Lit mag final v2[1]

Literary Magazine Final 2014-2015

Photo by: Dean S. '15

Editor-in-Chief:

Literary Contributors:

Daniel G.

Meital A.

Senior Editors: Graduating

Anna B.

Jocelyn B. Jenny K.

Yitzhak M. Jacob S.

(elyn S.

Rising Senior Editors:

Jenna B. Kara E. Lior F.

Dov M.

Jeremy S.

Rising Junior Editor:

Tamar K.

Rising Sophomore Editor:

Miriam R. Staff:

Meital A. Ben B. Uri B.

Shayna B. Noah B. Noah F. Nina F.

Angela F.

Nathan F. Ellie L. Dori S.

Samantha S.

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Zachary A. Rosie B. Anna B.

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Rayut B.

Samantha B.

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Melanie B.

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Jocelyn B. Noah F.

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Jenny K.

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Daniel G.

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Tamar K.

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Ellie L.

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Jenn M.

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Evan Q.

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Batsheva M. Yitzhak M. Alex R.

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Rebecca R.

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Jacob S.

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(elyn S.

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Paul W.

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Jeremy S. Zachary S.

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Dean S.

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Miriam

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Back Cover: Dov M.

Faculty Advisor: Mr. Elden Schneider

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Dean S.

Mrs. Rina Goloskov

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Anna

Publication Consultant:

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Front Cover:

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Jocelyn B.

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Jordan K.

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Dov M.

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Arielle A. Aly C.

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Ethan C.

(arley F.

Photography and Art:

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Shayna B.

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Faculty Pg.

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Mrs. (alaine Steinberg

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Mira B.

Yael W.

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Late B : )a ha

A. '15

) shouldn t have left her behind. ) know that she was running late, but that doesn t matter. She

needs to get to school too. Plus, now ) am going to get lectured later about the fact that ) don t need to get to school so early. Why can t she just be on time for once?

These were the thoughts that shot through my head as ) raced back to the house. Driving

in a

? That s no big deal. Bertha can take the extra speed. The big deal is that ) left my little sister at home

today. Every morning, she and ) get in the car and go to school. And every morning, she is late.The night before we even agree on a time. (ow does :

sound? ) ask.

That s fine, she responds. ) have some homework to do in the morning anyway.

Why then, the next morning, am ) sitting by the door at :

and my little sister is still upstairs

packing her lunch? )s she doing this on purpose? )s she completely incapable of being on time or even

early? These are the questions ) ponder as ) pace back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

Back to the situation at hand. ) pull up in front of the house, dreading what the upcoming

mi-

nute car ride will be with my tired and angry little sister. First, there will be yelling. Then, ) will have to

let her play her music as an apology. ) can t stand Ariana Grande. After that, all will be forgiven. That is, until the car ride home, at which point ) will be guilted once again just so that we can listen to FM Radio. ) do not like the Top ten to the Top

(its. ) do not care about the Top

.

(its. And ) would not like to lis-

(its. When ) get home, however, ) think this ordeal will be over. After ) explain to my

father the punishments that my sister has already imposed, ) think he will let me off the hook.

Tomorrow, if she s not on time, ) am not turning back to get her.

Photo by: Dov M. '16

Floai g By: Helyn S. '15 With tumbledown hair and rat s nest eyes, she looks Past the bow To a sea comprised of uncertainty, Tempered with salty waves of ) could and ) should and ) didn t because ) can t.

The seagulls glide upon the heavens And squawk empty encouragements -- platitudes.

She s reached a new latitude. (er salt-hardened ponytail whips the pearly Neck beneath it, leaving ruby trails.

The travails of such a girl are Unspeakable.

She remembers when water was as clear As her ignorant mind.

She was raised only by the tides and nurtured Only by the sun, Swaddled in silence she learned To float.

There is a castle on an island and she Circles the moat.

Often her crusted fingernails graze and Chip at the stone fortress, but the Sea carries her back to the blueness.

The familiar newness.

The anywhere but where she strives to be.

Photo by: Anna B.'15

Joe B : Yitz M. '15 ) shouldn't have left without him. But ) definitely can t go back. No wait ) absolutely have to.

You see, Joe is my friend. Not joe, as in the typical cup of, but capital-j Joe, which ) assume is an ap-

propriate name for hot chocolate. )t started in the summer, when ) had the privilege of tasting

Nestle hot chocolate packets for the first time. They weren t the gross dark chocolate kind, but the flawless rich chocolate delicacies.

Naturally, when ) returned home, ) bought a box of fifty packets. The packets are important.

They provide the perfect amount of chocolaty powder, whatever that stuff is made of. ) didn t leave my house to purchase the box, because ) refuse to live like it s the

s. ) ordered it on Amazon. Why

do they sell hot chocolate? ) do not know, but ) do know that you can sign up for it to be delivered

to your house regularly. And when my box arrived, ) shed real tears. Okay, that s not true, but you get the point. )t s really delicious.

So now, as ) pull away from my house in the bright yellow van ) call my home for a good

eighth of my day, ) don t know what to do with my life. We roll by house after house, and ) wonder if anyone inside has ever done anything so terrible. ) wonder if they have ever even tasted hot chocolate before. Do they know how ) feel? By forgetting my hot

chocolate, ) have thrown away my whole life. ) see no point to education. Tell my parents ) m sorry. ) m not going to school anymore. No wait, really ) have to go back. ) ll just tell her.

Shirley, ) think ) forgot something.

Artwork by: Jocie B. '15

Laughing Attack By: Evan Q. '15

Whenever ) m in school and called on to read out loud,

) start trembling in fear when ) hear my name s sound,

Not because ) m afraid of making a mistake

But because ) tend to laugh.

Even though this could cheer up my classmates days,

)f you look through my smile and red face )nto my eyes,

You can see the frustration and anger in my mind. )f ) can t control myself while reading a poem,

Then how will ) fare in life s important moments to come --

College interviews, corporate meetings, and maybe even a simple conversation?

) better fix this now before ) ruin my reputation; The more ) focus on it the more ) fail, So how am ) supposed to prevail?

Artwork by: Jocie B.' 15

Prometheus By: Anna B. '15 (BT Contest Winner)

Beauty lies in returning to the earth,

Yet the preservation mentality

Connects my body to my human worth

From which ) do wish final amnesty.

Why take the thing from which my spirit

fled

and pump it with sour formaldehyde

Then force me into the hard coffin s bed,

Prettied til mortician was satisfied?

But there s one respite from my silhouette

Which calls to me from fiery phoenix nests,

Forces me not to lie still and perfect.

Photo by: Dov M. '16

With my body s last purpose ) profess

Through final flame of fire ) will be

No longer bound, a spirit truly free.

The Time I Found Out My Bunny Was a Murderer By: Jordan K. '15 ) left for Daniel Moskowitz s birthday party with two bunnies in my home, and returned to only one in his cage.

What happened! ) cried.

My mother looked at me with a solemn stare.

Mom? What happened?

Murder.

And from that moment on, as ) looked into the cold black eyes of my bunny Stache, ) saw him for the ruthless killer he truly was.

Please B : Yitz M. '15 ) m not sure if begging is below me.

But it might be necessary. ) think ) will attach a letter to my college applications.

Dear College, Please accept me.

Sincerely, Yitz Because what really distinguishes between applicants?

Everyone has the same grades And test scores And extra-curricular activities.

So ) think ) ll add the letter, just to be safe.

Photo B : A

a B. '15

Photo by: Dov M. '16

Insomnia B

:

Re e a R. '15

Artwork by: Jocie B. '15

Eyes close Door shut Try to sleep ) m in a rut )t s almost like The time stands still As ) wait to fall Asleep, tranquil But the thoughts don t stop They run through quickly ) want to pause ) m feeling sickly (ours, they tick by And ) cannot rest (opefully soon : at best

Trapped B : Re e a R. '15 The cold wall up against my smooth cheek And ) can detect movement.

Eyes, sterile and unblinking, Turn to face what appears blank, A dusty gray surface, enclosing around me.

What is beyond that wall?

Beyond my solitude, my emptiness Civilization?

Not quite.

But ) can hear life.

Photo by: Anna B. '15

Innocence By: Yitz M. '15 ) m five years-old, ) m in the pool, and ) couldn t be happier.

But then ) see something ) want – a pool noodle.

My cousin is using it.

But that won t be a problem. ) have a special trick. please.

May ) please Use that noodle?

No. (e says.

Well he must not have heard what ) said. please May ) please Use that noodle?

No. (e says.

Now ) must not understand what he said. ) m confused ) said please. please Means ) get what ) want.

Why? Why can t ) have the noodle? ) m using it. (e says.

But ) said please. ) said please. please Must be broken.

Photo by: Dean S. '15 Thi gs That Go Bu p i the Night By: Eva Q. '15 Those things that go bump in the night )nstill many with fright They look like shooting stars soaring through the sky Sent from the power-hungry wishing to improve their own lives Greediness consumes their sight and makes them blind From the effects on the other side No time to hide, babies wake up crying at night Life must be meaningless to them There is no way they can pretend To not see the blood on their hands But why is no one stopping them Because they don t care either They just keep following the situation with their own greedy stare They use it to start conversations, to get attention Life is meaningless to them

Innocence By: Helyn S. '15 The curve of their cheek The shine in their eyes The curl of their lashes These are criminal The video shows them expressing Remorse Describing their Existence These are boys Sons Babies They may have killed but there is humanity in their Eyes That makes me want to embrace them Their voices choke and glide like my Brothers used to They sound like my dad and my teachers They sound like souls ) am the first to fear but also to forgive They put down the bottle and found god Or yoga or poetry They talk of the prison of Clipped wings and promises and coupons The hope they found in a butt of a joint Together with people who seemed to care A little extra money here Or there For their mama Who now cries whenever they call The daughter who sobs asking how he could do it all When he knew she needed him This is not about politics or Semantics )t s about humanity Pure and free Going to a cell every night We are all made up of cells Some so ingrained they seem to be our Life source But a hug is sometimes no longer cell enough To keep the bad Away

Artwork by: Aly C. '15

Haiku By: Jenn M. '15 Middle School Choir

) never paid attention No solo for me

Passage By: Jenny K. '15

) shouldn t have left her behind. But ) had always feared that she would be the one to leave me behind. For Time, she knew no boundaries, and with her bouncy ringlets, she jumped from one playground to another without a care in the world. ) matched her stride for stride, of course, climbing up the slides with the best of them. But Time was oh-so mischievous and she tricked me with her wit; as my limbs grew and the playground shrunk, Time remained on the monkey bars, smiling at me from her upside down stance. But they told me Time and ) needed to part ways, so with my lip trembling, ) waved goodbye to my favorite playmate, biting back tears because big kids didn t cry any more. And so with Time in the back of my mind, ) continued on. Barbeques, card games, and movie nights all enthralled me until one day ) realized that Time once again stood beside me. She was different though; she now had chubby cheeks and drew Poke mon and loved milk. But as she held up her hand to my now brown tresses and giggled at my funny pronunciation of words like quarter, ) realized maybe it was okay that she was different. And so Time and ) wandered on. But Time had a habit of running off, for when ) lamented about orthodontist appointments, Time was already fifteen and braces-free. When ) was shivering in fuzzy hats, Time was already swimming laps. Nevertheless, ) forgave Time because she said she would never wander off for long.

But then one day, ) walked in and saw that Time was really not herself. She had crows eyes and complained of pain in her joints, quite different from the Time ) always knew. So ) looked in her eyes and wondered what would come of Time. She said she would stay but how much control did she really have?

Would ) too end up like Time one day? But Time was strong so she once again wandered off. She now loved bats, named her dog after weekdays and gelled her hair each morning. And Time even pronounced her Y s like J s and couldn t help but smile at everything. Yet, Time still kept coming and leaving as she pleased. She seemed to always come back, but that one question still lingered in my mind. And as Time began looking ahead, ) couldn t help but wonder: where would Time be soon? Would she be close by or would she be far away? And how would ) reach Time? Would we call each other and would we be able to see each other? And would Time be okay out there by herself? Would )?

Time be okay out there by herself? Would )? )n response, Time just told me to wait and see. But ) was not Time and waiting did not come easily to me. So ) began to find Time annoying. )n fact, ) began hating Time. Time could not do everything and she didn t want to settle for doing nothing. What was Time even doing? Time taunted me because she knew she would have to leave someday but she still refused to speak her mind earlier rather than later. So one day, ) finally mustered up my will and asked Time why she must always run off, that stupid ticking and tocking a constant reminder of her imminent departure. But Time surprised me; she asked why the clock s rhythm was a sign of her departure rather than a proof of her being there, right there and then. ) scoffed and turned my nose up at her, reminding Time that she was the one who could never stay put. She was the one bound to leave me behind. But Time furrowed her brow and asked me to recall when Time had not been there. Pausing, ) looked at her, with those still youthful eyes and her smile wise beyond her years, and realized that perhaps Time had always been there right beside me.

Artwork by: Arielle A. '15

Artwork by: Miriam R. '18

Thoughts from the Mute

The non-smooth talkers of the world And the shy at heart For the people immediately labeled as “goodie-goodies” Or “slackers” Simply because they sidestep the limelight.

This one’s for the people I know have a lot to say And choose to do so in their own way For the silent leaders And truth-seekers For the ones who put a lot of meaning behind what they say And for those who don’t always find words necessary For the doers and the strong-but-silent type — To all those that are always told to speak up, Let me say, I hear you just fine.

And as I finish my mental oration And he once again prompts with "care to comment?"

I smile sweetly and answer with one resounding "Nope.”

By: Jenny K. '15

“So I’ve noticed…” he starts off “You’re not really much of a talker, Are you?”

“Not a fan of speaking unless asked, right?”

I open my mouth to answer But it dawns upon me That he’s not really asking me But rather telling me Because as the first syllable escapes my lips A whole ‘nother stream of thought breaks free from his.

I count the list of things he knows I’m not and — “rest assured”— will never be: One - A politician, CEO, word magician Not a lawyer representative, Nor anything argumentative, I can’t pull off NPR or even be a movie star And my marketing apparently won’t be to par.

He chuckles as he mentions a managing position Which surely won’t do for my quiet disposition.

As he reaches ten, I think, “no, no. That’s enough” But of course, he carries on.

So I think to myself, “Them is fighting words” And thus resolve to find his Achilles’ heel.

At first his game is hard to play, But then I look at his hands all roughed up from lab work And I know in that moment: hand-modeling is surely not for him.

Ha! Do I win now?

But then he finally concludes his little speech on how silence will surely cripple me And says “Care to comment?”

In my head, I have my own speech prepared: (clears throat) This one’s for the introverts The backstage dwellers And the kids who tremble at the thought of show and tell For the ones who speak through art and dance Or are caught up in a trance For the “non-contributors” And the ones who just can’t find the right words

Candle Fight By: Zachary A. '15 light

why do you burn so bright just to die before my eye i made a bet with grandma the blue one would die first too bad my luck is cursed every year i make this bet and every year i lose i sit and watch and fret if it dies last ill blow a fuse my grandma taunts me and teases me when i lose she wont let me be but this year i think ill win she wont rub it in my face and grin! i hate this stupid candle if only i knew back then i should have picked the red one 13

Cha ukah B : Etha C. '15 My family is not very religious.

The sun begins to set; the rainbow of colors fills the sky with light.

But no light comes from my family s kitchen.

Even as nighttime floods the sky with darkness and the stars twinkle above,

Photo by: Dov M. '16

No twinkling candles invite the next night of the holiday.

Maybe ) have rehearsal or my mother is stuck in traffic on the beltway.

Nine o clock quickly approaches and we hastily set up the menorah.

Then we gather around the counter and lighten the dark room with candlelight.

After a long, difficult day at work and school, my family bonds over the burning candles and screechy renditions of Maoz Tzur.

(ere is the true meaning of Chanukah.

Befo e the “u Goes Do B : Ha le F. '16 BT Co test Wi

e

Before the sun goes down Build a life-size airplane out of paper.

Before the last sliver of light evaporates, Climb the stairs of the tallest skyscraper.

Before the silver crescent surpasses the sun, Escape your conscience and sprint towards your darkest fears.

Before the ocean s horizon fades into the opaque sky, Make a mistake to remember the anguish when wiping the tears.

Before the chill creeps up on the hopeless heat, Don t waste your breath on a worthless word )nstead let your tongue decipher your deepest desires For during the night it is difficult to be heard.

Before the sun goes down, Attempt the impossible and act from zeal, Accept the uncomfortable and suffer the grief, Confess your sentiments To assure that you have consumed every glimpse of light captured in one day Until the night emerges.

Ben-Gurion Airport Photo by: Dean S. '15

U itled BY: A a B. '15 She pierces me with hard eyes under crazy hair, attempting to surprise me into admitting To an uncommitted crime.

You know, she states, accusation dripping from her voice, That you always miss Fridays, the day of the quiz?

As ) lean against the wooden trailer porch, Spanish class continues inside without me, And without its teacher.

Yeah‌ ) grin, bashfully, a nervous reaction, trying not to blush or talk too fast, But those things come too easily to me.

‌my grandmother is sick, so we drove up on Fridays to visit her on Saturday.

Mhhh, she peers at me as a mother peers at a naughty child, a condensing, judgmental look Meant to shame.

My stomach clenches and heart pounds as ) approach teacher after teacher about missing class, because my Spanish teacher

)s not the exception.

They look exasperated, as if ) m driving myself to Rochester, as if ) have any control over the situation, and constantly remind me

That it s my responsibility to make up quizzes.

) don t elaborate about my Fridays outside of school, how ) spend hours in a car

Then sit in a hospital or rehabilitation center all Saturday, and drive back for Sunday

)n time for school on Monday.

On the road ) frequent nauseatingly familiar rest-stops; There s the one with the colorful statue of a slushy that

My brother and ) excitedly took pictures of and with on the first visit, But not on the tenth.

Then there s Delaware,

State of Sbarro Pizza

And Pennsylvania,

more hours that

State of nothingness. Six hours of it.

When recalling middle school, ) remember the brownie with white frosting

From the hospital cafe,

The yellow walls and stray cats

Of the rehabilitation centers,

More than I remember the face of my eighth grade English teacher.

Photo by: Dov M. '16

It's Begi

i g to Look A Lot Like Ha ukkah B : Jo ie B. '15

Familiar holiday jingles fill the air as ) push open the heavy metal door, relieved to finally es-

cape the brisk December wind that assaults the back of my neck. ) softly shut the door behind me and

approach the infinite city that lies within this

by

foot vicinity. Right on cue, the master train

chugs steadily past me along the track upon which it depends. As ) follow it toward its nonexistent destination, a group of firefighters extinguishing flames that emanate from one of the town shops catches my eye. Abandoning the train, ) press my pudgy nine-year-old cheek to the wire enclosure for a closer look. The bright orange-painted cotton balls persist as the men struggle to douse them with their tiny plastic hoses. Suddenly, however, everything is black. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, ) notice that

the firemen have won their battle. The light radiating from the fiery balls of fluff has been terminated, and the heroes retreat back up the hill.

After ) spend the next hour exploring the wondrous intricacies of the train garden at the Glen

Avenue fire station, my mother announces that we must go home. Like each previous year, she hands

me several coins to drop into the donation box on our way out. Depositing the money into the container, ) notice the journal and attached pen sitting next to it. ) flip the page and begin to write.

Dear Firefighters of Engine

,

Thank you so much for using your spare time at the station to build such an incredible display for people to enjoy. I have visited the train garden with my family every Hanukkah since I was a baby. Before I was born, my grandpa took my mom to the display annually as a holiday tradition. This is the first Hanukkah that I have spent without my grandfather, but returning to his favorite place has comforted me by bringing back my fondest memories with him. My grandpa may not be here anymore, but I hope this train garden always will. Thank you for all that you do.

Happy holidays, Jocie Broth

With “i “t i gs B : Mela ie B. '17 BT Co test Wi e

With my heart on my sleeve, ) strum until ) am once again content, my hollow lungs fill with a soft lilt, enveloping me in a sweet embrace.

And with its six strings and twenty frets, its harmony isn t fleeting, as it resonates off the walls, to the rhythm my heart is beating.

With six strings and twenty frets, a honeyed melody reaches my ears as ) caress its neck, its chords cutting through the silence like bullets.

A serenade, its tone mellow and pure, it sings of fields painted marigold, the lights of one hundred fireflies in the night.

Ea th uake B : Je K. '15 BT Co test Wi e

When the energy has culminated And the plates have pushed Until there is no longer any more room for pushing, When the pressure has reached its zenith And broken through the surface Until that long-awaited tremor arrives, And when all is finally quivering and shaking, Take a moment – And let yourself be shaken.

For in that moment, When order and logic seem as tenable As grains of sand sifting through your fingers, And when life teases you with the sweet relief of rain, But instead only gives you thunder, When the tremolo of life once again rises, Reaching that one final note until Silence, Do not shrink away from either the calm, Or the crescendo, For both are equally important.

So if you let yourself be shaken, Without allowing the trembling to consume you, )n that moment, You will be unbelievably human, But you will also be unshakeable.

Artwork by: Jocie B. '15

So let yourself Step away from the masquerade of emotion, Where the anesthetics of life Numb you from reality, And for one moment, Forgo your intricate mask of sarcasm, And be sensitive To the illusionary tricks of others Simply struggling to delay the quake.

But do not fall for the trap For when you stand tall on the highest peaks of mountains Looking out at a horizon of opportunities You will only seem invincible to the earth s plates underneath, Yet, you will still feel the quakes when they come.

Accept this realization and then return to the splendor of your mountaintop, But when the rumbling once again begins, Take a moment – And let yourself be shaken.

This Is Me B : A BT “tude t Elementary School (is eyes go hard and angry What s wrong with me?

But not at me, not for what ) am No one will play with me (e storms into the room Slamming the door behind him ) sit in the corner of the playground And returns ten minutes later ) want to fit in My tears have dried, leaving shining streaks behind But ) m too boyish for the girls ) quickly wipe them away, and return to the room And to girlish for the boys A room full of shamed, apologetic faces Middle School Today Relationship gossip is everywhere We are still together, almost a year later Who has a crush on so-and-so We don t care what others think Who is dating Or about the dirty looks and stares Who broke up They re impossible to ignore But, no gossip for me But only we can decide how to feel about them ) sit alone in a corner of the room One day the world will accept us for who we are And until then A book open in my lap We ll look straight into the eyes of society Resting on jeans with barely there knees Proud to be gay ) want a girlfriend Like all the boys have But those girls would never want someone like me Cat Logic (igh School th grade By: Tamar K. '17 ) meet her She s like me She understands me She s my best friend Open the door Summer Camp Open the door July th, : pm C mon just open the door A buzz from my phone on the nightstand Maybe ) should meow louder Do you want to be my girlfriend?

Maybe then she will hear me ) thought you were already my girlfriend. ) asked you to open the door But no one can know )Cat amLogi not a dog July th, : pm You B are : TanotamyK.master Somehow, they all know You are my staff They stare as ) walk into the room Now open the door ) see the revulsion in their eyes C mon ) asked you five minutes ago (ear the teasing and jokes spilling from their Open the door already mouths Are you really going to make me ask niceFor a moment, ) freeze ly?

Tears cut a clean path through the dirt on my face )t s not going to happen Brought on by pain and rage Open the door Then ) dash outside, tail between my legs ) ll just keep meowing ) round the corner and find my counselor Louder and louder until What s wrong?

OhSo ) gather my courage and swallow my hurt (i there ) tell him Bye now

I Wo de B : Mi a B. '17 ) wonder what it would be like to be one of them.

To have no responsibilities.

To live life without any judgment, Or fill society s high-set expectations.

Photo by: Dov M. '16

Marco Polo By: Jenny K. '15

) wonder what it would be like to do whatever one pleases.

To roam around the Earth in the present, And not focus about what lay in the past now what lies ahead in the future.

) wonder what it would be like to live without any worry.

To not question every bad thing that happens, But to look upon situations positively and move forward.

We played a game of Marco Polo Where we d close our eyes And see what situation would arise Whilst we both dared to tread it solo.

Sometimes the waves would play nice And our feet the shallow end would meet.

But other times The deep waters overpowered And with uncertainty we were showered.

But at every point when the water did oppose And from my throat a cry arose A certain beat came reverberating back A familiar laugh bringing me to track.

And her laugh freed me from a trance And returned me to a more steady stance.

And like one who wakes in the morn To realize from their own bed they have been torn, With the three Fates ) then pleaded, For my sentence to be completed.

But the game had not quite finished, And thus a faint Marco ) called diminished, But to my surprise, the laugh once again was cast And it dawned on me that ) was at home

) wonder what it would be like to not care about body image.

To only wear the features upon one s face, And not to be ashamed of them, Or care how they look. ) wonder what it would be like to meet another and trust each other immediately.

To never speak falsehood, Or doubt another soul.

To even love a stranger unconditionally. ) wonder what it would be like to be a dog.

Photo by: Anna B. '15

Remember When By: Yitz M. '15 After a silence that seemed to last an eternity, A silence ) feel in my bones, ) start to speak.

Remember when— ) begin.

But ) stop immediately.

Photo

Because ) remember my audience.

Look at yourself, Struggling with every breath after mechanical breath. ) gaze into your eyelids, imagining ) can see through them and peer into your soul.

Then ) clasp your hands, and their coldness brings me back to the present. ) long to continue speaking.

To remind you of you, of your life, of our lives.

Yet, you lay here without a word, still, like a sleeping infant, Who has no when to remember.

So ) remain silent. on to that childish innocence, When ) had only to choose chocolate Still they re optimistic.

She ll wake up soon.

See? She moved her eyelids. That s a good sign.

But ) m different. ) know there is no chance. ) wish ) didn t know. ) wish ) could hold tea or vanilla from the ice cream truck. ) wish ) could hope like they do.

But ) can t un-think thoughts.

And where are you now?

Straddling existence, Like you can t choose life or death, vanilla or chocolate.

Where does your soul reside?

As you eventually drift off into the eternal, ) hope you find peace, like that simple, sleeping infant.

And maybe someday ) will too.

: Do M. '16

New Year By: Zachary S. '16 What if in the new year humans never slept

imagine all that we could accomplish

if we would never have to take a break and we could just go on and on and on like bees in a hive always working never slacking

if humans never slept

we could pursue forgotten dreams find new hobbies

go out and meet new people if humans never slept

we could take advantage of newfound time

using it to labor to learn to live

just a constant flow of absorbing absorbing all that we can until our end.

Things That Go Bump in the Night By: Helyn S. '15

) apply my black lipstick with ease and rub my lips together, smacking them and checking my fangs for stray flesh. My charcoal eyeliner lines the opaque white orbs in my face, the pupil is the first to go when you Turn. The name ) chose is Lena; your given name is the second thing that goes. ) hear a knock.

Lena? A gruff voice calls up the stairs, The horse is waiting.

) roll my eyes. My boyfriend Sander is a centaur, but my parents grew up before the Shifter s Rights Movement. They can be such racists sometimes. ) float downstairs, trying not to ruin my high heeled combat boots.

Bye, Dad, ) sigh, hovering out the door, ) ll be back by sunrise.

Good, he grunts, ) don t want you out with those light dwellers; they re dangerous, mortals are. No time to think things through. (e yells that last bit as ) m already at the end of the driveway. ) grab Sander by the back of his neck and start to fly.

December Wind

By: Rosie B. '18 BT Contest Winner The December wind whipped her dusty, worn coat about her frail body. The farmer found

the dead girl when a sudden gust puffed a mantle of rotten leaves off her, spreading the scent of de-

caying verdure. She died that past night, the man decided. The girl looked ugly, but of course five

years of famine would starve anyone of beauty. With her taut skin and excruciatingly sharp cheekbones, she clearly died from starvation. Now her dead eyes watched the trees.

(is wife refused to eat the dead. When their two little boys died a year ago, she burned their

bodies into ashes so no one could touch them. Now she scavenged for roots while the sun still hov-

ered low on the horizon and the day still smelled like night. One of her fortifying pastimes involved disparaging those luckless neighbors who stewed their dead and chewed the bones.

The farmer could eat this child. (e imagined bringing the weightless child home and putting

her in the oven, frying her flesh and salting her stomach, cracking her bones and sucking her marrow. (e remembered the smells of meat and the way they almost took on shapes, and he felt a curved little ear in his mouth.

The farmer dropped down in the ever-dry dirt and smoothed the child s fragile brown hair.

(e closed her gray eyes and straightened her coat and tugged down the ragged gray dress beneath.

)t probably had started blue. )t barely covered her chilled thighs. Two little blue bare feet rose from the ground like stones.

The ground seemed to slide beneath him as he bent down to the girl s face. (e brought his face close to the girl s cheek and with his knees straining up from the earth, he picked up the child in his numb arms and began to carry her. Whether to eat her or bury her, he did not know.

Homeschooled By: Daniel G. '16

(e grabbed at my beat shoulders to teach me one more lesson. Despite my resistance, he lobbed me in the air through the shattered window in our falling down house. After shakin it off like always, ) look for Mama and Pete. ) didn t need to look for Spike. (e always barked at Pa when he got in fits. Pete, on the other hand, only six years, don t know his ups from his downs and cause he s my brother ) need to protect him. Even though Mama says she can do everything, when Pa gets mad, he takes away all her super powers so she needs my help too. ) snuck past Pa to find Pete and Ma while he took a break from his fit to grab a beer. And there she was. Torn apart from all ends, Ma slept at the bottom of the stairs to keep from getting beat again. She says that sometimes even Mamas are naughty and it s the Papas job to teach em right from wrong. ) wanted to wake her up, but she likes sleeping because she can have her dreams then.

Trying my best to be sly like Ma taught me ) run d up the stairs. ) looked for Pete in his room and saw d him under the mattress. Pa made Pete s blood all over the room. )t smelled up the place real bad.

Pete slept too when ) went to him, but he ain t got super powers against the hurt yet, so Ma says to look after him extra so he don t decide to live in Dream Land before he needs to. ……………………………………………..

Pete waked up and helped me get Ma from the stairs. God took her to Dream Land too soon. )t s alright though. ) don t mind cause she said that people live in Dream Land when they learned all their lessons. ) m happy god stopped the hurt. ……………………………………………..

When Pa finished, we told him that Ma wanted to stay in Dream Land, but ) think he already know d. (e ain t cared though.

Life s bout learning lessons. Sometimes we fail. That s what Pa always said when the hurt took someone real badly. (e said it about the Spike we had before this n and he s sayin it about Ma now. )t reminded me that ) didn t know where Spike had gone, but as always, he was right there next to me the whole time.

But where should we put Mama? Pete asked Pa. Just put the bitch in a bag and ) ll get it later!

Pete and ) took a walk with Spike. Ma and Pa never cared where we go d as long as we covered up the bruises. There ain t nothing round here anyways.

Normally, ) lay on the grass with Spike and Ma, but she ain t here no longer, so ) looked for her in the clouds. She always said )f you want to see someone real badly, just look at the clouds.

Today there was a lot of clouds. ) guess Ma was finding us too.

When ) found Ma, ) asked her tons o questions. (ow did it feel to learn all the lessons?

Does the hurt really go away? Maybe she didn t find me because she didn t answer.

To make the hurt leave, ) asked Spike for some kisses. When he opened his eyes, showing me the beating he got from Pa, ) saw d the scars of a Mama who learned all the lessons.

Moishy’s Hanukkah Adventure Photo by: Dov M. '16 By: Jordan K. '15 All the lights shining bright, isn t it a joyful sight.

A twinkle in little Moishy s eyes, on the counter his present lies.

What it could be he does not know,

Maybe some legos, a dreidel, or a G) Joe.

Patiently he waits for his mom to say his name, )s it Monopoly? (e thinks,

That s a fun game!

)s it a movie, a phone, he just couldn t guess, All he knew is that it was his turn next.

Moishy come on, open your gift,

(e ripped open the wrapping paper in a manner so swift.

And what did he see with those big blue eyes?

Tube socks.

Opinion Miriam R. '18

Voices speaking Not my own )n my head When )'m Alone Voices seeking Never heard To find a face To speak Their words

Voices lying Words flow free To make the world They want To see Voices judging Paint their world (oping someday To be (eard

Photo by: Anna B. '15

Voices speaking Now my own )n my head When )'m Alone

Flight

By: Paul W. '15

The day came and ) still had no plan. Surely they d know they messed up immediately, they just

have the sense ) think. )t was too late to worry about all that: ) d be on the train in less than thirty minutes, and then we d be on our way.

) had faith in my ability, but faith can only get you so far. At (ogwarts, they d see right through

me. You see, ) m a magician, and by magician ) mean to say illusionist. ) ve got the fastest hands in town and ) m darn good. So good in fact, that (ogwarts believed me to be a wizard!

) made it through transportation and orientation without difficulty; all ) had to do was talk

about stuff ) d seen in (arry Potter. ) encountered my first problem when we received, or rather didn t receive, our schedule. Apparently, we would just know where to go. Well ) knew that ) was tired, so ) slept through first period.

Second period arrived. ) stole a broom from a supply closet and strolled down to the fields.

Madam (ooch had been expecting me, so obviously ) guessed my class right. ) was feeling pretty good about myself at that point, so ) volunteered to go first. ) hopped on my broom, and started sprinting.

Finally ) leaped into the air. )t was beautiful and magnificent‌for almost two full seconds, until ) faceplanted. ) attempted to retire, but Madam (ooch had me up on the broom again in under a minute.

This time ) steadied my pace, centered my balance and my focus, and drew my feet off the ground.

Suddenly, ) found myself soaring through the sky.

Before‌ By: Batsheva M. '18

Before‌

Before ) met him, they all teased me. They said ) could never take my place amongst the great

women of our society if ) didn t find someone; that future generations would remember me only as a

girl who failed her duty to the family. ) remember walking into meetings in our small community, and

the other girls my age pointing at me and laughing behind their hands. Even in the town, though most of the kids didn't know why, they followed the popular girls, and shunned me.

One day, as ) walked down the village green, head lowered and cloak hood raised to insulate

myself against the stares, giggles, and pitiful looks thrown my way, something solid bumped into me.

Not expecting it, ) stumbled, almost falling. A hand shot out and grabbed my elbow to save me from falling, but the basket ) carried wasn't so lucky; the berries ) had picked in the forest tumbled all

around my feet as the giggles grew louder in volume. Face burning, ) bent down to pick them up. ) m so sorry, a deep voice exclaimed, as the hand that had previously been on my elbow

picked up the basket and began to gather up berries. (ere, let me help you.

No, ) m good really, ) mumbled through the screen of my hair, furiously piling berries into my

apron. "You don t have to d-"

) stumbled to a halt. A boy stood there before me, with arfully tussled brown hair, deep blue

eyes, his forehead creased in worry.

You re new here, aren t you? ) asked cautiously.

Yeah. ) just moved in from three towns over because you guys needed a new blacksmith and

my master wanted to get rid of another useless apprentice. ) m half convinced he keeps spare appren-

tices just so he can send them off to towns. Oh, ) m Bradley, by the way, who are you?

Acacia.

That s pretty, he grinned. ) just nodded. After an uncomfortable silence, he finally whispered,

Why is everyone staring? You d think they d never seen an accident before.

)t s because they can t believe any one s actually talking to me, ) muttered, embarrased. You

picked the most unpopular girl in the town to bump into. And if you don t want to join me as the most unpopular boy, you should walk away. ) ll be fine.

Really? he said, standing up with a wry smile. Well, ) guess lucky for you, ) ve never really

cared much for popular opinion.

(e offered me his hand. Slowly, ) took it. As he pulled me to my feet, ) felt a flutter in my chest.

(e was it. ) knew that the end of my suffering had finally arrived. (e was the one. The first boy ) would kill.

A New Home By: Noah F. '18 As ) sat behind the wheel of my blue (onda Civic, driving bumper to bumper, ) reflected

on that ) had had. )t was more or less what ) expected it to be.

My mother was to be moved to her new home today. My father, my brother, my sister,

and ), among others, were to help with this difficult task. ) told all of the helpers about what my mother had enjoyed in her old house, about all of the fun stories that took place in my childhood home. Oh, there were so many.

There was the time that ) almost fell off of the trampoline. My mother was there to

catch me.

There was the time that ) almost broke the window. My mother was there to stop me‌

and ground me.

There was the time that ) had cut myself. My mother was there to help me.

And there was every Sunday morning, when she would make the most delicious pan-

cakes in the whole world on our old always get me out of bed before :

.

s stove. The smell wafting from the kitchen would

Now, these stories, like the house, could never be the same again. There was no tram-

poline at her new home. There were no windows. There were no knives. There was no stove, no pancakes.

) had arrived at the destination, my mother s new home. The front yard was strewn

with rocks and pebbles, and had a beautiful pond. )t did not feel like a home. Still, ) got out of the car and into the hot summer sun. Then, ) was followed by the men in suits, my siblings, and my mother, the latter of whom was escorted by my father.

My father took my mother towards the open marble door, and helped her inside, clos-

ing it behind her. The men in suits hung their heads, and ) was filled with sadness.

With tears in my eyes, ) placed a rose on my mother s grave.

First Day

Stomach churning as ) walk

By: Jacob S. '15

Looking right, then left, only unfamiliarity in view

Mind racing, ) make it to my locker only to fail until ) give up ) can tell this is going to be a rough day

) wonder as ) walk, struggling to find the davening room, (ow do ) evade my bashfulness to make new friends?

(ow do ) even begin a conversation?

) finally arrive only to be yelled at by a mean teacher within the first five minutes already my least favorite person

) had been known as a trouble-maker at my last school but this must have been some sort of record for angering authority because this teacher turned out to be the principal Finally prayers are finished

)t takes me numerous more attempts but ) finally manage to open my locker only to realize ) am now late for first period

As ) walk through the vacant hallways looking for my class, a classmate of mine appears from around a corner

As ) try not to laugh at his ridiculous orange afro that is strikingly similar to a clown wig, ) realize he is comin towards me

Extending his hand out, he introduces himself and explains that he has attended this

school for years and would have no problem showing me where my classroom is

A new friend already? ) though to myself Maybe this day won t be so bad after all.

Untold Story By: Shayna B. '16

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. -- Maya Angelou

) waited for the water to warm, capped the drain, and allowed time for the bathtub to fill halfway. Each tick from the fogging up wall clock reminded me of the approaching school day ahead. My grandmother made her way to the bathroom, wished me a smiling good morning, grasped my forearm for support, and gradually lowered herself into the tub. ) twisted a soaked washcloth, drawing out its excess water, while she held on to the sides of the tub to stabilize her frail body. Gently gripping her wrist, ) began to wash her.

After ) dressed my grandmother, ) cooked an egg for her, my brother, and myself. Left with only minutes to get ready for school, ) scrambled to dress and brush my teeth as fast as possible. During my hustle, my grandma came into my room, held my hips, peered at me with her watery eyes, and thanked me. ) sensed a deep appreciation, praise for not only the earlier intimate exchange, but also for all the tasks ) help her with throughout each day. A Come on, Shayna! from my brother interrupted the moment. ) grabbed my breakfast, and the three of us rushed out the door. We dropped my grandma off at her senior center and headed off to school.

Following the death of her husband five years ago, and unable to care for herself alone due to over a decade of slowly progressing Alzheimer s, my grandma moved into our home. The new routine which accompanied my grandma s arrival initially overwhelmed me. Taking care of an extra person each day consumed a lot of my time and effort.

Despite initial reluctance, taking responsibility for my grandmother grew on me. Aside from her affectionate character, her presence assigned my life more purpose and meaning. Yes, ) lost free time; however, what better way to spend my time than helping someone else? When ) came to this realization, ) decided to expand my opportunities to help others, and began volunteering at a nursing home. My volunteer work extended beyond kitchen work to participating in fun activities with the elderly, such as arts & crafts, baking, board games, nail painting, and dancing in order to enhance people s lives. ) actually developed meaningful new relationships and learned a lot from the seniors living there. One resident named Betty introduced herself to me every day; each time ) responded as if we met for the first time. Each visit she asked me to stand up, give her a spin, and smiling she d say, So beautiful! My encounters with Betty taught me the value of patience and the importance of respecting the dignity of each individual.

) do not consider my story remarkable. ) care for my grandmother – a family member who is important to me, an elderly person whose life experience deserves value, respect, and dignity. Doing so has offered me the opportunity and motivated me to extend this kind of care to others in my community as well. To give this care feels like such a natural inclination and is so well-deserved by the senior community that it never occurred to me to tell the story. But ) hope that in telling it now, ) may motivate others to seek similar opportunities to help in their own communities.

At the end of each day, ) hug my grandma and tuck her into bed – much as a parent would for a child. When ) visited my grandma as a kid, ) know she did the same for me. One might assume that our role reversal saddens me; on the contrary, ) feel honored and privileged to care for her in these last years of her life.

Memory

By: Zachary A. '15 Crying.

That is the last memory ) have as a family.

) remember the day started out nicely. ) remember thinking about catch.

That s all ) wanted.

To play catch

) remember that never happened.

) remember my dad said that we had to talk.

As a family.

) was told that my parents were getting a divorce.

) remember not knowing what that meant.

) remember when ) found out, ) cried.

And we sat, and cried.

Together.

Photo by: Dov M. '16

The Fear Train By: Evan Q. '15

Most people live their lives )n a path led by fright.

They ride on the fear train,

Stuck in the dark trapped doors of unaccepted fate.

The train rides in predicted circular paths:

)t dodges the hills and rides where the ground is flat.

To leave the train,

All it takes is one leap of faith.

After that one bold move,

The hills seem so smooth.

For unlike in the cramped train,

There is light to guide your way.

Maybe By: Samantha B. '15

Maybe we will be like the birds – Soar through the air

Glide above the trees

Join in their extravagant song And whistle with the wind.

Maybe we will plummet to the ground – Disappear in the shadows below Plunge into the dirt

Snap our snow-feathered wings And shiver in the frigid nights.

But it is the uncertainty that lures us in – )mpels us to try to fly

To leap into the clouds

Though sometimes with a broken wing And to ascend into the unknown.

Expecting and predicting nothing –

Yet waiting and hoping for something That maybe, just maybe

Will lead us to our final destination

Where we can retire our weary wings And sing our jubilant song.

But until then we acceptingly retreat back into the unknown Patiently follow the rays of the blinding sun

And unwaveringly flap our exhausted wings

All the while holding on to the one simple word that lends us hope

And compels us to believe in the possibility of triumph: Maybe.

In the World of a Child By: Miriam R. '18

)n the eyes of a child The dead hold no sway A nightlight's enough To hold demons at bay The title of 'Kitty' To things that run wild )s fitfully earned )n the eyes of a child

)n the ears of a child Restraint's invitation The speech of another Mean for imitation 'Nap-time' a curse A swear, something mild All meaningless magic )n the ears of a child

)n the mind of a child )t's want and obtain Unjustified torture To ever restrain To be is to rule And a king's never trialed The stranger is servile )n the mind of a child )n the heart of a child The world is at rest )t's sorted its problems And found what is best War holds no bearing No nation is riled No one knows peace Like the heart Of a child

How I Realized I was Damaged By: a bt student

Engulfed in silk, and polyester, squished between crinolines and hoop skirts, staring at sequins and straps, hearing the crinkling of taffeta, seeing fabric swirl and whoosh, ) utterly enjoyed the room overflowing with fluttering full-skirted dresses. This was when ) knew ) was different. )n the hole-inthe-wall dress shop, helping my sister find a dress, ) knew ) was not like other boys. )n the Jewish community there are many subjects which are not discussed, one of which, probably the most distasteful, is homosexuality. This topic, a so called action which is not allowed by the Torah, the Jewish text. Although Judaism has many levels and sects, the one ) grew up in is Traditional Orthodox. This upbringing, which ) loved dearly, made me feel that ) was bad, sinful, and broken. All the looks, snickers, hand gestures, and hatred brought me to the conclusion that ) was and am damaged. ) am damaged. This sentence runs through my mind night after night while staring at my closet of clothes and shoes which help me feel like myself. The irony is not lost on me that the place holding my deepest feelings, never allowed to be worn for fear of being found out, also represents the proverbial closet in which gay people hide. )n sixth grade ) transferred from the large public school ) had been attending for two years and thankfully returned to a Jewish school. )t may seem odd but my neighbors may have been happier than my parents for the move. To my neighbors, my family had failed me by sticking me in a nonJewish school full of goyim non-Jews . ) however was happy to go to my rabbi s little school, with less than students, until ) realized ) was the youngest and the only sixth grader. ), being the youngest and most sheltered, became subjected to bullying and since homosexuality was the biggest blunder to talk about, that became their chosen subject of torment. ) had never really heard about gays, barely knowing what it was or what it meant only that it was wrong and possibly illegal. One day, after being teased to literal tears, ) ran home not noticing the leafy trees, singing birds, blooming flowers or dark clouds. Once home ) went to my brother s laptop and Google searched gay having no idea what would come up. Now that my innocence had truly been shattered ) knew ) had to hide this little problem ) had.

Fast-forward to eighth grade and, yet again, ) was in a new school, a larger more established Jewish school, but a new school nonetheless. Most adults will tell you children can be cruel and they would be right, for here ) found myself being teased by the jocks once more. Yet here ) was safer, because there was a real principal, a real punishment system and teachers ) could trust. Being different here was more accepted and ) even joined a fashion class without much backlash from my peers.

Now a high school junior ) recently came out to my peers, family, friends and classmates. )t was one of the most terrifying things ) have ever done. Though ) came out to so many loved ones, my parents requested ) keep this a secret from the neighbors and general Jewish community. While some would view this as uncaring for a parent to hold their child back from accepting themselves, ) viewed it as an act of love and protection. The three of us know our community may never be ready for a gay Orthodox Jew. ) was happy to hide myself for my parents, knowing they would be ostracized for my mistake. (owever ) believe G-d made me this way for a reason, only time can reveal why ) am damaged.

I Should Have Never Left Him Behind By: Yael W. '15

) should have never left him behind. ) don t know what crossed my mind when ) told him to leave and return to his usual routine. (is old days of waking up at in the afternoon, and eating breakfast for dinner, and dinner for breakfast. ) couldn t take his sloppiness, or how he made me do everything for him because he was just too darn lazy to do anything for himself. ) was always picking up after him and covering him when he got into trouble. To be honest, he drove me insane most the time. But at the end of the day, we both knew that when we took away those old days, of sleeping until

in the afternoon, and eating breakfast for dinner, and dinner for breakfast, there was nothing we could do but grin at each other. Grin at the thought of our one-of-a-kind friendship that only grew after all of our misunderstandings and fights and bad times.

You don t get me, he would say.

What is there to get? You re a loud, incompetent slob, ) would reply. And even after those words would come out of our mouths, we would pause. And during that moment of silence, the truth would unveil itself. The truth being that no matter what we say, we ll stick together, because that was what we did best.

But that one day, ) never should have left him behind, when ) went on that long ride that took me down to the river we would go to as kids. At the age of , we would throw rocks into the water and play in competition. At , we would bring our water guns with us and spray each other until the sun disappeared. At , we would lay on the grass and bring our music with us so we could relax and escape into a world that was all our own. And at , the river became the place where we truly knew why it was ours. We truly knew that nothing would come between us, because to find the person who can drive you nuts, but still manage to be the only one to crack a smile across your face, is the best part of sharing all those times together. So, ) should have known, that taking that long ride down to the river, would never be as fun alone, when ) had my best friend to come along with me.

Disillusioned By: Meital A '16.

He loves me, He loves me not.

With the pluck of each telling petal, a slight giggle escapes my pursed lips-) already know of his unequivocal love for me, yet ) still seek the solace of the rose s affirmation.

By now, this practice has ingrained itself into my ritual.

Silly, but methodical. (ow else are we to maintain sanity without the certainty of routine?

He loves me, He loves me not.

The anticipation of his nightly return gives me strength to endure each empty day— ) know that the indescribable elation ) will feel upon his arrival will eclipse my current hollowness.

My stomach rattles with a familiar impatience, While my cheeks flush just thinking about it.

My stomach rattles with a familiar impatience, While my cheeks flush just thinking about it.

He loves me, He loves me not.

Glancing at the petal-littered ground, ) picture myself on our wedding day.

Standing there, adorned in fine embroidery and pure fervor, lifting my eyes toward the aisle speckled with the ever-familiar sight of carefully strewn rose petals.

Left‌together, right‌together.

Each step carrying me closer and closer to finally solidifying the commitment to our extant love.

At long last.

He loves me, He loves me not.

) gaze down at my cut-up fingers, which mindlessly fumble with now slightly bloodied petals, The reminder of the rose s one fatal imperfection—the inevitability of its thorns. )n a certain desperation to dispel the thought, ) wait for him, smiling.

He loves me, He loves me not.

Almost as if to answer my wish, ) hear the door unlock.

Biting my lip to suppress a face-splitting smile, ) watch as a small blast of wind from the door sends the display of petals flying.

As our eyes lock, the rest of the world melts away, leaving only the two of us—and the vase of roses. ) blush as he lowers himself down on the floor beside me, as he always does.

He loves me, He loves me not.

A look of concern washes over his chiseled features as he eyes my crimson fingers. ) give a small chortle to assure him of my levity and good health.

) even seize the opportunity to hint at our ultimate destiny by subtly brushing the lower part of my ring finger.

As ) continue caressing my unembellished finger, ) peer at him hopefully to see if he's noticed.

He loves me, He loves me not.

Once again envisioning our wedding day, ) fantasize about that precious moment when he will slide the polished ring onto my finger, sealing our eternal union.

Lost in my reverie, and itching for commitment, ) blurt out a childish plea for marriage.

After what seems like infinity, his brows furrow as his eyes dart from my trembling hands to the petalridden floor.

Finally fixing his gaze on me, he utters with a hesitant smile, Maybe

Maybe

Maybe

And in that naked moment, she reluctantly recognized the voice ricocheting off the unrelenting walls as merely the echo of her own.

Dragging her panicked eyes upward, she met the snickering darkness of the empty room.

(er head began to swim, and her throat constricted as a single tear slid pitifully down her cheek.

Dialogue

And aching to feed her anorexic heart,

She reached for another rose.

By: Jenn M. '15

The date is January 1 , 19 3. The scene begins in the office of sixty-three year old Dr. Eugene

a psychotherapist in Greenwich, Connecticut. He wears round tortoise-shell spectacles and speaks slowly and deliberately. Morton is seated on an overstuffed black leather chair, located behind his patient, Beatrice Draper: a redheaded twenty-something in a blue gingham dress. Beatrice, reclining on a long couch in front of Morton, fiddles with the strap of her leather purse. After sitting in stillness for nearly ten minutes since entering the doctor’s office, silence is finally broken.

This is the first meeting between the two.

Beatrice: ) m not really sure what ) m supposed to say here, Doctor. ) told you on the phone that )

wanted to talk out my feelings, that ) ve been feeling depressed lately. Lonely. ) thought it would be a

good idea to come and speak to someone like you, someone who knows how to deal with people with pauses …issues.

Dr. Morton: Mrs. Draper, ) wish to assure you that this is a safe place. This is a place where you are free to express your thoughts and feelings without worry of judgment or fear.

Beatrice: sighing Alright. ) just don t understand what this could possibly accomplish. Don, my husband, says venting only makes things worse. (e always says nothing can help me with my problems, that it s useless. Coming here was a mistake. ) m just pouring salt into my wounds, aren t )?

Dr. Morton: clears throat ) tend to disagree. Expressing one s feelings aloud often releases tensions and decreases stress. ) believe your husband to be wrong in these circumstances.

Beatrice: Well, here goes nothing. Takes deep breath

Dr. Morton: Go on.

Spider Solitaire By: Anna B. '15

The woman sat typing at her laptop, the ping-ping-ping of keys loud against the wind rustling

through the leaves and branches rapping against the window in the two AM dark.

Knock knock, a voice softly whispers, accompanying a rappin on the doorway. She jumps,

rapidly minimizing the Solitaire game glowing phosphorescently from her screen.

What? she snaps quietly, twisting in the chair to glare at the figure in her doorway.

(oney, you ve been up too many nights, her husband whispers, a beam of moonlight illumi-

nating his body in the darkness.

) need to work—you know that—this grant is due soon…

A thump resounds from upstairs, followed by some shuffling and the slam of a bathroom door

and water rushing from the faucet.

(e glances upwards towards the top floor. )t s the kids, he whispers. You ve been so tired,

and they notice, when ) wasn t here yesterday apparently some permission slip went unsigned-

Don’t blame me for that. The mother snaps, interlocking her slim fingers behind her back and stretching, closing her eyes while she arches her back and breathes deeply, before opening them and rehunching over her laptop. you.

game.

Please, sweetheart, just come back to bed. You can finish tomorrow. The kids miss you. ) miss Mmm, the woman murmurs, idly flipping through some documents stacked on her desk.

No, she suddenly states firmly, turning fully back to her laptop and maximizing her Solitaire No, this is more important.

Upstairs, a child starts to cry.

The Revolving Door of Life

The Hoa de ’s Ha its

By: Tamar K. '17

Life is a revolving door

)f you want to keep moving You must keep pushing

Sometimes, another will come along and push

with you

But they will leave

And you are alone again Always pushing

Always walking in circles

You have taken thousands of steps

And yet you have gone nowhere

One day

You will leave the circle of the revolving door

And enter a place

You dared not go before

B : Ra ut B. '17 ) watch my closet

My mom yells agitatedly at me from across the hall ) gaze frantically around the room ) wait for the room to clean itself ) peek anxiously at the clock

) stare at the abundant mess around me

) watch the clock as the minutes pass by

) glimpse once again at the unclean mess around me

) hear my mom shout: that pigsty won t clean itself!

) anticipate the grave punishment yet to come

) pace around the room, in search of anything besides cleaning

) see all the clutter spewed from my closet and desk ) feel like a hoarder

) feel the irresponsibility that comes with disorganization

) still am not inclined to play maid

) don t care to listen to my mother s warnings

Photo by: Dov M. '16

But ) can t find my homework

Mother to Child By: Miriam R. '18

There's nothing wrong with you, child.

Your heart is beating, Your legs still walk, Everything's working, Your mouth still talks, But everything's coming out all blubbery 'Cause what's wrong's on the inside.

Your kidneys, they're doing Whatever kidneys do, Your liver, spleen, and all between, They're working just fine, too, But your feelings, They're all packed up, And they're spilling out your eyes.

That's the crying.

And ) can't give you a bandaid for that. ) can't give you medicine for that. ) can't even tell you what's going on.

Maybe it's hormones.

You're just gonna have to live through that.

) can tell you to watch Scrubs. )t's hard to be sad watching that. ) can tell you you don't have to go to school, But you'll just have to deal with what you missed. ) can tell you that ) wasn't trained to be a parent, But )'ve been doing it a long time, So you might not think )'m fair, You might think it cruel, But )'ve been a human even longer, And ) know you gotta learn to live through things.

So all ) can tell you is that There's nothing wrong with you, child.

Things That Go Bump in the Night By: Jenny K. '15

)t s a tick away Just one thing That separates the sane From the Crazy.

For insanity is but the mind set ablaze burning in all the wrong colors.

Perhaps reds and greens instead of blues and oranges. but is insanity not still a matter of the mind?

And do things really go bump in the night?

Or are the bumps always there?

Just waiting, clawing to escape?

And isn t everyone just one tick away from insanity?

Maybe

By: Alex R. '16

Missing you steals my words away Not suddenly, not violently. )t stares me in the eye, reaching out slowly and, still staring, lifts them ever so softly, so painfully, from my tongue as it struggles to send them off.

But the heavens shed their icy tears and the rest of us shed ours and maybe, as the swirling white curtain envelops us and we huddle together beneath the iron sky and remember you, we are warmest.

Cyborgs By: Miriam R. '18

Different By: Ellie L. '18

)t isn t easy To be different in a world where people strive for normality. ) know people see me as weird And they decide they can show it no other way But to stare and point, Chuckling and giggling, We are the labor of the human race At my attempts to be me.

Springs and coils ) see them whispering, Working its toils She is so crazy!

Unsleeping, unblinking What is her problem?

Constantly thinking ) envision their faces We are the labor of the human race Curious but disgusted: Teasing yet annoyed.

We are the fiction of the human race ) listen to them shuffling past me Mechanical hearts Leaving me behind, And synthetic arts Leaving me to suffer the silence, Senses infrared Of a lonely hallway.

And bodies repaired The colors in the walls die We are the fiction of the human race And so does the rhythm that ) walk to.

A dark cloud takes over my mind.

We are the future of the human race ) feel my lungs begin to crush inside me Wires for veins As ) start to lose my breath.

And metal brains My heart feels like its being ripped into Buttons for eyes pieces And copper thighs As ) stand there questioning who ) am We are the future of the human race And whether ) should be The )dea of normal.

My feet start to wobble and shake By: Evan Q. '15 Because they no longer My menorah is on fire hear a rhythm to tap to.

My brother is a pyromaniac My muscles start to contract My parents are calling the fire extinguishing company And ) feel small and stupid.

My brother does not care The world around me spins (e loves to make wonderful creations with the candle wax As ) start to change my point of view. (e bothers my sister by putting the fire right next to her Then ) remember that there is no norhair for a quick half-second, then swooping it away from mal, her ) don t want to be that mindless drone.

She screams, ) laugh That clone of society s )deal person.

Then he gets hot candle wax on his finger All ) want to be is (e screams, ) laugh Me...

Oh, the wonderful times Different.

Now it s just me in the house, and my parents too My brother and sister have moved out long ago, And soon ) m leaving too We are the future of the human race Wires for veins And metal brains Buttons for eyes And copper thighs We are the future of the human race

My Brother Is On Fire

Don't By: Miriam R. '18 Don't.

Don't come on too strong.

Boys don't like that.

Boys want to be the hero of the story, So be a good little girl, And don't say a word.

Shoot him little glances.

Smile. (ere, )'ll teach you how to flirt.

Just be nice.

But don't take too much initiative.

Don't do that.

Don't.

Don't tell people what you're thinking.

Keep a secret little barricade inside of you. )nsanity is normal.

That emptiness you feel when you try To tear down those highly necessary walls?

Don't give it time to fill up.

Build new walls.

Don't question it, that's just how it is.

Don't try to change it.

Don't do that.

Don't.

Don't tell the whole truth.

Ease people into your reality.

Don't take offense When people offend you.

They violated a thought about which they knew nothing Because you didn't tell them about it.

Don't tell them.

Don't do that.

Don't.

Don't think too much.

Don't stop to think why people say )t wasn't a real crush if you didn't let it crush you alive, And that you'll always fail )f you try.

Don't stop to think why people say That you must pack up your emotions

All nice and tight And never release them to the world, And that failure once Means you should never try again.

Don't stop to think why people say You should keep secrets You should sugar-coat the world You should stick to the rules.

Standard conversation: (ello. (ello. (ow are you?

Good, you?

Fine.

Don't mess with that.

You say good, you say fine, You insist on handing people the perfect world on a platter of lies. "(ow are you" )s not a real question. )t is an opener To a standard set of responses Because there are rules.

Don't mess with those rules.

Something awful will happen.

Just don't ask what.

Don't ask why.

Don't ask who, when, where, how.

Those top questions a reporter must ask Everyone says Don't.

Don't ask.

Don't question.

What's the worst that could happen?

This itself is another opener statement.

But this one leafs to an angry mob Of the "normal" police Yelling desperate excuses to save their reality. (e'll say no. )t won't work.

You'll offend someone.

No one does that.

Don't try.

Don't dare.

Don t think.

A heaping mass of Don t.

Well what the hell?

)'ll scale that mountain of rules That hunk of normality And )'ll kick a few stones loose And )'ll add one more to the pile: Don't tell me what to do.

The Beauty of Books By: Tamar K. '17

) see light flood my desk ) begin completing my homework ) read the pages of math work until numbers swim off the page ) snatch the book off my bed Dragons fly across the ceiling Fairies dance in circles around the room And outside my window Mountain peaks disappear into the clouds Knights on horseback gallop through the valley ) catch the glint of metal binder rings ) mournfully close the book ) return to my desk ) must finish my homework

Phoenix

By: Tamar K. '17

Consumed by fire

Bodies turned to ash Millions gone

Mothers and Fathers Sisters and Brothers Daughters and Sons Aunts and Uncles

Nieces and Nephews Gone

Families destroyed

Survivors scattered

(aunted by memories

That are ringed in fire

But they rise from the ashes Of everything

And everyone

That has been lost

And continue to survive

They tell us their stories

Of that great and terrible fire

And although we have left survival behind And moved on to living We must never forget

The many and beautiful phoenixes Consumed by fire

Photo by: Dean S. '15

The Story of Life By: Miriam R. '18

Let me connect the dots and tell a story

The freckly grin On the face of a young boy Childish joy shining from each sun-kissed spot The freckles will fade only to return But the innocence can never be so lucky Let me connect the dots and tell a story

The tears spattering the man's face One shed for each tragedy As the dam to secret rivers is pounded With passing years And the tears curl past a forced smile

At ok

: A ielle A. '15

Let me connect the dots and tell a story The stars are falling Reflected in his lowered gaze (is eyes older than his years But he still finds the courage to dream )f only in secret whispers to the stars

Let me connect the dots the freckles the tears the stars And tell a story Such a short, sweet story And the longest and bitterest anyone can bare: The story of life

Photo by: Dov M. '16

Maybe By: Jeremy S. '16 Yearning to learn again what he once knew so well;

(e took hold of the cool metal handle and lifted himself Off the confines of the chair he knew too well;

A brother and father propping his back, memories and questions flurried through his head.

Previous decisions led him to this mess

And haunted him with What if? , Why?

An altered past he could not achieve, but an altered future?

Maybe

A new word;

Not a question, but a possibility of something better. (e latched even harder onto the metal handle and tried furiously To render a permanent scar temporary,

A scar that would represent the err of his ways at one minuscule moment of time. (e breathed in, thinking he felt a tingle, but fell back to the chair As a pain gripped his back

And a word gripped his mind. (e never thought a single word could deeply motivate him until now; Days of anguish clouded with determination came and went; Daydreaming over possible improvement, he found solace; Yet, his improvement was only daydream, a possibility.

Months passed, the improvement still a daydream; All succumbed to an all but gloomy fate; All, besides the victim,

For, he bought into one dimension of a two-sided word,

Forgetting the negative, and plucking only the positives from the fray.

FACULTY CORNER Confession – Sunday Morning By: Halaine S. Steinberg ) break my ba gel in hal f,

Set it carefully on the kitchen counter.

Soft, still warm -- puffy even. Goldberg s.

A quick turn to get the cream cheese – lox spread, low fat Cinnamon Raisin–

And that quick, that quick The thief

Breaches the boundary of my body Leaning against the counter,

Jumps up and makes off with half the bagel Clenched in her eager jaws. ) give chase.

(ey! That s my bagel – And my bagel is . . . .

Cinnamon Raisin!

So ) run and run and grab and grab And then

Catch the culprit by the collar, Pry open her unwilling jaws,

And extract the surprisingly intact half bagel.

Back in the kitchen

) gaze at the rescued bagel.

Take a paper towel.

Wipe it off.

Slice it open.

Cover it with cream cheese – lox spread, low fat –

And eat it.

Cinnamon Raisin – and somewhere in the recesses of my overloaded brain ) remember Cesar Milan, or maybe my veterinarian,

Uttering words: Grapes, Raisins – Poison, Poison for dogs.

Poison, Poison, Poison! ) shout

Chasing around and around and around The family room coffee table

in a Goldbergs Cinnamon Raisin bagel ?

But still

You never know

One may have somehow found its way in.

Photo by: Dov M. '16