Perception Fall 2021 Issue

perception

fall 2021

VOLUME XXIII | ISSUE 38 Syracuse University

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

We are now accepting submissions for the Spring 2022 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.

The opinions expressed herein are not those of Syracuse University, the Office of Student Activities, the Student Association, and the Student Body.

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

Cover Art Front Cover

Eduardo Torres-Garcia – Creator

Back Cover

Lang Delapa – Just Like Me

Inside Front Cover Inside Back Cover

(digital collage) (digital art)

F. Gelbart Morris – deliverance comes in three succinct stages: (pen)

Justin Wolkenstein – Untitled (photography)

Center Spreads

Annika Meyers – Craving (mixed media)

Andrew Havens – Untitled (photography)

ges:

Hello Perceivers, After four years of working with you indirectly, thinking through how to make poignant pairings, and what arguments can be made through putting pieces in specific orders, it’s wild to be finally speaking to all of you.

Whether you have submitted this semester or in the past, have reviewed for us, helped us copyedit, followed us on Instagram, or just so happened to find this piece on the ground, or a bench, or from a friend, welcome, and thank you. Without your dedication this magazine would not be possible.

As we are still in the throes of the coronavirus, and given I’m in my last year at Syracuse University, it seems like the only thing I know for sure is that uncertainty is constant. These shifting times are reflected in many of our pieces as they grapple with change, identity, and relationships.

Changes are prevalent internally within Perception too, as this semester we have brought on the largest staff we’ve ever had, a group I’m still figuring out how to manage. This issue would not have been possible without their hard work, and I would not be able to do any of this without their talent.

I’m very excited for you all to read this issue as it was assembled differently than years past—appropriate given that change is one of the central themes.

For those whose pieces were featured digitally last minute, know you are talented enough to be here.

I hope that whatever brought you here, keeps you, and you find resonance within these pages.

Stay Frosty,

Ashley Clemens Editor-In-Chief

Fall 2021 | 5

The Eyes and Ears Editor-in-Chief Ashley Clemens

Assistant Editor-in-Chief Noor Zamamiri

Managing Editor Ariel Samuel

Assistant Managing Editor Maya Fuller

6 | Perception

Editors Head Editor Kaitlin LaRosa

Assistant Editor David Garcia

Assistant Editor Katherine Nikolau

Assistant Editor Yasmin Nayrouz

Assistant Editor Isabella Alveraz

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Designers Head Designer Kate Eisinger

Assistant Head Designer Brenna Phelan

Assistant Designer Charles Gebbia

Reviewers Sandrine XiaoYu Liao Liya Zeming Annika Meyers Shivani Reddy Annie Chen Cade Kaminsky Grace Underwood Annie Labarca Anna Nguyen Gabrielle M. Borgia Veronica Chen Olivia Thompson Molly Egan Caitlin Golla

Assistant Designer Ekaterina Kladova

Head Reviewers Maria Urdaneta Grace Katz Shivani Reddy Renata Lee F. Morris Gelbart Elizabeth Kefauver Anne Marie Ruess Maureen Ferguson Anna Nguyen

Digital Head Digital Editor Sydney Martinez

Assistant Digital Editor Grace Reed

Assistant Digital Editor Ana Burwell

Assistant Digital Editor Michela Flood

Assistant Digital Editor Julia Gershowitz

Copy Editors Renata Lee Grace Underwood Shivani Reddy Megan Gomeiz

Fall 2021 | 9

The Contributors Writing “the breakfast of champions is teenage angst” by Melina Iavarone “Swingset” by Ashley Clemens

14

“A Walk Around Midnight” by Maya Gelsi “Nursery Rhyme” by Maddie Rommer “What Happened When We Were Kids” by Grace Underwood “Castizo” by Isabella Alveraz “The Long Walk” by Ruyin Li “when angels whisper” by Eduardo Torres-Garcia “The Woods, Unready” by Candaycea Edwards “Ocular Musings” by Cade Kaminsky “a dialogue” by lang delapa **“One Night, Two Stores I Told Myself” by Maria Urdaneta **“Someone’s” by Sofia Rodriguez “Living in the Metaphysical” by Gabriella M. Borgia “Where the Universe Ends” by Grace Underwood “Tree Stumps” by Yasmin Nayrouz

18 20 22

** Indicates trigger warning: mentions of sexual assault 10 | Perception

16

27 29 32 34 36 38 40 42 46 48 54

Art 15

“bodega” by Eduardo Torres-Garcia

17 19 21 26

“This is where the young kids play?” by Maureen Ferguson “Tomb of Amyntas” by Ana Burwell “panic attack” by Melina Iavarone “Sorry to keep you waiting” by F. Morris Gelbart

28 31 33 35 37 39 41

“Help Me” by McKenzie Gerber “A Friendly Summer” by Yasmin Nayrouz “Innocent Darkness” by Gabrielle M. Borgia “moss dweller” by F. Morris Gelbart Untitled by Andrew Havens “Forks on Fire” by Brenna Phalen “Reflections” by Bailee Roberts

43 47 53 55

“Just Reach Out” by Maureen Ferguson “No. 3” by Brenna Phalen “Sweet Light” by Gabrielle M. Borgia “The Millisecond of Clarity” by Cade Kaminsky

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The Contributors Writing “NYCTINASTY!” by Ariel Samuel “retail therapy” by Chloe Langerman “Mine!” by Renata Lee “A Higher Power” by Charles Gebbia “Amygdala: carousel” by lang delapa “Between the Seams” by Anna Nguyen “Some Random Crow Incident” by Katherine “Katya” Nikolau “Fragments of a Girl” Maria Urdaneta “Tires in the Hudson” by Sebastian Callahan “The Eve Of Parents’ Weekend” by Julia Gershowitz “Snowball Effect” by Jordan Nichols “Remembering Nothing” by David V. Harvey “Light up a lantern” by Alex Cao “Fly Seeks Spider” by Ashley Hughes “Sworn Forests” by Maya Gelsi “Love is Wanting the Best for Someone” by Anne Marie Ruess “The Line” by Natalie De Vincentiis “Green-Eyed” by Annie Labarca “sinkhole” by Olivia Thompson 12 | Perception

56 58 60 62 66 68 70 74 76 78 80 82 84 86 92 94 96 104 106

Art 57 59 61 65 67 69 73

“Oral Wisdom” by Brenna Phalen “A Fantastic Plastic Life” by Ana Burwell “In My Mind” by Mo Wood “Monarch” by Sarah Elizabeth Mednick “Drawing You” by Bailee Roberts “Unravel” by Sarah Elizabeth Mednick Untitled by Justin Wolkenstein

75 77 79 81 83 85 91 93 95

“venus” Eduardo Torres-Garcia “Hazy Interstate” by Yasmin Nayrouz “Fall” by Veronica Chen “noir” by Eduardo Torres-Garcia “Three exercises in timidness” by F. Morris Gelbart “Flashing Lights” by Bailee Roberts “Purple and Green” by Sarah Elizabeth Mednick “The Love We Crave” McKenzie Gerber “Support” by McKenzie Gerber

103 “I Am Lost” by Bailee Roberts 105 “In Fresher Waters” by lang delapa 108 “Splash” by lang delapa Fall 2021 | 13

the breakfast of champions is teenage angst Melina Iavarone

I’m mighty greedy tonight. I want everything.

I want to feel alive without getting out of bed and I want to leave the coffee shop without paying a dime.

I’d like to see all 50 states and all 7 wonders of the world, and I’d like to see them now.

Take me to them.

Now. Show me Montana.

I’ll be damned if I die before my angry eyes lay upon those damned pretty hills.

I desire to drink from every waterfall, and each sip better taste sweeter than the last.

I’m a mad woman because I thought I could make a home out of a human, but God, I was mistaken.

Now, I believe home is imaginary.

I believe it’s only hidden between the creased pages of sticky children’s books, yet I still like to dream of finding a place that feels a bit like it someday.

I think hometowns were invented to teach us the thrill of escaping.

If I could, I’d run barefoot until the soles of my feet bleed into the gravel, staining it with a resentful red.

I’m so hungry.

Maybe I’ll eat California, but I must travel there first.

I want to be loved so hard without giving away any of mine.

I want romance in a way that isn’t so romantic at all.

I want to yell and scream so loud that the creatures on Mars hear me complain.

Nobody likes a girl who’s indignant, but I live just for myself.

It’s bedtime, but I wish the day could last forever, so I never have to close my eyes.

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Fall 2021 | 15

Eduardo Torres-Garcia | Photography

bodega

Swingset Ashley Clemens There was a dandelion. It was rooted in a park, next to a swingset. It grew between wood chips.

“How could you not know?” The dandelion heard a woman yell.

“She never told me!” A male voice. The dandelion was aware of someone else on the swings, smaller, kicking their feet, making the dandelion sway.

“The fact you were there at all.” Fire spit from the woman’s mouth. The dandelion remained on its dynamic trajectory.

The swing creaked. “Look, I didn’t realize—” The man pleaded. The dandelion felt feet patter toward it.

“I don’t buy that for a second.”

“Okay, fine, maybe I knew what I was doing—Don’t give me that look.” The man snapped.

There was a hand now bracing itself against the wood chips. “So you know why I’m upset.” The woman’s voice was poisonous enough to rot soil. The dandelion was acutely aware of this hand, for it was growing closer.

“You would have done the same thing!” The man yelled. The dandelion remained uninvolved in the conversation. It was trying not to engage with the nearby being, who seemed insistent on taking up the dandelion’s space.

“I would not!” screamed the woman.

Without warning, the dandelion was ripped from its vantage point. Uprooted, it felt aimless, weightless, and terrified. The only life it had known was now raw confusion. Before the dandelion could process this, its seeds were cleaved from its stem. Each seed floated to the ground, but the stem was dropped without grandeur. In this new location, further from the swings, the dandelion was just far enough away that it could no longer hear their argument. This did not bother it.

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This is where the young kids play?

Maureen Ferguson | Embroidery

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A Walk Around Midnight Maya Gelsi The trees make a waving wall, a vertical ocean, swaying in slow warning at the stars. Inside, invisible creatures move at unknown distances. I comb the end of a night-sticky branch: Suddenly I’m thinking of you, feeling that compression of spirit, you erupting up into my heart—and I wish the woods would drown me.

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Fall 2021 | 19

Ana Burwell | Watercolor

Tomb of Amyntas

Nursery Rhyme Maddie Rommer Her name is Marie.

She’s three.

She lives in a tree, with her brother and me.

She had a big sister.

That is until the twister.

When the big storm came her boyfriend kissed her.

Then he pushed her outside and fed her to the storm.

When Marie found her sister’s severed leg, the blood was still warm.

Now Marie lives in a tree with her brother and me.

And behind the tree lies the grave of the dismembered girl.

Boyfriend watching through the branches makes Marie’s stomach curl.

But Marie’s only three.

If he were to kill another it would certainly be me.

20 | Perception

panic attack Melina Iavarone | Mixed Media

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W h at Happe ne d W he n We Were Kids Grace Underwood

He knew he shouldn’t be here. The old run-down farm has been firmly off limits since birth, probably even before. Except he heard the older kids bragging and daring each other to go in. His older brother sneaking out with the small group that had stayed over at their house. Their parents are blissfully unaware of their activities for the night. He was supposed to be in bed already, his mother had tucked him in hours ago and humored him when he decided he didn’t want to sleep with a stuffed animal that night. Instead, he had been sitting at the top of the stairs listening to them form their plan.

Well, it was barely even a plan, one kid said let’s go and the others just agreed. It made him think they would all jump off a cliff without hesitation.

The old Millers’ Farm was about a five-minute walk down the road if you cut through old Mister Simon’s fields. As soon as he heard the door close, he slipped on his pair of mud-stained sneakers and pulled his jacket over his sweats. He trailed closely, not wanting to be left behind in the dark despite the path being clearly visible from the full moon overhead.

When they got there, they were daring each other to go in.

The girls laughed as they shook their heads. The group of them baiting each other on, he could vaguely make out one of the boys getting loudly defensive as a girl announced she was going in first. He snuck around to the side of the house, keeping out of his brother’s view being the shrubbery. He stood before the side of the house, looming over him, and hiding the gaze of the moon. He moved back and forth on his feet, tugging at his sleeves almost unconsciously. Finn took a deep breath, the voices of his brother’s friends egging him on unknowingly.

“What are you, scared?” Someone jeered. With a final nod to himself, he ducked under a broken beam in the wall and entered the forbidden house. The air shifted immediately. He’d walked by this house every day. You could see the backyard from the front and the sky from the living room. His eyes traced the grove of the floorboards as he made his way to the center of the room. There was something about standing there that sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes were pushed wide open, as if he would blink too long and something would appear different than before.

There were no critters or sounds. Not even the buzz of a fly. Like the house itself was holding its breath.

He jumped a little when he heard the creak from the front door 22 | Perception

and his brother’s friends cheering someone on. He rushed to the other side of the room, going to hide somewhere or escape before he was found out.

He gasped as his foot caught on a branch or a broken chair and he landed hard on his chest. But his chin didn’t slam against the ground like he thought it would. Slowly he peeked his eyes open. Right where his head should have smacked against the floor was a hole, the floorboards had broken and rotted away. For a minute he didn’t know what he was staring at. The basement was drowning in shadows and shapes. The moon cast a sick glow over a very familiar outline, but his brain was taking longer to catch up to what the moon was trying to reveal to him. The jacket was blue, but there were splotches of some dark crimson over it. It seemed to him it can’t be comfortable down there, especially in that position. He almost spoke to him, but when he made eye contact with the man’s third perfectly round eye in the center of his forehead, he screamed.

“Holy fuck!” Someone yelped behind him. He tried to back away from the hole, but the person behind him grabbed him roughly and hauled him out. He was sobbing then as the person shoved him into someone else's hands.

“Finn, what the hell are you doing here?” His brother, Gabriel, scolded, but the worry was oozing out of him.

“He scared the crap out of me.” The guy who pulled him out was telling the others.

“Shut up, Jake!” Another girl snapped, slapping his arm. They awkwardly stood around Finn as he tried to catch his breath. Gabriel was rubbing his back comfortingly. They all cast each other's sorry looks and whispered what a poor kid he was.

“There was someone in there.” Finn admitted through hiccups as he rubbed the tears from his eyes.

“It was just Jake and Sonali.” Gabriel assured him.

“Kid scared himself.” Jake said sagely. “Tripped when I came in.”

“No! No!” He cried, sounding like a petulant child. “In the basement!” He told his brother, meeting his eyes imploringly as his eyes stung with unshed tears. The image of hollow eyes and stained skin still in his head. The blackness stained the ground. The older kids glanced around at each other, having a silent conversation with their eyes.

“Let’s go home.” His brother said decisively.

“We have to tell someone. He’s hurt.” Finn said, pulling back on his brothers’ tight grip around his arm.

“We’ll deal with it later. Come on.” He said, starting to drag him down the driveway. He ripped his arm away and took off running down the road. “Finn!” He turned off the road and raced through Mister Simon’s fields, Fall 2021 | 23

not knowing why he ran or where to go, only that his brother and his friends didn’t believe him.

“Hey!” A gruff voice yelled from the lit porch of old Mister Simon’s house. The older kids froze, but Finn ran right up to his front porch.

Breathing heavily and with a group of five teens chasing after him in the middle of the night, it was quite an alarming sight.

“There’s a person hurt!”

“What? Where?” He asked, voice laced with concern as he hobbled down to the boy.

“The old Millers’ house.” He told him simply. Gabriel and his friends made their way closer to stand with Finn at the foot of the porch.

“Your brother’s friends were just scaring you.” He told him with a shake of his head, waving the other’s over.

“No, sir.” His brother said, standing behind him with a hand on his shoulder. “Finn said he saw someone in the basement.” The old man frowned at them. A moment of tense silence passed between them as Mister Simon considered the group of spooked children in front of him, and the grave expression of an older brother with a protective arm around a boy too young to have seen what he did.

“Did anyone else see?” They all shook their heads.

“But I saw!” Finn complained. “He was just lying there staring at me! And, and his eyes were—” He felt his lip quiver again.

“Alright, son. That’s enough.” The man grimaced a little. “Why don’t you come sit up here and I’ll call your parents.”

“Come on.” Gabriel said softly, guiding him to the porch as Mister Simons disappeared inside his house. The night was quiet except for the echo of crickets in the field. With the moon as full as it was and the lightning bugs sprinkled throughout, they all could clearly see into the fields and the abandoned farm passed the field and across the road. The atmosphere would have been nice if the farmhouse hadn’t turned into an unburied coffin, mocking them with realization that nothing would be the same again. For now, the group just sat there and waited and wished this night had gone differently.

They all sat spread out on the porch, with Finn pressed tightly against his brother's side. They watched the far away headlights driving closer and closer, and Finn knew in the back of his head that it couldn't have been his parents' car. Mister Simon walked down the stairs between them, his left foot landing heavier against the old wood than his left. He was talking to their parents next to their car, seemingly trying to calm them down. The crackling of gravel and bright headlights announcing the arrival of the second car. The chief of police stepped out, surveying the group of 24 | Perception

kids on the porch with a grave expression on his face and made his way over to the huddle of adults. After a few minutes of hushed explanations and short nods, the group turned towards the utterly silent kids waiting for their fate to be decided.

“Gabriel, why don’t you come tell him what your brother saw?”

Mister Simon said to the group. He felt more then saw all the extra eyes that turned towards his brother. Finn stared at him too. Gabriel smiled down at him, but there was something sad hidden in his eyes. He stood, taking his warmth and comfort with him, and walked over. Their voices returned to hushed words and significant glances. Finn fidgeted as he watched them, wanting nothing more to walk over and join them. The chief said something then and shook his father’s hand before walking away with his partner. Finn stood and rushed over to his parents.

“Are they going to the house?” He asked.

“Yes, baby. Now let’s get you home.” His mother said, clearly perturbed by the situation, and hoisted him up even though he was much too big to be carried. Finn didn’t feel like complaining about being babied and let himself be maneuvered into the car along with the rest of the kids.

He doesn’t remember getting home or being put to bed that night. He remembers Gabriel sticking close to him in the coming days; he was always the first to comfort him after he woke from nightmares. He remembers the police tape surrounding the area in the days after. The unsettling cloud of fear and distrust settled over the people of that town as the newspaper speculated. He remembers that no one would ever answer his questions, especially Gabriel.

Fall 2021 | 25

Sorry to keep you waiting F. Morris Gelbart | Brush-tip Pen

26 | Perception

Castizo Isabella Alveraz Cotton swab prophecies relieve me of my skin.

Every night I unpeel, layer by layer, a calcified truth.

My father builds a shrine to Pizarro in his sleep.

Saliva redeems me.

I’ve only dreamed in Spanish once: I’m on a plane to Bogotá, guayaba juice dripping down my chin, knuckles white on the seat rest. I never land.

A country calls to me and I cannot respond.

How many times can I bend blood into a metaphor?

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Help Me McKenzie Gerber | Graphite

28 | Perception

The Long Walk Ruyin Li

1. [Nothing But a Heart] I faced my property Thinking about what I shall take with me Perfume is obviously unnecessary Though I love the aurora of rosemary But you will get used to the strange smell Hoping everything went well Shall I bring my books?

They say books are the wings of ideals The thing is, how can I carry the heavy books through As they are heavy as steel What about clothes?

They are soft, and full of familiar scent Day goes They may vanish by accident Then bring some money Buy your happiness Money lost its meaning as you cross the new land boundary All it left was meaningless -Did you miss the place you belong?

-Yes. It appears in my dream all day long.

Then you shall know what I shall take with me.

2. [Decision] Select a proper time to leave Or you will get lost in dark Or you will lose the belief Or you will be confused by the song of lark Or you will be too sick to live

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Pay less time on selecting a proper time to leave Or you will miss the train Or you will have a worn sleeve Or you will pull back by a delayed plane Or you will not be able to find an autumn leaf Just leave, at a proper moment 3. [Departure] It takes a lot walk to the place Walk across the hills and the forest Walk deep into the desert The hidden treasure It takes a lot walk to the place Bring the blessing, cure for the possible ache Bring the bravery, hunt for unexpected rewards And don’t forget a sword It takes a lot walk to the place Left something except trace Left something except stick impression Which can make someone have obsession It takes a lot walk to the place Not too late for departure 4. [Where?]

It’s okay to forget the destination Some people go through whole life Without knowing where to go Until they arrive 5. [Celebration] How can I celebrate the arrival Flower, food, present Pick anything you want As long as you still remember yourself Shall we celebrate for the arrival As one might forget himself 30 | Perception

A Friendly Summer Yasmin Nayrouz | Photography

Fall 2021 | 31

When Angels Whisper Eduardo Torres-Garcia I’m timeless in the night. The snow crunches beneath me as I make a snow angel, as the stars tell me how small I am, and I’ve never felt so warm when they say it. I let the snow angel flutter away and I carve out another with great wings. I see my breath escape me like a chimney, following the angels.

They whisper secrets to Orion, but the only thing I hear is the hum of blood flowing through my veins to my ears, to my fingers, to my heart. The crisp air brings me to a heightened sense of consciousness; the smell is so cold I can almost taste it. When the clock starts ticking, and I’m timely again, how can I live in mundanity having lived in this state of euphoria? I’ll freeze here.

Forever in this moment.

32 | Perception

Innocent Darkness Gabrielle M. Borgia | Photography

Fall 2021 | 33

The Woods, Unready Candaycea Edwards There once was a boy who followed a trail of half-dried jellyfish into the deep dark thicket of the woods. The trees watched carefully, leaves billowed and whispered amongst themselves as a lanky creature, face rotting, took him away.

They say, in the woods unready, chopped up limbs and swollen tongues are packed up in glittery boxes and shipped off to places not even ghost boys can reach.

They say, that when you stumble out, legs bloodied and trembling. All you do is walk away, blistered hands wiping hot dirty tears from your face.

Shoving down all the things no one will ever believe, you try to lay all your heaviness down to sleep. But eyes shoot open to low croaks beckoning from someplace deep inside you, as black shadows swarm the home that doesn’t recognize you anymore.

While far off, in that deep deep darkness of the woods, ashy branches creak against mournful winds, carrying off-key piano notes and the smell of dried blood.

Something is there.

And the woods are still, unready.

34 | Perception

moss dweller F. Morris Gelbart | Photography

Fall 2021 | 35

Ocular Musings Cade Kaminsky —after and for Ezra Pound In the basement of the Vanguard The jazzman plays his elegy: A statue dancing in the smoke At 10:37 PM The sky at night: Memories I sacrificed and now yearn for On the street beneath the lamppost A man and woman surrounded in shadow: The sparring match of a lifetime From a bedroom window on a hill A watcher stares sleeplessly: The lights of the towns below call to him A couple on the brink of collapse Their child clutches her blue teddy bear: The nightly screaming and crying is her music In a bar on the second floor There’s one last drop of wine in the glass: Should the man swallow his pride or the drop?

In the street A man jogs 11 miles after 31 days of lockdown: The scent of cherry blossoms is worth the risk On a farm in San Luis Obispo The farmer eats his boysenberry pie before bed: This is the third day after his wife’s passing—the bed feels emptier every night.

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Fall 2021 | 37

Andrew Havens | Photography

Untitled

a dialogue lang delapa hidden in the crowd we philosophize to sleep contemplating consequence while through the ceiling seeps spoiled water from soiled thoughts that tangle up and burst lines and laughter seemingly forgotten, unrehearsed seizing arms, showing face, sneaking through the crowd music twisting downstairs, lonesome basement booming loud a scream over the low hum of the clustered conversations nails digging sharply you proposed a new location bodies in the bathroom, dampened skin limp in decay unraveling your tangled thoughts in potent disarray coughing up the smoke to close an anaerobic breath foggy air of truths, confessions i failed to forget ash along the fallen sky i sprawl across the lawn denying loud the sacred grounds that i’m now sitting on stoned in stone filled gardens haunted by the voice that sputtered out as you laid down your pre-recorded choice.

38 | Perception

Fall 2021 | 39

Brenna Phalen | Mixed Media Sculpture

Forks on Fire

**One Night, Two Stories I Told Myself Maria Urdaneta The ghost of your fingertips will live in the small of my back Where you caress me in every sense My skin will be atoned to you and your every touch Your touch is everywhere Touching, breathing, feeling The arch in my back and breath gone from my mouth the only clue of the stardust behind my eyes The scratches on your back will be the only proof you will have of being in the wrecked home a body Your touch has already silenced insecurities that have haunted this house for years Skin touching skin Will be the only form of communication for hours Just hands and skin And your fingertips on the small of my back The ghost of your fingertips will forever Haunt the small of my spine.

Where you haunt me without even knowing it My skin will be atoned to you and your every touch learning when to flinch and recoil.

Touching, breathing, bleeding, fighting The arch in my back and the breath gone from my mouth the only clue to the dust behind the eyelids I hide.

The scratches on your back the only proof you will have of ever being in this wrecked vessel that is my body Your touch has empowered insecurities that have haunted this house for years but now they are fighting alive and hunting my new consciousness Skin reaching for flesh will be the only form of communication for hours, just hands just flesh Just battling the proprietary state of my soul and your fingertips on the small of my spine.

40 | Perception

Reflections Bailee Roberts | Acrylic on Canvas

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**Someone's Sofia Rodriguez

June 23, 2002 Little did she know Her place in this world would be defined by a social construct labeled gender.

Little did she know She would become “someone’s” because of her place in this world At the age of 8, you touched her It is okay for a man to do so It is not okay to speak up No one will believe you You are a child He was probably playing You know how boys are At the age of 11, she was told Close your legs because you are asking for it Is there a reason you defend women?

You are probably a lesbian...

“Since when is being a lesbian a bad thing” she would say “That is not the way we raised you” they would say Her passions under social construct labeled as “being too masculine” Your “femininity is damaged when you’re outspoken” At the age of 15, he touched her It was not that serious It was worse at the age of 8, but you destroyed her He brought her back to that time, the time The time she knew she was “someone’s” With disregard to her emotions With disregard to her own body.

At the age of 17, she’s dealing with it She is finally speaking up Taking the “burden” of being a woman Feeling shame of fitting a stereotype She hates that her favorite color is pink She hates that she loves doing her nails She hates her feminine aura You made her this way He triggered her pain II am trying to be myself.

42 | Perception

Just Reach Out Maureen Ferguson | Oil Paint

Fall 2021 | 43

Living in the Metaphysical Gabriella M. Borgia Have you ever felt that the world is in front of you but it’s actually not?

Your eyes can see it brilliant and clear but when you put your hand out It comes back cold and empty as you rest it on a table.

Why does the physical world seem invisible?

Dancing around with the shadows that chase themselves along the walls and the ground As you pass through seemingly transparent patrons of the city streets.

It is not the spiritual realm nor the physical realm either While you are confined to your vessel’s bubble.

Instead, you fall into the metaphysical, the in-between.

In here, there is no death and no life.

There is only you trapped within your own soul.

Never feeling the life of people or things that surround you As you play the Watcher amongst no one.

Drifting aimlessly towards no end.

Do you want to scream out for someone? To something?

They will not hear you For you only act as a whisper on the wind, Being a gentle passerby to those in the corporeal plane of reality.

Do you want to lash out in anger and destroy something?

Do not try For you will only waste what little energy you have On a pinprick to the skin.

Welcome to the Land of Nowhere.

There are no bounds to reality And freedom here is absolute.

Love and purpose are dissolved into nothingness so all you can do is wander.

Do not believe that I will be your guide for this journey.

I am like you, Cursed to walk on a long-forgotten path until all thought is gone.

One day my soul will die and disappear with the passing wind.

46 | Perception

No. 3 Brenna Phalen | Acrylic on Wood

Fall 2021 | 47

Where the Universe Ends Grace Underwood Every year for a week the county fair sets up in an open field and illuminates the night. For as long as she could remember, her parents would pack a small lunch and drive them to the fair for the afternoon. She and her younger brother were always too excited to sit still in the back seat.

Tugging on their parents arms after being covered in sunscreen to combat the burning summer sun. It was bliss. She didn’t want to go this year. Yet there she was, leaning against a tree by the picnic tables. The lights were gleaming against the backdrop of darkness. Shapes she barely recognized as people milling about. The loud clamor was not helping with the ache starting behind her eyes. She sighed heavily. She did not want to be there.

“Hey, Alex.” A familiar voice laughed, shoving her shoulder gently.

“What?” She snapped, scowling at the beaming boy next to her.

The gleam of the nearby ride tinting his hair blue then red then green as the colors switch.

“You’re zoning out on us again.” Marco shrugged leaning against the tree next to her, the warmth radiating off his arm filtering through her flannel and made her skin crawl. She wasn’t dressed like all the other teenage girls running around in crop tops and shorts; she just threw on whatever smelled clean and told herself that was good enough. He regarded her silently, something she didn’t feel like deciphering lingering in his eyes.

Across from them Lanie and Greyson were waiting by a fried dough stand, blissfully unaware of their friend’s turmoil. Greyson leaned over to steal a sip of her lemonade. Lanie shot him a glare without any real heat behind it; Greyson just smiled. “I can take you home if you want.” He offered, his voice softening. Her mind instantly went to the weight in her pocket, checked her phone for what felt like the millionth time that night despite knowing there wouldn’t be any new messages. The white light of her phone screen burned her eyes as she stared at it, her mind already racing through what she would do if a message came and how she would get to the hospital and— “Here.” Lanie said, plucking Alex’s phone out of her hand and replacing it with the fried dough they had returned from buying.

“Hey!” She tried reaching for it. Lanie just leaned away smirking, tucking the phone into the back pocket of her shorts.

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“You can have this back when you stop moping.” Alex just scowled and rubbed her sweating hands onto her shorts. Marco shot her an irritated look, that Lanie ignored, and took the phone from her to put in his own pocket. Her stomach clenched as she stared at the oil-soaked dough in her hands. Lanie was partially right, she was here to be with her friends and have fun, but she was starting to regret only telling Marco how bad everything was.

“If this was my last meal, I would die happy.” Greyson went on, as if nothing even happened. Alex just rolled her eyes. She pretended those words meant nothing to her even as she reached for where her phone should be. The knot in her stomach tightening.

“So what should we do next?” Marco asked suddenly, interrupting the spiral her mind was getting ready to suck her into.

“I vote Ferris Wheel.” Greyson suggested. No one debated. Lanie took her hand and wrenched her from where her feet had cemented to the ground. She let her friends distract her and ignored Marco’s conspicuous glances. She wasn’t okay, but she wasn’t about to break down. Lanie dragged her into the seat next to her when it was finally their turn. Their laughs echoing into the chilly air when Greyson grabbed at Marco’s arm when they got too high. The glow of the fair melted out into the inky sky.

The stars looked exactly the same as they did back then.

“Alex.” Her father whispered from her doorway, the hallway light chasing away the darkness, with her younger brother grinning next to him like he’d just eaten a handful of chocolate chips when their mother was cooking. They had always thought their mother never noticed the missing chips or the giggling children under the table.

“C’mon, Lexy!” He whined, hopping up and down, and tugging on their father’s hand.

“What are we doing?” She asked, already crawling out of bed.

“Shh.” Her father whispered. “It’s a surprise.” He turned off the light then, guiding them downstairs and out the front door by only the artificial beam of his flashlight. Her brother was already reaching out towards the fireflies dancing through the air. But she kept her eyes focused on her father, smiling at them fondly.

“Ready?” He whispered. They just nodded, tingling with childish excitement. They were suddenly wrapped up in darkness. She dug her bare toes into the cool earth. Blinking hurriedly as her eyes adjusted. Their father Fall 2021 | 49

was crouched between them, completely unfazed by the thick wall of trees and black that surrounded them, and the darkened house looming behind them. “Look.” He whispered, and they did. Outlined by the shadows of leaves, the clearing opened up to show the perfect window of the galaxy above them. Sprinkles of glowing orbs punctured the kaleidoscope of blue hues painted above them. “Look there,” He pointed to a grouping. “That’s the Little Dipper.” They spent what felt like hours staring at the stars and running around to catch fireflies, until they were so tired their father had to carry them back to bed. Time had stopped to let them play, letting them pretend the edges of the yard was their own little universe.

It made her heart ache to think of it now, but she couldn’t suppress the smile that it brought to her lips. Lanie was laughing hysterically at whatever joke she had just missed, but from Marco’s mischievous expression and Greyson’s pretend pout she knew enough. She was suddenly reminded of how before all of this Lanie was lying in her bed pretending to do homework and blushing as she admitted she thought Greyson was cute.

They hadn’t talked about it in weeks: Alex had forgotten.

The bored ride conductor opened their car and told them their turn was over. So they filed out and started making their way over towards the games in the center of the fair.

“The reigning champ is back.” Greyson grinned, taking his place at the front of the darts game. “Which stuffed animal do you want?”

“Oh please—” Lanie started, ready to banter like she usually does.

“She wants the llama.” Alex answered before her friend could get too far.

“Your wish is my command.” Greyson said, slapping a five into the hand of the worker.

“Are you gonna play?” Marco asked her.

“No. They’re rigged.” She shrugged.

“Not for Greyson, they’re not.” Marco snorted. Silence lapsed between them as they watched their pinning friends subtly flirt with each other. “Are you okay?” He asked softly. She inhaled deeply, trying to quell the ever-present buzz in the back of her head telling her to race out of there and back to the hospital. She nodded. They both knew it was a lie.

She had to be okay though. She promised her father she would go and she would have fun. She told him it was easier said than done, but he only smiled at her. He never stopped smiling.

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“Go have fun, Alex. You haven’t seen your friends in weeks.”

“I can see them when school starts,” she protested. She didn’t want to admit how much the smell of antiseptic gave her a headache and the needle in the back of his hand made her squeamish. He was thinner now, more skin and bones than muscle. She tried to ignore it. She tried to ignore the dried tear tracks on her brother's face where he was curled up on the bed. She tried to ignore that she knew her mother was crying in the bathroom somewhere, when she had quietly left to make a phone call.

“Go have fun.” He repeated. “I have everything I need.” His hand rested on his son’s back.

“You’ll call me if something happens.” She relented. His smile widened.

“Promise.” She sat there a moment more trying to think of an argument, but whatever she thought of she didn’t dare say out loud, afraid admitting it would make it all too real.

The fair smelled like fried food and sweat. She had meant to get fresh air, but this certainly wasn’t fresh.

Lanie was blushing, that much was obvious even with the technocolored lights and shadows blending in with the darkness of her skin.

Greyson was filled with pride for the rest of the night. Alex and Marco gave each other a knowing look as they stumbled along with their friends, searching for the next pastime to entertain them.

After a few more rides and games, they found solitude between the cow and sheep barns. Giggling and passing a stick full of compressed nicotine and pretending the world no longer existed outside the universe they created. Where they can pretend to just be kids and no one ever dies. Marco was retelling the story of the famous prank from last year, Greyson interrupting every few minutes to add in another detail. It was dark where they stood in the cool grass. It was like their own little pocket of the universe as families milled in and out of the barns, completely oblivious to the group and the group completely oblivious to them. She leaned against the barn and Marco, letting his warmth keep her there. Sometime during the reminiscing Greyson had slipped his hand into Lanie’s, neither of them acknowledged the change. Alex wanted to turn to Marco and grab his hand and pretend they were on a double date and that nothing else mattered.

They would go back to school soon and life would move on like normal.

But she just let Marco continue to recount their adventures, let Greyson’s infectio Fall 2021 | 51

infectious laugh rile them up, and let Lanie grin like today was the best day of her life.

Alex barely even processed the ringing of a phone. She just laughed softly, her chest burning with chilled air.

“Alex.” Marco whispered, pushing the phone into her hands. She doesn’t remember answering, just putting the phone up to her ear.

“Alexandra.” Her mother’s wrecked voice whispered. The universe she had carefully constructed fell away, as quick as if someone dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. She didn’t feel it right away, the knife that drove through her chest. But when she imagined her brother sitting by himself while their mother was on the phone, a lump of regret was lodged in her throat. Marco was saying something to her. Her hand felt empty.

Her face felt wet. The noise and the lights and the smells and everything else were seeping into the cracks of her universe. She was too old to keep pretending now. Too old to think her mother won’t lean on her to get through the next few months. She wouldn’t get another night like this again.

She didn’t want another night like this. She did not want to be there.

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Sweet Light Gabrielle M. Borgia | Photography

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Tree Stumps Yasmin Nayrouz A cruel world— Swords crafted from gold Thoughtlessly cutting down trees To find more money beneath Yet in those branches Are eyes a thousand years old— A life more precious than gold.

As a little tree Struggling to breathe Straining to grow A gloomy future waits for me As the golden sword keeps swinging Hindering me considerably.

Some offer the sword a paper sacrifice Others battle with their own— Breaking a few branches Losing a couple leaves— My lost arm reminds me I still have one more to lose.

A cruel world— No— A world full of tree stumps That will never be sold.

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The Millisecond of Clarity Cade Kaminsky | Photography

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NYCTINASTY! Ariel Samuel Bee larvae in secondhand suits with gigantic mandibles and perfectly timed watches.

Their critical flicker fusion reminding the ganglion to leave the hive.

Their lockers slam and clank as they dash to beat the bell.

Delicately designed neural architecture, intricate as a throbbing honeycomb—tick, tick, ticking, preserving the precious circadian clock.

As middle schoolers frantically flush juuls down the toilet, the hive buzzes and seizes with ravenous anticipation.

A black and yellow haze is galvanized, drumming, pulsating—buzz, buzz, buzzing.

Instinct commandeers control as the flower blossoms and the click, click, clicking of kitten heels encroaches.

A certain salience guiding sound selections because even jetlagged bees have time as the bedrock of consciousness.

For neither bee nor tween is a marble stone deep thinker— but both make decisions with the confidence of a queen bee and the speed of her workers.

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Brenna Phalen | Pen and Ink

Oral Wisdom

retail therapy Chloe Langerman confirmation email congratulations on your purchase it’ll be a couple days thanks for joining us bask in the glow of the golden dress crafted by a girl my age oh, but I was too attracted it’s almost euphoric knowing it will be in my hand but this is fleeting slipping through my fingers like sand i think of all the possibilities how I will feel sunlit manifest my happiness i must be devoid of it but i don’t think of myself that way emotions are temporary and i need a distraction so i buy a dress in january

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Ana Burwell | Mixed Media

A Fantastic Plastic Life

Mine!

Renata Lee

Michael did not know who the sweatshirt belonged to. There was no name left on the inside, so he kept it. It was soft on the inside and the perfect fit. He sat on the local park’s lawn when a small girl approached him. She pointed to the sweatshirt, “Mine!” she yelled.

“Yeah sure, you are just way too small.” He laughed.

She cried, “You stole it!”

“No.” He said.

Michael did not know the girl and did not want to. No name was inside and he kept it. It was soft on the inside and the perfect fit. She sat on the lawn.

“A small fit, not too small. Perfect and mine!” She pointed to his sweatshirt.

“Belongs to no name.” He pointed to the inside.

She approached the sweatshirt. “Not mine?”

“Yeah, mine.”

“Park belongs to no name too.”

“So?” “You sit on the lawn, it belongs to the park, yeah?”

“You sat on the lawn too.” He said.

“So soft, belongs…mine…park…lawn…name…too small…steal…” She said. “No name, not mine, sweatshirt and lawn.” She pointed to the sweatshirt, the lawn, and Michael. “You leave!” she yelled.

“Not sure.” He said.

The small girl cried, approached him, and took it.

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In My Mind Mo Wood | Digital Art

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A Higher Power Charles Gebbia All he could remember was the dark. He didn’t know how long he had been walking aimlessly through the void of oblivion, but it was lonely there. He didn’t know why he was there. He didn’t know how he got there.

He just knew that he was growing frustrated. Bored, even, of the eternal blackness. He felt it build and build until one day, he took his left hand, and snapped—a blue light sparking from his fingers. With his right hand, he took the darkness and molded a hammer, weighing it carefully as the spark floated before him.

Then he swung.

Then he swung again, and again, each hit causing the spark to grow larger, brighter, until it was a roaring flame. In the light of the new flame, the darkness took shape and became a room, a forge, situated on a floating rock forming beneath his feet, although he didn’t notice.

Not until his work had taken shape.

From the fire he had forged something new.

A light, a different kind of spark, a gaseous cloud…

A universe.

As the fire grew larger, he took his new creation, a tiny spiral of colors quietly growing in his hand, and stepped out of the forge onto the rock, and he stared up into oblivion again. With a final look, he took his creation and pushed it into the darkness, where it exploded into its full form.

He watched as the colors grew and changed, combining elements and gases, forming stars and asteroids, growing, changing…

Then it split. The universe seemed to have hit a crossroad and split into two, separated by a random decision. An unknowing choice that could have resulted in two outcomes, caused the world to split and create two nearly identical, but entirely unique, universes.

Then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Before his eyes, he watched as the one universe became a vast 62 | Perception

multiverse, spreading to fill the darkness he had wandered in for so long.

The universes were each designed so similarly to their neighbors, and yet so incredibly different from those hundreds away. Like waves, commonalities would form and diminish across the worlds, and change the landscape of the vast new reality altogether.

But they were empty. Filled with worlds, stars, rocks, gases, but still vacant of something he couldn’t quite place.

That was, until one tiny universe in the far reaches created something new, and sent a shockwave that changed them all, filling and quickly overwhelming the empty worlds, replacing them with this entirely new…thing.

He quickly realized that life, in its purest and most untamable form, had infected every corner of reality. His beautiful creation was now inhabited by this incredible monstrosity.

He watched as it grew and overtook everything, species rising, building homes, towns, societies, civilizations, empires…

Eventually falling.

And starting over again. And again. And again.

It always started again, and it would rise only to inevitably fall, all throughout the cosmos.

He watched as one species rose above the rest, and infected all the worlds. They travelled lands, seas, worlds…

They reached the stars, and moved past them to other worlds.

He watched as they eventually broke free of their universes to explore each other’s.

He watched as their differences started conflicts. Fights.

Wars.

He watched them battle, watched them die.

He watched worlds burn, he saw entire universes fall.

He watched as some rose from the ash only to go on and burn others.

He watched as one being strayed away.

He watched as they found his rock, his forge.

He watched as they brandished a blade before him.

He watched and as the blade plunged into his chest, he remembered.

He remembered standing on a rock like this, holding a blade like that.

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He remembered the force as he himself plunged the blade, the absolute conviction in his heart, knowing that it needed to be done. He remembered the power flowing into him, watching as reality fell to pieces all around.

Now, watching this being reenact his one greatest sin, all he could feel was…pity.

No. Hope.

He hoped that whatever beautiful monstrosity they created next would give its creator a kinder end. One kinder than what he gave his creator, and one kinder than what he now received.

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Monarch Sarah Elizabeth Mednick | Watercolor

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Amygdala: carousal lang delapa i want a home of all i left behind. basement of could-have-beens and wouldhave-beens and one-of-a-kinds. open up, rewind. a dance in the sunken hallway a marbled arabesque along my puzzle-pieced mind. i crumble you up tucked in my back pocket to be painted over reinvented until there is nothing left. but a few scraps to sprinkle across the pavement a path to lead me home.

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Bailee Roberts | Marker and Pen

Drawing You

Between the Seams Anna Nguyen In the gallery, my favorite piece hangs on the shoulders of strangers.

There is unacknowledged poetry in the cut the buttons the comfort the warmth; Not hidden just Unseen is the poet.

A Man or a Woman or a Child.

Starving artists, hidden away in their studio, dedicated solely to their craft.

But Rarely do Coatmakers ask to be published; they do not ask us to study their art but to hold it wear it feel it take comfort in it The ravaged spirit that keeps us warm in the winter.

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Unravel Sarah Elizabeth Mednick | Watercolor

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Some Random Crow Incident Katherine "Katya" Nikolau Lance met the crow on a rainy Monday afternoon. He was sitting at home, at his desk near the window, writing a business report that his boss needed by tomorrow and there it was. A small thing, with black feathers and black eyes.

It sat down on the ledge of the windowsill and stared at him without a sound.

At first, Lance wondered what a crow was doing in Ohio in the middle of the summer, and then he wondered what the significance was of a crow staring at him. Now, Lance was an assistant to the marketing director at a warehouse company. He didn’t really believe in the whole “symbolism” and “bad omen” thing. But still, there was a crow, and it was staring at him. Directly at him.

Had to mean something, right? Well, he thought, maybe it’ll leave.

The crow didn’t leave. It stayed all through the day, and all through the night, and it was still there the next day when he returned from work. He stared back at the crow, and it distracted him from what he was doing. He felt like there was someone staring over his shoulder each time he tried to focus, and of course, that someone was the crow.

His friends came over that Friday, and they all thought the crow was pretty hilarious. “What the hell, dude,” said Randy. “Pretty gnarly,” said Maggie.

“Maybe we should feed him?” asked Jake. And so, they did. They gave the crow some breadcrumbs, and he left. Just like that.

The next day, Lance had trouble focusing again. Each time, he looked over at the window, hoping to see the crow. But all that he saw was the white windowsill and the world outside, and no crow. It made him sigh. He couldn’t explain it exactly. Something felt off.

In the following weeks, Lance started having recurring dreams. In the dreams, he would go places and the crow was sitting on his shoulder. He stroked the crow and went about his life. He went to bars, went to work, met up with friends, and the crow was always there. It looked over his shoulder at everything he did, but it almost felt comforting. There was security in knowing that he was never alone. Lance finally opened up to Maggie about his dreams. He asked her what to do, and she told him to go to therapy.

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Lance thought that he would feel stupid going to therapy about some random crow incident, but the dreams persisted for weeks, and so he did.

The therapist was an older man with greying hair and a goatee. When Lance told him about the crow, he asked, “So what was it about this crow that you found so striking?” And Lance couldn’t say. It was just a crow. Nothing special. Not a blue-eyed raven of fantastical beauty, not a creepy mangy thing like something from an Edgar Allen Poe story. It was a textbook crow.

When he couldn’t give an answer, the therapist nodded thoughtfully. He sat there for a minute, silent. Finally, he said, “You know, Lance, this crow.

It stares at you for a week until you give it food. Then it leaves. Perhaps adopting some wisdom from this scenario will help you move on. Picture you are the crow. What do you want in life? Who can give it to you? Stare them down until you get it.”

Lance took this advice, although he wasn’t quite sure what he really wanted in life. He went to his boss and told him, “I want to be promoted from assistant to a member of the marketing team.” His boss said no. But then, like the crow, Lance was still there the next day. Asking the same question.

It happened like this for a week, and then his boss sighed. “Fine,” he said.

So, Lance was promoted. He went out with his friends to celebrate, and things were fun. They had champagne, and they ordered a fancy meal. And when Lance went to bed, he thought that the crow thing was over. He had found a grain of wisdom in something bizarre, and there it ended.

But it didn’t. That night, he dreamt of his first day at work, and how he would do, what suit he would wear. But when he looked over at his shoulder, the crow was still there.

The next time Lance and his therapist talked, he told him about the dream.

He told him that his new job was going great, that he was more successful than ever, that his life was on the rise, and yet the crow was still there.

Every night. The therapist was quiet.

Then he said, “You know Lance, maybe the crow represents deeper issues of abandonment. It was something you got used to, and then it left out of nowhere. So maybe it’s not about the crow. Maybe it’s about a pattern.”

And that sounded good. It sounded right. It made sense. But the thing was, Fall 2021 | 71

Lance was never really abandoned. His parents loved him dearly, his friends had been there for him since college. Even his girlfriends, when he had them, didn’t end things with him on particularly bitter terms.

“I don’t know, I’ve never really been abandoned,” Lance told the therapist.

This time, the therapist was quiet for longer. He finally told Lance that maybe he should just forget about the crow. Sometimes things happened that didn’t mean anything. The world was full of strange things, and sometimes, he said, you just have to let them go.

Lance thought that was bad advice for such a pricey therapist, but he didn’t say anything. It seemed like there was nothing else to say. He didn’t schedule another appointment.

That night, Lance sat at home and stared at the windowsill. He thought about life, about how we’re all just crumbs in the universe. He thought about the therapist, and Maggie, and Randy, and Jake, and his new job.

He thought about omens and symbols and most of all, he thought about the crow. A stupid, persistent crow. Why did it matter? And did the nonmattering matter?

And then Lance stopped. All the thoughts in his mind smoothed out. “I miss that crow,” he said aloud to no one. “I don’t know why, but I miss that crow.

And I guess...I guess that’s it.”

That night when he slept, the crow was gone. Gone from his thoughts, gone from his heart, gone from everywhere except for a small tree branch a couple of miles away, where it sat, oblivious to everything but a beak full of breadcrumbs.

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Justin Wolkenstein | Photography

Untitled

Fragments of a Girl Maria Urdaneta I write poetry in fragments pieces of sentences that somehow fit together in this puzzle I call my life because I am some pieces someone somewhere decided to put together Two countries, two languages, two personalities placed together, and no one ever knows both.

In Spanish no one ever disturbs my peace or calm. Maybe it’s because I was raised in a household that never learned how to appreciate quiet or maybe because some of my words are lost.

I am a girl with few words and well-timed jabs to remind everyone I’m still here.

In English I am the girl that talks a lot to make up for the lack of noise in a room. Maybe it’s because I was raised in a household that never learned how to appreciate silence or because I think too much that my mouth has to catch up.

I am the girl with the stories and jokes to make sure everyone knows I’m here.

I am these pieces in their fullest extent.

I am both.

I am the girl that yearns for winter and fall in the summer and longs for summer in the spring.

I am so incredibly inconsistent You tell me that I feel cold but maybe that’s because in the summer is when I start to feel cold.

Summer is the only time where I am only expected to be only one person when truly I am both.

I promise I am not inconsistent with you. I wake up and want to love you more every day and that’s how I know that I do. Both of these girls are so different, but I promise that both of me loves you.

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venus Eduardo Torres-Garcia | Digital Collage

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Tires in the Hudson Sebastian Callahan Ridin in a greyhound’s far back right-side packed sardines No room left for air but out there My gaze follows down Towards Smack back at my face Refracted off Bounces this fireball between perpendicular walls I felt my hot breath But look through and down to see the serum Shaded like rind of lime and streamline Rocco colours saturate the air In translucent streams that follows the highway chile To this farmland of 8th generation Americans brandished with losing campaign signs, 50 broken down cars held by the lot, “where yesterday and today meets” the strange town greets

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Yasmin Nayrouz | Photography

Hazy Interstate

The Eve of Parents' Weekend Julia Gershowitz Twas the eve of family Weekend and all through the ‘Cuse.

Many students were cleaning fore they had no excuse.

Why, the parents were coming, they said with fear and delight Parents unaware of the campus's nights.

Students put their work off. Saving it for later.

Knowing inside they’re a procrastinator.

But the family is here, they may even get food And when they offer to pay you mustn’t intrude.

And for those like us who may not have family here Don’t simply give up Don’t give up on your cheer I have something for you.

Yes, something good for your heart.

A playlist, a movie, a poem, some art You never know what you'll discover, Not until you start.

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Veronica Chen | Photography

Fall

Snowball Effect Jordan Nichols A frozen breeze caught the edges of my slim burgundy jacket. I look to my right, seeing the past footsteps of my neighbors and friends.

I’ve never seen this before, this glare on the snow, this raw sunlight reflected off the world.

I stand awestruck of the scene in front of me.

I see winter, I see wonder.

The frozen breeze passes into my undershirt, I start shaking. The life I lived never prepared me for this, for this empty white wasteland. This abnormal color scheme of all the colors compacted into one, reflected towards my irises, reflected to the sunny star in the big bright sky.

The icicles hanging over me shake in step with my body, I smile at them, then freeze as I see the sharp glare of their edge.

I am delusional, I am frozen, I want to go back inside.

My footsteps take me to my doorstep, But I notice the flame of the beautiful sky pointing its rays into my fracture glass mirror, Filling me with temporary warmth, as I notice it refracts that light directly back into the white expanse.

A rainbow.

I twist the handle and step back inside.

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Eduardo Torres-Garcia | Photography

noir

Remembering Nothing David V. Harvey The truth.

I always seem to want it but never like receiving it. I know what it entails, but I can’t bring myself to face it. Sometimes, I can’t even accept it.

I mean, who knows what the actual truth is anyway? Whether what someone says or does has substance or is just fiction. Everything must mean something, right? There’s no way it all meant nothing. Even if it’s only a fragment in time, it must’ve meant something. Then at least. It had to.

I don’t care how I manipulated it; my emotional truth rings true. I’ve taken everything; every memory, every image, every feeling, and made my own story. My own happy world to remember. I know I won’t have another opportunity like it. Well, at least not for a while, but that’s okay. Who cares that it’s all in my mind? I can’t ruin something that never actually happened, I can only regret it, but again, that’s okay.

Truth be told, in my head, it will remain perfect.

Absolutely still, frozen in time.

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F. Morris Gelbart | Pen

Three exercises in timidness

Light up a lantern Alex Cao Light up a lantern On a snowy day where no smoke from chimneys appear Perhaps no one would care Whether that light would be able to call back A wandering soul amongst the forest Light up a lantern full of thoughts Thoughts that decadence in ignorance Yet inspired by a road with only faded lights Awaking courage by the first light of morning Therefore begins a boundless journey without an ending Light up a lantern with memory But with certain memories to be remembered And through walked with those memories So does the end of one’s life

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Flashing Lights Bailee Roberts | Acrylic Paint on Canvas

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Fly Seeks Spider (excerpt) Ashley Hughes Note: The following piece has been excerpted for the sake of page count, any (...) symbol indicates that cuts were made by our editors; find the full piece on our website.

Naomi is having her breakfast, breaking her bread, inspecting her husband. Nancy leans against the kitchen table until it creaks and then keeps leaning. This bothers her. He chews so that she can hear him, right over the kettle’s whistle. He eats off the plate she made for him, bites off the fork she handed him. Otherwise, he doesn’t eat off a plate, doesn’t bite off a fork, just grazes and digs his fingers in wherever they can dig. That bothers her too, but he’s here now. It happens. Mother says it’s normal, but— “You don’t shave anymore?” she asks him.

For a moment he stares at her, his mouth firmly shut. He swallows and then shrugs his bristled shoulders. His big head bobs on his skinny neck and she doesn’t recognize him. The other night she told her mother—all he does is sneak food and eat and pretend to go to work and I jus’ watch his head grow—but her mother didn’t listen. Her mother sucked her teeth and Naomi said, I know his head is growing. I’ve been measuring it against the hallway lamp every time he walks past. It— Her mother sucked her teeth again. So, this what you do? she wanted to know. Instead of giving me gran’ babies, you studying heads?

She hadn’t seen the head, or the bristles, or the way the shadows of his arms danced in the lamplight. Naomi only realized this as her mother hung up. If she had seen, she would have known.

At night, his arms strangle her, hairs scratching her all over. Like needles, they dig in. One arm wrapped around her neck, one arm around her waist. One arm entangles between her thighs, the other keeping her knees knocked together. His legs pin her down to the bed. Grazed against 86 | Perception

her shallow cheek, his teeth, sharp and wet. ...

Right where the front yard grazes the road, they had stacked a wall of cinderblocks. At the time, Naomi painted each block, alternating between white and yellow, leaving Nancy to stack them, but he returned with many different paint cans, dabbing the blocks in oranges, blues, and purples, twisting the center blocks to reveal hollow frames that gave the wind a way through. Naomi returned when he was half finished and ruined three perfectly good blocks by trying to help.

The wall is in the palette of a sunrise now. Naomi comes out when the sky is dark and leans on her wall, waiting until the sky matches it and the breadman comes carrying the perfume of a bakery. The bread man has a name. It’s Jacob, but Naomi won’t use it because names foster rapport. She and Nancy smile with their mouths and their teeth, tight and smooth. The bread man smiles with his whole face, everything crinkling. “Good morning,” he says and then he asks about Mother even though by the time he reaches Naomi, he’s already entered and left Mother’s house at the foot of the hill.

“Fine, sir.” Naomi takes her bread and loses her money. She waits for Aunt Mary to come down from over the hilltop, kicking up dirt and pebbles as she goes, the sweat and the dirt mixing and encrusting on her shins and the hem of her faded skirt. She presses up the wall and stands there for a moment, sorting through her stories, picking out the one that will taste sweetest on her tongue.

Aunt Mary stops coming but Naomi doesn’t wonder. There’s still Mother down the hill. Even if Aunt Mary, even if the bread man doesn’t come, Mother will come. Then they will embrace and go inside the house together. They will laugh and share and sometimes Mother leaves with her eyes bright and sometimes Mother leaves because she has said—where is your husband, the house has a smell, there are too many cobwebs in here, what happened to your arm, why are you straighter when you should be rounder—and Naomi has said nothing. Naomi has shut herself in her bedroom Fall 2021 | 87

and touched her stomach and said to her pillow, “There are too many cobwebs in here.” Today the sun sits high and Naomi hasn’t left her bed. Her wrist her neck her shoulder are all sore, but she can’t rub them. She wants to get out of bed and lean on the wall and wait for Mother to arrive and have all forgotten, but she can only wait until her arms and legs unfurl again and until the time has become too late. ...

Flies crowd onto Mother’s kitchen counter and cobwebs crowd into the room’s corners, the spaces between the back and the seat of her mother’s chairs, the ledge and the plane of her mother’s windows. Naomi rushes into the kitchen, her arms flailing, frightening the flies so they loop around in the skies, hitting her face. She hopes they loop into the corners, brush against the chairs and the windows. When flies become food for spiders, it’s their own fault. Even if the spider sets the trap, the spider can’t eat if the fly doesn’t pursue.

Light comes in and out as the door moves, revealing the clouds of dust that plumed and almost glimmered. Mother cleans her house regular as prayer. Every morning while Naomi waits for bread and gossip, even if Naomi is too lazy or been spun around too long by Nancy the night before with his teeth sunk into her wrist her neck her shoulder, Mother rises up to sweep and wipe down.

Then Mother comes to nag her and now Naomi's thinking: all the ones who should’ve visited who hadn’t. Mother, Aunt Mary, the bread man. Even if others didn’t visit. Even if others saw the empty wall and turned away, Mother wouldn’t turn away. Mother would run in the front door, especially if there was no Naomi waiting for her, putting her mind at ease. Naomi leaves Mother’s house, gripping the basket, shaking and saying to herself, “She’s by the docks, inspecting fish.” But mother hasn’t gone back to the docks since the fish man’s body was seen floating, blue and bloated. Naomi stops thinking. She finds the breadman’s truck dented and abandoned in the village’s center. Empty, shredded bread boxes spill out the open bed truck, but the key is still in the ignition.

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She climbs in and begins to drive, barreling through the narrow gravel roads which weave between colorful little shops and houses, empty porches where old men and women should be snoozing with grandchildren rolling at their feet, empty weed dotted yards where there should be children running and screaming and women walking up to the fence to hail their friend and men carting shovels and lawn mowers. “She’s gone to market, weighing beef and mangoes,” she says. Naomi leans out the window, just to check, but in the corner of her eyes, a spider unravels. She keeps driving.

She’ll keep driving until she finds someone, anyone with soft hands or only two hands, whichever comes first. But in reality, she drives into the tall bush roads and keeps driving until the truck stops, creaking and straining against a large blanket of woven strands. She half climbs and half falls out of the truck, her neck bending more and more back as she watches the blanket rise up, not only framed and held up into the brush but woven into it, peeking out between the brush for as far as she can squint on each side. They glint white in the sunlight and feel silken to the touch. There is an undesired familiarity. She retreats back to the truck, deciding to drive elsewhere, deciding to run Nancy over if he gets in her way. But she pauses when faced with her own reflection in the truck’s dusted front mirror.

That reflection’s pattern dances all along her face and in the light of that reflection, she finds every line she’d been running from, crisscrossed and haggard, cheek bones pushed too close to the skin. She laughs. It’s all been waiting with the man she’d run right to! All along! If only Mother had known. She’d been so afraid of being and growing old and dying and worst of all, She’d been so afraid of being and growing old and dying and worst of all, doing it all alone.

“Never been so alone,” she mutters.

Nancy stops in the middle of the road, but she won’t look at him.

“Back in my day,” he says in that storyteller’s way he used to murmur in her ear until she leaned in, “I was the fastest, the slyest, the meanest, the maddest, Fall 2021 | 89

and they all whispered when I flew by.” He waits and waits, but all she does is stare back at him. “You understand.”

“I really don’t,” she says, and she means it.

He shakes his head, disappointed. She almost apologizes. “You don’t know what you know.”

“I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” There is a muddy, minty, suffocating stink between these trees and between them. “Let's split up.”

“Ok,” he said, a smile beginning to quiver onto his face, “but how you gonna do that?”

Naomi stares at him, dead eyed, until his smile disappears and there’s only the quiver. Then she circles the truck and pulls out the bread man’s bread knife. Nancy rolls his eyes at her. “Nah,” he snarls and reaches for her only to freeze and watch the blade press into her neck.

“I’m used to bleeding,” she hisses and pushes the blade in and pushes her way back into the bush. “Thank you for that,” echoes behind her as he watches the leaves rustle and move around her submerging body.

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Purple and Green Sarah Elizabeth Mednick | Watercolor

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Sworn Forests Maya Gelsi There’s all this room between my hands and the fire, or my hands and your hands. It’s a kind of room I don’t want to stretch out in, but coil around myself like a vine on a tree. You and the forest are looking at me with your many eyes, a gaze that weighs on each limb. I cannot imagine what rivers you are thinking of; what seas you must contain. The water as an act of deliverance—I swore forests to you, made the vows to grow and decay, to feed the dirt and breed sadness from it.

My attic was close to the forest and when I opened the window I smelled the storms. The single streetlight outside made purple shadows on the purple walls. I could feel the light air as the floor creaked and testified to the socked feet that pressed it. In that room I dreamed of thunder and of fireflies. They flickered through the sound, each one a lighthouse, a cold star. You were the lighthouse-keeper, containing the sea. When you woke up, I woke up, and I knew the fields that grew up with us on either side.

What seas you must contain to keep the soil clean—rain looks the same wherever we are. I spill the daily waste of all my past lives, which I contain.

And in the waste the thought of the seas you must contain.

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McKenzie Gerber | Graphite and Acrylic

The Love We Crave

Love is Wanting the Best for Someone Anne Marie Ruess She stood behind him, leaning casually against the open door frame.

He didn’t know she was behind him, or maybe he did, but he didn’t turn around. She watched him watch the gentle waves and thought that maybe, hopefully, finally, he was allowing himself to breathe.

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Support McKenzie Gerber | Graphite

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The Line Natalie De Vincentiis It took Charlie Svoboda about an hour to realize he was waiting in a line. Let it be clear, he had never intended to join a line; his mother had told him to wait for her in that exact spot and that was precisely what he had intended to do.

He stood, his fists buried deep into the pockets of his school uniform, playing with the black marble he had won at recess in his match against Charlie Nepovím. Absorbed in his thoughts, he had not given a second glance to the man who had stopped in front of him, nor wondered why he was standing so close to him on such a large street. Only vaguely did he register the scent of cheap cigarettes as the smell wafted out of the man’s mouth. With this odor, Charlie thought about his dad’s secret stash of cigarettes, hidden behind the bathroom sink, which he claimed “are not for us to smoke,” and always added with a wink that they were “in case your mom has another one of her episodes.” Charlie always managed to steal one here or there, but he never thought about lighting it, much less smoking it.

He simply liked the way the cigarette felt in his hand and marveled at its power to turn everything inside a person so black and shriveled.

Behind him, someone coughed. It was not the cough that came from an overabundance of mucus, but a forced one, the polite kind that brings attention to oneself. Charlie turned around and came eye to eye with a belt buckle. He looked up and met the smiling face of a woman no older than fifty. The smile did not reach her eyes, but her lips were stretched upwards convincingly, and her drawn-on eyebrows tried their best to mimic the politeness that made her facial muscles twitch.

As Charlie’s puzzled face looked up at her, the woman nodded in the direction behind him, her silver strands identifying themselves among the brown nest of hair as they reflected the pale sun.

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“The line is moving,” the woman said.

“Line?” Charlie asked, the confusion bending his eyebrows down onto his dark black eyes. “What line?”

“This line,” was the woman’s simple response. “You’re holding it up.”

Charlie glanced behind him and noticed that the man, who had been intent on smoking out the soul of his cigarette, had indeed moved away from him. As Charlie turned back towards the woman, he noticed that there was a line of twenty or so people behind her, all chatting quietly among each other and shifting their weight impatiently from foot to foot.

“I’m not in line,” Charlie said, his eyes flickering between the woman and the impatient people behind her.

“If you’re not in line, you must move out of the way,” the woman said with a sudden burst of unwarranted anger. She clutched her purse and hovered over Charlie, eager to take his place. He bit the inside of his cheek, knowing how angry his mother would be if she did not find him exactly where she’d left him. It would take a lot more than a cigarette to calm her down then, Charlie thought to himself. So, he let the woman step around him and pass him in the line.

After a while, Charlie grew bored. He took the black marble out of his pocket and watched as the sunlight bounced off its glass interior. He marveled at how peculiar it was that light could have little to no effect on something so dark. Charlie began tossing the marble in the air and catching it in the palm of his hand, wondering where Charlie Nepovím acquired such a marble and whether he was mourning his loss.

As things of an unexpected nature sometimes occur, the marble suddenly decided it wanted no further part in the game and slipped through Charlie’s fingers, rolling down the street. Horrified, Charlie chased after it, tripping over his shoelaces and yelling “excuse me”s here and there as he ducked past the pale faces of those wandering the streets. The marble was gaining velocity, bouncing down the sidewalk, but Charlie picked up his speed as well. He stretched out his thin arm and threw his body forward to Fall 2021 | 97

catch the marble when clunk, clunk, plop, it fell into the sewer drain.

“No!” Charlie cried, falling onto his hands and knees and peering down into the darkness of the sewers. There, illuminated by a thin ray of light, lay his marble, wet and dejected. And there, next to it, little pale faces with big wide eyes looked at him, then at each other and then at the marble.

A young boy—no older than an Echo or a Foxtrot—dove for the marble and cupped his translucent hand around it, claiming it as his own.

Well, there goes that, thought Charlie to himself, I’ll never see my marble again.

He stood up, glanced down at the blinking eyes with some aggravation and turned on his heels.

It took him two and a half minutes to hike back uphill, his calves screaming at him the entire way. Several times he tried to bury his hands in his pockets, but they felt quite empty without the marble, and this disturbed him to the point that he preferred letting his fingers get bitten by the cold rather than be constantly reminded of his loss.

Finally, he returned to the spot where his mother had left him.

However, there now stood an elderly man with a big belly and white whiskers.

“Excuse me sir, that’s my spot,” Charlie said politely, tapping on the elderly man’s shoulder. The man ignored him, staring straight ahead with his arms behind his back in contemplation. Charlie had to repeat his sentence three times, one louder than the next, in order to—at last—have a response.

“Does it have your name on it?” the elderly man snarled, turning abruptly towards Charlie.

“Huh?” Charlie asked, taking a step back in surprise.

“It’s not ‘huh’, it’s ‘pardon,’” the man corrected. “And this spot does not have anybody’s name on it, I checked.”

Charles stared at the elderly man for a while, stumped. It occurred to him that indeed he should have written his name on the spot in order to keep

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it for himself. And of course, with no law stating it or name scribbled on it, there was no way for Charlie to prove that the spot was his. He looked around, helpless, and figured it would be best to get in line and wait until he could get back to his spot.

So, for the following four hours, Charlie stood patiently in line, becoming a part of the long string of feet shuffling forward, anxiously awaiting their promised destination. By the time the sun began to set, there were only twenty people separating Charlie from his spot, and he had long forgotten about his marble.

Though each step forward caused his excitement to grow, the warmth had left with the sun, and the entire line started shivering and grumbling curse words under their breath. The hundreds of chattering teeth and shuffling feet made the line feel like a living being in itself, a specimen composed of other specimens.

Charlie was busy rubbing his arms, in hopes of sparking some warmth in them, when he heard the familiar voice.

“Svoboda!” his mother yelled. “Has anyone seen my Charlie Svoboda?”

Charlie peeked out from behind the large man standing in front of him and could barely make out the figure of his mother, who was clutching her skirt in distress and desperately looking around.

“Mom!” Charlie waved his hand high in the air, trying to get his mother’s attention.

However, he struggled to make himself heard over so many people’s feet shuffling, so he had to yell even more, “Over here, Mom!” As his mother turned, the man in front of him shifted his weight to his right foot, blocking Charlie from view. Perhaps the man was unaware of this action, but there may have been intentionality, for he was afraid Charlie was trying to cut the line.

It did occur to Charlie that he could just leave the line and hurry to his mother's side.

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However, he hesitated; the prospect of leaving the line was suddenly terrifying to him. So, as the pink and orange hues of the sunset were dragged down and swallowed into the Earth, Charlie kept his eyes trained on his mother as she screamed his name. Once the darkness swarmed the street s, he could only recognize her presence as he distinguished her wailing over the sound of the line’s teeth chattering. Soon, though, she was gone.

The man in front of Charlie turned around briskly to say, “Don’t bump into me.”

“But I haven’t bumped into you,” Charlie replied, looking up at the man and brushing away a tear he had not realized had been travelling down his cheek. The man’s face was but a mass of blurred features in the darkness of the lamp-less street. They both stood there quietly for a few seconds, making noise only to chatter their teeth or shuffle forward.

“Why don’t you go on home, boy,” the man said after some thought. “Don’t make your mama worry.”

“I have to get back to my spot,” Charlie said, tripping over his shoelaces and nearly bumping into the man.

“I said don’t bump into me,” the man growled, shoving Charlie back.

“I didn’t!” was the defensive response. The conversation seemed to die there, but after some minutes, Charlie thought well of asking, “What is this line for anyway?”

The man turned back around and hesitantly responded, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” and those were the last words the man spoke to Charlie Svoboda.

With no sun, Charlie easily lost track of time. Perhaps an hour or so had passed when he realized he could no longer see his own hands, much less identify the spot he was supposed to return to. It occurred to him that there was nothing really for him to do at that point other than shuffle forward and see where the line would take him. He certainly couldn't make it

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back home in such darkness. Besides, he had come so far.

Therefore, he waited. He shuffled on until his legs grew tired and his eyes drooped with exhaustion, he chattered his teeth along with everyone else and repeated the mumbled curse words of whoever was standing behind him.

Finally, Charlie’s feet started shuffling on different ground; wooden planks were creaking loudly under the weight of the line and underneath them, echoes resounded suggesting a hollowness beneath.

Then, suddenly, they began steeply ascending, and soon after, someone in front of him screamed. The scream was soon heard from underneath the planks and with a loud plop, the body fell into water.

More screams followed, which bothered Charlie since he was trying so hard to concentrate on his footing and avoid the large gaps in the bridge’s planks. The screams were of women, men and children; at first most of them were on the surprise spectrum, but by halfway up the bridge, the majority were of terror.

As Charlie reached the top of the climb, his body’s momentum was so used to going forward that he bumped right into the man in front of him. The latter had no time to reprimand him, because he had already lost his footing and had disappeared through one of the gaps, plummeting into the abyss. Charlie felt awfully sorry about it, but the adrenaline and confusion made the event less scarring somehow and he proceeded in crawling forward on his hands and knees, now descending on the other side of the bridge. He made sure to avoid the large gaps in the planks and shoved away any person who tried grabbing onto him to steady themselves.

When dawn finally cracked, Charlie had successfully completed the descent and glancing back, he could make out the outline of a large wooden bridge. The water underneath it, still, silent and black, was filled with shadowed faces and petrified eyes as their predicament dawned on them.

A young girl tapped on Charlie's shoulder and politely pointed out that, “The line is moving.”

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Charlie nodded somberly, aware of being a part of something bigger than himself, and shuffled onwards, staring at his black school shoes.

After climbing a couple of steps, he looked up from the ground and found himself inside a train. Here, the line at last fell apart as people sifted into their chosen cabins. Charlie sat himself down next to the window, staring out at the sun as it rose above the horizon, hovering just above the bridge.

Without the line, he felt deeply alone, but he could at last breathe. How good it felt to breathe by himself.

How peculiar, he thought, I had not realized I’d been holding my breath the entire time.

The young girl who had been standing behind him sat herself down by his side. Charlie recognized her from school, though she was a year above him. She smiled and that warmed him up a bit.

As the engine started, he thought for a second of his mother and father, of his marble and of the bridge. But he’d come so far and the train was already in motion; he might as well stay a little longer. After all, with such a long line, the destination had to be of great importance.

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I Am Lost Bailee Roberts | Acrylic on Canvas

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Green-Eyed Annie Labarca I want to fall asleep in your bed And wake up in your body Steal you away from the jibber jabber Mockingjays, parrots, jesters Leech on to you but can’t compare The sound of being disposable is deafening I’d go through the motions of your day Primp and preen your featherless wings You timid angel.

Smiling and giving a royal wave They might as well call me Elizabeth This kind of love goes by a different name.

His boyish charm and pheromonal stench Are recognizable in an instant A kind of self-induced hatred trance That leaves the need to shed my skin forever This kind of dance is one of puppeteers Limber limbs turn to liquid putty Like a Venus flytrap compressing Ever so quickly but so, so gentle Squeezing the life that remains Into a cyclical rhythm I see the green-eyed monster in the mirror And know that All the love With all of its names Resides in my heart and not in your head 104 | Perception

Title goes here In Fresher Waters Author Name lang delapa | Digital Art 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.`

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sinkhole Olivia Thompson

I look into the young girl’s eyes And their gaze sweeps through the backs of my eyelids.

The realization hits me while I’m in the shower Staring at my reflection in the silver knob.

My face morphs to someone unrecognizable, My eyes are crooked and slanted in a way That makes them look like melting glaciers Dripping down my cheeks and into my jaw.

My nose is not nearly the way I remember it in the morning.

It sits on my face, a door knocker misplaced And my mouth, just below it Constantly frowning, but never upset.

When I look at the ceiling I imagine myself looking back, Although this being is not a carbon copy, But a misprint.

Her torso is much too short It’s been cut up and taped together Like a ripped illustration in a children’s book, Or sewn like a patchwork blanket made for my grandmother.

Each time I lower my eyes to a mirror, I am surprised by the person looking back.

They seem captive, dysmorphic Almost like they’re trapped in a fun house mirror.

This body is not a fun house.

It is an asylum, A place of refuge, a place of safety.

It’s also coming back to your old house to see the furniture rearranged.

It’s uncomfortable, it’s seeing your daughter after being away on a long trip.

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It’s the smell of your house after a holiday.

It’s your home, But someone else is living in it.

The young girl is me; I know that now.

But she doesn’t recognize herself in the mornings without contorting herself And she can’t look in a mirror she can’t hold.

I look in the girl’s eyes and lose myself in the sinkhole.

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Splash lang delapa | Ink

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