALEIDOSCOPIC! UNWINNABLE! The exclamations of doom resemble the pull-out quotes of double-thumbed reviews on the back cover of a New York Times bestseller (His) Oh but it’s so hard to look at ugly, burned, amputee survivors to listen to their deaf-accented voices His dirty little wars have robbed him of the joy of life, he says as the slides of my God’s children parade before the audience’s orgasmic eyes vibratory for there is no motivation—unlike the practical genocides of yesteryear—brown 64 | Perception

people lack reasons for their death-making so much better to be thoughtful in our violence to strangle with Structural Adjustment Programs instead of rope or piano wire to drown in the alcohol of unemployment rather than Zyklon B too bad the collateral damage Oh when will they learn and join us in the 21st century where we have Apple Watches whose tin, tantalum, and tungsten the terra cotta of time were taken from the earth in the midst of the very genocide The Apple Watch Man will so philanthropically prosecute in an international court for criminals A ruined people, he calls those deaf amputees who he pities so much he gives them chocolate unaware that he is simply returning it to the hands that harvested those cocoa beans Who will pity us the twisted and depraved who financed rape but The Apple Watch Man finds the strength go on, though, as an international criminal lawyer, he says he is depressed, up to his elbows in blood (He has no idea) But he’s got time

Linger here | 65

Pretty Boys

Eugene Kortez Butler III Why you talk funny Walk funny Why you dress different Oh You act different You act like girl But you kinda like a boy Or you like something in between Like my processor is crashing Like delete delete delete Pause ya life because like I can't define you Into something somebody somewhere Had told me about men or niggas How they come in all the same shape and Wait, that don't really make sense ...

In my mind you equate to a faggot But chill caus I like you, you cool At least You not a bitch You just a pretty boy I swear growing up My very existence stifled people Like I felt black around black people Like I was I some type alien or something Like when I told you You acted like you didn't want me something Like the hate in your eyes Meant you hated me or something Like how you cried because you didn't want me Or something Like being an A student, holding down a job, and doing right Didn't matter or nothin Like when I was acting like a girl And you almost flung me off the porch Made me feel like worthless and unloved Like I was animal or something Like I wasn't your son or something Like my whole life didn't even matter Or something Like

66 | Perception

People always tryna label you Be aggressive towards you Define what you mean By that Like I feel Blacker than most Sometimes Because it's not ok to scream nigga down the block Hold up ...

Like I feel Blacker than most Sometimes Because it's still ok to scream fagot on a street corner Or out a Church door In the word of God But I’m a mistake Watch your tongue pastor, preacher Or whoever you are Because old lies fall out quicker than the truth It was you Black Preacher Who told me Black people made the devil’s music & That the devil made me Was it because that's what some White man told you While he lynched you And preached to you What his God meant to him and what that means for you The same shit you preach to them Or I have crossed a line You see the truth doesn’t always spill out so easily I feel Blacker than most sometimes Did you know you could accept hate like love How you could run towards something And away from something at the exact same time Like stick and stones Like how I ran until I was skin and bones Acting like a child with scissors Trying to fix myself Or be nothing or something I feel Blacker than most sometimes Linger here | 67

Blacker than their legs heating up in the summer heat Short shorts and tank tops they're walk stank Talk stank Spit words with their risk flipped Like the blade out their clutches At risk of getting snatched They Fought with their hands a lot Showed their asses a lot Ego's to wide for a sidewalk They ran the streets like a catwalk Hands on their hips They wiped like wipes Transfixed even with a busted lip They stepped to you.

Like I'm a fagot But you can't beat me bitch

68 | Perception

New Rhymes

Christine Nicole Bader You have poetry running through your veins With the way you speak So honest as you bear your soul With the simple movements of the way you walk Gentle and calm, suddenly I feel at home You have poetry in your eyes It seems, when you look at me They speak of multitudes in melodic rhymes Together we make a new kind Redefining what it means to rhyme There's poetry in our clasped hands Running in circles and meeting again There's something lyrical in the way we kiss Soft and slow, our lips dancing in unison You are poetry. Strong hands, big smiles, And music at your fingertips How lucky am I that I get to read your rhymes

Linger here | 69

Standing On My Toes Lyssa Thomas

My mother and grandmother rush around the house pushing by me as if I am a burden and not the reason for all of the commotion. Their clothes brush against my arms, their bodies blurs that knock me off balance as I try to maintain my stance on stubby legs. I grip the edge of the counter, standing on my toes. On the front of the microwave is a mirror, and staring into it is my intention. If I stood tall enough, I could see my eyes, brown, peering into myself. I was not vain; I was curious. Never before had I been the center of attention, so dolled up, so beautiful. My shoes shined with their newness making me proud to claim them as my own. The dress’s tulle underside scratched at my belly and I could hear the crackle of the fabric when I moved. I swayed my hips in a circle, the way I had been taught to hula-hoop, and the skirt flowed with me. Luckily, my stockings had not yet torn, which was a big accomplishment for a three-year-old.

I could hear a voice calling down the hallway. It was time to go to the photographer’s studio. Just before taking my hand and pulling me along, my mother looked down at me. She was almost too caught up in the stress of it all to take notice of her work. She spun the curls she made with a curling wand around her fingers, bunching them up, and then letting them spiral down to frame my face and rub my ears. My grandmother joined her, both of them lost in the silky youth of my hair and me lost to the silence of the room. The only noise was that of their synchronized breathing, a momentary calm, in the swirls of busy color. My eyes never left the mirror; I was mesmerized by each and every curl’s bounce and the completeness of all attention on me.

70 | Perception

one-two

Jasmin Park one. bright sash, purple knees, fresh cuts, and silver streaks pink undertones, denim pocket holds a smoke sweaty palms dampen paper bags nickel charms of pillow mints and lemons sparkling water in warm bodies salivating thoughts, soft, then rough strokes paint on freckles, kissed lips two. step into the tannery a dry, thick odor the hairs on your arms stand up straight without permission you act cool, but I saw it do you hear the cries like I do?

I’m only kidding, I think we imagine how they spent their days before the skin we wonder how their eyes moved and twinkled but after a while, we are unapologetically desensitized jokes and sweet whispers we gaze at the decoration almost romantically what is there to question when you and I decided spend time here? whose idea was it anyway? you don’t remember, I don’t remember, and it doesn’t even matter because you look at me in such a way if I also look at you this way what do I do with myself I could die rather, I would prefer to die this pain in my left chest is overwhelming anatomy books tell me that’s where the heart goes some people call it love it is a beautiful thing, they say they are wrong it’s an illness perhaps, together, we can slit our soft throats let the pretty cows roam around us as we look at each other for eternity

Linger here | 71

72 | Perception

Linger here | 73

74 | Perception

Linger here | 75

76 | Perception

Linger here | 77

78 | Perception

Linger here | 79

Twenty-Something Lauren Hannah

It was a year ago now I left the burned-over side To a fresh home far away from holier eyes where It’s not the “good” book now whose favor decides What sort of casual sex is criminalized – Who said the shape and the form of the devil depends On the emotions of powerful minds that he bends Through the pressure of text messages old lovers send And the professor who made my religion (silence) end I shed my innocence when I came to this cold Place What now, mom, that I’m twenty years old Grace Didn’t take me as far as expected And this heart that you gave me is being infected With the thought that I might not even make it to thirty Because I (breathe) Won’t (breathe) Survive another woman who leaves me dirty She appeared like vidi vici, you are mine now Unrolled all my shame from the past few years, how Did I dig myself so deep into this place And I find it repugnant – fall in to save face Oh, my, this little nation is one of rational hedonists And she dropped ten pounds (still wasn’t pretty enough) Started to cut her wrists There has got to be a path around these cosmetic lies Like every day I see a piece of this glorious girl die The white people here are the makers of white roseAn American dream she liked to take through the nose But I can’t help, I’m tripping, I’m getting so high the room spins – Haha Allah, I already fucked seventy-two virgins 20 minutes into this I’m covered in red lipstick Get back to my place and Jack giving me limp dick She said that’s fine, I’m tired, I’ll be on my way And her bitter breath was making me sick anyway

80 | Perception

So at twenty something, places love me louder than girls She was like Alpha in wonderland dripping with pearls Lusting for power, stumbling-over. words Like she could sell that white body and buy the whole world But that’s too easy, I didn’t really want to say – She had to go, but no, don’t please (please) stay We’re both twenty something, (cold) maybe We could fuck it Away

Linger here | 81

Untitled

Oriane Playner

82 | Perception

Euthanizing Poppy Hairol Ma

The summer breeze drew circles in the white clouds and sifted through the vacant lots filled with grasses behind Henry’s home.

“I still don’t get what you’re trying to say,” said Henry. He watched as Lanie tugged on the dandelion weeds beneath her feet. Her blond hair was tucked into an orange rubber band, and the thick straps of her denim overalls were sliding off her thin shoulders.

“They’re eu-than-ising Poppy,” she said very slowly and importantly.

“Youth-and-izing,” he whispered to himself. Youthandizing was a very big word, and Henry liked how they slid over his tongue in sleepy spirals. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.” Lanie’s blue eyes narrowed and her freckles bunched up over her cheeks as she scrunched her nose. “I think it has something to do with a shot. I really don’t like shots. They hurt. But this shot- this shot is magic.”

Henry said nothing, but he privately agreed. Once when he was three he had gotten a shot on his arm. He thought hard. He had forgotten what it was for.

“Anyway, Mommy said that after Poppy got eu-than-ised, she’ll be okay again,” Lanie said importantly. “We can take her on walks and stuff again. Because it’s magic and everything.”

“Okay,” said Henry. He liked taking Poppy on walks. She liked to stop at every bush or stop sign and mark her territory. Henry thought this was very funny. The Hendricksons also paid Henry and Lanie twenty-five cents each every time they walked Poppy, which was enough to buy a few sticks of gum at 7-11. He liked the idea of a magic shot.

“Henr y? Lanie? Dinner time!” It was Henr y’s mom. Henr y could see the silhouette of her figure against their back porch, which was stuck with peeling blue paint. She shuffled into a pair of slippers and trudged through the long grasses. “Lanie, your folks are expecting you home for dinner.”

“See you later.” Lanie stretched her arms out and stood up in one fluid motion.

She pulled the strap of her overalls back onto her shoulder and reached out a hand to help Henry up.

-After dinner Henry brought some important medicine to Grandpa. Grandpa was very old. He had his own room at the end of the hall, where he lay in a bed hooked to tubes and beeping machines. White machines. Everything was very white in Grandpa’s room.

Henry’s mom followed him into the white room. She held a bottle of white pills in her hand. Henry carried a cup of water. Henry’s mom said that the water was a very important part of the medicine, and Henry believed her.

“Hello, Grandpa! We have your medicine!”

Linger here | 83

Grandpa shifted his wizened brown face against the white pillow, but did not reply. The milky sheet that laid over his cloudy blue eyes gave no sign of recognition.

Henry’s mom forced a big smile onto her face, her eyes opened wide, so wide Henry could see the whites against her bright blue irises. She looked very tired.

Henry’s mom cupped Grandpa’s mouth open and placed two shiny pills onto his tongue. She reached for the cup of water and gently tugged it from Henry’s grasp, tilting it towards Grandpa’s mouth. A little bit trickled from his chin and caught in the white stubble, but it didn’t seem to stain his shirt.

-After school Henr y and Lanie rode their bikes together down the neighborhood. Henry liked the way his neighborhood was shaped. The houses were pushed together in a perfect circle, with only a narrow street that opened, allowing cars to pass through, one at a time.

“Henry, today we’re going to do it.” Lanie’s brow was set, a fierce look of determination fixed on her face. Today she wore a yellow shirt with a hole on the sleeve and battered old denim. She was acting especially proud today because she had gotten a pair of shiny white sneakers from her mom. They had rubbery soles and looked unusually clean and new next to her yellow shirt and ripped jeans.

“What are we going to do?”

“The road. We’re going to go down the road.”

Henry blinked. They had been warned to never go down the straight path that led out of the circular neighborhood. It was dangerous, and you aren’t old enough, you’ll fall and get hurt and get taken away by scary people and it’s very dangerous and “That’s dangerous,” said Henry. “There are a lot of cars and stuff.”

“Pish posh,” Lanie scoffed. “I bet the adults are hiding something cool out there.

They just don’t want us to see it. ‘Cause we’re kids and all.”

“I’m not a kid,” said Henry. He puffed out his chest because he had seen a big man on do it on TV. He wished he had a mirror right now because maybe then he could see if he looked as big and cool as the man on TV. “I know. So let’s go down the road.”

Henry paused for a moment. Lanie’s eyes bore into him. He thought the sneakers were rather ugly, but he didn’t tell her.

“Okay.”

They pushed their bikes past each familiar driveway, the rubber squeaking against the gravel and cement. The road was a few feet away. Without warning, Lanie hopped onto the pink seat and sped down the path. Henry fumbled, grasping the black handlebars and pushing himself onto the plastic seat.

Lanie was going very fast today. Her hair swirled behind her like a worn flag and if Henry inhaled very deeply, he could smell her strawberry shampoo. He pumped his legs faster, trying to catch up to her. It was very dangerous, and you aren’t old enough, you’ll fall and get hurt and get taken away by scary people and it’s very dangerous and 84 | Perception

A car screeched to a stop, and Lanie screamed. She fell off her bike, her elbows hitting the cement. The driver hurried out of the car. It was Henry’s mom.

“Why are you two here? I told you to never come here!”

Lanie was crying. Her elbows were bloodied and bruised. Wet tears dripped down her freckled cheeks and her new sneakers were brown. She looked like a kid.

Henry’s mom softened.

“Come on, no more crying now. Up you go.”

Henry’s mom put Lanie and Henry in the backseat, then loaded their bikes into the trunk. They drove in silence for the rest of the way home.

By the time they stepped onto Henry’s porch Lanie had stopped crying. She huddled by herself, arms clutched gingerly to each elbow.

“You two wait in the living room,” said Henry’s mom. “I’ll grab some medicine for Lanie from Grandpa’s room.” Henry watched her hurry down the hallway and disappear into the white room, shoulders hunched. She looked very small.

“They eu-than-ising Poppy today,” Lanie said. I expect she’ll be coming home soon.”

“D’you know exactly what happens? The youthandizing thingy, I mean. What exactly does the shot do?”

Lanie shrugged. “Who cares? It makes Poppy feel better. That’s what my mom told me.”

Henry’s mom walked down the hallway with a tube of yellow Neosporin clasped loosely in her hands. She dabbed some of the clear cream on her finger, then leaned down swiped it gently onto Lanie’s elbows. Lanie stiffened, but she didn’t cry.

“Poppy’s coming home today,” Lanie told Henry’s mom. “You can come see her.

She was eu-than-ised.”

Henry’s mom froze, and she yanked her hand back from Lanie’s elbow. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the white cap. She looked at Lanie for a long time. Henry realized that his mother’s eyes seemed very shiny and white all of a sudden. She looked back down the hallway, towards Grandpa’s room.

“Really,” she said slowly. “Well, that’s exciting.” Her voice shook as she finally screwed the cap back on.

Lanie peered at Henry’s mom closely. “Well, I’m going home now. Bye Henry.”

She jumped up from the couch and ran through the open door.

Henry’s mom slowly sank down onto the couch. Henry looked at her face, and realized that her face was wet with tears. She did not make a sound. She looked very tired and lonely all of a sudden. She closed her eyes, and Henry felt big, big enough to say words like euthanizing.

Linger here | 85

The Morning

Jacob Gedetsis There's something grisly about working in the morning half-awake, the day rising in front of you. Sweaty, dressed in yesterdays' knit sweater, a layer of coffee-sugar buzzing on your teeth.

Scientists say you work better in the morning and that's why schools start at 8 am bells ringing like Pascal’s dogs or triangles or something like that.

There's a small bird sitting outside my window, distracting me from my work but birdsong comes with morning work as does the cold-haze slapping of the morning dew and the distant sound of Saturday morning cartoons.

Sometimes I sit out at the dock and imagine the sun staying at that eye level point, never rising the power of noon.

The sun blazing across the water paints the water-colored canvas in hues of magenta and gold, what I imagine Mt. Olympus would be like this time of year.

There's a gentle power in being awake before everyone else, alone with the satyrs and God, when I feel like a god, if only Hermes would come to this rusty dock and call my human name. I could hold onto these mornings a little longer.

86 | Perception

Linger here | 87

Untitled

Melanie Ann Dujmich

Grey Lady Lynn Chui

rain, thunder, and lightning through the roof yet I remain dry in this corner where conversations pervade and taking a moment is expected pare down so that true intentions can be received and place a smile filled with the utmost compassion so that it laces everyone’s character and fuels this fireplace of content combating calamity. you sit across from me, taking the same coffee, bitter in the best ways warm in the face of the wind unadulterated for best effect, and smile at me with a half-turned corner of the lip while squinting your eyes. we exchange verbal reassurances from the words on our respective pages, written by me, read by you, latin letters but languages distinct melodies to our ears nevertheless beckoning us to await each others comet blitzes. lonely moons dependent on solidarity but with a decadent connection when we both see the Great Dipper Nyx and companion Chiron, Styx is in awe of your beauty and brilliance, our mutual companionship is unexpected but in the underworld doesn’t everybody run into each other at some point? smoke and tunes drift on our tongues stars crossing our mental processes our cup of kindness is filled with words to be said, taken in with sips not gulps time is fickle so we shall keep it constant our acquaintance will never be forgot as long as we still walk and turn pirouettes in the face of distractors and doubters for our doors will always open for each other creaking on weather-damaged hinges standing on foundations shaken by waves of despair quaking from sighs of exhaustion but surviving with drifting expressions.

88 | Perception

all the patience I can give is but a small gift to be able to receive the bigger one of your words and intimate thoughts and the entrance into your confined spaces.

I’d like to believe that the gaps in our collective Tetris board can be closed through various movements of the 7 pieces unique to our colliding orbits we’ll run through the mazes of our minds with pure intentions so that darkness won’t hang its heavy curtain between us and block us from sharing torches on the way to our private pastures where our smiles stream through the blades of billowing grass and our thoughts echo among the canopy above.

Linger here | 89

Untitled

Claudia Chen when the cynic asks “what are you,” and then “what is queer” you feel like a faraway fetish a public shunning hesitant to respond, but helpless to wipe away her sneer

90 | Perception

Formaldehidden Frieda Projansky

I hope you burn incense and Drink moonshine and Not only think of me But preserve me in Cells of yoursThe scent and poison Permeating in your skin.

I want to be everywhere But frozen inside the Bones in your face at The same time.

Overtime my obsession With you only gets stronger and Darker like the burning Incense but I present It as diluted and lighterWhat we should have done To the liquor.

I like to feel pressure From you, from your body.

I like to feel stuck in Your exhale as we Grasp at our hands. There's No element of you that I don't want internal (I Need your own vitals for My blood flow).

People hate me, that I love you.

But I won't Hide How gross this is.

We are disgusting with Our secrets- the fact that we have none.

I can stay this way a while.

I know you want me in a vault.

I know I want you in my follicles.

Linger here | 91

Measurements Cristina Colรณn

Does the length of your skirt Give him the right to formulate An invisible 'yes', screamed by All of him, and yet, none of you?

Who is he?

He's your friend. You used to Jump on fallen autumn leaves when The power went out. And here You are, the lights flickering as His fingers trace the switch on The wall.

You want to go home.

Did the width of your smile Create logic in his brain For him to feel fine As your anguish wets his pillowcase?

Fingers point to you, One by one, staggering single file To accuse your clothes and your uncovered shoulder For distracting the good boy On his way to class This morning, the blood-stained bedsheets will Not be displayed outside for all to See. "Mom, can you come pick me up?"

Hush, hush, Little baby Don't make a fuss, Let's get you in the shower And put you to sleep.

You sit, As the boiling water creates steam That conceals you in a cloud of burning Shame.

Hush, hush, Nobody needs to know.

92 | Perception

Turntable

Cristina Colรณn The remnants of pen and paper On the skin of your lover The one you've hurt By writing out the truth Of you Of him The Jazz record spins the room Around the spot where love was Made first And finished last Dangling from the ceiling The dots on your voice And the threads that Bound your rings to the Rum, as The trumpet vibrates off the Wall.

Bodies connect for the sake Of movement Needles pause for the art Of music Unfolding itself in the strings Of your hair.

Ink and feeling poke the Inside of your heart Or what's left after The truth turns The grooves carved by Machinery into dust.

Linger here | 93

In the Chair- You Rocked In Rhythm Brittany Rich

In the Chair - You rocked in rhythm, With the ticking of the Clock.

And all the while – Time did measure A Stagnant - Sluggish walk.

At first the walk was easy - dilatory – calm.

The breeze blew - soft - against my hand, And our pushed-together palms.

And on we walked diligent - feet first in the sand.

And when you looked back at footprints, They were mine and yours - Alone.

No man had carried You - nor God. It was I whose strength then shown.

And all the while the ocean - Blue.

The vibrant - tentative sea, Grew - Grey and as the tide stormed in, Tried to take you away from me.

But through cascades - I stood firm, While the waves Melted the ground.

And then - not sea - but Earth was Thief.

Hidden - beneath surface - and Bound.

Solitary - I dug with might.

Yes, Solitary - There.

And walked back in woe - All Alone.

To rock with Rhythm in - Your Chair.

94 | Perception

Femininity

Frieda Projansky F is pink and sweet.

It’s how he memorizes Pitch. It Sounds sweet And looks Pink.

I feel pink and Sweet. I am Going to Read Cosmo on the Airplane I am going To eat Peppermints And then I am Going to Corner you And I’ll sound Different Maybe a C? Syn·es·the·sia Isn’t So synthetic Copa, Copa Cetic.

Linger here | 95

The Square

Cody Benbow It’s another hot day so I stroll the square to watch the collars wilt on French torsos and drops of sweat collecting neatly on tailored suits. The sky is empty and cloudless so I watch their shoes instead clicking on the coppery sidewalk.

Several women stand fanning their drooping faces while children watch the taffy man twirl sticks of salty-sweet into the air. I try to avoid the snake men with their sour clarinet songs that drench the air in a garish din but the cold reptilian eyes follow me secretly like a new moon. I stop to say hello and goodbye to the orange juice man with a sliced-wedge smile I almost wish would go away. His eyes follow me into the large market where I buy a bottle of Coca-Cola because that’s what Americans do. A man with a cane staggers toward me like a skeleton and he is hunched over like a sack of couscous. I hand him a couple of dirham and notice his eyes are cloistered in cataracts. But into a café where I ask for the tea that makes you majjnun1 even though the sun has done that for me. He seats me on the terrace because that’s where Americans go. From here the Cinema Mabrouk doesn’t look the slightest shade of sinister. I heard that men can make the Throne of God shake there2. It’s midday now and the adhan3 spills out onto the Marrakech streets and I suddenly notice my drink is empty. So I go to watch the African men twirl their heads like whirling dervishes.

96 | Perception

A circle is forming around a woman that claims she saw heaven after falling down into a well 1 crazy 2 Muslim saying that homosexual acts literally cause the Throne of God to shake 3 Call to Prayer and I wonder how hard she fell.

And I notice that in this sunshine everything looks alive so I let the streets and the buggies and the minarets and the little fold-up shops swirl around me until I too wonder if I’ve slipped into the well.

1 2 3

crazy Muslim saying that homosexual acts literally cause the Throne of God to shake Call to Prayer

Linger here | 97

Lost luster

Laurie Thompson After the kids had grown, she turned into a skeleton.

Patches of grafted, pale skin creeped up her arms; the forearms white with scars; the upper arm waving skin where fat used to live.

Her feet, covered in purple veins ready to pop, try to hide their disintegration with barbie-pink nail polish that probably belonged to her daughters.

Her calves and thighs were splattered with gray circles that were once brown and healthy in youth. Her cheeks were plump, like mine had been when I was little—my body had still been discovering its form: human, chipmunk, an inflated balloon...

But hers knew—it knew it couldn't last much longer.

The skin was wearing thin, eyes were closing with the pressure of a thousand pins, lips were cracking, only dust and ignorance released from them.

The bones could not hold, the skull was but a hallow mass of minerals no longer holding thoughts or dreams.

The only skeleton in her closet was her: hiding from death when she felt a surge of strength, but peaking through the shackled shades with fantasies of coming out, giving in, letting go.

98 | Perception

I Was Born in the Suburbs and I Still Believe in Beauty Sawyer Cresap

love is my red front door that I painted with my mother and sticks in the summer heat. love is the newspaper rolled up and delivered to our house on Sundays with horoscopes saying you’re having a five star day but love, stay away from Virgos love is the slow parade of garbage cans down the driveway and the drag of the recycling bins close behind love is the bits of trash left on the road. let love be the low hum reverberating inside your one heart let it stutter and start each morning like a lawn mower working its way through the yard knowing there will always be more grass. love is a stray cat slipping through the sliding glass door love is a smell all down the street of fathers cooking steak outside love is the basketball hoops rarely, but not never, used love is draining the pool love is bringing in the mail love is a flag waving and waving and waving to you. love is the house numbers singing I want to be found.

Linger here | 99

Waiting the Palestinian Right of Return

Ahmed Hmeedat

100 | Perception

The Man I Sit Behind In Class On Tuesdays Sawyer Cresap

I know so much about you.

I know you have a button on the back of your collar (that you have probably never noticed was there) and two thin brown necklaces tucked inside. They look like the kind you get on a cruise to the Caribbean. I wonder if you get sea sick.

I know you have not gotten a hair cut recently, as the bottom fringes trail down your neck like fangs on a mouth. Maybe you’ve been too busy studying for the GREs or delivering pizzas. Maybe money is kind of tight saving up for those new set of snow tires. Maybe you drive a stick.

I know you have a small birthmark on the back of your neck too and when you tan in the summer time you probably can't even see it. I know because I’m the same way.

I know you, but I don’t.

I don't know you at all.

Linger here | 101

Middle Children Emera Riley

you smooth arguments like fingers over silk, pour extra cream into your sister’s cup of tea learn to be invisible, loudly a contradiction shy, but brightly lit eat nothing but yogurt and coffee live in excess, never file taxes but when your brother calls, it is you who answers the phone weeping, knees torn, guttural, in the shower nobody sees you.

102 | Perception

Linger here | 103

Imperfection

Michelle Velasquez

Why I Hate Small Talk Emera Riley

i really wanted to fit you neatly into my life: teach you how to brew the perfect cup of tea walk the halls of the art museums: hunker beneath my favorite King, listen to music intensely,deafeningly,raucously show you my wreck discarded i wanted to hear about your grandmother the scar on your lip, the position of your hands when you sprint how my childhood was so beautiful,awful,ugly in fluorescent pink, naked women painted in every room, every crevice how i’ve drowned 3 times but cannot resist the allure of the the cold salt of the Pacific squeezing tight on my ribs I wanted to know you intensely,intrinsically,wildly lay my palm flat on your throat tell you i can’t sleep at night and how everyday we are dying, we are dying and how I keep dreaming about my teeth falling out I keep dreaming about my teeth instead, you asked me about my break and i said “fine” and i meant “fine” and that was the end of it, i guess

104 | Perception

I am here Lyla Rose I am here I am not going to roll my eyes when you explain that he bit from your neck the innocence that was never his to take I am not going to fake a hug or support when every smile you share is speckled with tears and every boy you meet now you secretly fear I am not going to look at the floor when you tell me that his fingers crawled up your skin like vines, that his hands were seething with excitement while you wanted to die No I am here I am not going to scold you when you tell me “it was my fault too, I didn’t scream, I didn’t struggle” This shadow of a boy who tries to fill his soul, with keystone light and his morals aren’t just not right, But they’re absolute lies That somehow no means yes And he peels your clothes like a famished leviathan feeding off of beautiful souls like you Because I know that you never saw this coming, Because at first, I’m sure, he felt like a long car ride from when you were little Like the hum of your beat-up Volvo and the blur of white headlights outside Lulling you into a deep sleep while your car weaved through the night So when he let the words fall from his lips like clumsy soup “We’re going upstairs” you tried to see through Him and his dreary eyes and his lopsided smiles And you tried desperately searching for the boy that you once knew But something red burned under his scorching flesh And he saw your eyes as only pools that he could play in That he could bathe in and defile But you are not alone I am here And we are here And your tears are not forgotten Linger here | 105

2:43 am

Anjali Alwis I wonder if you woke up with a girl in your bed last night.

I wonder if you smiled at her the way you smiled at me that night.

Crinkles in the corners of your eyes, Dimples nestled in the crevices of your cheeks.

Did you whisper words of budding love into her skin?

I want you Just you.

I wonder if like me, she tried to resist you at first‌ Maybe, like me, she knew you were too good to be true‌ Maybe, like me, she lost that battle when you looked into her eyes.

I wonder if you looked at her the way you looked at me.

Moments of time stretched like tiny eternitiesI dove into the depths of your dark irises.

Did you take your time, like you did with me?

You kept pausing to stay in the moment.

I kept stopping to memorize it.

Did you stare at her like she was the only one?

I wonder if it was as fun as it was with me.

Did she giggle like I did while you teased her?

Your facial hair scratched me gently.

When I laughed, you rubbed your face further into my neck.

We were joking. We were loving.

I wonder if like me, she had never imagined laughter in bed before.

Maybe, like me, for her you were the first to blur the lines Of physical intimacy and emotional familiarity.

I wonder how you slept.

Did you stay curled around her throughout the night?

Did you keep one hand on her at all times the way you did with me?

We maintained our connection through all stages of conscious.

I wonder if she noticed the way you reacted when she snuggled up to you.

Did you gently push the hair out of her face?

Did you kiss her softly on the forehead?

I wonder what you thought as you drifted off to sleep.

I wonder if you thought of me.

106 | Perception

Painting Self Portraits with Vincent Van Gogh Carly Benson

There is something uncanny In the nostalgic hang Of each brush stroke.

How harsh and gloomy Each defined line Wreaks with sublime horror That somehow still manifests In animated beauty.

I can see you painting itHow sad you render yourself.

I know why you choose blue And why you make your face so numb As you dip the brush in ice To stop the explosion.

But I can still feel the heat You try to stuff back into your pipe, And the smoke rings you paint harshly Still fill my room with sweet tobacco.

SuspiciousHow you still paint your background With a combusting fire.

I like to think it’s so I can feel your heat Among the somber blue Like a SecretI am happy you still coat your brush with redMy ice is melting.

Linger here | 107

Dust

Farrell Greenwald Brenner For Colleen, who will be missed sorely: I cannot explain my bones, she wept to me as she stitched close another cardboard box in the process chipping the black nail polish that matched her hair which once yipped with an electric pink, the color of epiphany and unguarded laughter. where does pink hair go to die?

I cannot explain their creaks, the peppered constellation of scores a knoll of cardboard, to be cradled by the movers and birthed by the shakers But the dust, she smirked dryly, clutching the packing tape like Judith’s sword, The dust speaks for itself inhabiting our lungs until we speak the dust with every parched exhalation, every sigh of discontent.

She held a glass of the purest water up to the light, examining the refractions I am the dust, I think. and poured it into another cardboard box, full of packing peanuts and sat down to sew its lips, to seal the solemn oath as water seeped through the fleshly pores This, the woman who once planted a thousand bean sprouts in a basement and nourished them with the grace of dust Dust is patient, it does not boast In time, all great men will know dust as well as I am acquainted with its comings and goings.

I want to interrupt, scream, beg, where will you go?

Which I realize is code for where do I go after I’ve swiffered my hands and forgotten how to breathe with dust in my lungs a phoenix may be reborn of ashes, the forest fire cleansing dead parts but only allergies and sorrow may come of dust

108 | Perception

Tasting Voices Again Lauren Hannah

I’m just breathing time Breaking cars and chasing windows I’m just spinning light Walking heat and feeling limbo I just need your eyes Drinking hard and loving wine I can beat your heart When it’s listening to mine When you cry into your ocean You can swim onto my shoulder Growing us on canvas In a skin that’s painted older Can I sing your hands Laugh aloud to hold your praise Can I count for you And fall fall fall our many days

Linger here | 109

still

Amanda Gibbs under an early evening sunset we sat on a swing in a stranger’s backyard as she pointed out the mole on her inner thigh at one a.m. we laughed into our hands sat in my kitchen as she smashed glass onto the floor wild when she cried and cried and cried into my shoulder and I wrapped her into my body a cape to her brokenness at sixteen I cursed her into oblivion all I wanted to hear was that I was everything to her I wanted to be everything for her she was everything to me I can’t remember much of her at the same time it feels like too much when we carved our names into each other’s arms and drew black hearts around every letter the way she used to look at me I think I always felt like hers when she used to braid my hair her hands running through me I stayed on the phone with her when she couldn’t sleep put makeup under her bloodshot eyes still I do not regret a single moment it seems that there’s no way to forget the Saturday nights I held her hand told her how cruel the world was how beautiful she was how that would never change. now I must remember that nostalgia lies on Friday nights when I drown myself in regret when I miss slow dancing hearts open in her bedroom when we stole each other's clothes ate pizza on the floor laughed at four a.m. when I told everyone that she was my best friend but I loved her instead people ask me 110 | Perception

about her sometimes and I pretend not to know her it's easier I think she probably does the same I don't know how to put into words the way we existed together the way I write about her still. now it has been awhile and I have not seen her now I am in New York and she is in Seattle and everything is different now but everything is the same so much of me is still her no distance no time no pain could change that I have accepted that still she was my first life my first dream the way in which I saw the world for a long time.

Linger here | 111

Calculus: A Sonnet Kathryn Cassidy

Calculus - the bane of my existence.

The derivative of my hopeless cries calculates the total, painful distance of my indifference using Xs and Ys. “Why me?” Muttered under my sullen breath.

Another day another integral.

The chain rule binds me to this desk, my death.

Has this sophomore slump made me cynical?

At this desperate point I must draw the line, (refuse to find the area underneath) and spend my calc classes thinking of rhymes to express my disdain and disbelief.

Dante’s tenth circle, Satan’s vacation.

Hell is antidifferentiation.

112 | Perception

spring cleaning

Alexa Leigh De Paulis i did some rearranging today. i hate and love you, so I take it away. too many positives and the negatives to preach. so i sort and sort, a box for each. one is rocks, the other’s peach.

Celfie

Sawyer Cresap Linger here | 113

Untitled

Yoon Ah Jeong

114 | Perception

The Miseducation of A Black Kid Eugene Kortez Butler III

Waiting for the bus with a A mental patient or crackfiend Demon Measured against me Going round and round Relapsing in routine Until the weather turned colder than a brick She screamed When traffics lights started flashing Shorty started scratching An epileptic shaking Her curtain skirt swaying And my black body breaking In the Syracuse breeze Her thoughts started shivering More than the lice that was spilling From her mind that was tamed On this drug she became Void of her reality Blacked from society Her tongue ripped & bled out Clasped on this threshold for eternity Were the mass bodies stacked bloody On ocean waves, we drown in seas As we learn to worship the superior beings Through this textbook, her wedding dress From his story she preached, her words spit sick My morning priest Taking me to church with ease She spoke of a horseman Clothing her in his disease And bomb from Egypt Landing on her kitty cat Barely missing her knee A displaced student I assumed the position Put my hand over my heart I listened attentively To a perspective of history Linger here | 115

Instructed through authoritarian philosophy Attended to teach me To look down on anyone That looks like me I look down on myself unconsciously I am hung so high on this tree Society does not see me Traumatized at the doorway of history At 11 years old we stood indivisibly At metal detectors Before we took seats I became Black Jesus Once again and again my humility Dying for Your sins They mentally lynched me Getting patted down Searched and seized A magic wand scanning For that one drop of blood I bleed As I shuffled with my chain gang A chorus humming to the beat Teaching us how to bow to authority Still on Wounded Knees I still think if heaven has a First class, PTSD got me shaking I'm late to my first class Addicted to this crack called school They preach, but my education was an epidemic A divine right, instructions to to enslave me To frame me into a savage, for myself I cry this trail of tears Waiting for a missionary To come save me With a religion he has stolen from me His civilization which is rooted from me A Black Wall Street, he has dropped a bomb on me Why won't he let go of me Why does he turn against me constantly His hand around my neck He has hate in his eyes Full of hope & other 116 | Perception

Resources he has taking from me My mouth dry and cotton mouthed I bite this invisible hand that starves me I am the White Man's burden As he always he told me Still my hope rest on flash cards Recorded on cells of a plant, I memorize Scripture from The Black Madonna Words that predate his story This abusive love I'm addicted to In this prison called education He says I am often unworthy to I run straight ahead to a class That will teach me as it degrades me Will never teach me to save myself Will never teach me to build in this cage he has made for me Yet it his burden to wonder why we are left to Slum around in this box like a gas chamber We stay blind to How long will we continue To play with this toy soldier We stay hung on Like red lines of a flag Wrapped around our throats We choke on until we are blue Stars falling out of our eyes Suffocating I write this American Spring This Godless God Blessed American Dream Is Killing Me - A Blacked Man

Linger here | 117

Frosted Boston

Kelly Veshia

118 | Perception

Fragmentation

Yat Sze Austin Cheng We’re so scattered like spray.

Every day we walk pass each other, Every day we peek through each other, But never did we talk to each other.

We might savoir each other, but not connaître each other — We’re just faces and shadows shaking into and out of anyone else’s lives.

We’re fragmented and left over everywhere.

Today I see you, tomorrow I might not.

Tracks are so easy to lose, Relationships can end without a beginning erupted.

You’ll just disappear, vanish from my life, Erased entirely as if never existed.

But part of me is left existing lingering in the memory of you.

Like the café I go every morning closed down overnight, So sudden while so expected.

Or sometimes we’re destined not to know each other even we meet every day, With that potential conversation being held back, Within a decision at a glance, We miss each other forever each day, forever without meeting, Our lives will never intersect — No, they seem intersected but not at all.

Maybe one day ten years later I’ll still remember that girl at the register, Or you’ll still remember that guy who buys a latte every morning, We’re never friends, we’ve in fact never met.

At all.

So part of me is left in you and part of you is left in me, Everyone’s got some parts left in everyone.

And this seat, that café, this sidewalk, that restaurant, We’re all fragmented and scattered everywhere.

We might forget what we really leave, But we all feel that we’re missing something.

Linger here | 119

Eleanor

Alice Chen The train pulled up to the station and a wave of air hit me. My hair blew around wildly and I quickly brushed it away. “Where are you headed off to?” this older lady said. She was carrying a bright red suitcase and a floral handbag. Her lipstick shone on her lips and she looked like an older version of Carmen Sandiego. “I’m just heading home. It’s break for me,” I said. The conductor started directing where to sit based on the stops. “Where’s home?” she asked, walking along with me. Her suitcase bumped along the ridges, threatening to fall into the space. “Oh, it’s just the fifth stop. It’s the town by the river,” I said, hoping that she got off before me. “Hey! I get off there too! That’s great!” she noted. “Maybe we can sit together!” We hauled our suitcase over the gap and into the car, looking for a suitable location in the train. “How about this one? Do you want the window seat?” she said. I nodded and struggled to stow away my suitcase. In one swoop, she chucked the suitcase into the overhead compartment without difficulties. I shuffled to the window seat and got ready to doze off when she suddenly blurted out “I’m not actually going home! I’m actually going on an adventure! You can keep that secret between the two of us.” To be honest, I wasn’t even surprised. She just looked like someone who never settled down. I muttered, “I’m not surprised. You just looked like someone who isn’t afraid of anything.” She turned towards me and leaned towards me. “What? You really think so?” I nodded and closed my eyes. Hopefully she got the idea that I was pretty tired and wanted to rest. She turned away and faced the aisle of the train, muttering so only I could hear. “That’s the first time someone’s said that.”

My nap consisted of my head bobbing up and down. Whenever I looked over at her, she remained fixated on the scenery. I watched her gold earrings bob up and down to the gentle swaying of the train. What was her story? I didn’t even know her name or why she decided to have an adventure at my hometown. There wasn’t even anything to do at home besides a famous restaurant that was featured on the Food Channel. Otherwise, it was a quiet town. It was as if she could hear my thoughts and she woke up. “Man, that was a great nap!” she turned towards me and smiled. I felt a wave of warmth flood through me and wondered if my own smile could do the same. I smiled back at her and said, “Yeah, I took a much deserved nap too!” She laughed and stretched, her earrings clinking around. A couple moments of silence drifted by us, but I paid no attention to it. Even if she was a stranger, I felt comfortable with her. I didn’t find it necessary to constantly have to fill in the gaps with senseless questions. We just sat side by side, admiring the view outside the window or the passengers passing us. She broke the silence by asking for my name. “I’m Amelia,” I said, my cheeks flushing as I took her hand. She shook it with a firm grip and told me that her name was Eleanor. I watched her every movement as she told me about how her mother picked that name for her and the name most certainly fit her very well. We sat in silence once again and listened to the gentle rumbling and rocking of the train.

120 | Perception

When I woke up, she wasn’t in her seat, but I wasn’t too worried. I think I remember her mentioning that she wanted to grab something. “Hey, you’re awake!

Our stop is in about an hour and you looked like you were high in the clouds. I was afraid that you might sleep too long and I would have to wake you up! Trust me, you don’t want me to wake you up!” she guffawed and I shook with laughter. I could just see her hollering at me and startling me and plenty of passengers as well. She wiped the tears from her eyes and gently said to me, “You have a lovely smile, but I can tell you don’t use it enough.” I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. This time, the silence that passed between us was awkward. “Thank you? Thank you, Eleanor,” I stammered. I felt terrible. She clasped her hand on my arm, her nails streaked with red nail polish.“Dearie, don’t underestimate yourself. You’re a mighty woman and don’t let anyone else tell you anything less.” Tears welled up in my eyes. She smiled a radiant smile at me and closed her eyes. I turned my head to hide a single tear sliding down my face. How could such a small statement do so much?

An hour later, we arrived at our stop. Wordlessly, she hauled my suitcase down along with her own in one smooth swoop. At the platform, I waved good-bye to her and she disappeared into the crowd just like how I met her. Where and why she was headed this way, it was beyond me. I’ll always be grateful for Eleanor, who I met on my train home since she taught me a lesson I never forgot in my years to come. As I separated from the group, I spotted my dad and I erupted into a smile. “Hey! I missed you! Did you do something different? You look even prettier than I remember when I dropped you off!” my dad noted while taking my suitcase from me. I shook my head and smiled again. “Nope, it’s just me.”

Linger here | 121

Untitled

Guaier Huang (Dorris)

122 | Perception

Pinpoints

Christine Nicole Bader When I imagine leaving I see pinpoints on maps Lines of latitude and longitude Your face, fading far away I see an ocean so deep Dark, a feeling of unease And I never learned how to swim I imagine telephone lines Cutting through mountains and clouds Your voice whispering, sad No comfort to be found I imagine writing letters Long, lyrical prose Envelopes in mailboxes Wrinkled and old I see an entire world between us We are just pinpoints on maps And I think I've lost my way home

Linger here | 123

Nebraska

Christina Tavera Let’s run away to Nebraska and wash away those inherited sins, sit and let the world spin, out of control till our minds come up with something better than this.

Reprogram, rewind, change over time.

Haul ass down the PCH. No where near Nebraska, but it’s as close to heaven as we’ll ever get.

My Church, our Heaven, your sanctuary in my invention.

Puzzled lookin man listenin to that hard working woman.

“We got this.” she says through teary eyes.

Baby it’s cold outside. It’s always cold outside. It’s starting to get cold inside too.

The ice hits me in the chest, kind of like the first time I heard “I love you too.”

We shift. We digress. We make our way back to paradise but the magic only lasts as long as we believe in it.

Faith. That’s what faith is.

These things we know.

124 | Perception

Beautiful Humans Alice Chen

I’m sitting in front of you watching your fingers weave in and out of each other, but your voice sounds confident like you’re sure that everything happened for a just reason. “What do you think?” you ask, looking up and your hollow eyes meet mine.

For an instant, I’m filled with your emptiness and the room falls silent. I draw my gaze towards my own hands and find them clutching each other like a good-bye hug.

“I don’t understand what you went through, but I see what you mean.” I finally say, hoping that my words bring the warmth back into the quickly freezing room. You sigh and lean back in your chair, the creaking speaking more than our silence ever could.

“Yeah, it’s hard, but you’ll learn. I’ll teach you how to deal with things.” you finally say, your gaze directed towards the rugged ceiling. A smile slips through my teeth, but I quickly stow it away. I don’t want you to know that I’m glad for a guide. You seemed like you wanted to bask in your past for a moment. I glance at my hands again and they’ve seemed to leave their own artwork on the table, spiraling and dancing. You stretch and break back into the barriers of the present. “Now what do we do?” he asks, a goofy grin resting on his face. Your eyes remain hollow, but they lack the dull gleam. The crevices of your face bend over in guttural laughter and I release my smile and shrug. After a couple minutes of deliberation, we decided that we were hungry and needed some sustenance. Before we left, you said something so truthful and resonant, I was rendered speechless. “You know, I like talking to people. Everyone’s so interesting because we’re just so messed up. You have to remember that everyone goes through hard times.” It was true. There was something about how people cry and scream at the world when everything collapses onto their shoulders. Emotions are so raw and strong, even if you have a hard time relating, you’ll find yourself also shedding a tear. The best part of it is that after we’ve finished crying and shouting, we have the ability to put ourselves together with each other. Everything is pieced together through story telling and it gives you sort of a warm and realistic feeling when you finally think about it.

“It’s so beautiful and messed up.” you say while getting up from your seat and stretch, exhaling deeply, breaking and adding to my train of thought.

We walk down the street with our steps in unison and our breaths catching the cold in fogginess. Your laughter cracks the chill and I find my own laughter mirroring yours.

Linger here | 125

Enthralled Obstruction Briana Dorley

We run to lovers and coil up in the arms of a quick high with no guarantee of returning back to planet earth with half a mind ready to truly understand what it means to exist. We die at the hands of lovers and remember‌ we run forever and remember the mistakes of truth in our own realities. We crave the skin of lovers and smoke the days away while the world continues to turn, and everything and nothing, really changes. Talking through our bones, but the crowd before us is deaf. Hearts cut open and displayed for all to see. No more love to give, no more space for pain. The heartbreak hotel is closed. And the highway to a false nirvana is open. The clouds fly forever above us as we stay on the hunt for lovers lost. Lover come find me please.

I am in nirvana waiting for you to complete me. But we run instead. We run apart, but yet so in sync. The lines of our fates cross paths and keep making crisscrosses and knots on the thin line of life. Lovers hold us by our necks and become the reason that we breathe or choke. The line of life is cut, and nirvana as we see falls apart and becomes a joke. We run to lovers in midst of the wars that ravage the minds of all souls on Earth. We squeeze the of arms nirvana as it makes us feel whole. We die at the hands of lovers because we decided to give it to them all . We run and remember forever, the fall of our frozen hearts.

126 | Perception

Purple Chains

Victoria Maria Batista

Linger here | 127

apocalypse

Katherine Fletcher ‘i like muffins and coffee — and cigarettes’ you tell me the morning after the end of the world; the day the dawn broke three times just like my voice saying hello-goodbye-i-love-you from six minutes or sixty miles away. who did you watch the sunrise with, besides your full heart and your empty bottle of gin? you falling-apart-time-traveler, you once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity, gone-and-back-again fucking anomaly.. the morning after the end of the world you looked so goddamn lost and it startled me, so maybe i startle easily or maybe not. maybe not. you tell me to be gentle with myself and you talk like you know how to do that but you don't say anything about the ways you punish yourself and i would but the words get caught in the ashes in my throat. i tell you to let yourself be soft even though i will always be walking backwards away from you to keep you from getting under my skin. i take ten pills from a bottle and stand underneath the shelter of a bus stop, and the bus stop is also a bottle, but instead of love notes it’s full of bus schedules, and maybe that’s all i get right now, so maybe life is cruel or maybe lovers are just really good at telling each other what they should be.

128 | Perception

Kelly Veshia

Jelly Linger here | 129

雙星

鄭逸思

原曲 弱水三千 原唱 麥浚龍 原作 馮穎琪 原詞 林夕 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdXq8Kq7GnY 星空不聲張 萬物頃刻急漲 雙星變了相 卻永遠相向

雙星在盪漾 互望互勵交心發亮 這剎那偏偏不聲不響 原來同行長長難免心動潮漲 若然引力成絕唱 能自在若空想

雙星總奢想 跳脫了繩韁 雙心鋪冰霜 內核是熱漿 念力繫住若越是在意恨怨越醞釀 濡沫已傷 雙雙失於重創 雙星茫茫於漭泱 生於惆悵 葬於潮漲 情念念亦不響

念念着這生聯星緣 剎那卻發覺錯覺旋方圓 仰視角來回運算 雙星只看似繞圈圈 寂寂着眾生緣苦短 偏執的捉放作繭鑽深淵 即使有換唾沫那段緣 在宇宙情份遺憾變宿怨

星空不聲張 萬籟寂寂急漲 各愛各戲唱 各有各心傷 （雙星雙魚彼此定在故鄉） 江海跟冰霜 活在舊日漂亮 雙星縱依繞 永遠也空想 無情曾醞釀 念念着這生聯星緣 追憶會察覺錯覺移方圓 仰視角循環運算 星盤照擴闊轉圈圈 寂寂着眾生緣苦短 偏執於捉放再見也心酸 畢竟有換唾沫那段緣 是重力餘浪迴盪再一轉 星漸漸 蒼蒼天鋪張 魚覓覓 滄滄海翻漿

浩瀚夜幕上 混沌着亮光的印象 幾多雙星想 一世一雙

130 | Perception

Seung Sing (Cantonese Transliteration) Yat Sze Austin Cheng

sing hung baat sing jeung / maan mut king haak g-up jeung seung sing bin liu seung / keuk wing yuen seung heung seung sing joi don yeung / wu mong wu lai gau sum faat leung je saak na pin pin baat sing baat heung yuen loi tung hang cheung cheung naan min sum dung chiu jeung yeuk yin yaan lik sing jut cheung / nan ji joi yeuk hung seung seung sing jung che seung / tiu tut liu sing geung seung sum po bing seung / noi haak si yit jeung nim lik haai ju yeuk yut si joi yi haan yuen yut waan yeung / yu mut yi seung seung seung suck yu chung chon / seung sing mong mong yu mong yeung sun yu chau jeung / sei yu chiu jeung / ching nim nim yik baat heung nim nim jeuk je sun luen sing yuen / saat na keuk faat gok chor gok suen fong yuen yeung si gok loi wui waan suen / seung sing ji hong chi yiu huen huen jik jik jeuk jung sun yuen fu duen / pin j-up dik juk fong jok gan juen sum yuen jik si yau wun tur moot na duen yuen / joi yu jau ching fun waai hum bin suk yuen sing hung baat sing jeung / maan laai jik jik g-up jeung gok oi gok hei cheung / gok yau gok sum seung (seung sing seung yu bei chi ding joi gu heung) gong hoi gaen bing seung / wut joi gau yaat piu leung seung sing jung yi yiu / wing yuen ya hung seung / mo ching chaan waan yeung nim nim jeuk je sun luen sing yuen / jui yik wui chaak gok chor gok yi fong yuen yeung si gok chueng wan waan suen / sing poon jiu kwong fut juen huen huen jik jik jeuk jung sun yuen fu duen / pin j-up yu juk fong joi ging ya sum suen baat ging yau wun tor muut na duen yuen / si chung lik yu long wui don joi yaat juen sing jim jim / chon chon tin po jeung yu mik mik / chon chon hoi faan jeung ho hong yea mok seung / wan deun jeuk leung gwong dik yan jeung gei dor seung sing seung / yaat saai yaat seung Linger here | 131

Binary Stars (Translation) Yat Sze Austin Cheng

Original song: Weak Water Three Thousand (yeuk sui saam chin) Singer: Juno Mak Composer: Vicky Fung Original lyricist: LIN Xi https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdXq8Kq7GnY The starry sky does not sound / everything suddenly expands in acceleration The binary stars have changed their faces / but they face each other forever Binary stars are floating and drifting / look at and encourage each other, have deep talks and glow together But for this instant there is no sound, no voice As a matter of fact, travelling together for so long, hardly will there be no fluctuation in their hearts If gravitational force becomes a swan song / they can be as free as in daydreams Binary stars always desire wildly / to have escaped the loops The two hearts are covered with ice / the inner cores are in fact hot lava With psychokinesis tying, the more aware the more hatred is fermented / the spits that the fishes wet each other have been hurt Both are lost in serious wound / binary stars wander in blankness of the vast water Born in melancholy / dead in surges / sentiment will never echo no matter how frequently it is thought of Lingering with the affinity between binary stars of this life / suddenly realize that it was only illusion that rotated the squares and circles The angle of elevation is calculated back and forth / the binary stars just seem to circle around In loneliness, relationships between all creatures are awfully short / to catch or release stubbornly would only cocoon oneself into abyss Although there was once the affinity of exchanging spits / in the universe this would only regretfully turn into destined resentment The starry sky does not sound / every lonesome noise expands in acceleration Everyone has their own plays to sing / everyone has their own wounds in heart (binary stars and two fishes fix each other to their homelands) River, ocean and ice, frost / live in the beauty of the old days Binary stars, though circle and rely on each other / keep daydreaming forever / pitilessness was once fermented

132 | Perception

Lingering with the affinity between binary stars of this life / retracing memories, one would notice that it was only illusion that shifted squares and circles The angle of elevation is calculated in cycles / the accretion disk still widens and expands, spinning in circles In loneliness, relationships between all creatures are awfully short / to catch or release stubbornly, it would be poignant if you see each other ever again After all there was once the affinity of exchanging spits / it is the remnant gravitational wave that echoes again for once more Stars dimming / the vast sky expands and runs across Fishes searching / in the wide ocean, tossing the tides On the enormous nocturne screen / chaoting the impressions of sparks How many binary stars wish / to pair up together for their entire lives Notes A binary star system is a star system consisting of two stars orbiting around their common barycenter; the stars attract each other with gravitational forces. When they evolve and masses change, accretion will occur. The stellar mass transferred to the central body will form an accretion disk.

There is a fable in Zhuang Zi ( 莊 子 ), a Chinese philosophic classic: Once upon a time there are two fishes, when the springs dry up and the fishes are left stranded on the ground, they spew each other with moisture and wet each other down with spit.

But when the tides surge, it would be much better if they could forget each other in the rivers and lakes. ( 相濡以沫，不如相忘於江湖 ) [Translation of fable adapted from Watson, Burton. 2003. Zhuangzi: Basic Writings. New York: Columbia University Press, 76.]

Linger here | 133

Starkholm

Yat Sze Austin Cheng

134 | Perception

stockholm Hairol Ma

I killed a man when I was seventeen.

I was the convenience store clerk at the 7-11 down the street, working my friend Sam’s shift. He was old, white beard, ripped blue jeans and a black beanie. He had come in for some Marlboros when I pulled the trigger.

I’m not sure what made me do it. It was something about the way he walked, the color of his shirt, his eyes- I really don’t know. But there was something off about him. I know it sounds crazy when I say it, but you should’ve seen him.

Have you ever read any Nietzsche? I remember reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra in university. Overman, eternal recurrence, all of that. I believed in all of that stuff. So if I killed him, I would kill again one day, next time. Cyclical. Amor fati- that was my motto.

I was dating a girl at that time. She was beautiful, from Sweden. She was taking classes at the local college over the summer. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She didn’t like the hot, muggy summer weather. It gave her a headache, she would complain as we sipped our beer at the bar. I though I was hot shit back then with my girl.

She liked to tell me about a bank robber y she thought was par ticularly interesting back in Sweden. It happened in Norrmalstorg, in Stockholm. A bank robber had kept a few hostages, but the hostages ended up defending the bank robber.

“It must be the weather,” she said firmly. “Isn’t that crazy? The hostages defended the robber. As if he owed them something. It must be the heat.”

I took her to some clubs for some dancing that summer. She was a great dancer and she loved American clubs. I didn’t care for dancing that much so we didn’t go that often. I think she danced with another man once- that’s when I lost her.

I remember us drinking coffee, Americano. Did you know an Americano is just a watered down espresso? Sometime I think that everything we have in life is pretty watered down. You get a school meal minus the main course, because whoever’s up there is scared you can’t stomach the real thing. You gotta do something real to be able to get the main course. Keep a girl. Kill a man.

She would be drinking her Americano, because she liked the name of it. I tried to get her just to drink some espresso, but she claimed it tasted too bitter. She’d drink her Americano, twisting her blonde hair and reading her Swedish newspaper about the Norrmalstorg robbery. I think she was living in a dream. She was surreal. When she laughed her eyes seemed disconnected and she never seemed to mean it when she pecked me on the cheek and stuff. It was as if she tried to bring her entire self to America, just up and tried to walk off. But she was truly still in Sweden. Stockholm.

Reading about her bank robberies and claiming espresso was too bitter. I doubt she ever read Nietzsche.

I’m not sure what made me kill the man. Perhaps I wanted to prove that I was alive. Everything feels so half assed when you’re seventeen. I was waiting for my main course. When you’re consumed by a dream you want to live it forever.

My friend Sam unexpectedly caught mono or some shit like that that night, so Linger here | 135

I took his shift for him. We were on okay terms, not really great. But I was a nice guy and taking a shift like that wasn’t a big deal to me back then. And my Swedish girl was gone by then. She had gone back to Stockholm, where she probably drank espresso or some shit like that. She said you could only have Americanos in America.

When that man walked in I had a sort of strange feeling come over me and I knew something had to be done. I read about that one bank robbery later on. They coined a term- Stockholm syndrome. Where you feel sympathy for your captor.

We were all in our little Stockholms, I think. It’s uncomfortable to break from a dream. But she flew back, since she did everything half assed in America. When I killed that man I knew I was alive.

Eternal recurrence- life is cyclical, and we live in it like a dream. Like a watered down kind of thing.

It must have been the heat.

136 | Perception

Boy pt. 2

Christina Tavera Boy. It's like the one song you constantly play, or the butterflies you never see.

It's kind of like being perfectly comfortable, while also being scared shitless.

It's like standing at a podium without a speech, or running up the closest mountain just for the view.

That's how I feel about you.

Linger here | 137

Leonardo Dicaprio Alena Sceusa

138 | Perception

Second Nature Carol Pelz

This had become second nature for him.

Wake up in the morning. Keep your eyes shut tight and pray that you fall back asleep so the day doesn’t have to start. When this doesn’t work, it never does, roll out of bed. Walk to the fridge and feel the cold floor string your bare feet because finding socks seemed like far too much effort.

Open the fridge and shamelessly pull out the bottle. Doesn’t matter what’s in the bottle, as long as somewhere on it’s hard exterior it lists an alcohol percentage. The higher the better, but beggars can’t be choosers. Twist off the cap and place the bottle to your lips. Tilt your head and pour. Keep pouring until your throat and stomach start to burn. Savor the burn, knowing that sweet salvation will soon be coming. Drink until your head starts to spin and you feel light and warm all over. It is only now that you are ready to start your day.

His life had become a string of mistakes. He couldn’t remember the last thing that had worked out for him. Between lost jobs, lost girlfriends, and the death of his mother, he didn’t have anything going for him. His mother died from cancer four and a half months ago. He couldn’t control that. But he felt like he should have done more. He should have stayed in the hospital with her longer, held her tighter as she shivered through the nights, limp and as fragile as a dying flower in October. He was the only one that had been by his mother’s side in the end. His father, her husband, had been out of the picture for years now. His mother never explained to him why their marriage failed, and he was too young to quite remember all the details. He just knew there were too many whiskey bottles, too many strange women coming in and out of the house while his mother worked double shifts at the diner.

Her funeral had a large turnout. He talked to relatives he hadn’t seen in years, old friends from high school, and his mother’s friend’s from the church. He thought he couldn’t feel more alone than he did at the funeral, but realized he was wrong when he got home that evening. He thought the funeral would give him some closure.

Instead he sat on the couch and stared out the window for hours. It was a rainy day and water trickled down the windowpane, little drops racing each other to the bottom. Everything was numb. He didn’t even hear when the doorbell rang and his ex girlfriend wandered in the door. She carried a photo in her hand and a bottle of Jameson. Her hair was longer since the last time he had seen her. It didn’t seem as blonde as it used to and her bangs were cut in an odd angle. They hadn’t seen each other in about three years and he hadn’t even realized she was at the service.

They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time, his green eyes glossy and Linger here | 139

straining to look into hers. He could feel himself tearing up and when the first tear fell she grabbed his head and pulled it into her shoulder. They sat like this in silence until his tears stopped. She pulled away and handed him the photograph. He stared back at his mother’s face. The photo was taken at his senior prom. In the picture he stood between his mother and girlfriend, one hand on his mother’s shoulder and the other clasped tightly to his girlfriend’s hand. He remembered the day clearly. It was May and there was a light breeze. He hadn’t texted his mom back after the dance and had stuck off to his girlfriend’s lake house, spending the night drinking warm strawberry wine coolers on the beach and cuddling. His mother was furious with him.

He wished he could go back to this night and text her letting her know he was safe.

His girlfriend must have remembered this memory too as her eyes welled up with tears. She stood quickly, leaving the bottle of Jameson on the coffee table. Without a goodbye she strode out of the door. He watched her leave then picked up the bottle of Jameson and took a small sip. He was never much of a drinker, only ever at parties and even then not much. He winced as the alcohol burned his throat. Even to this day he couldn’t tell you what made him want to drink more, but he suddenly felt an urge to drink the entire bottle. He pressed the bottle to his lips and drank and drank.

He fell into a hazy sleep about half way through the bottle. He had a dream about his mother and woke up feeling just as numb as ever.

Four and a half months later and he still was drinking bottles and falling into hazy sleeps each day. He felt a little less numb now, mostly just because he had learned to stop giving so much of a fuck. He hadn’t been working, hadn’t seen his ex girlfriend since the day she brought the Jameson and the picture over. He sat out on the couch and stared out the window, which had pretty much become his daily routine. He only ever got up for more alcohol or whatever food he could find in his cabinets. He didn’t have much because over the months he had learned alcohol was expensive and it left little money left for food.

Today was an especially rough day. There was no particular reason for this; he just woke up feeling like shit. His remedy was a bottle of Jameson, taken down like a champ. The alcohol hit him hard. He had to lie down on the couch to stop himself from falling over. He felt like he was floating. He almost felt like he was hallucinating, the noises from the TV sounding like gibberish to his ears. He closed his eyes and felt himself spinning, down down down. He felt like Alice and he was being pushed into the rabbit hole. His stomach churned and nausea hit him like a train. Maybe he drank too much this time. Was that even possible? He lay there trying to stop the world from spinning when his mom popped up in his mind. Her image stopped the world from spinning. He rolled over and tears filled his eyes. “I would give anything to have you here, please come home.” he mumbled to no one. His only company was the empty bottle on the table. “Please come home.”

The doorbell rang. He rolled over on his side and drunkenly stumbled to the door.

140 | Perception

He had a strong feeling it was his mother. His drunken mind was suddenly so sure she was coming home and the past four months had just been a bad nightmare.

Just like he wished for. He would have a chance to hold her again. He would have a chance to tell her he was safe and okay, and that he would always be there to hold her when she needed him. He almost tripped on his feet, stumbling forward, forward to the door and his mother. He fell forward, grabbing the doorknob for support and throwing the door open. “Mom, is that you?” he slurred falling forward out the door.

“Whoa, careful there.” a voice said. It was not his mother at the door. His drunken mind froze. Dizziness overtook him. It took him a second to realize that he had fallen into the arms of this strange man at his door. He was about six feet tall and had thin wispy brown hair. He had a suit on that didn’t look like it fit properly. The man was sweating and had green hazy eyes. He smelled whiskey, but couldn’t tell if it was his breath or the man’s at the door.

“Who are you?” he drunkenly slurred, pushing off the man’s shoulder and attempting to regain his composure. He stared into the eyes of the man, glaring deeply into the eyes. Eyes that looked so familiar. Red veins ran through these eyes, the pupils looking misty and dark. Even in his drunken state, he knew these were eyes he had seen before.

“Son,” the man answered, “It’s your father.”

Linger here | 141

Promotional Tour for My Crippling Depression Katherine Fletcher

pack your things, it’s time to hit the road. you’re good at running away so this should be easy, but please don’t make this harder by thinking you need to stay. you don’t need to stay. you really don’t need to stay. there’s nothing left for you, you spent months burning bridges because you know, even on the surface of yourself, that you have to do this. keep packing: too many pills, not enough socks, no hesitation. first stop is home. only for a little while. only until you can’t breathe. it’s been so long that sometimes you forget that home is where you cracked like the goddamn liberty bell: the beginning of your revolution. ever since then it’s been hairline fractures you could never outrun. home is a lot of things now. it’s long sleeves and longer nights. show your scars like help wanted signs even though help is the last thing you’d ever ask for. people will line up to run their fingers down your arms, 142 | Perception

across your wrists, over every ripped seam of your broken body. take the time to unlearn the sidewalks. pull yourself from their cracks while you’re there, you might as well. it’s time you got out for good – head north and cross the highway without looking. let the cold be stronger than you, let it remind you that every part of you must be felt, that you’re still human; so, so human. leave blood and love behind you like breadcrumbs. don’t let yourself find comfort. be a face on crowded streets and through bus windows but never at the dinner table. head west on the day the cashier at the corner store remembers your name. don’t realize it’s your birthday until you’re five miles out and four drinks in. try to beat the sun to the horizon and rest in a place that reminds you of your mother’s eyes and your father’s hands and her smile. you’re going to find places that remind you of people because you’ve always felt safer with a rib cage or a gap-toothed smile than bare walls or spare keys. stand on street corners advertising your bleeding heart and hand out pieces of paper Linger here | 143

covered in the names of people who you think ruined you. walk into the ocean in your best shirt and pants, your best “meeting the parents” outfit, your pockets filled with rejection letters (five), love notes (sixty-two), and drug store receipts (eighty-nine). people are going to stare and you’re going to let them. even though they didn’t buy tickets for this show they eat up your act, this unnatural disaster. swallow mouthfuls of seawater to keep yourself from giving these strangers parts of you; just dig your toes into the sand and think about drowning. think about swallowing a grenade, lying down on the train tracks, stepping over the railing of a fourth floor hotel balcony. drag yourself from the freezing water because you weren’t made to let the riptide take you. they’re all talking about you now, coast to coast. they’ve seen you crumble in all the most horrifying ways. isn’t this what you wanted? to make a name for yourself outside the class rosters and therapists’ records, something bigger than a byline but safer than an obituary. you’ve done what you left to do and it’s probably the first time in months 144 | Perception

where you’ve seen something through to the end. does it feel any better now? it doesn’t matter which ocean you call home or what skies saw your breakdown or what state you go back to. all you’ve done is leave a stomach of broken glass and a heart of barbed wire in no man’s land. you’re waiting for no one at an airport terminal. you’re calling yourself a cab. you’re arriving home to a dark house. you’re sleeping alone. you’re sleeping alone.

Linger here | 145

In One Line

Adham T Elsharkawi

146 | Perception

Linger here | 147

Surreal Amtrak

Alena Sceusa

Pawprint

Sawyer Cresap

148 | Perception

Daddy’s Little Girl Danielle Schaf

Was I good enough?

Wasn’t I worth your time?

Every time I heard the doorbell I hoped it would be you But waiting for you is Useless and disappointing I used to be hopeful But you were too selfish Truth is, I never needed you And I am twice the person You will ever be And that’s my life Are you happy, Dad? I know I am Without you

Linger here | 149

Ice To Light

Hanneke van Deurson

150 | Perception