Beth Tfiloh HS presents Shalshelet: Literary Creative Arts Magazine 2014

Senior Editors:

Literary Contributors:

Anna B. ‘15

Cole A. ’15 16

Becca P. ’15 6

Jenny K ‘15

Meital A ’16 24

Masha P. ’17 9

Shana K. ‘14

Anna B. ’15 29

Evan Q. ’15 1, 13

Yitz M. ‘15

Jocie B. ’15 31

Alex R. ’16 1

Hallye R. ‘14

Joseph B. ’14 10

Matt R. ’14 3, 28

Jenny R. ‘14

Molly B. ’14 16

Noah R. ’16 8, 38

Jacob S. ‘15

Reuven B. ’15 12

Emma S. ’16 14, 21, 23

Helyn S. ‘15

Shana B. ’16 6

Felicia S. ‘16 4

Dori. C. ’14 33

Hilla S. ’14 36

Staff:

Kara E. ’16 41

Mrs. Steinberg 18

Meital A. ‘16

Ateret F. ’15 2, 13

Justin W. ’16 35

Jenna B. ‘16

Nina F. ’16 11

Photography and Art:

Shayna B. ‘16

Yanniv F. ’17 11

Jocie B. ‘15 16, 32

Jocie B. ‘15

Avi G. ’15 19

Reuven B. ’15 5, 8, 20, 28

Kara E. ‘16

Dana G. ’15 7

Rebecca G. ’16 40

Lior F. ‘16

Daniel G. ’16 23

Mallory K. ’15 4,12, 15

Angela F. ‘16

Hannah H. ’16 22

Shana K. ’14 1

Daniel G. ‘16

Yael H. ’17 21

Aviva L. ’16 35, 37

Jasmine K. ‘16

Jasmine K. ’16 39

Jenny R. ’14 2, 9, 19, 35

Sydney K. ‘16

Shana K. ’14 17

Helyn S. ’15 6, 9, 12, 16

Elli L. ‘14

Sydney K. ’16 4

Front Cover:

Dov M. ‘16

Julius L. ’16 20

Reuven B. ‘15

Ben R. ‘16

Alyse M. ’17 2, 19

Back Cover:

Jeremy S. ‘16

Ian S. ‘16

Dov M. ’16 22

Jocie B. ‘15

Jenna M. ’14 23

Technical Support & Layout:

Samantha S. ‘16

Rebecca M. ’17 5

Mrs. Rina Goloskov

A Stringed Heritage By: Alex R. ‘16 The strings don’t work- most of them, at least.

The neck is slightly crooked.

There’s a small dent in the front.

And it’s beautiful.

It’s weathered the sandstorm of time and it’s been plucked from the shelves of the great library of his memories, its pages unfolded and dusted off.

It’s traveled from his basement to mine. And I like it much better here.

A beautiful acoustic, its edges gradually sunburst from licorice black, to cherry red, to brilliant Tan. He bought it used in 1945 after North Africa, after Italy.

It reminds me of the one he used in North Africa, in Italy The one he used in all those faded photographs, those creased memories, Those photographs which lie on top of a pile of reconnaissance photos from his bomber Which lie on top of photographs of the flak popping next to his plane Which lie on top of photographs of him in front of his makeshift hut.

Which lie on top of a photograph of him in front of his bomber, kneeling in his worn boots Looking just like me.

Ladybug By: Evan Q. ‘15

Photography by: Shana K. ‘14

When I was a little boy I saw a ladybug My mother saw it and told me its meaning She said that Bubby Ethel comes to us in them She arises when something important happens and she watches with her own little eyes Not up in heaven but through the eyes of the ladybug Although she is always in our hearts When we see a ladybug we know that she is protecting us Oh those eyes of the ladybug They follow us wherever we go Watching, controlling, guarding Those same eyes that spoiled grandchildren with gifts She still gives gifts

-1-

The Combined Smell By: Alyse M. ‘17 The combined smell of Old spice and Tide laundry detergent lingers around me when I am hugged so tightly that I can’t breathe. And it remains when I doze off to sleep and dream pleasant dreams, delving into the deepest thoughts of my head. When I wake up and my eyes are blinded from the strong glare of the morning sun peering through my Victorian window, the smell tickles my nose. After my heart has been broken into a thousand tiny puzzle pieces and is slowly reassembled or when I smile on those days that are bursting with this intangible radiance, I can smell it. The smell alone is insignificant, but when I smell it, I know the person whom I cherish the most in this world is beside me. It is the smell of my dad and I love him.

Cut Flowers By: Ateret F. ‘15 I am a cut flower I began my life in a beautiful orchard Growing Thriving Wild Free Until my attacker came He snapped my stem off my roots Now every day is a struggle I am drowning in the water his accomplices threw me in Those horrid people sold me And put me in new water With other flowers Ones that didn’t look like me at all The humans all stare at me They smile at me They smell me To them I am just a pretty centerpiece But inside I am a plant Struggling to stay alive I am a cut flower And my beauty has expired

Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14

-2-

Hike

By: Matt R. ‘14 The morning chill caresses, almost tastes my skin A tangible sort of chill, The kind that crunches beneath your feet and floats in steamy clouds With each breath Dewy wildflowers are strewn along the path Like the colorful remnants of some child’s discarded playthingsHaphazard, unintended, striking.

The trail that we all tread, tough, This most worn and circuitous of routes Is not roundtrip No guidebook describes its summit, Nor its travails, its pitfalls or its imperfections No forecaster predicts its weather patterns We climb blind.

This is our journey, life’s journey A strenuous effort to ascend from ignorance to understanding, An attempt to summit, to plant one’s foot on the highest point And gaze out over creation, Over every riven thing God has made And understand it all.

We are all hiking with no plans to return Temporary denizens of grand forest halls Immense trunks shooting skyward, mossy pillars Towering above the thrones of rough, unhewn rock Until the monarch raises his scepter and beckons And the view is marvelous.

-3-

JJ Thomson By: Felicia S. ‘16 My professor called me Thomson but my friends call me JJ Thinking there was no negative charge, don’t listen to what they say Wanna know how I proved my theory?

I’ll tell you how When I made this discovery, everyone said wow!

When the rays traveled through air much further than expected He proved there were electrons, and he was not rejected Soon people knew that atoms were made up of these And the atomic structure was forever changed in the streets But he did not step there, he kept on going To make more discoveries and keep science growing Isotopes and stable elements, he found those first As a famous British physicist, he was definitely not the worst Have a scientific question? You know whom to see Thomson has all the answers and we can all agree So let’s thank Thomson for contributing to chemistry Because if it was not for him, where would science be?

Go JJ Go JJ

Photography by: Mallory K. ‘15

The Riddle By: Sydney K. ‘15

being dropped around Frantically fighting, In the hefty-hand, being used endlessly Pushed persistently until broken, Laying cold and corrupt, useless and depressed The ground dusty and dull, wish I was full My perfect point worn and torn, Someone gracious picks me up I am saved quickly from the trash Where my weary unhappy friends go But the bold boy saved me from the worst place

-4-

Disney By: Rebecca M. ‘17 Florida welcomed optimism, the strengthening optimism of a family My family…

On my sister’s Make-A-Wish trip A vacation of carefree happiness, Unusual normalcy greeted us.

Give Kids the World Village.

A magical paradise of ice cream galore, of goofy, life-sized Disney creatures, of worriless thoughts, freely floating through the cheerful air.

Cheerfulness.

The absence of perplexed faces, curiously staring at my sister’s sparkly blue wheelchair.

The childhood dream of Disney.

Mickey Mouse.

Photography by: Reuven B. ‘15 Mickey Mouse. the brightly smiling, velvety eared stuffed animal in fiery

red pants, the epitome of Disney,

of our family vacation,

of my sister’s wish Mickey,

Perched on the black armrest of her wheelchair,

gazing into my sister’s face, a rare smile,

spreading radiantly from ear to ear.

That wide eyed, white gloved stuffed mouse, Began the adventurous wish journey,

in the ever-luminescent Give Kids the World Village.

A journey of smiles, of thoughtless pleasure, of light hearted, irreplaceable, Memories.

Memories that fade into chaotic reality.

A reality where medicines, doctors, and questions, once again, manifest themselves, in our lives.

-5-

11/12/13 By: Shayna B. ‘16 Eleven, 12 and 13, also known as the horrible ages of middle school. These are the three stages of development which are an essential part of growing up. This is the time that we find ourselves. In these three years, we travel from idiotic savages to (somewhat) humane individuals. Age 11 (6th Grade), society has stamped us with the title as a “kid.”

We are given this title because we lack maturity. We don’t understand morals and values, but proceed to follow them because “mommy said so.” Our humor is based on hurting others or saying hurtful things about others. We do not fully understand the statement “be yourself,” instead, we replicate the person our friends want us to be. Age 12 comes along. We are now known as a “pre-teen.” Bullying has become less acceptable. Cliques are formed; everyone becomes interested in the approval of their peers, not the approval of one’s self. Social statuses are formed, based on who you are and what category you fall into. Age 13, now known as a “teenager.” You discover your interests, your real friends, and what person you want to be. You find yourself and develop a more rational and understanding view of life. Up until now, authority has led your life. At 13, authority has handed you the baton to continue a life for yourself.

Shirley By: Becca P. ‘15 Her red lips smack the side of my face Allowing a bright red patch to manifest on my left cheek And no, I don’t have rosacea, that’s just my grandma marking her territory.

The smell of her cooking wafts through the air I don’t care that it’s past its expiration date She doesn’t need to compensate for what’s on my plate, because spending time with grandma fills my life with love.

Photography by: Helyn S. ‘15

-6-

Sorry By: Dana G. ‘15 Are there any appropriate words to say?

Can anything I say even begin to dent the sorrow, the heart wrenching pain, the emptiness that Will remain forever within you?

I could say I know the horrors of your experience, But I don’t.

I cannot fathom the plethora of emotions that would overcome my body if I were in your place.

I don’t know if I could manage to drag my body out of bed day after day as you have.

I could take your hand and tell you to be strong because that is what he would have wanted.

But I won’t.

My hand will not stabilize you.

It won’t keep you from crumbling as the most realistic memories flood your mind.

I don’t know what he would have wanted and now no one ever will.

I could remain silent and just comfort you by my presence.

But I can’t.

I can’t sit idly by as you question the ways of the world, As you struggle to find clarity within anything you once found worthwhile.

But I don’t know how to vocalize the ache I feel imagining your experience.

So I’ll simply echo the rest of the room, “I’m sorry for your loss” Though the words far from encompass my true sorrow.

-7-

Photography by: Reuven B. ‘15 Death Doesn’t Care By: Noah R. ‘16 Death doesn’t care when you’re ready, All it does is hear your cries, All death considers, Is when it’s the end of your time.

Many have tried to escape its grasp But none have truly succeeded, Because everyone eventually surrenders to Death Knowing their pleas went unheeded You may pray to God for help, But you plead ‘til your heart gives out, But no matter how much you beg, Death’s stubbornness will prevail no doubt.

-8-

Shakespearean Sonnet By: Avi G. ‘15 A young child rocks on a red buckling chair A blanket grasped tightly in his thin arms A hat, worn out, rests on the boy’s rough hair His doting mother looks on in alarm She sits on the park bench, watches and waits,

Photography by: Helyn S. ‘15 Dreams By: Masha P. ‘17

And looks like she is trying to deny

Dreams:

The child’s apparent, and perilous fate

Windy dreams

She lets his jeopardous actions slide

Wraiths floating on crisp night air

As he nears the ground she begins to stir

Shining edges

But it is apparent the deed is done

Piercing slumbering minds

In a flurry, she tries to right the err

Shivering rainbows, come On night’s breath

The boy tumbles on to the floor, alone

Gasping heart shuddering rages

No one stands to challenge education

Or fantastical nonexistent wonders

It’s lost in a maze of limitation

Alas, wonders lost and forgotten Forgotten amidst the blush of day Unheard of ‘till twilights end When silver night returns afloat black wings Returns and whispers forth dreams In an eternal cycle

Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14

-9-

Def Poem By: Joseph B. ‘14 A man married to a slightly crazy wife with a daughter and a son.

A son whom he loved and favored.

The child, so young, playful, and innocent to the world.

All he loved was swimming, baseball, and his dad.

Nothing else in the world mattered to him.

Learning to swim was probably the scariest thing he’s ever done.

And practicing baseball made his arms numb.

But his dream never left his side.

Every day after school he would wait at home for that one person who understood him.

The one person who would play with him.

The one person he wanted to be with.

The one person that mattered to him.

But he always worked. Not coming home till seven or eight.

Yes that made the boy sad but he found ways to compensate.

Because every moment the father and the boy could share only made the boy fonder of him.

The two were like comrades in arms but one was a veteran.

A sunny sky.

A day at preschool.

The dad has a day off.

As if there were ants in his pants the boy was eager to go home.

He wants to play as soon as possible.

Then as if a hurricane hit a desert, the family was struck with confusion.

Screaming.

Screaming.

The boy ran to the source of the noise to witness the horror.

What’s going on?

Why’s mom crying?

Stop!

A body on the floor………..

There was his dream laid down in front of him.

My dream laid down in front of me.

I’m lonely.

So many prying eyes.

Yes I understand you’re sorry but what does that do.

Back to the time where my dream could stand in front of me.

It only reminds me of the pain.

The pain that strangles me like a snake strangling its prey.

Pray a prayer to G-d. Why G-d!

G-d with the power to create and destroy.

He chose to destroy!

But something was created in the process.

Me……

-10-

“What are we going to do now?”

By: Yanniv F. ‘17 “What are we going to do now?” James cried in panic. The paper was drenched, the ink was smudged, the seats were wet, the laptop was dead, and there was a strong smell of coffee in the room. What would happen when the break ended and Mr. Holt returned? These company progress reports were supposed to be presented after the break, and now they were unreadable. Since the computer would not power up, the employees could not reprint their reports. On top of that, James had received special permission from Mr. Holt to bring his drink into the meeting and had promised that it would not spill. Paper towels from the restroom only became soaked themselves and left the table and chairs sopping. Wiping the table with his jacket only made James look less presentable. Would Mr. Holt understand if he explained how he was working with Jane on new research ideas when he flung out his arm in excitement and spilled his coffee? Surely not. Before the break ended, James cleared the papers off the table, mopped up the spill as best he could with paper towels and traded his dry chair for Mr. Holt’s damp one. Running his fingers through his hair, he could not think of what to say to Mr. Holt. He stood by the door awaiting his fate. The sound of a man’s footsteps became louder as he approached the room. With a turn of the doorknob, the door swung open. James could not speak.

11-12-13 By: Nina F. ‘16

As his feet met the cobblestone steps, he breathed in the foggy crisp air. His fingers tensed, he looked up—this was it. As he climbed the last step meeting the stone porch, the key grew warm in his pocket. He walked to the door, took it in, and reached for the knob. It was locked, and his hand closed around the brass skeleton key. As he pulled it out, he looked at it admiringly—bracing himself for the next part of the journey. As he placed the key in the lock and turned it, he began to hear clicking noises, as if the door was made of gears. He looked just as the door opened…to another door. His eyebrows knit together as he squinted at the unusual steel door. No locks, no knobs…nothing but three dials. Each had a number. He racked his brain for the code. 11…11…11… He turned the dial to 11. Next he thought…he looked at the dial and surprisingly remembered. 11-12-13! Now he remembered. He turned the dials to hear another set of clicking sounds as the door sprung open.

Cautiously, he took his first step inside the dark, forgotten house.

-11-

The Shepherd By: Reuven B. ‘15 Sheep. Brown sheep, black sheep, white sheep, everywhere, sheep.

Wandering the rolling green hills, Fluffy specks of white foam on a vast sea of green.

The ill with the healthy, The carpeted and the shorn, I watch all the while.

Graze. Drink. Sleep.

Past the idling copper brook, weaving through the grassy meadow, Graze. Drink. Sleep.

Meandering leisurely through pastures yonder,

Photography by: Helyn S. ‘15

Graze. Drink. Sleep.

Rhyme without reason, A blur of fuzzy motion, Passing by my conscience.

All day, every day, counting sheep.

Photography by: Mallory K. ‘15

-12-

Tribute to My Mother

By: Ateret F. ‘15

People say we look like twins

Maybe on the inside Undefeated By: Evan Q. ‘15

I know I still have a lot to learn from you Your caring and passionate love inspires me

An ode to my brother who fights harder

Love for your children

every day than any solider with a gun:

Love for your husband Love for your work

Every day he wakes up he starts a war

Now as I mature

Battling his body, battling his mind

I hope to have a similar affect on the people I meet

With 2 precious children, he has a lot on the line

I think of you when I work with children

Until his baby was born, he lived in shame

I think of you when I strengthen my friendships

Being clean was just another helpless claim

I think of you when I dedicate myself to my schoolwork

Although he told us he would prove us wrong

I think of you when I smile

We never thought he was that strong

Because even though I have grown to exactly your height

Now he finally lives free, out of his own jail Every day he embraces the challenge and does not fail Ever since he went through treatment He has been undefeated

I will always look up to you

-13-

My Heart Â

By: Emma S. ‘16

My heart dropped.

The shiny silver fin glided through the water closer and closer to our flimsy twelvefoot sailboat. Frantically, I glanced at Ruthie, the southern belle from Augusta, Georgia who had asked me to sail with her that day. At the age of thirteen, it was my first year at Seafarer, an all-girls camp in North Carolina, and so far, everyone had been pretty welcoming.

The golden sun had sparkled on the water like a bright new diamond ring. Dancing with the wind, the waves had been not too big, but not too small. My lifejacket slightly choking me, I stepped into the water, immediately cooling off. My feet sunk into the sand, and I suddenly forgot about my fear of starting a new camp. With the dagger board in my hand, we made our way to the boat. Climbing into the sailboat, I patiently sat on the edge of the gunnel, while Ruthie dragged the boat out into slightly deeper water. I skimmed my hand through the silky water and felt the refreshing wind brush against my face. Ruthie hopped into the boat instructing me to slide the dagger board into the center of the boat for balance. I did as I was told. Seated directly across from one another, Ruthie passed me the tiller, encouraging me to sail first. I yanked the sheet (the rope that tightens the sail), and thrusted the tiller to the right causing our boat to swing to the left. We were sailing.

But then, we saw it.

Grasping the tiller tightly, Ruthie and I ferociously pulled it from side to side attempting to turn away from the giant, scary, bloodthirsty fin. At the time, we had no idea how to recatch the wind and therefore, were stuck, left to be eaten alive. Screaming for help, we could see the peaceful beach of the camp in the distance. Happy faces of campers and counselors sailing, fishing, and water-skiing. Oh how we yearned to have been just another girl laughing on the beach. However, without control over our boat and the fin approaching rapidly, we clung onto each other, praying for the wind to dive into our sails and steer us away from the monster.

On my first day at Camp Seafarer I had signed up for the Sunfish sailor clinic. Eager to learn how to sail, I had paid close attention during the three-day class. The counselor kindly explained everything we needed to know about sailing. Despite my focus during the class, there had been more information than I had expected. Between rigging and furling and capsizing, I forgot some of the nomenclature and guidelines. While confusing the names of the rudder or of the mast most likely may not lead to such big problems, forgetting how to maneuver the boat to capture wind can lead to serious issues.

Â

-14-

The fin disappeared under the no-longer beautiful, but now murky bluish-green water. I sighed. For a second, Ruthie and I loosened our grip on the tiller, giving our sweaty palms a break. My eyes shifted upwards as if to thank the Almighty for sparing my life. But just as I thought we had been saved, I felt a bump, a jolt, a shake; the boat jerked back and forth like an overexcited child in a rocking chair. Snatching the tiller, we both automatically tried to escape our imminent death. The fierce silver fin lurched underneath our boat. Calls for help spitted out of our mouths like a broken record machine. But we knew the uncomforting truth. We were alone. The boom violently swung from side to side, and the waves crashed against the boat as loud as thunder.

Panic overthrew my brain, and again, I failed to seize the wind, hopelessly floating around on top of the leviathan.

Suddenly, the rocking stopped. The bloodcurdling fin leaped out of the water, transforming into a beautiful friendly dolphin. Ruthie and I gawked at the magnificent creature we had feared only moments ago. The simple beauty of the dolphin jumping towards the shining sun shocked me. While we had desperately tried to push nature away, neither of us realized that nature had only hoped to amaze us. Most importantly, nature wanted to bring Ruthie and me together, creating a long-lasting friendship. That day, sailing was not only exhilarating, but also meaningful. Once we learned to embrace nature, we truly gained all it had to offer.

Three years later, my last year as a camper, I inhaled the warm sea breeze hoping to keep it with me when I returned home two days later. I could not believe how quickly time had vanished. Ruthie stepped out the door of what had been our home for the past four weeks. Her mandatory volleyball tryouts forced her to leave camp two days early despite her strong desire to stay. Dressed in jeans and a white frilly top, her tan lines, sunburn, friendship anklets, and summer memories were covered up. Tears began to trickle from her eyes like a leaky bathtub faucet. Quickly, I sprinted over and hugged her tightly. We stood there for a moment, never wanting to let go.

Photography by: Mallory K. ‘15

-15-

Anglo Saxon Riddle By: Cole A. ‘15 Seriously though, I could be slipped on.

Today I am publicized as a show-stopper.

Two strings connect, in a loop.

Stepped on, but I can never walk.

Squeak Squeak Squeak, when I’m wet.

All the athletes show me off.

Public humiliation when people forget me.

For some unknown reason postman-chasers love me.

I’m not involved in the lucrative battle-gear.

How graceful the girls are, boys are more bonkers.

Photography by: Helyn S. ‘15

So many brands, so many companies.

List Poem By: Molly B. ‘14 I am The chocolate lover The picture taker The movie watcher The song singer The one who thinks a lot but doesn’t say much The one who gives advice but cannot take her own The one who should achieve greatness but lacks motivation The one who senses that something is wrong but refuses to speak up I am

Artwork by: Jocelyn B. ‘15

The The The and The

-16-

hug giver even when I’m in need smile wearer even when I’m sad day dreamer even when I’m focusing game player even when I’m watching

Remember When

By: Shana K. ‘14 R is for Recalling You are walking down the street. You stop. You see something small, insignificant, and yet it is just another reminder of what you are so desperately attempting to forget. In an instant you recall every detail of the memories you can just almost forget.

E is for Emotions I just can’t bear it. I feel like I am flying. If I keep in all these emotions I will explode. I rush home and scribble furiously in my diary, I set my alarm clock for early.

Tomorrow will be a great day.

M is for Memories She arrives home and walks to her closet, pulling down the shoebox of old memories.

She sifts through the old letters, photographs and knick-knacks. She knows she should get rid of them, but she just can’t. She pushes the box back on the shelf and saves that for another day.

B is for Boldness He walks slowly, carefully and painstakingly putting one foot in front of the other. He knows he will only have one chance. He travels the length of the hallway then turns the corner, coming face to face with precisely the girl he was looking for.

W is for Waiting You hear the bell clang as you push in the doors. You order your coffee and, slinging your bag over the chair back, slide into a window seat. You watch the rain soak the pavement as you wait, everything hanging in the balance.

H is for Hello I check my watch and jump up with a start. I run through the hallways, pushing past people and receiving insults in return. I slam head-on into a girl, sending her papers everywhere. I apologize and grab some papers off the floor, but she only grabs them and shoves past, barely acknowledging me.

N is for Never They know it’s never going to happen. They look at each other and both acknowledge the broken mess. They are reluctant to accept that it’s over, that they can’t go on. And yet, they know they must give it one last shot; they roll up their sleeves, get behind the aging car and attempt to push it the final miles to their destination.

-17-

The Truth Unwrapped By: Mrs. Steinberg

My husband looks at the stack of essays That I carefully set down on my desk, And says, “Throw them down the steps.

The ones that land on the bottom get A’s.”

The joke is old, Yet my husband tells it deadpan, cold Because maybe he isn’t joking.

The next morning I pulled into the school Parking lot, dragged my bag Of essays and bubble sheets with one hand, Hauled my pile of books with the other, The whole time trying not to spill my coffee, And stumbled out of my car.

The gym teachers pulled up next to me, Sprung out of the driver’s seat, And bounced across the blacktop.

In one hand she carried A whistle on the end of a lanyard.

In the other hand, an apple.

Just then, I hate her.

Every year I taught at public school I had over One. Hundred. Fifty.

Students.

Every year I taught at public school I had to assign those One. Hundred. Fifty.

Students eight essays.

Eight essays times One. Hundred. Fifty Students, Eight essays times two drafts each Time One. Hundred. Fifty Students.

Eight essays time two drafts each Plus a writing conference Times One. Hundred. Fifty.

Students.

I look at my stack of essays, And I look at the steps, And I look at my husband.

I no longer have One. Hundred. Fifty.

Students.

I have twenty students With twenty essays.

My husband keeps going with the joke “The ones that fall to the bottom Have the most writing, Have the most writing, Are the heaviest, They get the A’s.”

I look back at my stack Of twenty essays, Each one holding a gem of truth Nestled in the blanket of a paragraph.

Each word a little gift Wrapped in a sentence Tied with the unassuming bow Of a comma or a period, Or, fancier, a semi-colon

I’m an English teacher So I can’t really do the math, But once at the end of the quarter When grades were due I still had essays waiting, ungraded On my desk.

The night I graded maybe fifty essays, And my husband figured out all The term grades, And together we shaded those grades Into little circles on the bubble sheets For the principle to feed Into a giant computer.

We were Up. All. Night.

-18-

My students write about pain and about joy And about how sometimes those two are The. Same. Exact. Thing.

They write about homes that get broken, And parents who get sick or who leave Or who won’t leave Them alone.

They write about friends who betray And who hurt And who ignore.

They write to understand Things that cannot be understood.

They write so that someone Will see them.

I see them.

The principal said to me, “English teachers know their students better Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14 Than any other teachers in the school.”

Damn right.

I look at the stack of essays waiting on my desk,

And my husband with his joke Still lingering on his lips, And I don’t laugh.

The Cookie Cutter And they’re all getting A’s.

By: Alyse M. ‘17

I watched her bake with it every Friday night since I was six years old. Etching perfect designs into the hazelnut and raisin-filled cookies, the tarnished silver cookie pincher lay on the granite counter every week calling for me. I longed to hold it, to use it, but my grandma wouldn’t let me, not yet at least. The cookie pincher, a four-inch baking tool, was the only think in my family’s possession that connected me to my ancestors. I yearned for that connection. Now, thirty years later, I still bake the raisin and hazelnutfilled cookies on Friday nights. My five year-old daughter, Esther, named after my grandmother, joins me in the kitchen as the smell of the cookies and Middle Eastern cuisine saturate the air. I tell her the history of the cookie pincher but she seems less interested than I at that age. It hurts knowing she doesn’t share the same love for this treasure as I do. I hope one day she will appreciate it and pass it on to her children. But for now, she just looks up at me with a blank stare, her curly brown hair pulled back with a scrunchy and her little teeth slightly protruding from her mouth.

-19-

In the Fifth Grade By: Julius L. ‘16 In the fifth grade there was a boy named Plumstreet… or Plumpsteer… or Pumstree. Honestly, I don’t remember but I do remember what he said to me. It was mid-October and leaves had completely covered the ground. At this time of year, I remember anticipating recess as if it would be the best twenty-five minutes of my life.

We would race out the door and dive wondrously into piles of orange and yellow. The playground didn’t seem so exciting anymore now that there were mountainous heaps of leaves to play in. Those fallen leaves had never seemed like anything more than a multicolored escape from school, which I always dreaded. Those leaves had never meant much of anything until one day, this kid whose name I don’t exactly remember told me something that I would never forget. He said, “You know, there’s a difference between leaves and us.” I replied like any fifth grader would and said, “Well yeah, of course there is.” What he said next, however, was truly inspiring. He said, “When leaves are alive, they’re too high up on trees for us to play with and for us to appreciate them. We only see how much fun they can really be when they’ve died and fallen. For us people though, nobody sees how much fun we are when we’re dead because we’re dead, so let’s be happy about what we have and for all that we can do while we’re alive and run to that huge pile of leaves over there.” Excited, as any lower school kid would be to jump into a giant pile of leaves with a friend, I ran as fast as I could. Only years later, now that I’m too old to jump into piles of leaves, do I realize the importance of what he said.

Photography by: Reuven B. ‘15

-20-

Advice to Myself By: Emma S. ‘16 Be confident.

Stand like a Redwood tree, rooted into the ground.

Wear your middle part, super tight side ponytail with your pink and green colored braces with pride.

Be smart.

Remember to not put a wooden pizza tray into the 350° oven.

When shaving, use shaving cream.

Constantly remind yourself of what is actually important.

Family always comes first.

And that one C you got on your essay, Forget it.

Be happy.

Wear a smile everyday.

And live like life has a crush on you.

My Failure to Succeed By: Yael H. ‘17

Why does this always happen to me? Sitting on the stage, clenching my pen in my trembling hand, all I could think about was that look on my parents’ faces. I had made it to the finals of the competition, but then had gotten the last question wrong. All of the studying for nothing! I could still hear my mom in the background saying, “Study, Yael, study!” I had studied, but enough was enough! Sometimes, I just wanted a break from all the pressure, and to do something fun. Maybe go to the park, or hang out at the pool? Well, looking back on it, that might not have been the best decision. Had I studied instead of going to the soccer game, would I have known the final answer? When I broke the news to my parents, they sat me down, and said, “Yael, did you try your hardest?” And I said, “No.” Just like that. My parents explained to me that if I did not try my hardest, then I could not complain that I didn’t know the final answer. When they told me I should have learned my lesson, I felt like a failure. I had thought that this contest would be a great way for me to learn the trivia, and be acknowledged for winning first place at the same time. Instead, my parents were disappointed in me, and more importantly, I was disappointed in myself.

-21-

11.12.13 By: Hannah H. ‘16 Is time a thief?

Today could be the day you die, Torn apart from loved ones, Their lives never the same again.

Is time a gift?

Today could be the day you are born, This would be the beginning of your days.

This could be the beginning of the end, Or if you are lucky, The end of the beginning, But only time can tell.

Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14 If people remember this day because of the number pattern, Will they remember the events that happened?

The Jump of Life Will something remarkable occur?

By: Dov M. ‘16 Do we make this day extraordinary, Or does this day make us extraordinary things?

I wake, to die.

To sleep, to fly.

How can it be I flew?

If I was dead how could I fly?

Is this just another day with an unusual date?

Will it be a blur to be forgotten like all others?

Or will it stick in our minds forever?

I soared over all; living, dead, and in between.

I saw the pain of all creation, to live.

Is 11.12.13 really that special?

The pain of life? How can that be?

It has 24 hours to it.

It must be a fluke like death or destruction.

Day and night pass through, Seamlessly as they always have.

Death, destruction, all in between.

They force us to be. Just to be.

Is today special because of the numbers, To live in the moment.

Or because we are inspired to make it special?

To live in the future, is a priority.

The future hold possibilities, hope, and love, endless love.

Why is today special?

Isn’t every day special?

Then I awoke to flowers, music, and grief.

I had soared from a penthouse apartment…

Into a coffin, a grave, and nothingness.

I was dead.

-22-

Advice to Myself By: Daniel G. ‘16

Waiting By: Emma S. ‘16

Double your weight and run around shirtless Sing your hear out to a song you don’t know the lyrics

The teachers hands us another writing assignment.

There are ten minutes left of class.

to

I sit there, waiting.

Let the audience imagine you in your underwear

Waiting for inspiration.

Waiting for the perfect idea, the amazing alliteration, the life changing epiphany.

Society judges only because you allow it to Waiting for the quick scribbles of my pencil on the paper.

Waiting for the oooohs and ahhhhs.

Diet on chocolate and lollipops because you don’t Waiting for the pat on the back.

Waiting for the interviews, books signings, and need to “work out” fame.

Ask her to prom because she’ll say “No.” Waiting for the loud, loving applause.

Waiting for the hearts to be touched, the tears Buy a unitard because you are a superhero! to stream down faces.

Embrace yourself Waiting to make a difference.

Waiting to be remembered.

Throw your insecurities out the window Accept Yourself

But then I stop.

And think.

I remember the only time success comes before work is in the dictionary.

Where I’m From By: Jenna M. ‘14

I am from flickering lights, from Duracell batteries and remote

controls.

So I pick up my pencil.

And begin to write.

I am from chipped kitchen tiles that creak beneath my feet.

I am from the mulch, the tulips that blossom in spring.

I am from the Sunday night dinners and trips to the beach, from mom and nana and grandma.

I am from the innocent taunting and the occasional arguments.

From the “he’s dating who?” and the “that kid of hers is trouble.”

I am from the wax of the Hanukkah candles that drips onto the aluminum foil laid on our kitchen counter.

I am from Charm City, Baltimore, Taco Tuesdays, and late night ice cream.

From the switched careers, the phone addiction, and the gossip seeker.

I am from the black and white photographs on the walls in my Grandmother’s basement, the boxed mementos in my nana’s dresser, the vintage wedding dress in my mother’s closet.

-23-

Self-Reflection By: Meital A. ‘16

Raised by a family of the most opulent standard, I grew progressively bored and eventually resentful of the dull lifestyle of the lavish and luxurious. The corrosive monotony of everyday life abraded my sense of self as well as my disposition. The suffocating pressure to conform to their expectations inspired my intense desire to escape uniformity, and embody its opposite—abstract art. At eighteen, I dispensed with my previous life and started afresh. After purchasing a petite cottage on the outskirts of Boston, I transformed the house’s lower level into my art studio. I supported myself by working full-time at a local family-owned art supply store, devoting the nighttime to my own creativity.

To my surprise, I had no trouble making friends in such a small town. In fact, people seemed naturally drawn to my dimpled smile and sardonic wit. Still, my strict schedule left little time for socializing; I worked from nine to five and spent nights toiling in my studio, with few hours devoted to sleep in between.

Eventually, the Depression took its toll on the store, forcing the owner to let several employees go and to raise the prices on many of my favorite paints. In a desperate attempt to compensate for the lost staff, he enlisted his 30 year-old son to “work” alongside me at the counter. Much to my dismay, he was not your typical “boss’ son.” His head sat on a tilted axis atop his raised shoulders and his upper lip twitched like a sleeping dog, while his eyes stared constantly at something invisible at the tip of his nose. I could always sense his presence behind me by his stuttered breathing, exaggerated footfall, and the incessant, inappropriate giggling.

Throughout the following months, his oddity gradually devolved from innocent to foreboding. Whenever I entered the store, his residence in my shadow became predictable as death and omnipresent as time, space, or…fear. At first, I pitied him; I knew fully well that he could not help the crippling effects of his disease. In fact, I even admired him for his ability to remain jovial in spite of his misfortune. However, as time dragged on, and the increasing impact of his abnormality weighed heavier upon my conscience, angst began to eclipse my empathy for him.

Somehow, the imbecile managed to get further under my skin than most probing men. Who would have thought that such a dim–witted, incompetent idiot could have such prowess in driving such a perspicacious woman mad!? Even after leaving the store every day, I could not escape him. He manifested himself in my every thought and action; his crossed eyes branded themselves into my head, his nauseating giggle slithered its way onto my subconscious, and his ubiquitous figure lurked behind me, invading what should have been my solitude.

-24-

Though my description of such hallucinations might lead one to deem me disturbed, my ability to identify these occurrences as merely mirage rather than reality

proves my lucidity. However, even my knowledge of their falsity did not assuage me. In fact, my fear only swelled. The worst part was the God-awful dreams. Every night I endured the same dreadful scene play out—his detached head sat, perched on a table in a dimly lit room, surrounded by a labyrinth of mirrors at various angles. Slowly, they began enclosing me as well. They came nearer and nearer, multiplying at an infinite rate, making his face all I could see.

My daily and nightly torments insidiously fused into perpetual purgatory. I was nearing my breaking point. My days melted into a single gray mass with no distinction between them. My paintings became increasingly bland. My existence mirrored the very monotony from which I had fled. I knew what I had to do.

Fastening on a convincing smile, I sashayed into work ready to fulfill my plan. As I entered, I saw him, standing in his regular spot, squealing gleefully at my arrival. After a few hour, I turned to him and asked if he would like to be featured in one of my art pieces. As expected, he responded by hooting loudly and joyfully flailing his arms, nearly whacking me. Internally, I cringed in disgust. At five o’clock he and I embarked on the trudge to my house. As if the cacophonous crunch of snow was not enough to put somebody over the edge, each of his exaggerated steps was accompanied by a “tee-hee!” or a merry snort. I struggled to keep from grinding my teeth into a thin dust. When we finally arrived, he impatiently hobbled up the stairs to the door, chortling with delight.

Immediately I led him in the direction of my studio, instructing him to sit down at the far end of the corridor. Earlier that day, I had loosened the floorboards directly in front of the stairway, knowing he would stomp right through. He skipped excitedly all the way to his death. I heard his neck crack as his body met the basement’s cold cement floor. I only heard a whimper or two. Then silence. Finally.

I imagined waking up the next morning basking in relief. Instead, I fought my way out of my typical mirror-filled nightmare, nearly drowning in the pool of my own sweat. Even after his perfect termination he continued to haunt me. I needed to sew up the blurred gap between imagination and reality. I needed closure, and I needed it now. Without another thought, I raced down the stairs, greeted his stiff corpse, and dragged him to the furthest end of the vestibule. I laid his body on a tarp before I swiftly removed his head and balanced it carefully atop my grandmother’s old desk. I made sure to take care of the blood. Every drop of it.

-25-

I darted from room to room, seizing every looking glass I could find. He really would become an art piece, just as I had promised. Once I gathered enough mirrors, I struck

them with an axe, making even more, and proceed to arrange them, piece by piece, into the sparkling collage that now surrounded his quiet head.

Stepping back to admire my creation, a thick blend of dread and satisfaction enveloped me. I had ripped the kaleidoscope image directly out of my dreams, filling the gap. I felt…liberated. I savored the relief for days, weeks, maybe even months until the nightmares crept their way back in. My mirrored masterpiece no longer served as closure, by as the heart of my anxiety. Attempting to distract myself and quiet my mind, I immersed myself in my art. For weeks, all day, every day—I painted, hanging each completed canvas along the corridor. I no longer went to work and I no longer sought the comfort of my bed, afraid of what horrors would torture my unconscious mind. Sleepdeprived, I would often doze off during the day in the serenity of my studio. I continued this routine for months, until that Thursday morning, when a knocking at the door jolted me awake. “Just a minute,” I hollered from the basement, tiptoeing past the door and darting upstairs to quickly collect myself. I had no idea who it could be--my weekly groceries had been delivered just two days ago.

Inching the door open to unfamiliar sunlight blinded me temporarily, but as my pupils adjusted to the alien light, I could make out two glinting sheriffs’ badges in the doorway. Ice-cold blood suddenly slicing through my veins, I feigned nonchalance and invited them inside. Thankfully, my apprehension waned when the young men informed of the reason for their dispatch.

“Sweetheart, you haven’t been to work in months, so your boss filed a missing persons report. We’re just here to make sure that you’re alright,” the one on the left said with a practiced smile as his eyes carefully examined me. I was used to this penetrative look from men; I could tell that he liked what he saw. Even after confining myself to a single room for an entire month, I had not lost touch with my characteristic femininity. I knew where to go from there. Suddenly, I burst into a fit of hysterics, wringing out every last artificial tear I had, and letting each roll pitifully down my rosy cheeks. Both deputies stumbled over each other as they rushed to console me, as I sputtered out fragments about the “poor boy…oh, I hope he’s ok…why would anyone want to hurt him… I just can’t stand being at work knowing he is still out there…" they were putty in my oh-sofeminine hands.

-26-

Once I composed myself, I innocently asked if they had any leads. “Unfortunately not, Sugar, but you’ll be the first to know,” Tom, the one who spoke the first time, answered. I turned my head, and watched as Maxwell, Tom’s junior, squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, searching for words to address me. When he finally spoke up, he mumbled out how “a ‘little lady’ like me should really be careful.” Good, they would never have imagined that a “little lady like me” could be a death artist. I prepared to show them out, nodding inattentively as they continued lecturing me. However, they made no attempt to move but, instead seemed set on striking-up further conversation. I watched Tom’s soft brown eyes dart around like a housefly trapped inside a light fixture, as he fumbled for a discussion topic. I never anticipated his question.

“So, are you an artist?” How did he know? Observing my sudden shock, he answered my unspoken question, “Uhh I saw the paint and paintbrush on the counter over there, and I assumed….,” he trailed off, motioning towards the small scarlet jar that sat beside the freezer. “Y-yes I am,” I replied after ages, flashing him a cheeky smile to mask my apprehension. Maxwell spoke up. “Can we see your work?” he blurted out almost too eagerly while Tom nodded in concurrence. My thoughts screeched to a sudden halt. My mirrored masterpiece still sat, behind a white curtain, at the end of the hallway.

Before I was able to filter myself, the word “sure” slipped out from my lips. There was no turning back now.

“Wow, you must really like red,” one of them mumbled, regarding the array of various sized crimson-colored jars on my table. “It’s the only color I’ve been able to afford since Mr. Brinkley raised his prices,” I lied, "…so I just mix it into various hues,” I snapped back. “And, well, it is my favorite color,” I slurred devilishly as an idea entered my mind. They started on their way down the corridor.

“I don’t understand—these paintings are all the same,” Maxwell muttered, pointing his stubby forefinger at my brilliant vermillion canvas. “Yeah,” Tom agreed, “each one is just a mirror image of the next.” I ignored them. How dare they criticize the dozens of crimson masterpieces I’d slaved over for months? They knew nothing of true art! I closed my eyes and waited for my fury to dissipate. In retrospect, it really was a shame, what I had to do. They seemed like nice guys —they just saw too much. I sat quietly on the stairs, waiting for the gasps that would let me know they’d discovered my showpiece.

“Each one is just a mirror image.” Ha! If only he knew! “Just a mirror image.” The dim lighting cloaked the sinister grin that snaked onto my face. “A mirror image,” the words bounced around in my skull, unearthing a lifetime of monotony.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” echoed from the end of the corridor.

I locked the door.

-27-

Betting Man By: Matt R. ‘14

Photography by: Reuven B. ‘15

I’m no betting man, but What are the odds?

What is the likelihood That in this vast and Endless narrative of the universe, One that transcends our limited, Human comprehension, What are the chances that We would meet, that our twin, tiny, twinkling lights would Wink into existence beside on another, Not light years away and eons apart but instead in constellation, Two stars indistinguishable in the vast carpet of the galaxy And yet somehow unique and perfectly in their place; How likely is it that in the always-expanding, neverending quilt That is existence We would be stitched right her, together, next to each other?

I don’t know, and I won’t know, Not now and not ever.

Some matters simply exceed us, Their monumental infinity refusing neat colonization Within the confines of our understanding.

Existence baffles the basest of human imperialismsThe need to rational, the compulsion to comprehend.

But when you’re on a boat, you Know the ocean has a bottom Even though you’ll never feel it yourself, Never plunge your hands into the spongy wet sand, Never let its smooth silt trickle between your fingers.

I just as surely know that we both, you and I, even spread out across the sky, were put her together by no great accident, not by some clashing of worlds or some cosmic alignment but instead for a reason, even though how or why will prove as elusive as the ocean floor for my yearning, struggling fingertips.

-28-

Monologue By: Anna B. ‘15 Part I

Nothing was the same after I realized that the human race simply had no hope. After that relaxing epiphany, I could merely marvel at the fact that people have accustomed their minds to such grotesque rituals without even realizing it. Even the littlest parts of our everyday lives are amoral and disturbing. Temporally ignoring the issues of nursery rhythms, (though I’ll get to those later,) let us talk about Hangman.

Hangman. We don’t even employ a euphemism! We’re straight up teaching children a game called “Hangman.”

Picture this scenario. There’s a wholesome classroom, and a pencil-skirt wearing teacher with graying hair and a tired smile decides to play a game of Hangman to teach her students new vocabulary. One girl, Mary-Sue, volunteers, and writes the blank letters for the word “rascal.” A tricky word for eight-year-olds, the gallows holds many limbs. To help them and elongate the game, Mary-Sue chirps, “Oh, I’ll just make him an old man, so I have to draw a cane and hair and wrinkles before you lose!”

This is a game where you hang old men.

Now, the guesser’s goal is to end with as few body parts hanging as possible. You would think that this displays the players’ kindness, as though we’re trying to save this man’s life.

Wrong.

Getting one wrong word ends with just the head. Is it really any less disturbing to leave just a head hanging?? If we win at that, that’s practically saying, “We hanged and mutilated this man!” If the game finishes with a man incompletely drawn, we’ve either hanged him and then cut off a bunch of his limbs, or maimed him before hanging him.

This.is.not.cute.

There’s something wrong with a scenario where you have a teacher saying to eight-yearolds, “Let’s play a game!” before drawing gallows on the board.

-29-

Part II

Honestly, this all comes as no surprise, given the nursery rhymes being fed to these kids a few years back.

“Hush little baby, on the treetop, When the wind blows, the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all.” –Rock-a-bye-Baby *beat* The ominous tune accompanying this song helps matters very little.

I find it unsurprising that toddlers hearing their parents soothingly sing to them to “hush or die” would end up hanging old men for satire a few years later.

If the baby in that rhyme did survive, she probably found her untimely end in “Jack and Jill,” because remember, “Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.” *beat* Bye-bye, Jack. Bye-bye, Jill.

And, assuming Jill survived that, she probably, I don’t know, ended up as Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater’s Wife. After all“Peter, Peter, pumkin eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.

He put her in a pumpkin shell And there he kept her very well.”

Honestly, either way, I’d be scared enough of Wee Willie Winkie, as he ran through the town in his nightgown, rapping at the windows and asking if children were in bed. But I digress.

And really, who am I to judge? When these child victims of sadistic games and lullabies end up being the future psychopaths of America, it’s not as though we can sue Mother Goose.

Maybe just hang her in a frivolous game of Hangman.

-30-

The Little Things By: Jocie B. ‘15 Tiny flames illuminate the dining room. Soft Hebrew whispers fill the air. Hands cover faces as mouths recite prayers. Like on any typical Friday evening, my mother and I stand quietly and welcome Shabbat with the traditional candle lighting ceremony.

For many Jews, the act of candle lighting before Shabbat simply serves as habit; however, for me, this ritual brings back a prominent story of my great-grandmother’s relatives during the Holocaust. At the start of World War II, Grandma Sara’s family clung passionately to their Jewish customs, acknowledging the brief amount of time that remained to practice their religion freely. Candle lighting held particular importance to my relatives in Czechoslovakia. Each week Grandma Sara’s mother would ignite the wicks on her silver candlesticks and greet the peaceful illusion. For one day, while the rest of the world was dark with battle, sanctity and hope filled my family’s home. Soon, word reached Grandma Sara’s parents that the Nazis were approaching their town.

Realizing that the soldiers would search their home for valuables, they immediately took action by hiding several family heirlooms. Among these few items were my great-greatgrandmother’s precious silver candlesticks. Buried deeply under loose floorboards in a tiny, dark room of the house, the candlesticks resided in underground soil for years, while the Nazis forced Grandma Sara and her family to the ghetto and then Auschwitz.

Over the years, neighbors invaded the house, and, by the time my great-grandma and a few of her siblings returned after the war, their home was utterly chaotic. With her last grain of hope, Grandma Sara lifted the floorboards in the windowless room and began digging. When her hand reached something cold and smooth, Grandma’s eyes widened in shock. Pulling the two priceless candlesticks out of the ground, she stood in

silence, amazed by G-d and His miracles.

-31-

Although my Grammy currently lights these candles, I look forward to receiving them and passing them down to my children. Because of this incredible miracle after the Holocaust, the custom of candle lighting continues to fill me with a sense of hope and pride. One day, Grandma Sara will not be here to tell me stories of her life in Europe, but I will make sure that I light those silver candles each week and deliver her legacy for generations to come.

Â

Artwork by: Jocie B. ‘15

-32-

I Was Thinking About Us Today By: Dori C. ‘14 I was thinking about us today. I know, crazy right? You literally have not even appeared in my mind for the past three months. I miss you.

When I told you that I never wanted to see you again, I really meant it. But now, I feel so alone and I wonder if you feel the same way.

You know what today is don’t you? It is her birthday. March 23. Do you remember what was happening at this exact minute one year ago today? I had woken up just like it was any other Tuesday morning. Brushed my teeth, got dressed. Then I went downstairs for some oatmeal. I really craved that. Do you remember how much oatmeal I ate? I mean, we are talking a ridiculous amount, like two bowls in the morning and one when I got home from school. My favorite was by far maple and brown sugar; of course I didn’t mind some apples and cinnamon every now and then. But if I was in a bad mood, I absolutely had to have maple and brown sugar, no question. Anyway, after my oatmeal, I went back upstairs to do my makeup. I would helplessly put on concealer in an attempt to cover up my acne. My skin was so bad those days! The concealer would always end up looking cake-y. I would just remove it all. Then, resigned, I just brushed on some waterproof black mascara and went back down the stairs. I slopped on my Uggs, my most comfortable pair of shoes, and walked to school.

Social outcast. That was me. The moment I walked onto school property, people would instantly avoid me. March 23 was no different. I don’t think they realized how much their silence hurt me. Nobody was there for me, ever. Once my friends found out about it, they just stopped talking to me and blocked me out. It was like I was never even their friend. But what I never understood is why that didn’t happen to you. It would make me so mad, so depressed. Like it was all my fault and you had nothing to do with it. Your friends still hung out with you, teachers treated you like they always did. Maybe it’s because before it happened, everybody was in love with you. You were perfect, this one little blip in your book should just be erased and forgotten. And I would go home and cry.

March 23 was no different. It hit me in the lunch room.

-33-

Me: Alone, struggling through the throngs of hungry students.

You: Smiling, laughing, sitting at a table with your friends.

The tears stung my eyes. I attempted to hold them back, like I always did. But this time, they didn’t stop. I accidentally made eye contact with your deep brown eyes, turned around and rushed to the exit. My silent crying continued, making my face a damp, blotchy patch of red. My tired legs and feet sped down the hall, taking me to the deserted crosswalk. But then, I froze. Pain seized me. I gripped my stomach, doubling over, screaming. It stopped. I breathed. Then it all started again: the contraction of pain from inside my stomach, my face contorting from discomfort. I remember thinking I should sit down. I also remember you rushing to my aid from behind and holding my hands, reminding me to breathe, whipping out your phone to dial 911. You must have followed me from the cafeteria.

March 23, you were right beside me. Every following minute starting at the crosswalk, I looked to you for support. And during that time, it was just you and me.

Nobody else. You and I were together, suffering through the pain. The doctor and nurses coached me through, but it was you who gave me the strength to continue.

After five hours and three minutes, it was all done. The physical pain was gone, yet we kept crying. March 23, six pounds, four ounces, our daughter was born. I did not want to hold her, I knew if I did, giving her away would be much more difficult. They rushed her out of the room, and we looked at each other. With both of us sobbing, helplessly looking to one another for support, I never felt more connected to anyone I had no real relationship with. I averted my eyes, looked down, and mumbled, “I never want to see you again.”

You left.

I wonder what her name is. Maybe she has your mesmerizing chocolate eyes, or your charming grin. I wonder what lullaby never fails to lull her to sleep at night. I wonder how small her hands are, and if she calls her mother mommy, mom, or momma. It has been one whole year.

One entire year that I have felt more alone than ever. I miss you.

-34

Like Fire By: Justin W. ‘16

Like Fire, it destroys everything

Just a spark can set a whole forest ablaze When it is almost gone, it doesn’t take much to build it back to full flame It knows no limits and has no ending place The more there is, the harder it is to displace For some it lingers in small amounts, with nothing to fuel its power Others endure the pain they feel, when they let it

Photography by: Jenny R. ‘14

burn forever In its wake it feels nothing, sucking out the life But sometimes to see what true happiness is,

You need to see by its light

Photography by: Aviva L. ‘16

-35-

Introduction By: Hilla S. ‘14 Change is an interesting thing. It can be subdued and sluggish or spontaneous and sporadic. It can happen in a breath or in a blink of an eye; with a deafening boom, a piercing blast, or a screaming bullet. Yet it can also be delivered through strong words, a firmly held hand, a song, a dream, a kiss and a hug. Change is both beautiful and brutal.

And oh, how change likes to play a fickle game. Evolution, we say is a necessity to mankind. It is ingrained in our DNA, as vital as the breath we take or the food we eat.

Darwin stated it so factually: evolution is directly correlated to our survival. It is always there, always flirting and fighting with us. We strain against it protest it with fists and guns and anger and fear, but when the frustration cools; we find the terrain a fascinating one. The world is different. We adapt, we thrive, and then we become comfortable until within a few seconds, a few minutes, a handful years, or even decades the wave hits again. We are pulled under the handful years, or even decades the wave hits again. We are pulled under the bellowing crashes of new ideas and innovation, until once more we break for air and paddle to the shore, only to find that we never quite get there. Again and again the wave hits, we go under, and we emerge stronger, more knowledgeable.

Perhaps we have learned to hold our breath longer; perhaps we have even learned how not to use our breath at all.

Over the course of this year, I have studied change. I have examined the past 100 or so years of American history. At times I have perused through, not really noticing the subtle details, and at other moments I pulled out my brother’s college textbook and stared at the pages trying to truly understand a world I never lived in. And now as I look back at the many different realities that have waxed and waned, and eclipsed over and under each other in the last century, I have concluded that as much as things change, it all really just stays the same. A gun in the hands of a young boy in 1917 is still a gun in 2004 in the deserts of Iraq. Both weapons kill, both draw blood and both steal away breath. A campaign against Communist terror in one decade is a campaign against Islamic terror in another. During WWII America imprisoned its own citizens; Germany imprisoned its own citizens. Same, same. History is the story of parallels; it is a mirror which extends in a doubled over image in each direction, into the finite past and the infinite future. The characters are folded over and over again, until the lines blur and no one can tell who is who and what is what because blood is still red no matter when you spill it or where you spill it. But why? Why the constant déjà vu? Do we not learn from our mistakes? Were we not warned that if we do not heed the lessons of history, we are condemned to repeat it?

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The answer, I believe, is as old as time. It’s an answer sewn into the oldest and historic of texts. It is there in the bite marks of Adam and Eve’s apple and floating in the waters of Noah’s Ark. And here I now deliver it to you. Simply put, we are human. We all share the common denominator of fear, hate, love and jealousy. The list goes on and on.

No one is free from the Seven Deadly Sins. To eradicate evil and purge the world of all that is bad is to recreate the human. But we cannot do that; we are not God. And while this realization is a realistic one and somewhat sad, it is not as pessimistic as it seems. If we accept the fact that evil is omnipresent. If we realize that evil is the marrow that makes up our bones, but also acknowledge that nestled along this evil brother is the twin sister, love, than perhaps there is hope. Perhaps we can stop trying to change what cannot be changed and instead affect what we can. Perhaps what the world needs is not a reinvention of the human, but rather an amelioration of the one that already exists.

Perhaps brawls and brushes with violence will persist indefinitely, but instead of carving out the damage with sharp knives, we can hug and kiss to heal our bruises. Perhaps we cannot obliterate evil, but we can bend it, soothe it, calm it, so it is no longer as sharp and brittle, but rather as soft as a baby’s cheek and as smooth as the greenest leaf. Perhaps.

Perhaps. But let change reign, let it come. And when it does, let us try to move a little slower, kill a little kinder, and hug a little harder. It comes, it comes. So come and heal the black and blue and withhold all those punches.

Photography by: Aviva L. ‘16

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Sweatpants By: Noa R. ‘16 I never thought that something as little as a pair of plain, black, baggy sweatpants with a white tying string would mean so much to me. I discovered these sweatpants in a time of pain. Feeling that nothing and no one could give me any comfort after my father passed away, it was as if my life was paused and would stay there, frozen in time at that traumatic moment.

I knew I needed something, anything to relieve some of the agony and anguish that I was feeling. Realizing that I needed his scent, the way my father smelled, his specific deodorant, shaving cream and hospital soap, I started going through his closet and his dresser, seeing if I could find anything that smelled like him. I was unsuccessful. Nothing had that special smell. I felt so small, so tired and so alone. I felt as though I was a small child wandering around in the woods at night, the trees so dense that the glow of the moon and stars couldn’t come through to light the way. I had pictured myself having some piece of clothing that could be a reminder of him for me forever, a reminder of the way that I had fallen a sleep as a baby snuggled against his worn undershirt, inhaling the unique fragrance of my father that helped me to fall asleep.

Desperately, I started pulling open his drawers randomly. I found a pair of his large, soft sweatpants. Putting them on, pulling the drawstring tight around my waist, I crawled into his bed and pulled up the covers. I just kept hugging my legs and crying. I thought I would stay in that position forever. In some small way I felt comforted. Wearing a piece of his clothing comforted me, as thought it was a piece of him.

To the naked eye they are just plain black sweatpants, nothing special, much too big on me. But whenever I have a bad day, or I’m just feeling like I need him, I take out my father’s sweatpants and wear them. Its like my constricted lungs can open and I can say to myself “Just breathe…just breathe…”

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Baby Blanket By: Jasmine K. ‘16

Occasionally I go to my closet and take out my baby blanket. The smell, texture, and feeling of it all bring me back to the day of the fire, the day it gave me comfort when I needed it most.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” my mother screamed form the kitchen. I picked up toys from the floor, trying to get everything tidy for Sukkot the next day. I looked around and saw my brother, sister, and father cleaning too. My mother walked downstairs to help us clean. Everything seemed fine, but in a second everything changed.

I heard loud beeping and started smelling smoke. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I heard my mother scream, “Get out of the house!”

I was confused. What was going on? Why were we running outside? Then I put the pieces together.

Fire.

A fire in our house.

I wanted to be brave. I wanted everything to be okay. I grabbed onto my mother and my sister on the other side of her. I thought it was okay. It was probably just a little fire. Then I looked up and saw tears falling from my mother’s eyes. I realized it wasn’t.

I grabbed onto my mother tighter and began crying. What about our house?

What about your stuff? My toys. Everything. I was petrified.

My father ran inside and began putting out the fire. Police cars and fire trucks began coming up our street. They’re here, I thought. They’re here to save us.

Everything happened so quickly, the fire being put out. Running inside to grab a few things.

The first thing I grabbed was my baby blanket. It was a gift from my great grandmother Mary. I’ve had it since the day I was born. It was quite small, with teddy bears and fruits and my name embroidered on.

It smelt like safety.

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Analogy Poem

By: Rachel R. ‘16 She lies underneath the covers,

Reminiscing about who used to share them.

He’s gone, but she’s here.

All day she has not a care in the world,

Nothing else reminds her of him.

But at night the memories flood her thoughts.

The sight of their bed brings back all the time they’d spent.

She tosses and turns but wakes no one in the process.

She calls out his name half expecting an answer.

Now burdened with too many sleepless nights,

And no one to share them with.

The loneliness consumes her.

Photography by: Rebecca G. ‘16

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The Pond By: Kara E. ‘16

I stand here, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand, gazing into the pond in which I drowned my husband. You might say I’m crazy, but I can promise that I am most certainly not. I have sought revenge against my husband for over 30 years. At the ages of 18 and 27, we committed our lives to each other. Yet, I regret ever uttering the words “I do.” Although the first few years of our marriage seemed like a fairy tale, alcohol took hold of my husband, and life became a daily hell, consisting of physical and mental abuse.

At first, I believed he could change. I would look into his eyes and see my loving prince trapped in the body of a monster. Yet, once his eyes grew icy and dark, I knew I had lost him, I began to hate the fiend my husband had become. I abhorred his odor, his presence, and his labored, heavy breathing so much that I knew one of us must die in order for the other to survive.

I schemed his murder strategically and cautiously. I observed him for over a month, waiting for the perfect time—drunker than his normal state—to follow through with my plan. Saturday night, he stumbled home from the bar at two-o’clock in the morning, screaming, cursing, and throwing furniture throughout the house —a perfect time for me to advance. Jolted out of bed, I ran into the bathroom and looked under the sink for the secret supply of vodka my husband kept in case of emergencies. I’ve seen him this drunk before. One more glass of alcohol would leave him unconscious until morning. However, I knew that interfering with him like this would also jeopardize my own life. Yet, I wanted him dead so badly that it seemed worth the risk. Trying to grab his attention, I stomped down the stairs, hoping he would notice the object of his obsession in my hands before he would see me. Fortunately, he immediately snatched the bottle out of my hands, thrust me down on the floor, and staggered into the kitchen; alone with his true love.

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Ten minutes later, I cautiously crept into the room to find him face down, passed out on the floor.

Calmly, I pried the bottle from his hands and began dragging his limp body to the pond in our woods. My house was surrounded by trees, so no car or neighbor could see me as I hauled an unconscious man across my lawn. It took over an hour to lug him through the back door, past the backyard, into the woods, and finally to the dirt bank next to the pond. Here, I shoved his body in the water, and watched his as he sank. My husband, an alcoholic, had no friends, family, or job that would miss him. He preferred drinking alone at home, so he only left the house on rare occasions — to patronize bar— and therefore demanded I buy his alcohol regularly. No one would know of his death.

With his comfort, I slunk away, never looking back.

In the weeks following his murder, I became myself again. I gained weight, I slept through the night, and I ate three-course meals. Living became effortless. However, one night I woke up choking. I could feel my husband’s cold hand pressing down on me, constricting my neck. When I opened my eyes, no one was there. My husband was dead. I ran from the room clutching my neck, and stopped at the stairs finally able to breath.

This pattern continued to occur every night. Eventually, it would only relent when I reached the now bloody pond that contained a dematerializing body rotting at its bottom.

I’m speaking to you now, at the edge of the pond, with my fifth glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand. I peer into the spinning, bleeding pond one more time, and I know what I must do in order to escape my miserable life. I don’t look back. I jump, and feel the icy pond suck me into its depths.

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Dedicated to Mr. Elden Schneider: For his constant support and guidance throughout the entire process of creating the Literary Magazine.

From the weekly Monday meetings to the final layout design, Mr. Schneider both kept the group focused and also created a warm and lively environment which inspired students to keep coming back to Literary Magazine meetings. Thanks to his invaluable leadership and insight throughout the past few years, members of the literary magazine staff gained a unique appreciation for literature and creativity. Mr. Schneider taught us to value attention to detail, the

complexity of literature, and the unifying power of a common goal.

Thank you!

The 2014 Editing Staff Anna, Jacob, Jenny, Helyn, and Yitz

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Artwork By: Jocelyn B. ‘15

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