Perception Magazine Spring 2020

VOLUME XXI| ISSUE 35

OITPECREP 0202 gnirpS

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

We are now accepting submissions for the Fall 2020 issue. We accept submissions from undergraduate students, graduate students, faculty, and staff. We ask that submitters send no more than five art and five writing pieces. Our writing page limit is 10 pages, and we accept submissions in any language with an English translation.

All submissions and correspondence can be sent to perceptionmagsu@gmail.com.

Many thanks to: Sarah Harwell Alicia Kavon JoAnn Rhoads Student Association 2 | Perception

Dear Perceivers,

“Unprecedented times.” Out of all the phrases that have been bouncing around our collective consciousness over the past five to six months, I find this one particularly paradoxical, as it is both inherently true and woefully inaccurate. We are weary and fatigued, plagued by both a literal plague that creeps its way through our homes and communities, robbing us of everything that we ever thought we knew, and by a heaviness of anxiety, depression, grief, and dread that bores its way into our bones that most of us have somehow gotten used to. And yet, we have been screaming in the streets for justice until our throats are raw and rough with a fury and vigor that is setting our souls alight.

I think the most appropriate and quintessential definition for art is that there is no one definition; there is no consensus as to what it is or isn’t. However, many can agree it is foremost a form of communication; an expression of thought, feeling, ideology, experience, and imagination, which can be interpreted the way the artist or the observer sees fit. Art, right now, is being made in the real world, curated in news broadcasts and history books. Our current lives are a mixed-media piece of protests, poems, street art, social media posts, and music, on a 24,901-mile canvas.

Perhaps all of that can be most succinctly summarized by a favorite quote by Mexican poet and human rights activist Cesar A. Cruz; “art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comforted.” Within these pages, I hope you will find both. A warm embrace or a hand on your shoulder to remind you that, no matter what you are facing, you will, no matter how impossible it seems, be okay. There are people who are like you and who love you, and you will never be alone. Or, perhaps you will come away with new ideas and perceptions that you had never considered before. This magazine is, after all, named that for a reason.

My part in our story here, however, has ended, and I leave the brilliant, creative, and capable Olga Shydlonok to write the next chapters. I cannot wait to witness the heights to which she, and all of you, will soar. It has truly been a labor of love being your Editor in Chief, and I am so proud of, grateful to, and thankful for you all. Never stop creating and trying to be the very best you can.

Yours sincerely, Bethany Marsfelder Editor in Chief

Spring 2020 | 3

Bethany Marsfelder Editor-in-Chief

Bridget Gismondi Chief Designer

Olga Shydlonok Assistant Editor-in-Chief & Assistant Designer

Ashley Clemens Managing Editor

Caryn Corliss Head Editor

Ciera Moore Assistant Editor

Hattie Lindert Managing Editor

Ariel Samuel Assistant Editor

The Eyes & Ears

Head Reviewers Jordan Larson Angelina Manganese Nittika Mehra Kianna Shakir Erin Susko

Cover Art Front: Katie Mulligan - The Chrysanthemums Back: Morgan Wood - Delusion

Center Spread Amanda Addison - Entrapped Hope Amanda Addison - Scarcity Humility and Deficiency

Spring 2020 | 5

Writing Alaba Danagogo Anne Fernandez Maya Gelsi

Stephanie Humphries

Rebecca Lloyd Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan

Angelina Manganse Bethany Marsfelder

Jeff Nathan Uchechi Onyenkpa Jiaman Peng Kianna Shakir Shakeel Sobhan Regina Trejo

61 11 55 52 13 29 45 71 75 8 39 47 84 31 72 89 26 33 43 97 77 35 58 60 83 98 18 86 51 53 36 41 15 100

The oddity of a pigeon in a bowl Onunu Stuck in Between Belleza arch winter, dark summer, evening sound and motion Jerusalem: The Wall Blackberries Homing Instinct Please Consider This a Poem in Your Native Language Rural Retirement Suburb Potential & History To Mina Wright Citron Ashes submerged teeth BLOWING FARTS BETWEEN THE SHEETS JOY OF DANCING LIKE WE’RE GOING TO DIE WHEN THE MUSIC STOPS OBITUARY ELEGY The Ghosts Are Real And They've Surrounded Us almost halcyon, part i. halcyon, part ii. protest song the lost art of falling out of touch The Hair Flip That Changed Your Life 4am Stomach Full Pen Strong That's Not Me I should have just asked Two-lovers in a-dream Gecko Love For Emma

The Contributers

Art Amanda Addison

17 49 56 57 59 Johanna Chojnicki 87 Akanksha Gomes 74 Jordan Larson 25 54 88 14 Brinn Macrae 44 Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan 46 30 Bethany Marsfelder 96 Katie Mulligan 1 40 50 70 84 Lauren Romero 34 Olga Shydlonok 38 99 10 Eden Tefera 28 Morgan Wood 76 102

Anaphylactic Shock Cultural Identity Entrapped Hope Scarcity Humility and Deficiency See U Again Infinit Studies Girl in the City Hypnagogia Headache Hallway Two As One DANCE SUN lost in thought ruin, reclaimed The Chrysanthemums The Star Room Fear of Unworthiness Fear of Loneliness Burnout Another Light Plastic Wings Spotlight homeland southern h[e]aven A Call To The Moon Delusion

Spring 2020 | 7

Blackberries Stephanie Humphries The carton reads “Producto de Guatemala.”

Some hard worker’s hand there held the berries, called them mora.

At home in the United States, I stand over the sink where I just washed them, cradle them in my hand, pronounce some of them ready, and pop them into my mouth.

But these are not the wild blackberries of my youth.

The torus is absent.

I have not climbed into the bramble nor been scratched by the prickles.

I did not see the inch worms or traces of deer bites on the leaves while being reminded by someone who loves me to look out for snakes underfoot.

The drupelets on these mora are bigger.

They are probably the Tupy variety, lacking the flavor and sweetness of their wild black-cap cousins.

Blackberries are now a confused family, due to hybridization and asexual reproduction.

My family was also mixed up, parents constantly calming the chaos created by seven kids, like that summer when I slipped and hit my chin on the red truck’s tailgate, biting down hard into my tongue after a day on my grandparent’s farm.

The doctors advised they could not stitch up the tongue, unable to spin the silk to bridge the divide the way caterpillars create cocoons.

My mother, perhaps to ease my discomfort in visceral ways that still work, advised me to eat only my favorite food for days— the wild blackberries we had picked.

8 | Perception

I stayed at the table with my parents after my siblings had been excused, nestling the blackberries in my bowl, sprinkling them with sugar, wading them in milk.

I loved to hear my parents talking as I watched the blackberries lilacize, lavenderize, purplize the milk before I scooped them up with a worn spoon.

Spring 2020 | 9

homeland Eden Tefera 10 | Perception

Onunu Alaba Danagogo Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I wake up to that steady beat Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I need not wonder what it is For I am always pleased by this Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It is not the beating of my mother’s heart, Her heartbeat does not make the windows shiver Nor does it resonate throughout the small house Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I edge out of my parents’ bed, stumbling on my four years old feet The air is rife with the delicious scent of mother’s food And the haze of sleep is instantly wiped from my gaze

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Eager as a pianist’s fingers over an ivory piano during a Spanish dance piece With plodding steps, I make my merry way to the source of the pounding Closer I get, the sound reverberates through my little feet Up my short legs and finally to my heart which races in time And swells with joy in anticipation of what is to come Spring 2020 | 11

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I tease the kitchen door open and peep through Ah, it is mother. She sits upon a wooden stool Back arched regally over the large oak mortar, Crushing and mixing the ingredients within with an expert hand Fists closed over the blunt heavy pestle; brows furrowed in concentration A light sheen of sweat upon her glowing dark skin, so early in the morning

Thump.

Her head turns to me as the pounding stops Weariness is painted over her face by a heavy-handed artist Then she smiles, she smiles at me She transforms into a beautiful queen, gracing her subjects with a nod from her head My face enlivens in response, I hasten to embrace my mother in my chubby arms She kisses my cheek lovingly, before dipping her hand into the mortar

Out she brings a morsel of her backbreaking work and sweat It is plump and colored as the vibrant corals, smooth and tantalizing Tenderly, she places the delicacy in my mouth Its unique taste, I still dwell upon and worship I swallow the pillowy substance, the creation borne from her dedication and care And I am satisfied I display my approval in a spirited dance The Queen laughs at my antics, smiles at me and gets back to work Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

12 | Perception

arch Maya Gelsi the tree branches that meet over the quiet street leaves tangled in leaves and our neatly mingled fingers swinging between as we walk

Spring 2020 | 13

Two As One Brinn Macrae

14 | Perception

Gecko Love Regina Trejo I look through my rounded glasses to look through yellow-tinted glass to look at the life of my lazy gecko. It just sits in the heat lamp all day. I wish I could say that my life is like that, but I sit under a white light staring through my rounded glasses in order to look at a computer screen that’s lit up in blue tones. They say I should get those glasses that protect your eyes from screens, but I don’t know who they are or where I can get those in a round frame. I make sidebar ads; the kind with the old dancing men that say, “I just got my yearly prostate exam” to urge other old men to get theirs done. Or the kind with a grainy picture of a piece fruit that I market as “the superfruit doctors won’t tell you about” and have fake testimonials from Karen C. of Denver, CO and Michelle P. of Sacramento, CA that say they lost over fifty pounds and lowered their blood pressure once they ate said superfruit. I don’t like it, but it is a good use of my degree in communications, I guess.

Last week, one of my ads got 75,000 clicks in one day—2% of those clickers stayed on the pop-up page for over five minutes. I got a fifty-dollar bonus and thought about buying round sunglasses. Instead, I put it toward some stuff for me and my gecko. I bought him a new rock and a small baggie of crickets from the man who lives in the basement apartment. I got, for myself, the M&Ms with the pretzels inside and some frozen eggrolls. I’ve eaten all of the eggrolls and I’m resorting to eating just candy and ramen tonight. I don’t even dare to think about the crickets as food because I know that I’ll eat them. If my gecko can, I can. While I eat ramen, my mom calls. She asks how many quarters my laundry machine takes. Six to wash. Six to dry. Sometimes I need an extra to push the farthest right quarter into the dryer. It’s quite sticky. She’s on her way already since she only lives two buildings down. I can hear her clogs tapping down the sidewalk. I always open the door before she can assault it, which gets her mad. But I think it’s because she’d rather attack an inanimate object than her husband or her second husband.

She goes into my kitchen and asks for some vodka, but I remind her that I haven’t been able to find the rounded bottle I like to get at the Polish market.

She calls me a lazy freak. I kinda like it because if I can be anything like my gecko, I can be living my dream. Funny how that works: some people aspire to be like Madonna or like Warren Buffet, but I aspire to be like my bug-lovin’ lizard. I think about his loose scales and my mom lets out a whooping sound, Spring 2020 | 15

as if she is a Viking…or an orangutan. She just wants me to make her food.

Thirteen quarters are spread out in front of her, glinting off her gaudy stage jewelry. A fair trade for some food. So, I open up my fridge and pull out all its contents: half a jar of mayo, two mugs filled with soup and covered with plastic wrap, a container of pimentos taken out of green olives, and a fresh carton of whole milk due to expire in three days. She chooses the pimentos and dips her hands in, nails painted fuchsia and wrinkles you can see without a magnifying glass. They used to be pretty, her hands. Fresh and dainty without that arthritic sag. But then she got a wedding band and sun spots to accompany it. Then she got rid of it and got brittle nails as a replacement. With the second ring, she earned ashy palms and once that went away, so did all elastic signs of youth. If only we could shed skin and grow it anew like geckos.

She’s done with the pimentos and moves to the mayonnaise. I know she’s gonna dip her left pointer finger in it and I know she’s gonna do it twice, staring at me all the while. She does it. I turn away and listen to the long slurp of eggpaste, saliva getting caught between each crack and wrinkle of that finger.

I listen again. When I turn around, she leaves the quarters on my counter and leaves my house. She’s good at leaving—once she left me at the zoo, the reptile house to be exact. I sat and pretended I was soaking up warm air with all the snakes and dragons and that’s when I met my first gecko. It didn’t have a mother with it either so we stared and talked and laughed and danced for hours. I swear I saw its mouth moving, so when I told my mom upon her drunken return, she put glasses on me and said that I had to learn to see right.

Those glasses, those big square ones, hurt my eyes. I got rounded ones, poked the lenses out, and I’ve been able to see the world around me crystal clear ever since.

16 | Perception

Anaphylactic Shock Amanda Addison

Spring 2020 | 17

The Hair Flip That Changed Your Life Jeff Nathan You wake up one Friday morning to your mother’s footsteps clomping up the stairs. The doorknob turns and she’s telling you to get up and brush your teeth, Dad will be calling soon. You leap out of bed, vault over your cat, and hurdle into the bathroom before your sister can get there. You brush your hair and teeth in record time, and head out as your mother and sister walk in. You’re pulling on your favorite red sweatshirt when you hear the Skype noise coming from downstairs. You yell that you’ve got it and jump down the steps two at a time and plant your seven-year-old butt in the spinning roller chair you’re only allowed to sit in when dad calls. You click the green phone button and immediately spin yourself in the fastest circle possible.

“Hi Dad!”

“Morning, bud. Having fun?”

“Yeah!” You say circularly.

“Where’s Mom and Haley?”

“They’re coming. Mom’s still brushing her hair. When do you come home today?”

“Well, my flight leaves here in two hours, and it’s an eight-hour flight.

Can you figure out what time I’ll be home?”

You stop the spin by grabbing the desk with two hands and do the math on your fingers but below the computer desk so he doesn’t see.

“Five o’clock tonight?”

He smiles. “Nice one! It should be around then if there are no delays.”

“Well I say no delays, so no delays!”

He chuckles. “Well in that case, I’ve something special for you and Haley when I get home.”

You beg him to tell me what it is. Plead for a hint of some kind. Give him your longest pleeeeeeeeeeeease. He refuses. Your mother and sister come downstairs. Haley whines that she wants to sit in the chair, she never gets to sit in the chair, it’s not fair. Your mother gives you that Look, and you get up.

Whatever> You’re mad anyway, you want to know the surprise.

At school, it’s all you can think about. Could it be a gigantic candy bar? Or maybe he stole another tall glass like he did the last time.

Time is molasses.

The day is perpetual.

Don’t look at the clock.

Don’t look at the clock.

18 | Perception

Don’t you dare look at that clock.

You peek.

It’s only 11:04.

The school day takes thirty-hundred-thousand hours. You and Haley walk the 100 yards from school together towards the gap in your yard’s fence.

Mom is waiting in the window. She waves. You wave back. Sammie is at the door, jumping up to lick your face and nose and chin and ears as you put your bag down. You eat a snack before going to karate. Peanut butter crackers.

On the way home, you look at the car clock. It says 4:45. You shout happily that Dad will be home soon. You stay in your karate clothes while you pose as lookout for his arrival from the couch. After dozens of agonizing minutes, headlights shine through the blinds. Outside, the January air is crisp and hurts your lungs when you breathe in. You turn into a baby koala as the door opens and he steps out. He and the cab driver laugh as you wrap him in your little koala arms around him. He carries you to the door where he hot swaps you out for Haley. The driver brings in his suitcase.

After kissing your mom (gross), he puts Haley down and pulls something rectangular out of his bag before putting it behind his back.

“Did you guys behave for Mom while I was gone?” You and Haley nod your heads vigorously, but he looks at her anyway to check. She looks at you.

“Pinching Haley last night because she wouldn’t let you sit in the good chair is your idea of behaving, is it?”

You stick to your guns. “It was an accident! Remember?”

Dad chuckles. “If there are no more accidents tonight, you guys can have your special British chocolate bars.”

That must be what he has behind his back!

But when he brings his hand out in front of him, he’s holding a DVD with a guitar on it. In thin, rounded writing it says “Old Grey Whistle Test” on the front over a picture of an acoustic guitar. He tells you it’s a video of a whole bunch of famous people who were on a TV show in England where they could play music. Seems pretty cool, but now that the idea of chocolate is in your head, you need it. Now. Thankfully, he pulls out two Lion bars from the same pocket of his suitcase, which you and Haley grab and eagerly cram into your mouths before Mom can tell you to save them for tomorrow.

Dad starts telling boring stories to Mom about his trip, so you decide to watch the new the DVD. You know the drill.

TV on.

Input 2.

Big square button that goes click on the DVD player.

Smaller rectangular button with the triangle and line beneath it.

DVD in.

Spring 2020 | 19

Press play.

Music plays and stars begin to appear on the screen. They form into a dancing man, who kicks the largest star in a frenzied fit of dancing. The star explodes and the first band comes on. A man who pronounces his words funnily says they’re the police, but they don’t look like the police. They sing about they can’t stand losing me. Kind of weird, considering they don’t know me, but it’s a good song. They’ve got green lights in the background, and green is a cool color. The song ends, a new one begins, and your life changes forever.

Four guys, jet black hair. Each one has a black leather jacket and ripped jeans. The leader has sun glasses. He counts to four really fast twice in a row, and you’re hit with a wall of sound. The cymbals crash, and every time they do the guy with the guitar flips his hair up. Your eyes are dinner plates. Chills shoot down your spine. It’s possible to be this cool? It might be so he can see, but who cares. He’s the coolest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. He’s beyond cool. He’s standing shirtless on a glacier in a blizzard during February. He’s ice water after chewing six sticks of mint gum. Dad tells you his name is Johnny Ramone.

You watch their song six times in a row. They’re singing about a placed called the Rock in Roll High School. After the sixth time, everyone tells you to play the rest of the video. A guy named Iggy Pop comes on next, and proceeds to immediately take his shirt off. A group of guys call The Specials with horns and guitars sing a song about some dude name Rudy. Some guy named Bob sings about stirring something up. All you can think about are the Ramones and their leather jackets when you go to bed that night.

The next morning is Saturday, and you watch the Ramones play over and over again. When you get tired of them, you watch the rest of the acts. You like a band called U2. Another one called Lynyrd Skynyrd. That guy Bob Marley is actually pretty good. You start to notice the one thing all the good bands have in common. It’s so obvious. All you need to be like them is a guitar to play.

You jump up and run into your dad’s office. He’s typing on the computer. You shout to him how you need to learn to play the guitar. He laughs it off as excitement from the Whistle Test DVD. You go back the next day and ask him again. He says to ask him later. After a week of asking every day, he starts to take you seriously.

“Let me think about it,” he says one night at dinner.

You want to scream and yell that there’s nothing to think about and that this is your life calling and nothing could be more important than learning to play a guitar and flip your hair and wear a leather jacket and be cool. Johnny Ramone cool. Instead, you say, “okay.”

When he comes home the next day, he says, “I’ll buy you a guitar on one condition.”

20 | Perception

“Yeah?” Your heart skips a beat.

“You have to take piano first, to prove to me and Mom that you’re serious.”

“I can do that.”

They look at each other. “For three years.”

No way.

“But that’s forever!”

“That’s what it’s gonna take. You need to learn the different musical notes and chords and things.”

You’re still pouting. Your lower lip looks like a kiddie pool.“It’ll make learning guitar easier,” your Dad says. That doesn’t sound so bad.

“Okay,” you say. “Deal.”

Maybe you’ll even have some fun.

Three years turns out to be longer than you realized.

At first, piano is interesting. Mrs. Chase is nice and her house is nice and her piano is super nice. Playing with two hands is fun, but playing two different things with two hands is hard. It becomes a struggle. One day you get mad and throw the piano workbook across the room. You call it a name you heard Mom say once on the phone with her sister in her room when she thought you and Haley weren’t listening but you were. Mom yells at you to not use that word. You yell that piano is stupid. You don’t practice the rest of the week. This time, Mrs. Chase isn’t so nice. The next day you pick the book back up and try again. Eventually you get it.

The first recital is the worst thing you’ve ever experienced. Your stomach hurts like you ate toothpaste after drinking a carton of orange juice.

You’re allowed to have your sheet music with you because you’re the youngest but you don’t want to be the only one but you also don’t want to memorize it and couldn’t memorize it and everything is happening really fast and all of a sudden it’s your turn and you play it.

And it’s fine.

It even sounds, pretty good. Not as good as Green Day, whose music you were heartbreakingly unable to play for the recital, but still good.

Your grandparents came to support you. Your sister hugged you. There were cookies. Not the worst day ever.

The next year is when you discover Queen. They have some songs for piano, but you can’t play any of them. You can barely play Ode to Joy. You can’t even sight read notes yet, you still write the name of the notes underneath the practice sheets that you don’t bring to Mrs. Chase’s. Now she’s started baking cookies for Haley and your mother when they come for lessons. Haley seems like she interested in learning to play the piano too.

Spring 2020 | 21

Pretty soon you’re both taking lessons, and the best part is you’re no longer the youngest piano pupil. Your recital piece this year has two different melodies for the left and right hands. You do a good enough job. All everyone talks about is how cute Haley looked in her dress.

The third recital means one thing and one thing only: it’s your last one. One recital every year means the third recital means it’s your third year.

It’s simple math. You’re not just motivated by Johnny Ramone now. Billie Joe Armstrong is there too. Angus Young. Jimi Hendrix. They’re all there, cheering you on as you practice your last piece. It’s a doozie. You’re not allowed to bring the sheet music with you. It’s in a way bigger church. It’ll be recorded. You practice some more.

The day comes and you’re dressed nice because it’ll all be worth it.

You haven’t asked about the guitar in a while because you always got the same answer.

Wait until it’s been three years.

Three recitals later.

The performance feels routine. You’ve done this before, on a stage like this, and you know that half the people out there don’t even care what your name is or how your piece sounds. But it’s got to sound good to you. That’s important. No one else will know if you’ve made a mistake, but you will.

But you don’t. You play it well, and everybody claps. it feels nice to hear them clap for you. For your hard work. Mom and Haley drive home with Grammie and Grampie. You and Dad take his car. You feel weird in your recital clothes now that it’s all over.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yeah bud?”

“Remember what we said when I first started playing Piano?”

“Sure do.”

“Is that still gonna happen?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just keeps driving away from the church. Mom and Haley are close behind with Grammie and Grampie.

You don’t say anything until, “Dad?” “Yeah?”

“You just…missed our driveway.”

It takes another 20 minutes of driving to get there. You don’t say anything. When you pull into the Guitar Center, you suddenly feel nothing but your own heartbeat. Your vision pulses with the rhythm. You walk inside and your brain breaks. Hanging on two of the four walls, floor to ceiling, are two solid walls of guitars. Not a single one looks the same. Some are brightly colored, others are dulled, wooden finishes. Some have four strings, some have more. Words fail you. You walk over and look at one just out of reach.

22 | Perception

It’s silver and sleek, the body has all kinds of jagged angles finished with a shine chrome finish. There are four numbers in a row with two smaller numbers right next to it. It looks like it will sound like Metallica and All That Remains combined. This is it. This is the one. You turn around, heart full of hope.

Dad is already shaking his head.

“You’ve gotta work your way up to something like that.”

You nod glumly and walk towards him. Some guy with a gray beard and ponytail comes over. He shows you over to an area with guitars in boxes.

They come with little amplifiers, so you can be super loud. He calls it a Fender.

You pick the red one and completely forget about the Mr. Silver/ Sleek. This one is red and shiny and looks like Jimi Hendrix’s guitar and now maybe you’ll even sound like him. You hold the box in your lap on the ride home. Your face hurts from smiling.

You unbox it as soon as you get home, even though you don’t have the first clue of what to do with it. Everyone ooohs and ahhhs appropriately.

You don’t stop holding it all night.

The first lesson is tough. Your finger tips hurt, a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

And you can’t have your fingernails long on your left hand. And you have to press really really hard on the strings. And they make a buzzing sound which your teacher said isn’t good but you don’t know how to make it stop yet and it’s really hard.

But so was piano. And you already know that practicing piano made it easier. So you practice every day. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes for more.

Eventually you find a different teacher, because the first guy isn’t that good. The next guy is better. He likes Guns and Roses, too.

You learn Iron Man.

Smoke on the Water.

Bad Moon Rising.

Sweet Child O Mine

Turns out classic rock is pretty good.

He has you practicing different chord shapes, and switching between them. He makes you do it without looking. He’s also got a red Fender guitar, and you want to be as good as him. He knows Jimi Hendrix too. He chuckled when you asked. He said he was a good source of inspiration.

You discover The Clash, and learn some of their songs. Fighting the law feels great. The law winning part washes right over you. The Ramones are next. Rock ‘N Roll High School, of course. Turns out they only use one chord shape. Hey, look at that! You know about chord shapes. It’s working. The practice is paying off. You can switch between chords easily now. You can learn songs you hear because the interest is a beautiful place. There are people who make videos online about how to play songs. Maybe you’ll even try writing one Spring 2020 | 23

of your own.

Someday.

On one a bright summer day, a few years later, you take a break from playing and decide to walk your dog around the neighborhood. As you’re rounding the loop of the cul-de-sac at the bottom of the hill, you hear a kind of banging from one of the houses. A crash follows. You recognize the sound of the drums. You even know the house. You’ve played basketball with the kid who lives there. You had to give him a ride home once. His name is Brian.

You walk over.

24 | Perception

Hypnagogia Jordan Larson Spring 2020 | 25

submerged teeth Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan tonight a comet brightened the black sky a luminous streak of exploding light steering among stars a celestial Marco Polo fearlessly sailing its fate through the galaxy unconcerned with opinions of eyes or telescopes laughing at the nomenclature used to nail it down one blink and it’s gone sailing now behind his closed wrinkled eyelids through a deeper space more mysterious than sky cushioned in the infallible security of bedpillows illuminating every tear still floating his soul lips he never kissed soak his face with affection hands he never held rub knots out of his back eyes he never looked into open on the pillow beside him

26 | Perception

navigating among palsied desires he’s sailing on blood thinner than water while his submerged teeth sink in the water glass beside the bed

Spring 2020 | 27

southern h[e]aven Eden Tefera 28 | Perception

winter, dark Maya Gelsi the window glitters with frost glass like a wintery lake the cool moon glowing. the rings on your thin fingers glint beside me on the bed

Spring 2020 | 29

lost in thought Bethany Marsfelder 30 | Perception

Potential & History Rebecca Lloyd Potential and History imbue the uncomfortable plastic seats tonight, weighing heavily as I sit in the present, and glance up.

Up at the nameless faces Of the cute guy who I uttered a hello to without thinking, then quickly turned my face and rushed to the back, hoping to find a seat where the heat could rise to my cheeks in silence.

But he gets off at the next stop anyway.

The worst part is I do this often, never has a guy replied.

Sometimes they make eye contact, but not one speaks back.

Of the elderly woman who has probably ridden daily for as long as the bus has been running.

The diamond on her tarnished silver ring catches the light and she smiles, wrinkles turning upward.

What if she’d met her husband here?

Or perhaps he’d ridden to pick up that very ring.

Either that or I romanticize random shit, but what’s wrong with that?

Of the driver who’s out as late as I am.

Does he have children? Because if he does he missed putting them to bed tonight, and it’s my fault.

Thanks I whisper to him and step off, back into the cold, alone.

One day I hope the bus can be part of my history.

So I’ll keep saying hi, and hope one day someone replies.

Or perhaps I’ll just skip the ride altogether and let the driver go home to his family.

Spring 2020 | 31

Nah It doesn’t work that way anyways. He still has to drive. The elderly woman still has to get home.

Nameless faces have places to be that I can only dream of.

The cute boy still needs a ride somewhere, though I do wish I knew where he went.

The bus drives away, continuing on without me and leaving a trail of diesel fumes to fill the crisp winter air.

I am a part of its history, not the other way around.

32 | Perception

BLOWING FARTS BETWEEN THE SHEETS Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan no need for an alarm a wakeup call or reveille when you’re up all night blowing farts between the sheets filling the space around warm bodies with a smell so odious eyes swear they see apparitions of rotting corpses where you lie with your beloved awake and aghast committed to intimacy barely able to breathe fanning sometimes furiously with hands that would rather steal a heart then as the clock discounts the rancid hours before sunrise sinking deeper into your shared stink you realize eyes can never completely picture who someone is inside as far as the nose goes it knows what it knows

Spring 2020 | 33

Another Light Lauren Romero 34 | Perception

almost Bethany Marsfelder time and again, i see you there, the same smile in your eyes, and i wonder about your life. (all that you are. all that you’ve been.) do i exist to you as you do to me? just

out of reach,

just out of sight? ephemeral impossibilities flood my mind, and i let myself miss you. (not fully, you understand; i was never yours, except only for a moment, fleeting and fading and faraway and fantastic.) but i miss you.

in touches, phantasmic

in looks, longing

in thoughts, maybe

in future, almost.

Spring 2020 | 35

I should have just asked Kianna Shakir I should have just asked.

I remember the first time I met you. One braid partially undone, the other still neatly tied against your scalp. You told me you’d never played an “outside sport” before, only basketball and volleyball. And I kinda laughed and then you smiled. Both new to the sport, goofing around, joking about how horrible our team was going to be that year. You were a star athlete, scholarship secured, but had decided to try a new sport for fun. You wiggled your butt when scooping down to get the ball and turned to laugh at me. My serious expression cracked.

I grabbed your lacrosse stick and helped place your hands in the right position.

The sticker from Dick’s Sporting Goods was still on it. You made me late for the office hours my Pre-Calculus teacher was holding.

I should have just asked.

I remember the day we became teammates, but I’m not sure when we became friends.

It could have been from practice. When something awkward or hilarious happened, we would both look for each other, make eye contact, then burst out laughing. I had always been so serious, but you made me realize that somehow I could dedicate myself to a sport, but not let it consume me. People wanted your attention, but some felt unworthy to approach. I was fortunate enough that whatever you saw in me you liked. I think there was a sense of mutual respect, but it may have just been me.

I should have just asked.

You wore #1, I wore #2. You stood at nearly 6ft, I barely made the 5ft mark. You were the leading scorer, I came in 2nd. You demanded to be noticed, but you shined with a humble smile. You worked hard like you had never earned the right to start. There was a tenacity that could not be stopped, but always a stupid grin and joke to go along with it.

I was never sure what to label it, and I’m still not sure. All I know is that I wanted to hang out with you and laugh with you all the time. You had other friends, closer friends, so did I, but none of them were like you. None of them made 36 | Perception

as many vulgar jokes, none of them slapped my butt then winked or danced seductively to 90’s rap. None of them flirted back.

You would use the stick as a microphone and throw your practice penny at me in the locker room. You always made sure to mention how strong your biceps were. “Look” you’d say and flex them more and I’d roll my eyes. Praying to all the gods my sunburnt cheeks would disguise the heat rising in my body I should have just asked.

The season ended and the whole team said their goodbyes. I made ours quick and casual, because I was afraid and ashamed of myself.

It was bound to happen because you were you, but it still hurt when I had to giggle and gasp “No way!” when a friend told me you now had a boyfriend. A boy who was shorter than you, and more feminine than you, which I tried to analyze into a hopeful well maybe…

But at the end of the day he was a boy. She asked me if I wanted to know what gossip she had heard about how far you two had gone. I chose not to hear it.

It doesn’t matter now, what I wanted. The emotions, whether they can be labeled or give me a label, were unrequited. At least, that is what I assume.

I really should have just asked.

Spring 2020 | 37

Plastic Wings Olga Shydlonok

38 | Perception

Homing Instinct Stephanie Humphries Bundled in coats on a blanket on the grass, knees pulled to chests.

You close your eyes when you say something strong as if you cannot watch the words fall out.

I imagine the water vapor coming out of your lips, as dragon smoke, puff, puff, puff.

Words become clouds, as if you might be a god creating another universe here.

In this way you tell me why you hate your marriage.

I pull my resting head from your shoulder, gaze at the sky.

Out of silence, the tree shakes.

Birds soar into another passing group, then pull away.

Patterns shrink, expand, each with their own design.

Together now, separate then they know when to pull away, to which flock they really belong.

Spring 2020 | 39

The Star Room Katie Mulligan 40 | Perception

Two-lovers in a-dream Shakeel Sobhan “You know sometimes you spend time with someone, and it feels so perfect that you don’t want the night to end. And then you never see them ever again.”

“It feels unfair.”

“But maybe it’s life’s way of making the fire burn brightest and make you forget that embers last longer.”

“Do they?”

“Like memories, they die last.”

They sat in silence.

“I dreamt of you today.”

“Was I lost?”

“No. But I think I was.” …

“We were in an art gallery. There were billions of people. And I was looking for you.”

“I feel like I was lost.”

“No. You were everywhere you were meant to be. I was the one who was lost.”

“Did you find me?”

“I’m not sure. I kept seeing you. But you were ephemeral. You kept disappearing.”

“Did you keep looking?”

“I tried to. I went from painting to painting. Each work of art pointed to your direction. So, I followed. Zeus pointed me to an iron door with drawings of ancient runes, as a faceless man pointed to a corridor made of broken glass.

I crossed the roaring waters as the hands of the melting clocks wanted me to. And, stared beyond the misty waves with a wanderer. Venus looked at me accusingly as if I didn’t deserve to know where you were. I dared not disturb the lovers though.”

“I can be hard to find.”

“Every room I was in had traces of you being there. Yet you weren’t there. Just hope.”

“When did you stop looking?”

“When I realized that you needed to go. And now was the time to let go.”

“And did you?”

“I stood still. And willed time to move past me. After a while, there was nothing.

Just white walls, and a dim light.”

“Thank you.”

Spring 2020 | 41

“For looking for you?”

“For ceasing. I needed to go. We have already had our perfect night.”

They sat in silence.

“Do you wish you had this conversation with me, instead of yourself?” “…No…”

42 | Perception

JOY OF DANCING LIKE WE’RE GOING TO DIE WHEN THE MUSIC STOPS Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan tap mambo square waltz limbo tango disco flamenco striptease foxtrot twist funky-chicken words words words words let’s put them all back in the book they came from or let them fall off our feet as we scrape the sky with our toes music alone makes fire in our bones our bodies know how to groove our blood is its own bubble our eyes their own celestial sparks our souls get the do re me if we’re able to feel our legs kick through the scrutiny of society our arms flail the misgivings of moralists our hips shake loose the serenity of the sacred our heads rattle the ball and chain of reason our backsides unravel the inhibitions of age then the dance can’t die even as we come apart at the seams

Spring 2020| 43

DANCE Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan

44 | Perception

summer, evening Maya Gelsi we sing to the sun as it sets, our low voices and the lilac trees filling the coming nighttime trading sounds with the crickets

Spring 2020 | 45

SUN Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan

46 | Perception

Please Consider This a Poem in Your Native Language Stephanie Humphries For S.V. We were two refugees in Germany five years ago.

He was outrunning the Taliban and bad American intel.

I was hiding from the trauma of death threats from a purported American spy.

What was it about him that made me want more of him?

It wasn’t his haircut or overcoat, both black and attractive.

Maybe it was his boldness, sitting next to me, announcing how both of us were taking on the U.S. government in our asylum cases.

In time, I went to his room at the compound, met his friends.

It was there I realized how smart he was.

Saying goodbye that evening, seeing his naked feet, remembering a poem about the feet of one’s future husband, I wanted to feel his feet on mine.

The Germans flung us in different directions.

I landed in Herrenberg, pushing away the African, Pakistani, and German men who came seeking God knows what, maybe a way out.

We went to a fair in Strasburg, almost kissed in a park.

He wrapped his arms around my neck—.I was not afraid.

I stirred his coffee.

He waved goodbye as the train pulled away, and I found myself in a car full of drunk English teenagers.

How I longed for him to visit me.

We would rub our heads together at the temples, erasing all our worries.

Squirm our troubles away, then hold each other tight.

Spring 2020 | 47

Now safe in America, I think of him often, hoping he is still alive in Germany and not among those sent back to certain death in Afghanistan.

He said he likes to read poetry in his native language.

But I never learned his mother tongue, so convinced then we were ourselves the poems we were searching to embrace.

48 | Perception

Cultural Identity Amanda Addison Spring 2020 | 49

Fear of Unworthiness Katie Mulligan 50 | Perception

Stomach Full Pen Strong Jiaman Peng Face naked, hair a mess.

Stomach empty, ink full, pen strong.

Small waist, mannequin legs she dreams, But lips dry and eyes wet upon awakening.

Thigh thick, confidence thin.

Chest heaving for nothing.

Recover, she commands herself in a whisper.

But eyelids colored sharpie black, skin suffocate from powder, is this how?

Oh she would love to have been made perfect, bones subtle yet showing under the skin, around the ribs and knees, chin cheek n collarbone, the coveted contour package. How she would love to have elegant lean muscle lining her body and make the eyes of men follow, their gaze glides up and down on her like a hand feeling silk. ...but that could never be reality, not the first part.

She can love the paintings in galleries but not see the beautiful canvas on which she herself is painted.

Her laugh marshmallow light, the best adornment.

Stride brisk as a “Morning� hello, no more needed.

Ring gold, heels silver, heart....heart brittle.

But mind...mind a rare gem and fist hard like iron, with a right to be angry, with herself and the world...world on fire, and she’s adding more wood.

However hollow, chin up, she knows.

Stomach empty, ink full, pen strong, And so she keeps going.

Spring 2020 | 51

Belleza Anne Fernandez (translation: Beauty) Beauty is such a tricky subject to talk about In the Dominican community It’s a thriving force for women It’s why we spend every Sunday afternoon Under a hair dryer waiting for our hair to dry With cien mil rolos on our head (translation: with a thousand rollers on our head) As if straightening it is gonna get rid of Centuries of intermixing resulting in our curls Or as my mom so lovingly calls it “un pajon” (translation: or as my mom so lovingly calls it “a curly hot mess” But I understand where they’re coming from Because I too gave into that ideology once Once before I knew that all the Kardashians wear wigs and extensions The secret to their long luscious hair Once before I knew the damage I was doing to my hair Why couldn’t I be born with their genes I asked myself Their genes of perfect skin and salon ready hair Why did mother nature betray me?

Was I not worthy enough?

I asked myself these very questions every Sunday When my mother would yank my head Back and forth Left and right So much so that I believed the things I heard My hair is hard to control It’s not pretty enough Until high school When I asked myself Why isn’t my hair pretty enough?

I am pretty enough Cuz fuck that old world thinking honestly P.s. love you mom though <3 52 | Perception

That's Not Me Jiaman Peng Smoky eyes and butterfly lashes, that’s not me.

Freckles sprinkle across a clear porcelain skin, that’s not me.

Bronzed complexion glowing under light of the sun, that’s not me.

Wavy hair smooth like waterfall that coaxes the shoulder and tickles the ear, that’s not me.

An arch of the nose, aristocratic with deepened blue eyes and flaxen hair, that’s not me.

Cheek bones and chin chisel, making a sculpture out of the face, that’s not me.

Just tell me what you want. I can morph into them all, I’ll be it all. But what’s more damn brilliant than the unapologetic me.

Spring 2020 | 53

Headache Jordan Larson 54 | Perception

Stuck in Between Anne Fernandez Everytime I try and explain myself I can’t Can’t because I get stuck between the conjugations La palabras of mi y tú (translation: the words of me and you) Or is it usted? (translation: or is it a more formal you) I feel like I’m on a rocky bridge Constantly trying to balance itself between Spanish and English A frog leaping from a lily pad of ums to yo no sé (translation: a frog leaping from a lily pad of ums to I don’t know) Yo no sé como explicarte que yo estoy pensando (translation: I don’t know how to explain to you what I’m thinking) Me toqeo y me frustro cuando no sé como decir una palabra (translation: I get stuck and frustrated when I don’t know how to say a word) I know this in English but how the hell do I translate it to Spanish?

Odio que no lo puedo hablar suavemente como ustedes (translation: I hate that I can’t speak it smoothly like you guys) Lo hablo apaso (translation: I speak it slow) Cada segundo pensando en como lo voy a decir (translation: thinking every second of how I’m going to say this) I feel like my parents don’t understand my quirkiness because it’s rooted in English A language they have yet to learn Their tongue in a sword battle with the letter “e” Everytime they want to say a word that starts with an “s” “E” school “E” strawberry “E” stress

Spring 2020 | 55

56 | Perception

Amanda Addison

Entrapped Hope

Spring 2020 | 57

Amanda Addison

Scarcity Humility and Deficiency

halcyon, part i.

Bethany Marsfelder i want to pick up my teenage years from where they left off (somewhere around the middle of tenth grade.) to wake up and raise my head from the window of my friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s car and gaze sleepily out at the rolling countryside and setting afternoon sun and smile as they laugh and sing along to the radio (hello, old friend. weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been waiting so long.)

58 | Perception

See U Again Amanda Addison Spring 2020 | 59

halcyon, part ii.

Bethany Marsfelder i want to pick up and brush off my childhood from where it fell put a snoopy bandaid on the seven ate nine year old with teary eyes and press kisses to scraped knees. i want to hold her hand as she balances on the ledge in the parking lot, wobbling and giggling as she walks and carry her home.

60 | Perception

The oddity of a pigeon in a bowl Alaba Danagogo

MY BROTHER was poised cautiously, hidden in the sparse shadows of the gateman’s shed with his catapult close in front of him, eyes trained on his prey. He was stalking a little brown pigeon that had wandered too far from the canopy of the nearby trees. I watched him from the corner of my eye, occupied with my own play. The sun was shining brightly, and every reasonable person was indoors to escape the morning heat. But not us - we were far from reasonable, and Abidemi was the most unreasonable of all.

I tried to focus on the carcass of a wall gecko before me. I’d found its body under the flowerpot in the garden and moved it to a corner of the veranda, out of the roasting sun, so that I could examine it properly. My examination so far consisted of ripping it apart with a rusted pair of scissors and marveling at the lack of blood from its gelatinous body. I was having a grand time of it too, at least until I realized what Abidemi was doing. He had the tendency to get himself into odd situations, and a part of me recognized the beginnings of one even before the situation unfolded, so, I watched him.

I saw him pull a stone out of one of his pockets and load the catapult.

He pulled back on the thickened elastic, one eye squeezing shut to aim correctly. His shoulders slumped when the pigeon took flight, and I noted the half-hearted way he allowed his missile to sail. He screamed when the pigeon fell to the ground, squawking in pain as one wing attempted to do the work of two.

I peered into the window before attending to him. Aunty Peace was supposed to be watching us, but she was firmly planted in front of the TV, laughing along with the characters of a childish sitcom. She didn't even budge at Abidemi’s scream.

“Demi, what is it?”

By the time I looked back at him, his eyes were full of tears. He stood there, brown shoulders shaking as he pointed at the downed pigeon with a pouty lip.

“I didn’t mean to!” He sobbed, clutching the catapult to his chest as his eyes followed the erratic movements of the wounded pigeon. I abandoned my carcass with a sigh, braving the fierce sunlight for his sake. There was a light sheen of sweat all over him, making his SpongeBob shirt stick to his back.

“Ah, ah you people should stop shouting!” Uncle Alex shouted from his shed. There was the harsh sound of his plastic chair scraping back, followed by heavy footsteps before a bald head emerged from the inside of the shed.

Spring 2020 | 61

He was taking a nap before Abidemi decided to act stupid. He had a disgruntled look on his face as he squinted against the sunlight. “Early momo like this and yah shouting!”

I did not bother to respond since I was too focused on the injured pigeon in front of me. It was squawking and flapping its working wing, doing its best to get out of the grasp of its attackers. It only succeeded in moving in strange circles, making dust rise up and the acidic scent of bird poo wash over us. It was eye-watering and pungent, but neither of us moved away. I could see where Abidemi hit it clearly. The skin was flayed open, dark blood dribbling from the swollen wing, paths of crimson parting the brown-feathered sea. I almost smiled but all at once, my attention was dragged back to Abidemi by the feel of his chubby fingers tightening around my wrist.

“Please na, do something,” he all but begged with tears feverishly running down his cheeks.

I had no idea what he expected me to do. Kill it? I looked around for something to finish it off with. Uncle Alex was now standing outside of his shed watching us peer at the pigeon with clear interest. He stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with a cracked palm. His yellowing singlet was sticking to his chest and rounded belly. I could see his toenails from where I stood, and it made me annoyed. I could already picture the body odor he would bring with himself if he came any closer. But Abidemi was crying, so Uncle Alex must come to investigate.

“Ah, Demi, you shot this? Nawa oo!” His congratulatory tone flew right over Abidemi’s head. At the lack of response from both parties, Uncle Alex positioned himself on the other side of the bird. The three of us stood over it, the sight akin to that of innocent children allowed into a hospice, watching the last moments of an old person they had never seen before. Sweat rolled down Uncle Alex’s neck and back, Abidemi’s fingers dug into my wrist, and the pigeon gradually tired of its mortal terrors. Uncle Alex soon grew bored of the entertainment. It was roasting, so he walked back to his shed, stretching his heavy arms behind him.

“You cry too much, Demi. Big men don’t cry,” he tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared back into his shed, no doubt to carry on with his nap. The life of a gateman in the Rotimi household was sedentary and full of long hours waiting for Daddy to arrive or leave. Soon, Daddy would return, and he would be called to the line of duty, so he definitely did not need to waste his nap time on silly children.

“Please.” Abidemi hiccupped. To my alarm, I noticed his swelling, 1 Momo - Morning 2 Yah - You’re 62 | Perception

reddened eyes. Panic bloomed to life in my chest, its petals unfurling further as more tears dripped from his face. If my father came home and found out Abidemi had been crying… I lifted the edge of my shirt and wiped his eyes with a sense of urgency.

“Oya, stop crying, it’s okay.”

“But I’m a killer. Jesus will-”

“It’s not dead. Look, see? See how it is looking at us and how it is breathing fast? You’re not a killer since it’s not dead.” It might as well be. A grounded bird was nothing but fresh meat. If Uncle Alex didn’t decide to use it to make soup later on, the guard dogs would finish the job once they were released at night. There was no situation where this pigeon could survive out here.

“But it will die because of me!” He insisted, stomping a foot. I felt my lips press into a thin line. Everything died. Things lived, then they died, and we had no control or say in the matter. The words almost left my lips, bitter words, inappropriate - my aunt told me that once.

“I won’t let it die,” I said instead. “Go and bring a bailer for me.” I looked over the dirty, smelling bird. “And tissues. Don’t allow Aunty Peace to see you, else she will start talking rubbish.”

Once he had a directive, Abidemi rushed into the house, bare feet slapping against the tiles inside. My eyes flicked around the yard, full of green life, yet so empty. Beyond the gates, cars zoomed by, the hustle and bustle of Port-Harcourt evident from the honking cars and the occasional hawkers rushing up and down. Yet, I felt isolated from it all as the wounded pigeon drew my attention back to itself. The world felt stretched, layered with paraffin as the noisy cars dulled from my senses, and all I could hear was the pigeon’s coos and the blood hurtling through my veins.

Its eyes were black beads, yet they conveyed its judgmental views on the macabre events that led to its grounding. It stared at me with reproach as I stretched a wary hand towards it, daring me to lay a measly finger on it. I could not bear to look further, so I closed my eyes and began to sing. It was barely a song, just little hums and noises that I imagined would be used to soothe a baby. I was compelled to look again, thus I saw how the pigeon listened to me. I continued my soft song into the still air, till there was nothing between my forefinger and the pigeon’s head. I could feel the delicacy of its cranium through the thin skin, and I wondered how I could ever be scared of such a creature. The same finger stroked along its sandy brown back, feeling the divots of its spine, my eyes staring into a single black eye, utterly stunned by being 3 Nawa oo - Wow 4 Oya - Okay Spring 2020 | 63

granted permission like this. As we continued the breathless exchange, a part of me felt certain that I knew this pigeon from somewhere or somehow.

The ridiculous thought disintegrated as Abidemi returned, bringing the rest of the world over his shoulders. My eyes moved from my patient to my brother. He had an odd lump under his shirt from which he pulled out the requested items.

“Aunty Peace is watching Hannah Montana,” he confided.

“Why did you bring the bailer we use to bathe?”

“You said -” He looked like he would start crying again, so I shushed him and took the small blue bowl from his hands. I lined it with tissues before setting my gaze back on the pigeon.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to clean its wounds.” With shaky hands, I reached for the pigeon, making eye contact and attempting the song from before. However, my voice croaked, and I could not communicate with Abidemi breathing over my shoulder.

“Why are you singing? What are you doing now?” His breath was too warm, too close. It was suddenly scorching. Everything was hot, and I just wanted to go back to my place on the veranda and finish examining how wall geckos looked on the inside. My hand neither shook nor wavered as I abandoned all pretense of decency. I grabbed the bird and forced it inside the bowl. It squawked and cried, and Abidemi shouted in my ear, but it was done, and I had now acquired a pigeon in a bowl. Once it was settled, the animal was quiet, looking around itself with interest, head bobbing back and forth in a way only birds seemed capable of.

I carried the bowl against my belly, feeling its heartbeat through the thin plastic. It was fast and surprisingly heavy, reassuring me in a strange way.

Abidemi’s face was clear and full of admiration as we smuggled the pigeon past Aunty Peace and up the stairs, neither of us speaking till we were locked within the confines of my bedroom. It was small and dim since I didn’t like to leave my curtains open beyond a slim crack. Abidemi whispered about our sneakiness, and I didn’t have the heart to explain why it didn’t matter. Aunty Peace would never have noticed us anyways - once she got into her shows, the nanny forgot her duty and abandoned us to our own devices. She only ever seemed to have a sixth sense for when Daddy would return. Then, the TV would go off and she would attach herself to us like she had been taking care of us all day. At least on school days, she was free to stay at home watching TV while everyone else went to work but on weekends like this, she had to cater to us, loud and rambunctious children every step of the way.

I dabbed away at the blood that dribbled from the pigeon’s wounded wing, the substance making the tissues swim. Once the dark blood 64 | Perception

was mostly gone, I cleaned the wound with more water and tissues, all under the watchful eyes of Abidemi. He sat and watched me work in silence, obediently bringing whatever I requested and letting me handle the creature.

Before long, the wounded region was wrapped in more tissues, and I leaned back to assess my patient. The pigeon had been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, so I thought it deserved something for its trouble.

“Demi, go and bring small bread from the kitchen. And a little rice.”

I allowed him to feed the bird to his delight. We sat together and played with the pigeon, petting it and feeding it till the gate rumbled and all the joy dissolved from my pores. Daddy was home. It was easy to hide the bird and all evidence of its presence. By the time we washed our hands and managed to look innocent, Aunty Peace was upstairs, ready to attach herself to us.

“How far? Ona don chop?” she asked, taking Abidemi’s hand in hers while looking at me.

“I’m not hungry.”

I already knew what we would have for lunch - the same thing we had the day before and the day before that and the same thing we have had every day for as far as my memory stretched.

“You’re too selective,” she told me, rolling her eyes.

Despite being more than 20 years older than me, Aunty Peace was only slightly taller than I was. She was childish and loved to monopolize the television while leaving me to handle Abidemi. Once, I overheard one of my aunties say that Aunty Peace would never get married if she continued to take care of us. I told her this and she’d snapped, “your busybody is too much.” I thought I’d been looking out for her - after all, even I knew what it meant for a woman her age in this society to remain unmarried. Ever since, our relationship retained a level of strain that was difficult for me to comprehend entirely.

“I’m not hungry too!” Abidemi declared.

“Your own is just to follow your sister,” she smiled at him, rubbing his dark tight curls. “When your daddy asks, tell him you already ate.” We nodded and went downstairs to greet our father.

“You people should come and greet Aunty Lolia,” Daddy said with a flourish.

Aunty Peace dragged us forward, and we mumbled our greetings.

“Good afternoon sah, ma,” Aunty Peace said with a bowed head before scurrying away to her room. My father did not acknowledge her greeting or ours for that matter. He was too occupied with his new girlfriend, showing off the main parlor, then the private parlor, then the dining room and every fancy place that we were not allowed to play in. A while ago, I finally learned that not 5 How far? Ona don chop - How are you? Have you eaten?

Spring 2020 | 65

everyone I called “aunty” was actually my aunty. “Aunty” was an umbrella term because, for some reason, Nigerians baulk at the idea of Miss, Mister or Mrs. He made us follow them on the tour of our own house.

Aunty Lolia was nice enough. She was light-skinned and spoke with a fake British accent. I knew it was fake because my cousin, Temi, actually lived in London and did not talk like this at all. Daddy seemed to prefer women who spoke like that since all our “aunties” had that quality in common.

“So, your daddy tells me you’re very smart for your age. He’s very proud of you, you know?” Aunty Lolia said to me as Daddy wandered off to smoke and for some one-on-one time with his son. Her makeup was impeccable, dark brown braids flowing over her shoulders. We sat together stiffly in the main parlor, and I imagined I could be anywhere else but there.

“Thank you, ma.”

“He told me you won a spelling bee. So, you must like reading a lot?”

“Yes.”

I felt pleased by the perplexed expression on her face, but at the same time, a part of me worried that she would tell Daddy that I had a bad attitude. So, I hurried to fill the silence with words.

“What kind of books do you like to read?”

“Ah, I’m not one of those girls,” she said, laughing.

I couldn’t quite see what was so funny, so I walked away under the guise of bringing her a bottle of water. Whilst escaping, I ran into Daddy and Abidemi coming back into the house.

“Oya, Demi said he wants bole, so you people should go and get dressed. We are going out.”

Daddy smelled like the expensive cigars he was fond of, eyes slightly reddened from the smoke. He walked past me to find Aunty Lolia still seated in the parlor.

“You didn’t even offer her something to drink?” Daddy turned to me.

“Don’t you have manners?”

“I was going to bring -”

“Lolia, did she offer you anything?”

“Yes, Rotimi, she was just getting me some water.”

He frowned down at me for a few seconds, his forehead wrinkled in the familiar pattern, wavy creases on his brown forehead, as we just stared at each other.

“Go and dress up. Dress Demi too.”

I was dismissed. Abidemi let me pick out his outfit since he was a lazy prince and usually liked to wear pajamas around all day anyways. I put in him a 6 Bole - a delicacy of roasted plantains, yams and fish with peppery sauce 66 | Perception

pair of beige shorts, sneakers, and a dark blue Polo shirt that Daddy got for him last time he went to Dubai. Once Abidemi was ready, I reached into my closet and changed into outing clothes. The pigeon in the bowl looked at me as I dithered between clothes. It was nestled in the darkest corner of the wardrobe, surrounded by untouched bread that Abidemi enthusiastically put down and a tiny cup of water. I felt bad for hiding it like this. It deserved to at least sit at the table and look out the window slit, at the world outside, drenched in sunshine and hints of soot from factory pollution.

When I got downstairs, Daddy frowned again, and I wilted.

“How will you dress like this and expect to go out with me? That shirt is too clumsy. Don’t you know, you need to dress like a decent Nigerian girl?”

He said it like it was a joke, but his face remained serious in a way joking faces never could be.

The back of my throat was bitter as I walked back upstairs and met the pigeon in the bowl once more. I was not sure what it meant for a shirt to be clumsy - what was wrong with a simple Harry Potter shirt? Was the wand too akin to witchcraft? I raided my clothes with sharp movements, forcing every semblance of hurt to the very back of my throat, an obsidian stone cast away from myself. The stone remained lodged in there as I went back downstairs, and Daddy nodded in approval at my change - a plain red t-shirt.

Hawkers ran alongside the Jeep. With my cheek pressed against the cold, tinted windows, I watched them whilst listening to Abidemi babble about a boy that broke his leg while doing a front flip in his class. Abidemi was fond of adding salt and pepper to his stories, leaving them so thoroughly garnished, it was difficult to take anything he said seriously. Aunty Lolia indulged him though, responding and asking mundane questions. She told me more about herself, but her words did not register. I was too busy telling myself to stop being dramatic for wanting to hide my face and cry. The stone had not dissolved. If anything, it pulsed and ached, a mini earthquake ravaging inside of me as my father drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sang along to Fela Kuti’s ancient lyrics, and Abidemi continued to lie, and Aunty Lolia kept trying to insert herself into the picture when she was not the first “aunty” and would definitely not be the last.

Lunch was salty. Bole was one of my favorite meals, but I could not eat it today. The soft, roasted plantain was usually well complemented by the peppery sauce and roasted fish. Daddy shouted at me for wasting food, so I ate it. Abidemi cleaned his plate and asked for more. The waiters stumbled over themselves to obey Daddy’s orders. Ever since we entered the restaurant, they were on us like black ants on spilled guava juice, except they could speak and all they said was “Yes sah” or “Thank you, sah”. I could tell that Daddy loved that.

He preened and adjusted his beige agbada every few minutes.

Spring 2020 | 67

Daddy took us back home and went out with Aunty Lolia. As I walked into the house, I peered at the corner of the veranda: the wall gecko was gone.

It began to rain heavily so the rest of the day was spent indoors. I placed the pigeon in the bowl on my desk table and teased the curtains open so that it could watch the grey skies. Abidemi came to hide from the thundering heavens with me. We turned off all the lights, and I told him scary stories under my heavy blankets with a single torch pointed against the far wall. Abidemi was a scaredy-cat so every time I moved sharply, he would squeal and threaten to cry.

By the time night fell, Abidemi was snoring on my pillow while I read a Nancy Drew book to the music of rain droplets barraging the aluminum roof overhead.

I could taste the excitement of the chase, a true member of the crew, helping to root out the inconsistencies in the stories with sure-fire skill. I was fairly certain of the culprit at this point.

“Ona no go sleep?” Aunty Peace’s soft voice jolted me from the world in its pages. She was at my door, dressed in her sleep wear.

“Not yet. But Demi is already sleeping.” I pointed at him. She lifted the filmy white mosquito netting that shrouded my bed, carrying Abidemi in her arms. Abidemi barely stirred from his slumber. As they left, Aunty Peace wished me a good night, switching off my lights and I responded. Only after she left did I realize that she had not noticed the pigeon in a bowl on my table.

The night drew on. I heard the gate rumble through the storm and Daddy’s footsteps climbing the stairs. I listened to him go into Abidemi’s room to check on him. I heard him walk back into his own room, shutting and locking the door for the night. The rain continued to fall, the air a chilly blanket around my shoulders, and I realized the stone in my throat never left. It was choking me the longer I lay there. My eyes found the pigeon in the bowl. It was still where I had left it. I wondered if it was awake like me, if it struggled and lost against stones like I did. The pigeon turned its head to look at me, and I noticed its eye had a bloody sheen from this angle, through the netting. The longer it stared, the more fearful I grew, until I could not sleep for the feeling of its omniscient eye upon my head.

I got out of bed and picked it up. The roar of the rain heightened as I pried my windows open. Cool air blasted against my skin, my nostrils filling with the scent of damp earth and petroleum. Through the protective bars, the compound seemed like a silver creek, rivulets of rainfall only visible thanks to the white night lights attached to the fence. The pigeon’s wings were moonlit against the darkness, its delicate neck swiveling back and forth from the flood to my stricken expression. I released the pigeon from its bowl, and it felt so light in my grip now. I didn’t know if the pigeon flew or fell, for it disappeared into 7 Agbada - Flowing wide-sleeved robe worn by men in West Africa 68 | Perception

the blackness of the night. All I knew was the relief that settled over my shameful spirit and the assurance that even someone like me would find rest that night.

Spring 2020 | 69

Fear of Loneliness Katie Mulligan

70 | Perception

sound and motion Maya Gelsi she sits like a swan sailing onto the water she speaks like a stream spilling music across rocks brightly clearing the senses

Spring 2020 | 71

To Mina Wright Citron Rebecca Lloyd Behind every sawblade

is a woman

in grease stained blue jeans with headphones in

shielding her ears from the orchestra of work.

From the whirring pounding whining

of the machines and instead surrounding her with the beauty and grace which comes from manicured hands dancing on the strings of a Stradivarius.

Providing for her family by laboring with love.

Either that or raising the man who did.

But back to the woman, since man is not the subject here.

In fact, his story is told literally everywhere else, but not here, not on this sawblade.

This sawblade is traced then sliced

from gleaming sheet metal which reflects the stories colors

backgrounds

and emotions

Of women.

Of those who hammered them into existence.

Reflects me and my phone camera trying to capture art.

Innocent eyes blissfully unaware that what I see as paint is her blood.

72 | Perception

More than once, she nicks her finger on a sharpened blade

and a ruby trail winds down past her knuckle

wrapping itself around

her ring â&#x20AC;&#x201C; tethering her to her purpose

and why she labors.

Because she loves her own blood,

and love protects

and love perseveres.

That alone makes the scars worth it when her figure matches an old sawblade pockmarked by scratches from hard work.

After all, sawblades chop down trees to build houses that become homes to raise women in They are also occasionally used as murder weapons.

But letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s focus on how sawblades

pay the water bill

feed the family

and educate the next generation of daughters.

Spring 2020 | 73

Girl in the City Akanksha Gomes 74 | Perception

Jerusalem: The Wall Maya Gelsi I saw the child’s big scrawl On paper folded once and Stuffed between two ancient stones In the wall.

“I wish” it said, and I Stopped reading.

Their green dreams, starry and quiet Run parallel to mine-Like if I could only turn Away from my rough-throated gray house, I’d be in their Breathless world, exhausting the butterflies.

Now there are too many vague factories Along the arthritic river Clicking out patterned futures.

What could I wish for but absence?

The child’s penciled hope prickles my eyes and I pinch them closed, Not in time to stop A hot drop.

Spring 2020 | 75

A Call To The Moon Morgan Wood 76 | Perception

The Ghosts Are Real And They've Surrounded Us Angelina Manganse A car speeds down an old mountain highway, scattering fallen autumn leaves in its wake. It seems to be composed of more rust and duct tape than actual metal, and what little remains of the original body is dented in almost every possible way. It rattles as it moves, like an old man’s grumblings, and the driver merely turns up the radio in response.

There’s never anything good to listen to early in the morning. Especially not around here. The driver switches stations listlessly, lost in thought.

The scenery rolls past: the forest has turned to brilliant reds and oranges, like flames.

The driver tries not to think about the last time there were flames around here.

The driver tries not to think about the last time she was around here.

The car pulls to a halt in front of a particularly unremarkable section of trees.

The driver steps out and walks over to the trunk. Inside lay a duffle bag and a rifle in its case. The driver slings the rifle over her shoulder and pulls out a small box from the duffle bag. She then closes the trunk, gives it an affectionate pat, and begins her trek into the woods.

Aside from crunching leaves and the occasional rustling from a brisk autumn breeze, the forest is silent. The driver hums a tune to herself, one familiar but she can’t quite place where it’s from, and pulls her rough jacket closer to her body. It’s a peaceful morning, and the driver is thankful for it. There hasn’t been much peace as of late; she suspects there’ll be even less after she’s done.

Her thoughts turn to the rest of the morning: waking up in the sanctuary, asking the priest for instructions and directions, thanking the nuns for their hospitality.

A strange one, by any other standard. Just like every other morning since she joined the Guild.

The Guild.

Spring 2020 | 77

She still barely believes it exists. Some days she feels as though she’s being strung along by some kind of cult, and all she can do is laugh at the irony of her situation. Someone who once studied cults, could have been a professor on the occult and the bizarre, now forced to put all that theory to practice. It’s like some higher being pointed at her and laughed.

Lost in her reverie, the driver trips over a rock, just barely managing to catch herself. She hears laughter, and eventually a young man, strangely dressed in a white shirt and suspenders, emerges from the stand of trees on her left, doubled over in his amusement. His laughter makes the dark scars on his face writhe and squirm. The driver frowns and turns to face another man, this one much older, as he, too, emerges from the forest.

“Quit your laughing, boy. You’ll wake the whole forest up.”

At this, the young man stands up straight, with a cocky grin plastered to his face and eyes locked onto the driver’s.

“I think this broad already tried.”

The driver’s eyes narrow in thought.

Broad? Interesting turn of phrase.

The old man turns his focus to the driver.

“You Noel Carter?”

“Yes, sir. And I am to assume that you are Alec Wren and Jack Sorelli?”

The old man, Alec, nods his head, and young man, Jack, only offers his cheeky grin as a response.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I was sent here by the Guild to investigate the ongoing incidents and aid in defense of the region until said incidents are resolved, starting today.”

The driver recites her lines like a script; they already know why she’s here.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just get this over with. I’ve got coffee and the morning paper waiting for me,” Alec grumbles as he guides the driver, Noel, along to an 78 | Perception

outcropping just a bit deeper into the forest. Jack trails behind, toying with a hunting knife and staring bemusedly off into the distance.

“We can’t get much closer than this. You’ll have to shoot it from here,” Alec says as he points to spot much deeper in the forest, one Noel can barely make out.

She waits for a moment, and the movement of leaves indicates that there is, indeed, something alive down there.

Well, alive might not be the right word for it, Noel ponders. Though regardless of what it is now, it’ll be dead soon enough.

She sets down her bags and begins to set up her equipment. She retrieves the small box from her coat pocket and pulls out a pallet of small bullets, shiny and neatly packed in rows. For a moment, Noel considers the poetic nature of it, how orderly they are now and how much chaos they can inflict, before chastising herself for getting distracted. She quickly and methodically loads the gun; one, two, three, four, five, six bullets. Alec watches as she works, eyebrow raised in skepticism. She knows loading that many bullets is pointless; if the first one misses, it’ll be too late, but old habits die hard, and this one is one of her oldest.

Noel gestures for Alec and Jack to get into their positions; if she misses, they will have to be ready to chase after their quarry. And that’s if we’re lucky, Noel muses. If we’re not…

She tugs at the collar of her turtleneck, the scar that wraps around her neck hidden beneath. She’d rather not think about what happens if she fails.

Noel herself then gets into position, lying prone on the forest floor atop the outcropping. Looking through the scope of her rifle, she can more clearly see the creature Alec pointed out.

It looks like a normal deer from this angle; I can see how so many people have been fooled, especially this time of year.

The deer turns its head to look directly at her.

Or at least, she thinks it’s looking at her.

It’s a bit hard to tell, when it has no eyes to see.

Spring 2020 | 79

It’s a Familiar, all right. But where’s the Witch? At that, Noel rubs her scar through the turtleneck, and shakes her head to clear that thought. Can’t worry about that right now. Best to just stay focused on the job.

With her target confirmed and in her sights, she lifts the safety on her rifle.

Her heart beats loudly in her ears. Why am I so nervous? Is it just because it’s a Familiar, in this place?

A flash of memories races through Noel’s mind. A late-night party. A bonfire by the lake. A group of drunken teenagers. Twisting vines erupting from the forest. Dragging people into the water. Choking, drowning, clawing to escape.

Darkness, and the sound of distant screams.

Focus, little one.

The voice of her father, another memory cutting through the others.

Remember to breathe. If your heart is racing, you’ll miss every time.

Noel takes a deep breath.

Steady your hands. Look ahead. You’ve only got one shot, so you’ll have to make it count.

Staring through the rifle’s scope, the world around Noel disappears. The forest goes even more quiet and still; there is only her, her rifle, and the eyeless Familiar. It continues to gaze at her, almost daring her to take the shot.

Not yet. The wind isn’t right yet, little one.

Noel waits. One minute, two minutes.

Jack shuffles impatiently.

Three minutes, four minutes.

Alec tenses, ready at a moment’s notice.

Five minutes, six.

Now! 80 | Perception

Without a second thought, Noel pulls the trigger.

An eternity later, it lands right where the Familiar’s eyes should be.

Another eternity later, it topples over.

The three breathe a sigh of relief.

Parfait, ma petite une.

The voice of her father fades with the tension of the moment, and Noel stiffly pulls herself to her feet. Carefully, the three make their way down the outcrop and through the forest, eyes on the still body of the Familiar.

Close up, it looks like something out of a deranged artist’s painting. All sharp lines and angles; slick skin and pointed teeth. Black sludge oozes from the bullet wound on its head. It smells of crude oil and death.

Jack and Alec immediately set to work as it becomes Noel’s turn to take watch.

Redoing the safety and slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she pulls out a revolver from the holster on her belt. She flicks the chambers open to make sure it’s loaded, then flicks it shut. As she watches the forest, the two men dissect the Familiar, looking for any clues about its purpose or maker. They’re careful not to make a mess; all the evidence will have to be burned, according to Guild regulations. After a half-an-hour or so, the men decide they’ve searched long enough, and quickly wrap up the carcass in a tarp. They nod to Noel, and together the three drag the Familiar out of the forest.

For such a simple creature, this thing is awfully heavy, Noel grumbles to herself.

The three don’t speak as they return to the street, where her car remains parked. She spots another car a little further down the road: an ugly old pick-up truck, with rust replacing scratch-off spots of vibrant red paint. The three drag the Familiar to the truck and lift it into the bed.

“Well, this is where we part ways, miss.” Jack proclaims cheerfully, grinning with unnaturally bright teeth once more.

Noel frowns. “Unfortunately, I have yet to ascertain if this region is completely safe. Thus, I will have to remain and assist, as per Guild orders.” The canned words taste sour on her tongue, but she’d rather not get too personal with these men.

Spring 2020 | 81

Now it’s Jack’s turn to frown, as he stares her down with a quizzical expression.

“What are you talking about? Your job’s done, unless you want to stay to watch it burn.”

Before Noel can respond, Alec turns around. He’d been settling the Familiar in the bed, covering it with random junk to conceal it from prying eyes and tying it down to keep it from shifting during transit. “The girl’s right, Jack. Where there’s a Familiar, there’s a Witch. And I reckon we’ve got an expert in Witches with us right now; it’d be best to keep her around.”

Noel turns away from the two men and starts for her car. Of course he’d have to bring that up. No escaping it, huh? “I’ll follow you to your residence; we can take care of the evidence and discuss further action there.”

Jack shrugs and follows Alec into the pick-up truck as Noel gets in her car. The men take off down the mountain highway, and she follows.

Noel turns on the radio once more.

This is going to be a long trip.

82 | Perception

protest song Bethany Marsfelder (the world has stolen my words.) my pen is paralyzed above a blank page, for who am i to capture the roar of dissent, the waves of change, the scent of revolution on the wind? who am i to express the shuffling multitudes with downcast eyes and hearts that tire of beating? it can only be seen in stillborn motion can only be heard in screaming silence. (the world has stolen my words.)

Spring 2020 | 83

Burnout Katie Mulligan 84 | Perception

Rural Retirement Suburb Stephanie Humphries Many miles from main roads colonies of retiree patio homes stand set off in subdivisions.

Driving through one encounters humming HVACs, howling dogs caged in fences, flickering lights from TV screens.

Inside routines revolve around meatloaf, macaroni, mashed potatoes, medications.

Distanced from the pack, far from the main arteries becoming brittle in body and belief, this is where people come to wait for the final synapses in the periphery.

Spring 2020 | 85

4am Uchechi Onyenkpa it’s 4am and Uncle comes into her room a looming monster in the darkgrabbing unto her before she reacts.

Like a predator on its prey, like a lion does meat, the silent screams, the intertwining of feet. the rapid thud in her chest reminds her she’s awake, she asks herself if, this really is her fate.

Shhhh, don’t tell anyone don’t bother, no-one will believe you,, she was subject to his aggression, what the hell was she to do ? the taste of sweat mingled with his sense of power, she wondered where God was at her loneliest hour.

~•~

& solemnly did her night unfold, an evil so so cold, and she walked through lifeher story untold of what happenedwhen she was 6 years old.

86 | Perception

Infinit Studies Johanna Chojnicki Spring 2020 | 87

Hallway Jordan Larson

88 | Perception

Ashes Rebecca Lloyd

There’s no moon tonight, just the bonfire. But the flames’ reflection dances on the churning water. The crash of waves mixes with the crackling sparks and I shriek as the boy scoops me up from behind. He holds me tight and runs straight for the water. I take a deep breath just before he drops me.

It’s only a few feet deep, but I let myself submerge and wrap around his legs.

He stumbles and comes under with me. I kiss him desperately, clinging to every second until we both surface, gasping for air.

The precious first breath after being underwater for so long, that’s living.

He kisses me again and I wrap myself around him. I reach for his arm and he throws me back into the water. Laughter escapes my lips as bubbles floating to the surface. I whip my hair up and it splashes him, hitting my back with a clap. He reaches for my hand and pulls me up. We wade back to the fire hand in hand, to where his friends are waiting.

The boy in the white shorts hands us both a drink and the girl hanging off his arm bites her lip and kisses his shoulder. I take a deep breath, letting the smoke mix with the salty air and fill my lungs, then let go of his warm hand to grip the bottle and twist it open.

Damn it.

The seashore fades and I drop the bottle to reach for his hand, hating the fact that the hand I actually grab won’t be his. I squint as the dancing firelight is exchanged for fluorescents that flood the hospital room. It’s always a hospital.

I’ve lost my favorite brown bikini and am now wearing a shapeless light blue sundress. There’s no cleavage and barely even a waist. I’m holding a teenage girl’s right hand; Death is holding her left; neither of us is letting go. I roll my eyes at him and he shrugs. “I thought she was mine.”

Alice lays still, shallow breaths raising the carefully knit pink blanket that covers her chest. Her left wrist is bandaged tightly, but blood is seeping through. An IV is attached to her right wrist, pumping who knows what into her veins. Her short blond eyelashes rest gently on her pale face. I can’t tell if her face is colorless because of her condition or because her sister had wiped her vibrant mask of makeup off just hours earlier while the doctor had been talking to their parents. That was before we arrived.

Her parents sit in two plastic chairs, the type with those marbleized blue patterned fabric cushions, the type no human thinks is comfortable, yet Spring 2020 | 89

they still use to furnish their waiting areas. The father is a tall handsome man who nervously wrings his hands. His mannerisms conflict with the confident suit and tie he wears, having come directly from the firm where he was a partner. The mother’s mascara has run and the only trace of her crimson lipstick is a stain on Alice’s cheek. She’d prepared for a church fundraiser this morning, then a quiet day doing housework. But instead she sits in her wrinkled dark blue dress and clutches a book so hard her knuckles have gone white. Carefully Curated by Your Local Bookshop Ghost: A collection of short stories that have vanished. An odd choice in general, but especially now, with her daughter lying in bed. Of course, the mother hasn’t looked down at page four in quite some time. Her eyes stay fixed on Alice for the next three hours as we all sit in silence.

The only time they move is to glance at me, then again to look away whenever I meet her eyes.

I suppose she was surprised by my appearance. I look about 19, the same age as her Alice in this dress, and my blond curls give the idea that I’m basically an otherworldly Shirley Temple. My appearance tends to put mothers at ease though.

She’s spoken to me twice, but refuses to acknowledge Death, which I find quite rude. Just because they want me to claim their daughter, doesn’t make Death’s job any less important.

A doctor in a white coat and impractical heels enters the room. Her makeup is just a little too flawless for my comfort and screams television, not I’ve been here 13 hours monitoring Alice, (which, for the record, she has). “Excuse me,” she says, gesturing for Death to step aside so she could check vitals. He obliges, sliding his hand down to Alice’s foot. The doctor and I both want Alice to be mine, but Death couldn’t leave.

I should probably be afraid of Death. If I stood on my tiptoes, I could probably just barely reach the shoulder of his suit with my hand; if I jumped, I may even be able to swipe his grey fedora. But honestly, I wouldn’t try. See, we get along fairly well. We’re kind of bookends to the human experience. Sure, we hover now and then where we don’t belong, but for the most part, we do our jobs and stay out of each other’s way.

The last time Death and I stood in the same room for this long was when he took the mom and I took the child last January after a long labor. It’s good to see his face often though. His hollow eyes remind me why my job is so important.

The doctor looks at me, her eyes red. “What else can I do?” she asks, and I realize she’s been crying. Waterproof makeup really had come a long way in the past decade.

“Patients in Alice’s…” I pause, searching for the most sensitive word.

“Condition. Yes, patients in Alice’s condition are unpredictable, that’s why we’re 90 | Perception

both here,” I say, pointing to my unfortunate counterpart.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says to me, eyeing Death. “I like the notion that Alice has a chance.”

“Me too,” her mother says.

The doctor turns to the nervous parents and takes a deep breath “May I speak to you both outside?” What she really wants is to speak without Death and Life listening in, but she doesn’t realize we can be anywhere. Or perhaps she doesn’t want the sister to hear what she was about to say.

The sister has been sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed this whole time. She still wears her Huntington High School uniform and has $300 headphones on, presumably trying to drown out this nightmare with whatever pop songs were on the top charts. Her eyes are closed and she takes slow, deep breaths. Perhaps she’s meditating or praying? I honestly wasn’t sure. I do know one thing though; the sister is very much alive. She radiates a different type of life that keeps Death at arm’s length. I don’t think he could touch her if he tried.

Denial? I’ve seen it before, but not this strong. Usually when Death arrives, he takes a little bit out of the entire family. But not this girl, not yet anyways.

As soon as the doctor pulls the door shut, the sister takes her headphones off and meets my eyes, then looks to Death. “Why are you both here?” she asks. “I’ve heard rumors of one of you coming to hurry someone’s fate along, but never both.

I stare at her, unsure how to put it into words. We only appear on the rare occasion when a human body is stubborn. Death appears when they are supposed to die, but continue to breathe. I am called when they have more to do, but choose to chase death. Alice is supposed to go on to save thousands of lives with a cure for pancreatic cancer that she’ll develop in med school.

However, because Death is here, I don’t know anymore. I can’t explain to the sister that I don’t know Alice’s fate, just that I was here to claim her.

Death takes the challenge and opens his mouth. “She’s supposed to die. Her death spurs your parents to go on to open a center for troubled youth and save hundreds of lives from the same fate. But because Life is here, I honestly don’t know. I was at a bar about to go on with my band when I was summoned. I just know who I’m supposed to help.”

Help wasn’t the right word just then, and the sister winces. “I know I don’t help in the most traditional sense,” Death says, an apology evident in his voice. “But this is who I am, and I don’t have a say. Neither does Life.”

I focus on Alice’s cold hand in mine, fearing that Death has scared the sister.

“That’s… unsettling. But honestly more of an answer than the doctors will give me.”

Spring 2020 | 91

I smile at her. She’s wise for a 16-year-old.

She continues. “They won’t tell me anything,” she whimpers and for the first time her defenses lower and I see a scared child.

The sister goes silent as a nurse enters the room. I think she’s going to ask me about a patient on the edge, but instead she approaches Death.

“What’s it like?” she asks.

“It’s painful. If not for you, then for everyone who loves you.”

“They’re stronger than me. They’ll be okay.”

Death’s face twists with pity and I hide a smile behind my fist. He’s not as cruel as he’s made out to be. “They won’t be though,” he says. “Your parents will split up because they are staying together to keep up appearances for you. Your little sister will cry herself to sleep every night because she’ll think she did something wrong, that she didn’t love you enough, that she asked for too much and that’s why your parents split up. She’ll never understand. And your boyfriend, he’ll bounce from abusive relationship to abusive relationship because he believes he deserves it.”

The nurse stands there, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, then turns and walks away.

The sister looks between us. “What just happened?”

“She’ll probably kill herself tonight,” Death remarks.

A look of horror crosses the sister’s face.

“You can’t say things like that around the humans,” I say.

“I wasn’t struck by lightning, so…” he shrugs, smirking.

“It…” The sister takes a deep breath. “It’s okay. It’s weirdly comforting that Death is honest. Honesty is something I’m no good at. Alice was though.”

“Is,” I remind her gently.

“Is,” she repeats in a whisper. “Actually, no,” she corrects herself. “Alice was.”

I look at her, understanding, but still want to give her some hope. “She still has a chance, that’s why I’m here.”

“But she hasn’t truly been alive in months,” the sister says, confirming what I already suspected. “She’s just kind of been existing. You know, going through the motions but not caring about shit.”

That’s when I realize that the life that rolls off the sister isn’t denial, it’s faith. This girl lives with a different perspective on Life and Death, that’s why she was so open with Death in the room, a rarity.

The parents return and sit back in their waiting chairs. They are silent, save for an occasional sniffle. With them back in the room, the sister goes silent.

“Do you want us to give you a break?” I ask the sister, eying her parents.

“You can leave?” she asks, straightening her posture.

92 | Perception

Death nods. “For a short time.”

Death and I count under our breath and release Alice’s hands at the same time. We step outside and I slump against the brick wall, sliding down till I’m seated on cracked pavement. Sirens wail in the background as another emergency enters the hospital. We meet each other’s eyes as we simultaneously realize that this one’s fate was already sealed and we weren’t needed.

Death produces a saxophone from thin air and begins to play, a melodious blues song I’ve never heard surrounds me. He plays a few tunes, then removes his grey coat and sets it on the air where it vanishes. He’s left with what was once a white button up collar shirt, but is more of a sepia by now.

That’s the difference between him and I, he ages. See, with every life I preserve, I grow younger and am robbed of experiences and of memories. I’m constantly seeing the world as if for the first time.

The sliding glass door opens with a sound of rushing air and the sister steps out. Her headphones are on and her backpack is slung over one shoulder, it was a heavy bag for a girl her age.

Death stops playing and offers me his hand, so I let him pull me to a standing position. The sister has stopped and is watching us. She motions to me and I walk over. Death resumes playing softly behind us.

“Will you pray with me?” she asks, her eyes wide, probably assuming I have a more direct line than her.

I glance back to where Death was standing, but he’s gone. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to her.

I stand at the back of the church. Death stands beside me. The family is sitting in the front right row. Four white roses lay on top of the wooden casket. The sister walks up to the podium where the pastor hands her the microphone. I’ve always said Death was the tallest man I knew. I think this pastor is taller.

“Everyone loved Alice…” The sister begins. She chokes back a sob, covering her mouth with a fist. “She… She was the sister I could never be. She was up early to teach Sunday School, I slept in from karaoke night. She brought the floral centerpieces to the nursing home after prom, I didn’t go home that night. She taught me to cook. She helped me study for chemistry when I blew off a week of classes. She laid in bed with me and held my hand when my boyfriend broke up with me. She lived with purpose, with intentionality. She was the woman everyone should aspire to be.”

The congregation nods along and a woman in the middle row cries a resounding “Amen.”

I smile, appreciating the warmth. The church is the most alive thing I’ve ever experienced, and that’s coming from me. The stone chapel radiates Spring 2020 | 93

with a sound, almost a hum, but warmer. A single heartbeat stands out and covers the mixed human sounds, uniting them. The life doesn’t belong to any one being, but rather it was a collective life, one that flowed through all of them, sloshing to fill each of them up when they began to drain. It was then that I realized what I had called living felt more like existing when measured up to this. How could Alice have walked away from this?

The sister looks down at the words she’d prepared, then crumples the paper in her hands, nervously twisting it as she opens her mouth. “I lost and mourned that girl a few months ago though. Today just doesn’t feel real, because she’s been gone for a while. But it’s new for all of you.”

At this, Death chuckles. His laughter rolls over the somber congregation.

The sister gives him a wistful smile and continues.

“Still, I can’t deny that she left an impact. On each of you,” she pauses, meeting the eyes of a few in the crowd. “And on me. I… I, the living get to be a part of her legacy. You, the living get to honor her memory. Last night I asked myself, why… Why are we the living?” She can’t hold it in any longer and a sob escapes her lips. “Thank…” she covers half her face with an open hand and wipes the tears. “Thank you all for coming.” She begins to sob freely and sets the microphone down, walking slowly back to her seat.

I approach the sister after the service and wrap my arms around her, wishing I had an answer for her.

So we go to the beach. We go that night and I hope that the boy and his friends are there again, so I can show her how to live. She puts on a green polka dot one piece with a ruffled skirt, almost reminiscent of the 50’s.

The moon is out tonight, and the choppy waves glint with silver.

There’s no fire, just a pile of ashes where it once burned. There’s no friends and no him. I don’t know why I thought he would be here. I never even got his name, I had just stumbled upon their party and flirted a little until he was mine.

I thought I had done him a favor; that’d he’d never and would never feel as alive as he had that night. But now I know that wasn’t living.

Still, the beach feels hollow without him. The world feels hollow without Alice. But it’s as temporary as last night’s bonfire.

Death joins us, emerging from the shadows and stands at a respectful distance. I don’t think I’ve seen him since he took the mom and I took the child last January after a long labor, but I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. The wind whips through the beach, blowing sand away, and with it, my memories. I know I’ll see Death again, but I’ve already forgotten the last time. I do love the beach though, but I can’t recall why. I wave Death over, but he shakes his head gently and leaves, silently as he appeared.

94 | Perception

I slip off my shoes and let my feet sink into the cold, damp sand. The sister does the same, toeing the ash until her foot is blackened. She doesn’t wash it off in the ocean, she doesn’t even look at the ocean. Instead she kneels down and picks up a stick to stir up the ashes. The embers glow and she leans down to blow on them. “I, the living,” she whispers. She puts a handful of twigs on top and a tiny flame bursts to life.

Spring 2020 | 95

ruin, reclaimed Bethany Marsfelder 96 | Perception

OBITUARY ELEGY Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan did Floyd Slopanski have a bulbous nose beady eyes or a dimpled ass I’ll never know no picture accompanied his obituary only a list of survivors’ names Rotary Club twenty years in the Navy how many adulterous affairs did Floyd have on hot afternoons in the Motel 6 did he ever light a fart on the living room floor or pull the tassel off a stripper’s tit with his false teeth Floyd belonged to the Presbyterian Church did he ever tithe a wooden nickel what did he wish for on his fiftieth birthday after a long illness Irma Snoodlehorn died Saturday afternoon in St. Luke’s Hospital she probably had gray hair and wrinkled cheeks or maybe she had a facelift to make her 83 year old skin smooth as a salesman’s pitch maybe I’ll go to calling hours on Monday and see how Irma looks laid out in her box or Myrna or Mary or Bob or Tillie did Irma ever screw Floyd at the Motel 6 or leave her panties in a roadhouse bathroom death’s got a grin as wide as a grave there are no tears on my TIMES tonight

Spring 2020| 97

the lost art of falling out of touch Bethany Marsfelder i miss the lost art of falling out of touch (perhaps because i haven’t heard from myself in a while.) i miss drifting apart slowly, watching the years pass and fade away then turning the pages that are yellowed over and lovingly worn with time. (don’t try to turn back the clock. i’m not that person anymore.)

98 | Perception

Spotlight Olga Shydlonok

Spring 2020 | 99

For Emma Regina Trejo She looked up at the night sky, bony binoculars glued under her brows. Where’s the damn moon, she asked herself in short, puffy breaths, over and over. Every time a light flashed into those lenses, she swore sweetness under her pain and removed the hardware; she was determined to see it with her own, bare eyes. A lamppost. A car’s headlight. A girl turning on the singular bulb in her bedroom.

Those efforts were futile since the forecast didn’t predict that it was going to be overcast.

Thick clouds filled her eyes and hatred filled her heart. He took the moon. She knew he did. He took the one thing that followed her with every step and with every sway and with every joint-cracking bow she spared on him. What a devilish sight to see nothing but black-gray smoke stuffing an arena that once endorsed flying.

In her room, that night, she spat on a picture of him. She quickly wiped the saliva from his face to hers. It looked familiar—her own face drowned out by tears or showers that continued for far too long. She dropped the photo in the trash and watched it float like a feather to the top. She rearranged her garbage promptly. She brought the food scraps from the previous night’s dinner and the crumpled-up papers with song lyrics she tried to write, to the top. Anything meant more to her than him in that moment. Anything meant something when all she could feel was nothing.

The sky gave her nothing the next evening. Not even a star could poke out to reflect off the rain that drenched her three potted plants. The perennials gurgled cries for help, but they were so full of cold rain that all they could do was yell between gulps. She saw that they were drowning and brought them in.

She tipped them over carefully in an effort to drain them, but dropped the pink flower with frightful ease. Great, another thing gone from my life, she said to herself in images and feelings.

On the third evening, she received a phone call from her dad. The dog was howling to the sound of the microwave alarm again, and he thought she would love the sound of the puppy’s deafening song. She couldn’t love anything, but appreciated the thought. We broke up, she told him, right before the line went dead. The dog was probably still howling.

100 | Perception

She went outside with no shoes on. She left them inside so she could feel the earth underneath and in between her toes. It felt alive and ripe, even in the presence of darkness. She always thought that the nighttime was a place for birth and first breaths. She was born at midnight. Born to the sound of her mother’s crying and to the sound of water rushing over her head and to the sound of her father’s pacifying coo of newfound fatherhood.

That night, she was born again, somewhere between two and three. Born under the glint of stars that spelled “I love you” in a language she made up herself and under the full-bodied reflection of the moon on the only puddle that hadn’t yet dried up and under the warmth of evening air only she knew how to feel.

When she retreated to sleep, the moon watched every move she made. It watched her stash away her binoculars while thick tears dropped from her eyes onto her pillow and watched her pull on a blanket of self-love that she had hidden away when she was in his presence. The stars joined in chorus to sing her a lullaby so sweet that she fell asleep with a smile across her face. She had gotten it all back, and then some.

Spring 2020 | 101

Title goes here Author Name Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry.

Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.

Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at HampdenSydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source.

Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.

The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.`

102 | Perception

YOUR STUDENT FEE