PERSPECTIVES LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 100
FALL 2021
Our Staff Editor-in-Chief Kyle Bartell-Crawson Assistant Editor Ailie Kinnier Editorial Staff Carmine Acierno Lilly Mark Advisor Leanne Warshauer A magazine composed of original pieces from Suffolk County Community College’s students, staff, and friends. 550 College Road, Selden, NY 11784 On Instagram @perspectivelitmag Reach us via email @ perspectiveslm@gmail.com
Letter From the Editor
This is a celebratory issue, as it is the 100th issue of Perspectives Literary Magazine and although this was my first semester working with the magzine as Editor-in-chief, I value the commitment that this college and its students and staff have towards the arts. Whether you express yourself through pens, pencils, paintbrushes, keyboards, pottery, or cameras- through anything at all- then you are a part of the a global family of artists, and this publication allows that connection to be felt.
Thank you to everyone who entrusted us with their work this semester and thank you to Leanne Warshauer for keeping this train on its tracks while helping me lead our hard working staff of Perspectives Literary Magazine. I hope you enjoy this edition of the magazine and continue to support this student-run publication in the future; it has been a pleasure to work with everyone who was apart of making this happen. As always, send your creative work to perspectiveslm@gmail.com for a chance to be published in the upcoming issue. Take care,
Kyle Bartell-Crawson Editor-in-Chief
Table of Contents Witten Works 1 The Red Maple at 14 River Road Felicia Fiorentine
17 Broken Elija Laferriere
3 The Year Prima Mandolfo
19 Utahan Turnabout Kyle Bartell-Crawson
5 Bartender Kyle Bartell-Crawson
22 hot cup James Dewey
7 Love Lies Christina Arvantis
23 Ideal Hands Carmine Acierno
9 2,347 Joe Feldman
29 Watc/her Kayla Logan
13 The Stones That Hold Us Together Rachael Simone
31 your hair is growing long again Annie O’Sullivan
14 Death, Come. Find Me Raziel Levy
32 drift Annie O’Sullivan
15 Mirror Shannon Deherty
33 The Flowers, My Flowers Jillian Selgrad
Art and Photography Cover Art: Instagram Portrait Nicholas Terranova 4 Growing Linda Southard 8 Self Portrait in Color William Becker 16 Heritage Samantha VonEiff 18 Frozen Serenity William Becker 23 Still Life of Fruit Samantha VonEiff 30 Sad Clown Nicholas Terranova
The Red Maple at 14 River Road I slid into the kitchen in my bleached white socks as my mother sways to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon at the stove. The amber glow of 6 am melts across the kitchen; the bountiful red maple tree leaves are on the brink of draping across the lawn. I plopped myself down on the couch to watch my cartoons and enjoy my buttery pancake breakfast. 10 years since the move, I drive by. My brother has since sold the house as well, and a new family parks its car in the cobblestone driveway. The tree looks small and dull. I don’t remember it ever looking that way as a child. Stumbling down the maple out front, for what seems to be the hundredth time, I add another scar to my legs, pausing and darting right back up to admire the boys playing soccer next door. I still can’t stand the look of my bare legs in short dresses. We gather green leaves to concoct a “soup” of leaves and flowers. We giggle and serve our concoction to my older brother. He holds the spoon to his mouth and rubs his stomach, laughing and leaving a raving review of me and Grace’s “restaurant Grace and I lost touch after a fight over a mutual crush on William in the 3rd grade who we made a pact neither of us could marry. We signed the contract in my pink Barbie diary at our 4:00 meeting spot after school, under the maple tree.
-1-
I desperately itched to roam the block, or I itched because of the cheap polyester of my witch costume. I stood under the tree waiting for the neighborhood kids to gather in front of my house to begin our hunting route for the fancy full-size candy bars. Julie’s mom threw a jacket over her shoulders, destroying the essence of her Princess Ariel dress. The cat got out and must have attacked him that morning. My eyes burned with tears as I ran to my mother’s arms; I had never seen anything like this before. A wild rabbit was torn apart under the tree. This sight caused me to avoid the tree for a while… as well as the cat. My father tossed the rake on the lawn, giving up on the task. He despised cleaning up the leaves. The boxes were packed up and scattered; there was no Christmas tree that year. My father gathers me and a few lingering strands of lights to drape upon the bare winter branches of the maple tree out front. A makeshift tree will have to satisfy this year since my brother and his wife already began moving in their belongings as we prepare to hand over the key to them. The clean pink bedroom, with the beautiful view of the maple tree was destroyed. I walked in from school and there were strange men painting my walls. My brother hired painters and my father packed all my belongings, with no chance to say goodbye. I picked up a small pink paint chip and slid it into my pocket before I walked out into the hall in shock. I picked a leaf from the front lawn when no one was looking. Both the paint chip and dry leaf reside in the current scrapbook under my bed. Our new house had no tree for me to climb. - Felicia
Fiorentine
-2-
The Year My feet are dirty and bare at the start, I only take four steps. Each texture under me, I feel with my toes. A shiver, I feel the snow crunch beneath me. Another step. I crush earth’s giftsflowers, not meant to last. A stumble, and the flowers turn to grass. A bird’s mating call, snail slime with no culprit, but it suddenly all goes away. The fourth jump is quick, cold and dead. The snap of dry twigs. Gourds and falling acorns. Leaves and the wind mark the start of my birthday.
- Prima
Mandolfo
-3-
Growing - Linda Southard Ceramic sculpture -4-
Bartender An old mentor once told him, “No one has ever died from not getting drunk fast enough.” He believed the words and was certain it was true, but because of the way certain people acted out on the other side of his bar, he wondered if he had missed a recent headline reading: “Local bartender murdered a baker’s dozen in South Hampton with his slow, mindless hands.” If something of that sort had happened, he was certain someone would have mentioned it to him because of his occupation, and he also believed the day would eventually come when someone finally had something interesting to tell him. Daily, a customer would claim, “Haven’t seen a nicer office than this here one in all my life,” and another customer, a few barstools away would nod along. The bartender agreed too, but his mind too often wandered away from all the treasures within arm’s reach, and towards thoughts which cause much suffering in the minds of young people who believe it must, just must, be better someplace else. All twenty-three Barstools seat a faceless crowd; friends of the sitting hover over shoulders and behind the friends of the sitting stand the thirsty and nervous ones who’ve been fiending for a drink ever since they brushed their wine-stained teeth with Colgate. Barstool eight claims, “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes!” The bartender shrugs off the comment but files it away in the back of his mind because he is trapped in the trenches. He’s waist deep in the hole which the service-bar had dug for him; a hole which death couldn’t move him from, no matter whom the reaper held because there is no time for death right now, although he wishes all twenty-three Barstools would just… A local finds his way to the bar-top and says, “Bartender. Meet my friend John. His son Jake. Jake just returned from Iraq and needs a drink.”
“I can imagine. Nice to meet you two; what are you gentlemen drinking?”
Barstool Eight interrupts, “Excuse me! Bartender! I’ve been waiting thirty minutes!”
You worthless old hag, can’t you tell time with that dense, dense mind? Sit back down and for the sake of all, shut up and tell this young man you’re thankful he has the balls!” The local says, “Sure crawled out of the woodworks tonight, huh,” with a wink, and the bartender slings their drinks together and then addresses Barstool Eight, “I’ll be right with you.” A scoff rips through his ear, boiling his blood with melting steel.
Go fuck yourself! Not here of course… save us all from that rancid display of stale pleasure.
“Thanks for your service, Jake. These are on the house. Welcome home.”
The local and his friends disappear into the crowd and as the Bartender springs towards Barstool Eight, he hears the familiar voice of the local call out, “Good luck!” trailing his self-amusing laughter.
-5-
Addressing the issue he says, “Alright, what can I do for you?” and then notices the child to her right. Must be the son; sorry kid. “Hmm. I’m not sure…” An exchange of words which needs to be only five, ten, fifteen seconds turned into one hundred and twenty, and most of those precious ticks were spent mumbling to herself. For Earth’s sake! Answer the damned question! Thirty minutes you sat there stewing in your own shit without giving a thought to the question you knew would be asked? To hell with you and your poor, helpless son. Meanwhile, Barstool Four looks thirsty, the two Barstools who told the Bartender to give them a minute to look over the menu have hands folded over closed menus, and Barstools Eleven through Sixteen are being filled with a new group.
“Well, what’ll it be?”
“Can you give us one more minute?”
Tonight will certainly be the night someone dies from not getting drunk fast enough. I’ll be sure to see to that.
The Bartender serves everyone and answers a few futile questions with his smiling mask hanging on by a fraying thread. After all Barstools are taken care of, he sprints over to the service-bar and scoops, pours, and shakes at breakneck speed and the bar quiets down as they watch the master chop away at the string of tickets which endlessly print from his Micros printer. After the final server walks away with her drinks, he takes a breath before turning around to see that most of the Barstools are looking at him with wide-eyes, but there are plenty of empty drinks and few new ghostly figures on the other side of his bar, so, he goes around the not-so-merry-go-round, again.
A gorgeous woman says, “You’re really good at your job.”
I know. No. Be nice. She’s got cash. “Thank you. That means a lot. Enjoy the drink.” As he drops her tip into his tip bucket, he can’t help himself to another intrusive thought: Choke on it. Barstool Eight is gone, along with most of the others. The bartender remembers he has off tomorrow; his first day off in nine days. It’s been ninety-eight days since Memorial Day and he feels every one of those abusive days lingering in his bones. He takes a shot with a friend, another with a server and another alone. The skeletons of the Barstools remain but the human-like figures are gone; he counts his drawer and hands the money to his manager. “Good job tonight. Listen. Sally called me and she tested positive… I need you tomorrow.”
To hell with this place. I quit.
“Okay, Joan.”
- Kyle
-6-
Bartell-Crawson
Love Lies A sparkle, a flash, lures him in. Unannounced, he moves through water. Walks on it. A touch brings him melted knees, A kiss ignites a hundred flames He’s high. You’re the one. Fool’s gold he still pursues. Pools lay at his feet, Fires blaze. How much smoke has he inhaled? You took him in. He took them home. Love. Lies. - Christina
Arvanitis
-7-
Self Portrait in Color -
-8-
William Becker
2,347 It was in an excessively sterile environment that Maria awoke at last, six hours after the incident. The ward was silent, excepting the chatter of a far-off television and the buzzing of the lights overhead. Trapped in this unfamiliar environment, as she had an IV, Maria began to become anxious. Half an hour passed with silence unbroken. With increasing worry, Maria began to study her surroundings in hopes of determining where she was. There was a heart monitor, but no characteristic beeps. There was a locked and shuttered window to her left, a blank, bright white wall to her right, and a television hanging on the wall in front of her, caked in dust and cobwebs. She became even more confused when she noticed there was no sink, no instruments, no magnifying light above her head, and not even a single pair of gloves. The stillness was then broken ever so briefly as a man’s screams emerged, steadily gaining in volume as he approached but decreasing in pitch as he rapidly tired. Maria, being groggy, couldn’t quite understand what he was saying, even after he passed her own half-closed door at breakneck speed, screaming with all his might. She then heard two motors, incredibly loud as they used all the power they had. The scene ended as the screams suddenly ceased, the motors then humming along in reverse as the man was dragged back, sedated, to wherever he had come from. Fearing that this would be her only chance at any human contact and realizing that her IV bag was on a wheeled metal pole-cart, Maria, overcoming her dizziness and fear, stood up and peered out, only to find nothing: all she could see was an empty hallway, painted a bright, clinical white, excessively lit and perfectly straight, continuing as far as the eye could see in both directions. The monotony was unbroken save for a single alcove about twenty-five doors north. When Maria travelled there, however, it sat empty, with shadows of what once was: perhaps a desk, based on the clean circles surrounded by grime where the legs used to sit. A stopped clock hung above, and the walls were tinged ever so slightly with the black of many scuffs. She then walked towards the sound of that distant television, pushing each door open as she went, only to find rooms identical to her own. Each one had a man or woman in the bed, but they all seemed to be unresponsive, even as their heart monitors showed activity. At the twelfth door, she found the activated television. The screen was burned-in as if it had been on for years, and it was covered in dust; a man was asleep sitting up at the end of his bed, eyes glued to the screen, head slumped; he was alive, but it was as if his existence consisted of watching the television in anticipation of some event. As Maria studied this most curious sight, she heard a motor whirring; it steadily became louder until it seemed to stop right behind her. Swallowing her fear, she slowly turned around.
-9-
“STATE YOUR MEDICAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER.” It was a humanoid robot, six feet tall and silvery-white in color, well-advanced for its day. At this sight, Maria’s eyes widened. Her heart beat strongly and quickly; her brow swam with perspiration. Attempting to calm herself, she softly stated, “9202.1266.3377.” “THANK YOU. PLEASE WAIT WHILE I LOOK UP YOUR INFORMATION.” The two locked eyes and stood silently for about thirty seconds. “MARIA VASQUEZ. AGE THIRTYSEVEN. WELCOME TO THE HEAD INJURY AND COMA WARD. IT APPEARS THAT YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO BE IN THIS LOCATION AT THIS TIME. MAY I ESCORT YOU TO YOUR MEDICAL SUITE?” “Yes.” “PLEASE FOLLOW ME.” “May I ask a question?” “PROCEED.” “Um... Okay. Are there any doctors here?” “THERE ARE TWO THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED FORTY SEVEN DOCTORS IN THIS FACILITY.” “How many are... Human?” “NEGATIVE. NO HUMAN STAFF REPORTED.” “Oh.” “IF YOU HAVE NO FURTHER QUESTIONS, I WILL CONTINUE.” It paused. “CONTINUING. PLEASE ALLOW ME TO REMOVE YOUR INTRAVENOUS SOLUTION BAG.” It did as it said it would. “YOU ARE HERE FOR: IMPACT INJURY TO OCCIPITAL LOBE. I WILL NOW EXAMINE YOU TO DETERMINE IF THIS CONDITION STILL EXISTS.” “That won’t be necessary,” she stuttered, as a moment of disassociation took hold. The robot paused for a moment. “ACCORDING TO MY SENSORS, YOU ARE HAVING A PANIC ATTACK. ARE YOU HAVING A PANIC ATTACK? PLEASE ANSWER THIS QUERY WITH YES OR NO.” “YES!” “ACCORDING TO YOUR CHARTS, YOU ARE SEVERELY MENTALLY ILL. AS YOU MAY BE PRONE TO VIOLENCE WHILE PANIC IS OCCURRING, YOU WILL BE TAKEN TO OUR PSYCHIATRIC WARD FOR OBSERVATION. PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU.”
-10-
“No...” “PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU.” “Wait just a minute, I’m not...” “PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU.” “Please, you don’t understand, I’m...” “PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU.” “I’m calm now, see? I’m not panicking; you don’t need to sedate me...” “PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU.” “I’m okay, I swear to you! I’m calm! I’m calm now! Do you want to examine me? Go ahead, I’m calm! I can handle it! I can...” “PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU.” This continued for some time before Maria, adrenaline pouring through her veins from the panic attack, tore the metal pole of her IV cart from its base and speared the robot directly through the chest, damaging some of its circuitry. Unfortunately, the robot quickly recovered. “VIOLENT PATIENT ALERT. BACKUP IS ON THE WAY. STAND DOWN AND BE SEDATED OR YOU WILL BE RENDERED NON-VIOLENT BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.” Maria tried to talk the robot out of its stubbornness, but its programming dictated that it must never be convinced or stand down to a patient deemed mentally ill. “PLEASE WAIT WHILE I SEDATE YOU” was uttered once more before the robot grabbed her arm to inject her with tranquilizers; Maria, however, managed to push it away. At this point, two security robots entered the room. ”VIOLENT PATIENT ALERT. YOU HAVE COMMITTED ASSAULT IN THE FIRST DEGREE. YOU ARE HEREBY UNDER ARREST. YOU WILL BE TAKEN INTO CUSTODY BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.” Maria kept panicking as the robots grew closer to her, resulting in her shoving one until it fell over. Three bots called in unison: “VIOLENT PATIENT ALERT. YOU HAVE COMMITTED OBSTRUCTING ARREST. ALL NECESSARY MEASURES WILL BE UTILIZED TO THEIR FULLEST EXTENT TO BRING YOU INTO CUSTODY. YOU WILL BE RENDERED NON-VIOLENT BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.” Against all odds, she continued to fight; she valiantly wielded her rod as club and spear, battering and piercing her three enemies. The robots shocked her, but she stood; grabbed her, but she freed herself; beat her, but she endured. Sharpened from her attacks, she drove the rod through the robot’s batteries, creating a short circuit and killing it instantly. The other two ceased their attacks
-11-
and fell silent before they said in unison, “BOT DOWN. BOT DOWN. MURDERER AT LARGE. MURDERER MUST NOT ESCAPE. VIOLENT PATIENT MUST BE RENDERED NON-VIOLENT. IF VIOLENT PATIENT SURRENDERS, SEDATION. IF VIOLENT PATIENT RESISTS, LOBOTOMY. VIOLENT PATIENT, MAKE YOUR CHOICE.” The room fell silent. After forty-two seconds of immeasurable tension, Maria calmly lay down her arms, remaining quiet. She was immediately seized. “VIOLENT PATIENT. YOU ARE A FOOL. LOBOTOMIZE. LOBOTOMIZE. LOBOTOMIZE...”
-12-
- Joe
Feldman
The Stones That Hold Us Together And if I’m honest, the only difference between you and I, is the amount of stones weighing down the human heart. But if we concrete our stones together, the rocks could locate the tower of love. And at least there, you could whisper your dreams for a while. - Rachael
Simone
-13-
Death, Come. Find me Death, oh, sweet and cruel—oh, Death. Why have you spared me? I hear people brag: “Oh, I should be dead.” Why have you left me on read? Oh Death, you take everyone else— So, why do I keep making it out alive? Mother’s bloodshot face, Father’s cold embrace. Oh Death, you found them. Plucked them from the stem. A flower adorned with both: Sickly, pretty. Oh Death, what odes will the ballads sing? What travesty due you expect to bring? - Raziel
Levy
-14-
Mirror where do you go what do you do when there is no one left to comfort you you search far and wide yet all you have to do is look into your own eyes - Shannon
Doherty
-15-
Heritage - Samantha VonEiff Acrylic -16-
Broken Who are we to fix what is broken? There are some things in life that may be better off left shattered, instead of rebuilt. Being broken opens the mind to the concept that things can go wrong. Only from being broken do we understand problems, and how to fix them. Ancient cities have failed for a reason. Why do we need to dig through and discover their secrets? What if the secrets we’re looking for, are what broke them in the first place? People have many views on society, and it always comes down to the broken being the undesirables. Why do we shut away the ones who have the answers? By trying to change these people, we are locking away the value of who and what they truly are. The broken things in life are cast away without a second glance. Never being understood. Being broken doesn’t need to be something we hide, being ashamed of it. It can be used to overcome the challenges of life. The broken are only so, if we try to rebuild and reshape them. - Elija
Laferriere
-17-
Frozen Serenity - William Becker Ceramic pottery
-18-
Utahan Turnabout
Jack passes the bottle to Rose while asking, “Do ya see the face in that rock over there?”
“Which rock are ya talkin’ bout, Jack? There are thousands, tens of thousands. Gotta gimme a little help here.” He points vaguely, “That one,” and then lightly lifts Rose’s hand, trying his best to point her finger towards the face in the rock. “Riiight about there. Well, ya gotta lower ya head a bit. Yes. Just like that. You see it?” She looks like a pirate wielding a spyglass. “Nope. Haven’t found it.” Jack gently guides Rose’s arm down and says, “Ahh it’s alright. The face is frowning anyways.” “I don’t want to see that, Jack! I’m happy. You’re happy. Why drag a sad stranger into all of this?” She smirks and takes a swig. He laughs and appreciates her point; then he looks up towards the horizon and away from the rocky landscape, “The sky Rose. The clouds are orange and they’re pink. The sky is blue while the clouds are red…ahhh. Pass that bottle Rose. It’s beautiful.” He takes a swig and when she speaks, her tone echoes the desert’s serenity, “We don’t need to leave tomorrow, Jack. We really don’t. Just one more night, what’s the rush?” After wiping at his lip, he responds like a father does to his pouty daughter after being denied something quite reasonable “I know… .I know. It’s just that the last phone call with my dad doesn’t sit well with me. You remember, right? We got cut off as we were making ways down this deserted road.” “Of course I remember, Jack. It was on speaker; he told us to enjoy every moment of the trip. He wished he could’ve been out there with us.” “Ah so do I. Sorta. It’s great being alone with you out here. Me and him camped not too far from here on our road trip. We had the best times in Utah… I told you the stories. He was telling us about his aches and pains when the phone cut out. We never said goodbye. He knows we’re out here and I’m sure he understands, but I just wanna see how he’s doing.” “It’s the right thing to do, Jack. Let’s just enjoy a final sunset here and head back into town first thing in the mornin’. We can charge our phones at that dinner and make some calls. Let everyone know we’re still alive.” Trying his best to hold back laughter, he says, “Sounds good to me… Hey, you uh remember what he said about the wolves?” He laughs and notices Rose’s face is blank and then her poker face fades into nervousness. Jack wraps his arm around her waist instantly and pulls her tight. “It was only a joke, you know that.”
-19-
“I know it was! But why’d he have to say it?”
“You know him”
“I know… I love that I do.”
They stand up and walk towards the fire-pit and Rose sits down on her rock she’d claimed as a chair. She turns to look at Jack; then she looks past him and asks for the camera. She presses a few buttons before aiming it towards him but before she takes the photo she says, “Lookie here, Jackeee”. He doesn’t smile, instead he looks at Rose with a peaceful stare. He’s holding the bottle of cabernet while leaning back against a leafless tree, a skeleton tree, a desert tree; his red hat isn’t on quite right, and his cheeks are wind-and-sun burned and he’s wearing long johns as pants. The powdered clouds breathlessly pass over his shoulders and behind the twisted limbs of the tree; a purplish paint is lightly coating the moon. “Oh, Jack. You’re a mess. A wonderful fucking mess.”
“You’re the most beautiful bum I’ve ever seen.”
“Aww, you really have a way with words Jack.”
He smiles at her, and she smiles back while waving at him to come join her on the ground; he blows her a kiss and then says, “Let’s get this fire going, it’ll be another cold night.” They spend their final night in the backcountry of Escalante wrapped in one another’s arms, fireside, while taking turns at the bottle of bottom shelf wine; they laugh at the shadows on each other’s faces and smile at the expressions of love they see in one another. They rejoice in the fact they are continuing this journey for time unknown, in parts unknown. They fall asleep suddenly and Jack awakes an hour later when the sky is darkest; before he scoops Rose up off the ground, he lays on his back with eyes beamed up towards their endless sky. A chill runs down his back, so, he scoops Rose off the ground and brings her back to their tent; she laughs when they’re halfway there and begins swinging her feet like an excited child whose feet don’t quite touch the woodchips beneath the swing. They sleep a dreamful night. Through their tent’s window he squints at the deep-blue-black sky canvas with its silhouetted boulders and distant plateaus slowly revealing themselves from the oppressing night. Jack brushes Rose’s hair away from her face and whispers, “Rose. Are you up? You awake?” He knows she isn’t awake, but Jack wants her to be there for their last sunrise together here, wherever they were exactly. He nudges her side with his finger but she doesn’t budge; after freeing himself from the blankets, he crouches out from the tent, being sure to zipper the tent behind him, quietly, like a child gently opening a bag of forbidden potato chips during the night. The frost on the ground reminds him of home: winters on the island when him and his dad drive across the bridge, towards a beloved snow-covered coastal shore with surfboards humming on the roof of his rusted Ford Bronco, the rising sun blinding them behind a steamy windshield. He can still smell the musty seats of the leaky truck. A soft voice breaks his daydream, “Goood morning sweet Jack. Coffee ready?” She shuffles towards him at snail’s pace with their comforter draped over her shoulders, lightly dragging in the dusty dirt.
-20-
“Look at you. Ya look like an upside-down muffin, too cute to describe. Coffee’s almost ready.”
She burst out in laughter and then she joins him near the percolator.
They’re silent until the coffee is ready; they breathe in the perfect peace.
Jack fills up their mugs and they sip.
He dumps the last gritty sip in the dirt and begins to wrap up camp; he tells Rose not to worry about helping. So, she sits back down on her rock and goes back and forth from watching Jack and the rising sun in the cloudless sky. She is glad the wolves kept away during the night. With the car fully loaded, they slowly make their way along the dirt road until Highway 12 smooths things out and where power cables begin their fluid dance against desert-blue-sky. The diner is empty and the waitress recognizes them from a few days before;
“Goood morning. Welcome. Any table you’d like.”
“Good morning. Thank you. Do you mind if I charge my phone?”
“Not at all.” Maria pointed him towards the outlet and then he joined Rose at the window booth. Jack and Rose promise to continue anywhere but East; Arizona, Colorado, Montana, then Oregon… anywhere but the bland Midwest. They’re not ready to head back home; they’re ready for more nights like the starry ones in New Mexico, the dangerous one in Texas, and the stoned night in Alabama. Their momentum is strong, and it is taboo to end something so special when the going is effortless. Maria brings over some coffee. Suddenly, gunshots seem to rifle through the peace. Jack apologizes for having his ringer set so loud and walks over to the outlet to shush the noise. He mumbles, “Damn phone always changing the mood” to no one. With the coffee mug still in his hand, the familiar knotty feeling in his gut stirs itself up, a feeling he hasn’t felt since he left home; his phone screen reads: Amy: Call me NOW. Mom: Jack, we are worried sick. Please call me when you see this. Love you so muchmom. John: Call your mom, brotha. Love ya. Missed call Amy:12. Missed call Mom:4. Missed call Uncle Kevin: 2. Mark Boss: Can you work Thursday? Jack dials his dad’s number, but the phone goes straight to voicemail; he places his mug of coffee down on the table and walks outside to call his mom. She picks up after one and a half rings. - Kyle
-21-
Bartell-Crawson
hot cup The tuna fish mix we made yesterday winked at me from the fridge. It whispered, Love, breakfast? I replied with the last piece of cracked wheat toast, onion, and sweet relish. Pray, not just fish from a can, this was mayo, celery, artichoke hearts, and a sprig of parsley. Indeed, if all sandwiches were this power-packed, gods would fall, day-old vendors would sprout on city street corners shouting, Skip yer good-fer-nuttin’ cawfee! Gitchyer chicken-of-the-sea mid-morning IED! Cats would faint. And a wafting like a wall would smack the eyes of foreigners stumbling off a plane at JFK, coughing… -James Dewey
-22-
Still life of Fruit- Samantha VonEiff Charcoal
The following story is written by Carmine Acierno
Ideal Hands
-23-
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-28-
Watc/her As the silence slowly filled the empty spaces between your bodies you were content with studying the way her lips curled up in the corners to form her smile, or how she looked at you in a way that screamed those three bittersweet words, you noticed details- like how her strawberry lip-gloss glistened from her lips only making the desire for her pale hands to caress you, to care for you, more profound. As the silence slowly filled the spaces between our bodies, you turned away. You studied the imperfections of our time, all the damned fists that suffused the drywall again screaming those three bittersweet words, you stopped noticing detailsOnly making the desire for my flawed hands to caress you, to care for you, to weaken. She was your muse, and I am your despair. -Kayla
Logan
-29-
Sad Clown - Nicholas Terranova Nupastels on Bristol paper
-30-
your hair is growing long again it’s darker this time but your eyes still shine and your laughter fills the room you thank me for changing the subject tell me you’re fine let the door slam behind you and look to the stars: you wonder what it’s like to be somewhere else as you stare at the sky she cries for you like I do; I want to keep you safe you’ve never been one to be held so close but it’s all I know how to do and I know you are hurting some sort of eternal pain beneath the surface. pour yourself out for me all over your floor I’ll let you clean up the mess as many times as you need. I’ll drive the car through the rain put your feet on the dashboard wearing somebody else’s shoes because you were too afraid to put on your own. run through the streets with your shirt over your head I scream with you in search of the moon. so perfectly flawed so perfectly human so perfectly you. come back inside, dear. wash your hands of this mess lay your head on the floor let your heart rest.
-31-
Annie
drift smoke your cigarette in the snow like the sickness you beat— it’s not the same, same difference smoking kills you’re killing me; I don’t know who my friends are, I don’t know what I mean, I stare at the window but all I can see is the reflection of you in the smoke 1920s just a myth speakeasies and dance parties pins in my hair take me home and get me wild run your hands through my hair it’s an innocent desire curiosity killed the cat and I’m curious as hell but satisfaction brought her back tell me what you think of that tell me your hopes your dreams your quietest screams stand in the falling snow light your cigarette let me go.
O’Sullivan -32-
The Flowers, My Flower I Lavender, Periwinkles, and ChrysanthemumsBabička’s eyes shined bright in the sunlight. But as she bent over the flowerpots, I saw her drop the shovel. She’d mutter a prayer at night: “Allow my plants to grow,” II But he was deaf to her cries. Every winter the flowers turned frail, Lungs withered away alongside the petals. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t drink, The liquor went sour. Pinot Grigio, white wine soothed her soul. Yet her liver was bruised by the nightly cocktails. III Chemo had become inutile. Babička had become familiar with the ache. It was a longing for the perennials. She craved death, she craved rebirth. IV No one knows the pain her love consumes, Flowers blooming throughout her head, Flowers dying beside the hospital bed. The green room turned grey. No one gets out alive, not even the flowers. - Jillian
Selgrad
-33-
-34-
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perspectives issue 100
