Beth Tfiloh HS presents Shalshelet: Literary Creative Arts Magazine

Shalshelet Presents:

Literary Creative Arts Magazine

2012-2013

Beth Tfiloh Dahan Community High School

LITERARY MAGAZINE STAFF: Senior Editors: Shira B. ‘13 Aaron F. ‘13 Rebecca H. ‘13 Britanny H. ‘13 Gil L.’13

Literary Contributors: Noah A. ’13 33, 37

Helyn S. ’15 2, 14

Dalia B. ’14 21

Hilla S. ’14 12, 19

Lucas C. ’13 28

Mitchell T. ’14 16

Aly C. ’15 36

Maddie T. ’14 27

Mackenzie C ’13 36

Phillip T. 13’ 29, 34

Lauren E. ’14 7, 9, 30 Final Publication Editor: Jenny K. ‘15

Aaron F. ’13 32 Rabbi Aaron Frank 16, 38

Art Editor:

Caitlyn F. ’14 3, 35

Shana K. ‘14

Yael F. ’13 2

Photography and Art: Aly C. ’15 24 Caitlyn F. ’14 24 Melanie G. ’16 36 Shana K. ’14 4, 7, 8, 11, 13, 18,

Carly G. ’14 7, 18, 22

27, 31, 33, 34, 35

Faculty Advisor:

Shana K. ’14 17

Mallory K. ’15 10

Mr. Elden Schneider

Yossi K. ’13 22

Aliza K. ’14 4, 16, 35

Gil L. ’13 5, 25

Jenny R. ’14 2, 3, 7, 9, 10, 16,

20, 21, 22, 27, 28, 32, 33, 37

Staff for Final Publication:

Miriam M. ’15 8

Anna B. ‘15

Yuval M. ’13 24

Rachel B. ‘13

Yitzhak M. ’15 4

Shira B. ‘13

Morgan M. ’14 13

Caitlyn F. ‘14

Ari N. ’13 10

Front Cover:

Eli L. ‘14

Sara P. ’15 4, 10, 13, 18,

Phillip T. ‘13

Yitzhak M. ‘15 Hallye R. ‘14 Jenny R. ‘14 Elyse S. ‘13 Helyn S. ‘15

Jeremy S. ’16 18 Hilla S. ’14 15 Phillip T. ’13 6, 14

24, 31 Andrea P. ’13 3 Gil R. ’14 11, 21 Kevin R. ’14 33 Jenny R. ’14 8

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Back Cover: Elli L. ‘14 Technical Support & Layout: Mrs. Rina Goloskov

To Be Read With by Helyn S. ‘15 Emotion Flitting through your window into a crescendo Time Filling up the hourglass, trying to make it last, catching each bit of sand in your hand Love In which the truth is hard to find, it makes you lose your mind, you and all of humankind Cliché Trying to avoid, but you’re filled with this white noise, forget to tell the Truth Slipping through your fingers, like a kiss it lingers and sometimes like a slap Courage Doesn’t always need to fight back, sometimes you cut yourself some slack, that’s all that can be done Luck That’s not what your life is—mechanical winding toys, there is a higher purposes, and that’s Style Some may say it’s superfluous, you say that’s ridiculous, style’s what you breathe Poetry You try hard not to judge, your muses hold a grudge, they give your soul a nudge

“To Everything There is a Season...” by Yael F. ‘13 When the windows frost and the puddles freeze, we appreciate summer’s warming breeze.

With our numb fingertips, and the sky’s foggy breath, we reminisce fall’s leaves and their colors with depth.

As the wooden floors chill our toes, we resent tomorrow’s woes.

The overcoat of white fills the streets and we dream of blooming flowers and honeysuckle treats.

We do not breathe in the biting air that keeps us in our homes, never appreciating this wind for tying us with our loved ones.

We never embrace the rooftop’s icicles that add beauty to our vestibules.

We sleep through the flurried snow,

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

hoping it will keep us in bed tomorrow.

We love each season before it comes, yet count the days until the next ones.

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This is a Song by Andrea P. ‘13 This is a song.

A song with a melodious tune.

I say it’s a song, But I bet you don’t believe me.

This is fear.

Maybe they will see my rattling hands.

I see my fear, But I bet you don’t think I do.

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14 This is bravery.

The Wanderer by Caitlyn F. ‘14

Striding with my chin held high.

I say I’m brave,

A man who suffered from wanderlust,

But I bet you don’t think I am.

Determined to travel along the Earth’s crust.

He conquered Nepal’s mighty Mount Everest,

I sip my father’s wine. Red wine.

And hiked through the canyons of America’s West.

The “good stuff” he says.

He saw the Greek temples that honored the gods,

My eyes lock on the polls on TV. I nod along knowingly, in rhythm of my parents.

The Venetian canals that beat all the odds.

His faithful onlookers watched him with passion,

The blood-red wine stings the back of my throat.

This “good stuff.”

as he crossed the Atlantic in a timely fashion.

From the Great Wall of China, to the churches of Rome,

My eyes are glazed.

He witnessed the splendor of the Capitol dome.

Concentrating on when to nod, when to not.

From the barren, icy tundra of Siberia’s land, to the biblical Red Sea which was split by G-d’s Hand.

This is being old.

Old and wise, supposedly informed and knowing.

I say I’m old, But I bet you don’t think I am.

He left his fans awestruck, which is to say the least,

When he braved the Aussie outback filled with terrible beasts.

From the Big Ben in London, to the African coast, His journeys are unfathomable, and yet he’s too humble to boast.

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Broken Staircase by Sara P. ‘15

Write me sometime I wouldn’t mind hearing your cracked voice that creaks like a broken staircase.

Photography by Aliza K. ‘14 I’ll try to erase

I Waited by Yitzhak M. ‘15

your voice from my mind,

I waited for graduation to finally arrive;

but it’s hard

I waited for the wedding;

when you’ve left cracks in the staircase behind.

I waited for the promotion; I waited for the births of my children.

And if I traced my last step

I waited for success—whatever that was.

and confessed

I could be happy, if I just wait a little while,

you’ll only regress

So I thought.

and try to obsess over my actions,

Now, I sit alone, gazing up at the light,

not wanting a reaction

Wondering why I ever waited at all.

but your satisfaction will never come.

I’ll wait on my broken staircase stooped down like a plucked daisy who has been depleted and never felt sunlight trickle down her back.

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

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My Cousin Drives a Tacsi by Gil L. ‘13

The digital sign says Bws 88 to Llanberis is due to leave at 17:00. It is now 17:10, and a bus is nowhere to be seen. Finally, an ancient hulk, painted in Bws Padarn’s bright red livery to make it look slightly newer, rattles to the wrong pickup area of the so-called “central bus station.” This major terminal consists of a widened sidewalk with a meager glass canopy, with three slots as loading bays. The manual door of the bus creaks open to reveal a young driver who looks less put-together than even the bus does. My family and I board warily and look for the cleanest, most intact seats. The driver overcharges us, we think. “When is the last bus back from Llanberis?” we ask. “Oh, there’s a bws every half hour, yeh.” We sit. He waits a full 10 minutes for more customers. One brave soul boards after asking the driver, in Welsh, if he can get off at an intermediate point along the way. The driver agrees. The door shuts, the bus’s ancient engine wheezes to a start, and the driver swerves out of his slot, nearly hitting the several other buses crowded around. In no time, we are outside Caernarfon, the capital of North Wales, leaving the medieval castle behind and bouncing along the windy, rural roads through Snowdonia and the hilly, grassy, slate-walled, sheep-dotted country-side.

After dropping off the other passenger at some isolated fork in the road, the driver, knowing that we are tourists, tells us where the best fish-and-chips shop in Llanberis can be found. We are not interested. We are more concerned about whether we’ll be able to get back to Caernarfon. “Oh, yeh, of course, yeh, there are plenty of bwses, yeh. Every half hour.” “Are you sure? Because the schedule looked like it said this was the last bus back from Llanberis.” “Oh, there are plenty of bwses, yeh.”

The bus rattles through the quaint village, and abruptly stops at Llanberis bus stop, conveniently located within feet of our goal attractions there, Rheilffordd Llyn Padarn, or the Llanberis Lake Railway, and Rheilffordd Wyddfa, or the Snowdon Mountain Railway. We visit both, rushing to return to the bus stop at 18:00. No bus. A half hour goes by. Still no bus. We find a bus schedule—nothing is due until 20:20. “Let’s wait,” I say. “You’re crazy,” they say. We lose interest in arguing and go to the Londis corner store nearby. We see an advertisement in the window for a tacsi.

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We’ve run out of minutes on the cell phone, and have to “top up.” We finally call the number. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes, yeh.”

After 25 minutes, a middle-aged woman comes to wait next to us, complaining that she missed her last bus because work ended late. We tell her our troubles. She exclaims, “Oh, my cousin drives a tacsi, yeh! I’ll phone him to come pick you up. He’s more reliable than the other bloke. I’ll talk to him in Welsh, yeh.” She makes the call, and decides that we should take whichever taxi arrives first, because we have been waiting for a longer time. We offer to pay for her fare, but she refuses to allow it.

The cousin comes first. He is a friendly, endearing chap, similar in manner to his cousin. We get in, only to see the other taxi arrive. We are too embarrassed to talk to him, and drive off. The cousin takes us on a detour to his favourite place just outside Llanberis with a beautiful view of both Llyn Padarn and Mount Snowdon, or Ŷr Wyddfa, the highest peak in England and Wales, and then on to Caernarfon. On the way, we tell him that we have to catch an early train back to London the next morning from Bangor, and ask if he could take us. “Oh no, I can’t tomorrow, but my Ddad drives a tacsi as well. He works for me. I’ll send him to get you instead.” We leave Caernarfon on time the next morning, with a complementary lecture on blood sausage and black pudding.

“The Master” by Phillip T. ‘13

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An Incomprehensible Crime by Carly G. ‘14 I don’t know what to do if someone found, The dead heartless corpse sprawled on the ground.

She lays there still, her hair draped on the floor, Blood spilling from her veins, dripping under the door.

She could have had a family, children of her own, But someone took that from her, making her unknown.

I wake up from this terrible nauseating dream, Only to realize that this scene isn’t what it seems.

In the palm of my hand the murder weapon is claimed, Convincing me that I AM ultimately the one to be blamed.

How could I do this, such a horrible crime?

Could this turn out worse? Could this be a sign?

I have no other choice to put this situation to an end.

Lighthouse Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

My own life has to suffer because someone else is dead.

The Banker by Lauren E. ‘14 The banker was a very devoted man Diligent and always seemed to know the plan.

His customers would always come to him; He had quite a sharp and witty kind of grin.

Good at making loans and reaching the objective, He received many promotions for being effective.

But ill it was it certainly seemed to me, He was always trying to make a plea For the disappearing sums of money Of which he always thought was kind of funny.

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Photography by Shana K. ‘14

My Friends of Fall by Miriam M. ‘15

Says Who by Jenny R. ‘14

The light, my friend, peeks from behind the trees,

They sit me down,

Asking me to come play.

Shut me in.

I walk out towards my friend, Who welcomes me with a light smile and a cold kiss.

My other friends come out too,

They say “read this, Say this,

Singing and flying, bragging that they can and I can’t.

Think that.”

I walk among them, talking to them.

The leaves beneath me tell me they are there This concrete box,

And ask me how I’m doing.

Constricting like a jail cell

I see my friend, the shy deer, Who makes yet another excuse not to play with me.

With metal bars over the window,

My friend, the color of blue from above,

Is my reality.

Watches me play.

I’m sad he can’t come play today.

When they say jump,

“Tomorrow,” he says.

I say “why,”

“I’ll give you a surprise too.”

They shoot me down

I know what it is, he always gives me the same thing:

Tell me to say “how high?”

A shower of diamonds.

I look at my friends and smile.

“Conform,” they say, This is the way I like to bealone in the woods with my friends of fall.

“Listen.”

We are right. You are wrong.

I say “says who?” I say “no.”

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

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I Miss My Little Girl by Lauren E. ‘14 She disappeared one morning in the darkness of the sky I wondered where she went and hoped one day she would return She left without a hug or kiss and never said goodbye.

I expected for her to be in school, a place where shoe would learn, But much to my dismay, years passed and she never came back.

She was gone and my entire world had been turned upside down.

Time was ticking and there was no time to deviate from that track, Of trying to find my baby girl somewhere around the town.

I never found her, but I was told to never give up hope, Because she was my rock and my own and only support.

I struggled with my emotions and I never learned how to cope, But I will never report her dead as my last resort.

A kidnapping story has reached the news that they started to show.

Could that be my little girl that went missing 11 years ago?

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

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Stung by Sara P. ‘15 Ocean of serenity naturally gravitates towards me with such force a sea of stars may suffocate me Enough to drown my soul deep within the moon.

Awaken with fear, no one is near to comfort my cold soul.

Trying to branch out of this horrid house interlocked with emotions hearing commotion,

Photography by Mallory K. ‘15

a shiver sent down my spine.

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

Batman by Ari N. ‘13 I want us all to take a good look in the mirror and really think about this question – is Batman a superhero? Before you answer, I would like you to take into account the magnitude of the issue.

Children have been growing up on lies told to them from the womb, brainwashed by the common false belief that Batman is a superhero. It is important for us to define our superheroes correctly to truly be able to give credit where credit is due. The average person has not questioned Batman’s status of superhero. However, if we are being truthful, he does not deserve that status.

Where did this madness come from? Originally, when Batman first came into existence in 1939, he was not called a superhero. In fact, the words “super” and “hero” were not combined until 1942 in a story by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby, so Batman is not superhero due to his creators not originally referring to him as such. But to truly rebuke or support Batman’s right to being called a superhero, we must define “superhero.”

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Superhero is defined by Dictionary.com as a “hero, especially in children’s comic books and television cartoons, possessing extraordinary, often magical powers.” The term “super” is a coinage of the 1920s, when it came into vogue as contraction of the word “superior,” a being who is a hero (a.k.a superhero). Batman is not a super being. This is because Batman lacks possibly the most important trait that a superhero much have; he lacks a super power. How can we call Batman a superhero when nothing about him is super? Furthermore, when comparing Batman to superheroes, one cannot overlook the glaring handicap Batman has; the bat signal. No other superhero needs to be told when and where trouble is occurring. Why does Batman? Because he is in no way a superhero.

Finally, we consider Batman’s trusted sidekick, the terrifying Robin. What is Robin exactly? He is a teenage boy Batman adopted off the streets. The great act of kindness grew into a great relationship in which they both fought crime together side by side. But let me ask you another question. Do you think Robin could have fought crime with Superman? I do not. The reason Rabin and Batman are such a great fit is because neither of them are superheroes. Batman is simply a very intelligent man with a large sum of money. If Albert Einstein put on a bat suit and learned karate he could he just as effective as Batman. Batman can be defined as a hero, but it is clear that the definition of being “super” belongs to a different level of being.

Craziness by Gil R. ‘14 We’re in the year twenty twelve Past the start of the millennium My hopes for the world are on shelves That it takes more than a Pentium From talks of using nukes Throw in Kim Jung- Un Then it’s “destroy the Jews” It’s one big balloon Seeming ready to burst We need a true savior

Photography by Shana K. ‘14 But I guess we’re cursed Unless we change our behavior

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The Epitaph of Harley Brown by Hilla S. ‘14

Here,

Father cradles his wounds,

Glass shatters,

Cigar box in bed,

Smoke ignites,

He drags out the days,

Ashes to ashes

One smoke at a time,

From one hand to another,

A heart too heavy to plunder on.

Pass it round,

Here lies Harley Brown.

Too slow to burn

All alone and drawing to death,

Here,

Here,

Lies,

His breath grows faint on the glass.

The Epitaph of Harley Brown.

The smoke billows up,

Here,

As the house rises,

By the corner in the dingy light,

Gone into the night.

Out, his poor old mother cries,

With ashes to ashes,

Out of

Perhaps it is better to go

Here,

At such a young age,

Out Harley Brown.

When heartbreak has yet,

Already,

To inflict such pain.

Sister in the dirt of the maple roots,

And all that remains is the tin

Brother sits in the pine,

Cigar box.

Mother joins early next May.

Here,

Child wails and his father won’t try.

Here lay Harley Brown.

Here lies Harley Brown.

Nothing remains, Not even his name.

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Phantasms by Morgan M. ‘14 Amber rays of moonlight illuminate Backyard bonfires of Crackling logs.

Dancing flames give off Everlasting light, creating Fantastic images of Ghostly creatures.

Hallow’s Eve Is fast approaching, Jocularity fills the air,

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

Kettles filled with witches brew, Lullabies replaced with Maniacal laughter of

Pain Game by Sara P. ‘15

Nocturnal beasts

A tiny heart can still swell up from the pain Obfuscating

with a busted vain

Peaceful slumber.

she’ll refrain

Quivering sounds of

and try to act sane,

Rustling leaves,

without doubling over in pain.

Spooky ghost stories Told to little ones by imaginative teens.

It’s hard Unknown shadows lurking behind are

when you’re playing the same old game Vigilant parents keeping a

and there’s nothing to gain Watchful eye.

but your own pain.

“X” marks the spot on errant Youth whose dreams are in the Zenith.

-13-

An Ode to the Movie Zombieland/My Life During World War Z/Small Talk with Bill Murray

by Helyn S.’ 15 Rule Number One: Cardio. I look across the kitchen table, his mouth turns ghastly, both eyes roll back and his skin turns translucent. He lunges at me knocking over our textbooks and his teeth snap together just as I throw myself to the left and onto the floor. I do the one gymnastics move I know how: the forward roll. Great, I finally let a guy into my life and he tries to eat me. Typical. His mouth is foaming like a root beer float, except I’ve never liked soda, and I would not recommend ordering this drink with extra foam. If only Abigail Breslin and Emma Stone were here; they totally get how to wield a machine gun during the Zombie Apocalypse while only getting dirt on your face where it highlights your cheekbones. Or maybe Woody Harrelson could pop out and offer to share the world’s last Twinkie with me. No time for daydreaming though; I am now a female Jesse Eisenberg (it’s hard to tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing…well, at least I invented Facebook. Or did I?). This rabid dude that happens to be my study partner begins to chase me. Damn, he got zombie spit on the carpet; that’ll never come out. Rule Number One: Cardio. I run. I trip. I take a puff of my inhaler and run again. I try to lock myself in the bathroom but his creepy undead leg gets in the way of the door; it’s delicate and partially decomposed and it breaks. Perfect.

While this doesn’t seem to upset him too much, I do not want that lawsuit from his parents, even if they’re zombies too. Especially if they’re zombies too… Oh God, I don’t even speak the language! I have no attorney and the judge is a zombie! Where’s my book on species discrimination law when I need it?!?! I get so weirded out by the whole leg thing that I let go of the door and he lunges at me, well, more like limps but th at’s less exciting now isn’t it? Wasn’t Rule Number One cardio? Geez, I’ve got to work out more; besides I’ve always been more of a weight training kind of girl—you gotta protect those bones. Anyway, then his face rearranges peculiarly, he opens his gaping mouth and his protruding eyes water, the furry tunnels that are his nose quiver. And then, all over my face and bathroom mirror, he sneezes big chunks of slimy mayonnaise. I’ll be cleaning all weekend.

“On Fire” by Phillip T. ‘13

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Artwork By Hilla S. ‘14

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The Petals Flow with the Wind by Mitchell T. ‘14 In the grassy park under the dark skies, Serenaded by the rustling trees, I lay silent staring into her eyes, As she plucked the flower from by her knees, Plucking the petals off one by one.

She held the flower in her soft hand.

As the flower head came close to undone, The wind took them before I saw them land.

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

But she had one more flower for me.

Pebble Mover by Rabbi Aaron Frank

She threw faintly at my unfocused chest.

Heavy lifting will not move mountains

And without saying goodbye, walked free.

Carried by the breeze where she joined the rest.

The way to move a mountain, is to carry or toss One pebble at a time.

With my flower I walked the other way.

Each time you visit.

Maybe we’ll join the wind another day.

But I’m not sure if pebbles can ever form mountains.

Piling pebbles is like building a pyramid of oranges: The ones that live at the end of a supermarket aisle.

Fragile, wobbly piles that fall at the whims of a wayward cart, or a baby’s cry, Or a breeze, or just by having lingered for too much time.

Mountains, on the other hand, are interlocked, iron-clad—like lego.

Mountains are shaped and reshaped by air or water or time.

I will always hope my hands are worthy to be a pebble mover And that my pebbles will fit just right.

And maybe I won’t Ever.

Photography by Aliza K. ‘14

But maybe I will, Move just one or two mountains some day.

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The Cigar Box by Shana K. ‘14 Everything moves so quickly. Everyone holding me, touching me, who are these people? Bags packed, closets and drawers emptied. People whirring around, cleaning and tidying, not a dust bunny left intact. There is a constant hum of voices and movement; bustling around, quickening footsteps, bodies occupying space.

Teddy dragged along the floor, suitcase wheels vibrating against the hardwood. Front door slammed. More dragging, more vibrating, another door slammed. Click, Click, Click. Screeching wheels, humming engine—we’re off!

Can we stop for ice cream? No, we may not stop for ice cream. Can I go home now? No, I may not go home.

Images speed past the windows, blurring into the lines of green and blue and blacktop. The car jerks this way and that, down long, winding roads. ___

___ ___

Everything moves so slowly. Grandma brushes my hair, pulling hard on each knot. I hate bows. I may not leave the table until I finish my eggs. I sit for an hour.

Grandpa relaxes in the big arm chair, pulling out his cigar box. I can play outside by myself, he is busy. They don’t like catch anyway. I’m bored again, so I lay in the grass on the lawn. Teddy lies on my stomach and picks out cloud shapes with me. Dragons and Cars and Turtles and Fish and high heels leisurely float past. And ice cream.

Bees buzz past my ear, swimming in the air. I have never been stung by a bee. Maybe today I will be stung by a bee.

Back up the steps, I play with dust bunnies in the corners. Grandpa is snoring in his chair, the box on his lap and a half-smoked cigar in the tray. Teddy and I are ready to go home, it’s been too long.

SMASH! The cigar box slides off of Grandpa’s lap, and cracks open onto the floor. Splintered wood and broken cigars scatter over the hardwood. Grandma rushes in with her broom.

As she sweeps the fallen leaves, I grab the broken box and hide in my room. I turn it over in my hands, looking at the cracks along the sides and popped hinges. The box is like me, with no warning dropped, and no longer fitting in the world of perfect toys.

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The Wasteland by Sara P. ‘15 Clocks ticking a new beginning, opened the door she once adorned crusted and soiled her dreams in a wasteland.

Un-bottled souls surrounded by ghouls a strong wind gusts through them.

Photography by Jeremy S. ‘16

Tainted and sharp

Silence by Carly G. ‘14

they’ve lost their spark.

Muteness runs through my mind

With nowhere to go,

Thoughts of horror and torture come up from behind

who will hold their lost souls?

Scared and alone I don’t know where I could be A dungeon on the land or a jail by the sea Curious Why am I here? What did I do?

Being a solider for my country gets me locked up in a zoo?

The actions and words I said were not hurtful Now I have to suffer which will probably be painful Scheme If I use the sharp stick I found and the rock just beside me I could knock out my opponent and set myself free Doing as so I unlock the cell, running on a spree Sprinting until I reach my next obstacle, the sea

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

Baffled and shocked I don’t know what to do I’m just a lonely soldier

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Remember When by Hilla S. ‘14 “Mrs. Nelson, Mrs. Hall, please come in and take a seat. I’ll be right with you; I’m just looking over the last of the paperwork.”

“Thank you, Dr. Chang. Here, Mom, sit right here. Remember this was always your favorite seat, the one with the blue cushion.”

“Who are you? I was told not to get into cars with strangers and now you’ve dragged me off to God knows where.

Are you one of those mental murderers? If you think I have any money on me, you’re crazy; my husband ran off with my savings.”

“Dad’s been dead for 12 years now. Remember the cancer? Please Mom, come in and sit down.”

“Where am I? Is this the Laundromat? Now I told Betsy Sue I needed to get my dress cleaned for prom. David Nelson said he’d take me, and don’t tell her but I’ve had my heart set on him ever since he drove me home last week. He had the most strapping blue suede shoes and his hair! Oh his hair just curled in these beautiful golden locks. My mother told me not to take rides with strangers, and especially not boys. I’ve got to be careful now that I’m seventeen and becoming a woman as she likes to say. But Davy is just the sweetest boy in school…I really like him. They’re going to clean and press my dress, right?”

“That’s right, Mom. Come sit next to me, Mom, and we’ll wait for the dress together.”

“Sorry about that little wait, Mrs. Hall. It’s been crazy here at the office, now that we’re winding down with the patients and the clinical trial. We’ve already filed away 72 of the 100 subjects.”

“It’s fine, Dr. Chang, quite alright.”

“I appreciate your understanding. So tell me, Joyce, or do you prefer Mrs. Hall?”

“Mrs. Hall is fine.”

“So tell me, Mrs. Hall, how have these last 12 weeks been? Has your mother adjusted to the new facility? Have there been any odd, let’s say unusual incidences?”

“No. My mother’s been the same. She’s really taken to the facility and her friends there.”

“And what happens when you and your husband, Mr. Hall, or even the children go and see her?”

“What you said would happen. She doesn’t know who we are. She doesn’t remember us at all.”

“Good. Good. I see. Now, Mrs. Hall, this is our last session in the Alzheimer Trial. As we talked earlier, here at the Northeast Regional Research Center we’re only interested in tracking the earlier stages of the disease. We stop tracking a subject’s mental health once they lose their grasp on familial memory.

“Right, I know.”

“But is there anything to report, Mrs. Hall?”

“What? Um, I’m sorry…no, nothing at all, Dr. Chang.”

“Are you talking about my mother? She never lets me out to parties or anything. I told you to keep Davy a secret; she can’t know.”

“Oh, Mom-”

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“Yes, I see what you mean. There have been no surprises. Good, good. Great, so we’ll be quick, I have a lunch meeting so we’ll just carry on with the usual procedure.”

“You should see how pretty my dress is. Pink with flowers all along the bottom. Davy will love it.”

“Mom, Dr. Chang is going to ask you a few questions now. Remember a few years ago you hated the questions at every session, called them a nuisance. You said you would never forget me, so why bother with the stupid cards. Well today is our last day, so you won’t have to be bothered anymore.”

“Doctor? Why am I at the doctor? I can’t afford any health bills. No, not at all. Now that Davy has run off with his secretary, I’m sorry, doctor, but my husband, just after our first anniversary, left me for another woman. I hear he’s in Vegas now, throwing away my hard earned money. So you see, I just can’t answer your questions.”

“Dad came back, Mom. He was gone only two days until he abandoned the secretary in Vegas and came home to you. Back in ’57 times were tough, but he always loved you and when he realized his mistake, he came right back, Mom. You were married forty-four years and he never left your side again.”

“Doctor, I’m sorry, no offence, I don’t know you or this woman and I can’t afford to pay for your bill.”

“Mom, it’s OK, I’m paying for you to answer the questions.”

“That’s very sweet of you, young lady. Your mother will be proud of you, helping out a stranger like me.”

“Alright then, shall we proceed with the rest of the appointment? I really do have an important lunch meeting.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Great! Ok, Mrs. Nelson. At every session we’ve shown you three flashcards and asked you to wait five minutes and repeat back the pictures on the cards. Right so here is the first one. What is this?”

“Is…is that a dog?”

“Yup, it is and what is this?”

“A house.”

“Ok and what is this?”

“A…blanket?”

“No. Look closer, Mrs. Nelson. It’s a baby. A baby. OK?” “A baby?”

“Yes, Mrs. Nelson, a baby ple-“

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

“A baby…a baby…I think I’ve seen a baby before.”

“That’s very nice, Mrs. Nelson, just remember I showed you the card.”

“I think…I think it was a long time ago. Not yesterday…maybe the day before. No… I didn’t see a baby.”

“You saw a baby, Mom?”

-20-

“No. I didn’t see a baby…I heard the baby…It was wailing and coughing…It was small and delicate. And pink, yes, pink, pink like my prom dress. It was a girl…no…wait yes, it was a girl. She was very small and she was crying. Was she crying? No…I think I was crying. Why was I crying? Was I happy or sad? Yes…I remember when they handed the baby to me…I cried because…because I was happy. Yes! I was so happy…as if I’d never been happier in my life. And I cried…She was so small and delicate. And for a moment, I was scared but then Davy. Yes, Davy turned to me and said ‘Andrea, this is our little baby girl. She’s our daughter now.’ She was shivering so I took her in my arms and held her against my breast. And that baby, that beautiful baby with golden locks, looked up into my eyes, my very eyes.

She nestled against me and I could hear our hearts beating as one. I held her close and whispered so only she could hear. I told her, ‘even when I’m old or sick, through the good and the bad, I’ll protect you. I love you now, I’ll love you forever, and I will love you for always.’…She was beautiful…she had my eyes…………..I named her Joyce……………..I………Wait……Who are you…………..What am I doing here………… Why am I at the Laundromat?”

What a Gun Can Do by Dalia B. ‘14 A bullet can pierce through a heart. One life will stop and never start. A gun can change many lives. Kill men, widow wives. A finger can pull the trigger.

Leave the victim with no vigor.

An arm can

A hand can hold a life ahead. Decide be raised in if someone will be order to aim. Kill dead. someone and make a claim. But a mind can stop all of this. You can think and dismiss.

Gone with the Wind by Gil R. ‘14 Sixteen years old

Life was destitute

Alone in this cold

Only had one boot

Not a dime to his name Seeking nothing but fame

Then there came Out a mystic flame

Why did he leave home?

An angel ready to save

Can’t even afford a comb

This man who needs a shave

Looking like a slob

Who left his home

There goes his job

His iron dome

Peddling for money Never even found his honey

But now he’s back No longer in a shack

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

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Snail Story by Yossi K. ‘13

I tried to befriend the crab, the fish,

Everyone writes stories about the lion, the eagle, the sheep;

But no one had time to slow down.

Not even the good old turtle,

No one ever writes about me,

Who had to get quickly to the town.

The good old, slow snail.

So now I am here by myself,

I was running on the beach,

Running on my way to Paradise,

What you would call slow, slow, slow

You too did not have time to talk with me;

Sprinting as fast as I can, to the Paradise.

You did not have time to look below;

No one ever bothers, to slow down and understand me,

I just wanted a friend to accompany me On my run, going so very

The wolf, the cheetah, they pass me,

Slow, slow, slow.

No one seems to care.

Not even that sickly, measly, little hare.

I guess we have time to talk, I’m not getting anywhere soon, I’m just on my way to Paradise, Come along and talk, you big, old buffoon.

People think I want to be alone, Because of my big outer shell, But I feel no such thing, I just want a friend as well.

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

Negative Numbers by Carly G. ‘14 Boredom.

Sitting in my math class I am extremely uninterested in subtraction Why did we have to learn about numbers?

Suddenly, over the intercom viscous screams and dreadful noises were heard Our classroom then turned into panic mode.

-22-

Terrified.

My teacher told me to go hide in the closet, That everything was going to be “ok” Was it though?

I was then told to shut my eyes Frightened and now blind, I crouch in the closet corner wondering Vulgar.

The most horrifying noises dawn upon me, like cans falling from the sky I open the closet door to find my teacher and some of my friends sobbing Why were they crying?

What was going on?

Saved.

A few minutes later the door to our classroom is broken down Swarms of what looked like policemen entered my classroom, Where just a couple minutes ago I was learning subtraction The closet door opened and the man told me that everything was going to be “ok” I heard this before, but was it true?

Suspicious.

My friends and I stood in a line with our hands on each other’s shoulder Our eyes were to be sealed shut Walking for what seemed to be hours, I sneak a peek Yellow tape covered the school halls and EMTs flooding the rooms In horror, I closed my eyelids Walking outside I feel the brisk cold air brush up against my skin Relieved.

My mother and father run up to me, pick me up, and squeeze me real tight I was told for the third time that everything was going to be “ok” But as I look around, I could tell that it was far from it.

-23-

Rain By Yuval M. ‘13 Rain, falling from the sky, Refreshing our world.

Cleansing our souls.

Each slow drop has a meaning.

One can be frightened and another can enjoy.

Some may fall asleep to the peaceful sound, Many choose to stay and wait for it to pass.

Artwork by Aly C. ‘15

But I choose to dance in it and make it last.

Flesh by Sara P. ‘15 Opened the door blood gushed around the floor, a sea of regret paired with fret, a hot panic made him manic. Clenched to his rifle, like a baby dependent on his mother for sustainment.

Grappling onto the thin strings of life searching for a knot to revive his bitter soul.

Artwork by Caitlyn F. ‘14

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The Untrue Tale of the French Class on Montmartre by Gil L. ‘13 th

You may or may not know that something happened to Aaron F. on Montmartre on the 12 grade French class’s trip to Paris. If you ask him what happened, he’ll say, “I was walking like a tourist and got jumped.”

If you ask Rebecca H,, who was also there, she’ll say “He wasn’t jumped! He was walking like a Dumb American Tourist, and you know those illegal street vendors who try to sell you worthless toys or counterfeit purses? So a whole group of them encircled him and tried to sell him stuff. One of them grabbed his wrist and tried to tie a makeshift bracelet on it. Mr. F. had to intervene.” As both versions of the story are clearly different but do have some similarities, I felt it was my duty as a writer to romanticize the event, so to speak, and to fill in the holes to make a vaguely interesting story out of it: Jennifer F.: So on Thursday, we went up to Montmartre, the famous hill in northern Paris, to see the beautiful view of the city with all the other Dumb American Tourists. As usual, there were several illegal street vendors attempting to con the tourists into spending ridiculous sums of money for counterfeit handbags or worthless th bracelets and souvenirs. We ignored them, because we in the 12 grade French class knew how to not act like Dumb American Tourists, or at least so we thought. After we absorbed the beautiful scene below Sacré Coeur, the colossal white church that dominated the hill, we began to descend the steps down the hill to move to the next item on the day’s schedule.

As we started walking, I noticed that Aaron, unlike the rest of us, was walking like a Dumb American Tourist, waddling slowly, and staring at the sky, holding a map in his hand.

“Aaron,” I said, “don’t walk like a Dumb American Tourist. You’re begging to be robbed or something.”

“I’ll walk how I want.”

“That is utterly crazy, Aaron,” I said, and caught up with the rest of the class, which was already far ahead, and left Aaron on his own.

Five minutes passed and I wondered if Aaron caught up with us. I didn’t feel like turning around to look, because it was too cold to function, but I did anyway and, sure enough, he wasn’t there.

I told the rest of the class, “It’s not like Aaron to randomly disappear without telling anyone; only Elliot Heller can do that…” (For those of you who do not know, Elliot is relentlessly teased for his unfortunate habit of spontaneously vanishing during field trips, which usually causes delays or leaves him stranded). So we told Papa (Mr. F. to you) that Aaron had disappeared.

“Maybe he’s been kidnapped,” Josh suggested.

Papa scanned the area to look for anything suspicious. “Look! Up there!” he said, pointing to a spot on the block of steps behind us, “It looks like there’s a group of men standing around something. Should I investigate?”

Before we could answer, we heard a familiar voice yell, “Fire, Fire!” and then we heard the sound of water coming out of a hose.

It sounded like it came from within the group of men, so Papa took that as a “yes” to his question and went to investigate. The rest of us decided not to look. We heard some yelling, pained moans, and then aft er a few minutes, “That was intense.”

-25-

Aaron F.: On Tuesday, we went up to Montmartre and, after seeing the sites, we started walking back down the hill. At some point, Jen yelled at me for walking like a Dumb American Tourist.

“Don’t be telling me what to do,” I replied, so she ran ahead to catch up with the rest of the class. At some point, one of several street vendors came up to me. I started to think that maybe Jen was right. The man was draped in cheap plastic necklaces and loops of string with countless plastic Eiffel Tower toys hanging from them, and he held out a few colored threads braided together. He asked where I came from, and when I said “America,” he asked if I knew President Obama. Like any genius would, I answered, “Of course!” He grabbed my right wrist and began to tie the braided threads on it as a bracelet, as a “gift to the President.” Of course, he wanted €20 (that’s $30) for it; the Foie Gras we got Noah A. was five cents cheaper. I refused to pay. That was when he clapped his hands and about ten or so other street vendors jumped out from an alley. They encircled me completely so that I was trapped. As the leader argued with me, the rest of the group closed in around me until there was barely enough room to breathe. When he gave up arguing, the leader took my right arm and pinned it behind my back. Another man grabbed my left arm and tied it to the right one. It was at this point that I realized that perhaps I might be in a bit of trouble, so I decided to shout for help.

Nowadays, shouting for “help!” doesn’t attract attention, because, frankly, nobody cares about other people. Instead, I shouted “fire!” because that does attract attention. Unfortunately, as I was surrounded by people who were, in general, taller than me, I couldn’t tell at first if I attracted anyone’s attention. However, I figured I must have because one guy grabbed a hose and started shooting water all over the place as the leader gagged me with my own scarf. I then realized that my hands were tied with a cheap necklace that I could easily break if the vendors were distracted. Soon, Papa came and broke into the circle; this was just the distraction I needed. As the vendors began screaming at Papa, I broke the necklace. They were so busy arguing with Papa that they didn’t notice that I had broken the necklace until the plastic beads hit their legs after bouncing on the street, so I had time to readjust my scarf to its original position. Papa lunged toward me, and the vendors enclosed us. The men closed in on us, and then Papa wrestled with the leader. I covered him as he fought the leader to the ground, and then we took on a leaderless pack and I rejoined the rest of the class, whose eyes were shut tightly.

“That was intense,” I said as I began inventing a milder, simpler story I would tell anyone who asked.

After all, who would want to hear what really happened?

The Vendor: It began as quite a normal day in Montmartre. I had already sold more than 20 worthless toys to some Dumb American Tourists, and the day was still young. At some point, a group of ten or so young people and an older couple walked by me. They looked like they might be tourists, but it was difficult to tell; they were too well-dressed to be tourists. At some point, a guy and a girl lagged behind the rest, and then the girl ran ahead and left the guy to walk alone. He was definitely a tourist; I could tell by his walk. Easy target. I went down to him and asked where he came from. He was American. As a joke, I asked him if he kn ew the president, He said “yes”. This made him an even better target because he was either rich enough to be willing to spend more money, or dumb enough to buy something from me. I used my usual grab-the-wrist bracelet tactic and tried to get him to pay €20. He must have been smarter than he looked because he refused to pay; the nerve! I got angry and called my colleagues over. I’d try using the scare tactic. My colleagues from the Montramartre chapter of the Société Nacionale de Vendeurs de Rue Illégales (National Society of Illegal Street Vendors, or SNVRI), surrounded him and closed in. He still refused, so I pinned his arm behind his back as a SNVRI colleague grabbed his other arm, and tied both arms together with one of my millions of cheap plastic n ecklaces.

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Clearly, it was only a temporary measure, just to scare him into buying the bracelet, but our friend, let’s call him His Stubbornness, didn’t seem to realize that, and yelled “fire!” A quick-thinking Venduer found a garden hose attached to a tap and turned it on while I grabbed His Stubbornness’s scarf and tied it tightly over his mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, the older man who was with the group broke into our circle. I yelled at him to get out, and he yelled at me to leave His Stubbornness alone. We began fighting over him, but U soon felt little things hit my legs. I turned to see His Stubbornness smugly grinning at me; perhaps he did realize that the necklace was a temporary measure after all. As I went for him, the older man pushed past me and stood by him to protect him.

My colleagues and I closed in on them. Suddenly, the old man jumped on me and wrestled me to the ground. All I could see was the rest of the Montmartre chapter of the SNVRI going down like flies or running away like cowards. It was intense!

A Dip Into the Waters by Maddie T. ‘14 Only 5 a.m. and I roll out of bed Eating breakfast from the corner market Grab a baseball cap to cover my head Dad asks me if I’ve applied sunscreen yet Later we approach the large boarding dock Excitement roars as I step on the boat Fishing with my dad is our time to talk With the biggest catch all I do is gloat

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

As the summer breeze blows against my face I drown in a state of tranquility Stare in the waters of my safe place Feeling the boat lose all stability The dark seas are rough and fighting for love A place for all people to come and bond How grand to spend a day on the great pond

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

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Control Freak by Lucas Carland ‘13 You could say I’m a control freak.

Although, he pretends I don’t.

I manipulate the innocence and

He likes to “think” I don’t.

contort emotions.

Featured by many, I lay still.

I am ambitious.

Yet I tower over everything else.

Unpredictable.

Others seem so…

You’d think after a while he’d be able

Miniscule.

to control me.

Undistinguished.

You’d think he’d learn.

I wait.

Silently watching.

I wouldn’t say waiting to pounce.

Always there.

Waiting to overcome.

The eyes behind the eyes one would say.

I dwell deep inside –

I see everything.

I am Calvin’s inner-voice.

Photography by Jenny R. ’14

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Song by Phillip T. ‘13 Our story’s not tragic, it’s not a tale of broken hearts

We all yearn to drink from a cool glass of compassion

It’s hard to break what you haven’t found yet

Build up hopes and then watch them fall

We laugh at love and scoff at the arts

To quench our thirst for what we long to be tomorrow

Forgotten how happiness sounded

And know how it feels to feel anything at all This is a song for those who feel most alone in the crowd

And as the world turns, we don’t feel it move

We act like we don’t care

We’ve never really felt the rain

And the people that love us, they beg us to open our eyes

We’ve numbed ourselves to everything we once loved

We pretend that they aren’t there

So now we can’t feel pain We all yearn to drink from a cool glass of compassion We all yearn to drink from a cool glass of compassion

Build up hopes and then watch them fall

Build up hopes and then watch them fall

To quench our thirst for what we long to be tomorrow

To quench our thirst for what we long to be tomorrow

And know how it feels to feel anything at all

And know how it feels to feel anything at all And the only thing I ever truly learned to love This is a song for those who feel most alone in the crowd

I went and let her slip away

We act like we don’t care

I didn’t cry; no didn’t shed a single tear

And the people that love us, they beg us to open our eyes

Just stood there with my damn apathy

We pretend that they aren’t there And as the world turns, we don’t feel it move

We all yearn to drink from a cool glass of compassion

We’ve never really felt the rain

Build up hopes and then watch them fall

We’ve numbed ourselves to everything we once loved

To quench our thirst for love and adulation

So now we can’t feel pain

And know how it feels to feel anything at all

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Driving on a Sunny Day by Lauren E. ‘14 October Light Shining bright like I have never seen before.

Beaming Preserving its place within the sky, away from the clouds.

Spectral Exhibiting its various colors through the broadness of the sky Glossy Flaunting its beauty and brightness.

Captivating Attracting my attention as it rushes through the window.

Glimmering Flashing itself on the hood of my car.

Distracting Hindering my focus on the road ahead Blinding Obstructing my vision from other cars on the road.

Ubiquitous Penetrating through the heavens like a message from G-d Radiant Full of color and life, transforming the cars to black and white.

Shimmering Reflections blurring the road signs.

Illuminating Lighting up the sky, interfering with the color of the traffic signals.

Incandescent Glowing as it warms my body through the windshield.

Gleaming Radiating along the horizon as I emerge from the gloominess of the woods.

Lucent Shining endlessly without failing to change the sky from clear blue to golden yellow Resplendent Creating an over-arching glow, bringing hopefulness to my day.

Lustrous Forming a smile on my face as warm and wide as the sun will ever be October Light Shining bright like I have never seen before.

-30-

Stiffness by Sara P. ‘15 The air is too stiff, too stiff to inhale.

Something here isn’t right, But who can tell? A flash of unnatural light transcends throughout the school.

Students clench their teeth unknowing of the ghouls, That horridly awake in the midst of torture.

Sharp noises echo across the hall, People are appalled, Staring at the blood splattered walls. Unaware of the immediate torture. Slimy feet step foot in the school, they are here to conquer and rule.

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

Laser guns pop out of the palm of their hand Students just stand, in burning fear and horror.

A stampede of teachers race by, trying to save the lives of the youthful students.

But..........At last the unnatural creatures had won. Beaming at the sun they retreat back to their infinite pool of hell surrounded by the moon.

-31-

Rebirth by Aaron F. ‘13 I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears that caused my mother’s makeup to fade; yet either way, I could now see through her veneer of composure. “Isn’t it supposed to rain at funerals?” I asked, hoping if not to cheer her up, then at least to let her know that she wasn’t the only one sweating. But she didn’t answer. I could see her eyes perusing the sky; maybe she was searching for rain like I was. I now understood why movie directors always made it rain during funerals. It’s easy to feel sad when it rains.

Instead, the scorching sun preyed on the vulnerable fabric of my black wool suit. As I plodded down the gravel path, hand in hand with my mother, I listened as the pebbles crumbled beneath my feet.

The crunching of the stones seemed loud enough to wake the dead. Studying the graveyard as I walked, the perfect alignment of the gravestones reminded me of the serious nature of the day. My father would soon be placed to eternal rest alongside these lifeless bodies who relish every funeral as a chance to live vicariously through the deceased and experience, once again, the compassion of their loved ones.

Shortly before we arrived at the burial site, I halted at the sight of a pond. I wanted nothing more than to burst from the yoke of my mother’s grasp, to remove my shoes and sit with my feet in the pond, to feel the relief of the cold water penetrate my fragile body. Yet almost bereft of enough energy to lift my feet, I knew I must not stray from the path. Arriving at the deep, hollow crater where we would lay my father, I began to shun those caring souls around me. As the minister began the eulogy, I wondered why the deceased were always regarded as such sacrosanct figures. “My father deserves a honest chronicle of his life!” I thought, as the minister discussed my father’s philanthropic efforts. In the midst of my anger, I blurted out, “What if this is it?” Yet my plea was muffled by the vocalizations of a flock of crows, dispersing from a tree behind me.

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

-32-

Red Paint by Noah A. ‘13 The man in the uniform says I should close my eyes.

I can’t. I heard too much noise.

So I look around.

And there I see it. I scream.

Endless screaming. I look at the officer.

It’s red paint, he says, red paint.

Then how did the whole class get red paint all over themselves

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

and the classroom, and the teacher too?

And the man with something which looks like my GI Joe gun, except that there’s white chips on the floor. I have never seen so much red paint. I know it can’t be red paint, because there are no brushes, except what one man was holding. Could that be what supplied all this red paint?

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

This is not red paint, but I’ll tell Myself it is.

The Path of Fall Sunlight By Kevin R. ‘14 From the sun To the trees Singing through branches Blocked by leaves The sunlight broken Chilled by shade Through the window

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

Brightens my day

-33-

“I’m Cold” Lyrics by Phillip T. ‘13 I’m cold, broken down inside and there’s nothing I have to give

I can’t bring you down

You’re warm, closer to the sun then I could ever hope to be

And though I want to

And I know that I don’t deserve your love, it all just falls around and tumbles down

I won’t bring you down with me

I cannot have you

I can’t bring you down I won’t bring you down with me

Your smile can light up a room but it hurts my eyes to see And I fear more than anything else I’ll dim your light, from just being me And I know that I don’t deserve your love, it all just falls around and tumbles down

I wish that we could dance and I pretend tonight I’m someone besides this Cold in a shell With you in my arms I’d be a better man than I really can and I’d never lie and I’d always be true

And though I want to I cannot harm you

You see the world in your eyes in polychromatic shades And I try as hard as I can but I still see grey And I know that I don’t deserve your love, it all just falls around and tumbles down

I wish that we could dance and I pretend tonight I’m someone besides this Monster within an empty shell With you in my arms I’d be a better man than I really can and I’d never lie and I’d always be true

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

-34-

The Nightmare by Caitlyn F. ‘14 A monster, a creature of the night Can you smell your fear in the air Sending chills up your spine with its silent growl The menace that children fear most Makes you quake in terror with its haunting stillness It thrives in the shadows; those dark corners under your bed Unseen, yet imminent At your most vulnerable moment, it creeps upon you Like a predator stalking it’s unfortunate prey Your dreams consumed until nothing remains Razorsharp claws tear at your soul, ripping it to shreds You stream out in anguish, greeted only by silence Hot, noxious breathe poisons your heart Damaging it beyond repair

Photography by Shana K. ‘14

Massive jaws grip your weakened body Suffocating you as you gasp for air Deadly fangs pierce your skin, injecting venomous pain As you lay in agony, ensnared by its evil trap The monster sneers at your helplessness Snarling laughter ringing in your ears Like a never-ending vortex, you fall deeper

-35-

And deeper Into the pit Of despair— And suddenly You Awake The darkness is gone

Photography by Aliza K. ‘14

Yet nothing is left but a hollow shell An aching heart, a searing pain The Nightmare has left its mark Scars that will never disappear.

-35-

Heart Attack by Mackenzie C. ‘13 Those forget-me-nots, Strewn in his room, Abandoned to cheer this dank and drafty space, Reflect in the arid hollows of your unseeing eyes.

Photography by Melanie G. ‘16 Instead, the room Tastes like old bubble gum pennies

Last Period by Aly C. ‘15

and shiny new quarters I focus on the board Who whispers of payphones, Listen to the teacher Snack machines and Scribble notes on the paper Parking meters.

Until the clock discourages me My eyelids droop over my face Sixty seconds left on the line, A grey sour coffee to go,

My mind is empty as a new vacuum bag My hand imprints my ring on my check And a heart that never started ticking, My back arches forward, mimicking an old man After all.

My breathing echoes loudly in the silence of the room My intentions were good but My motivation disappeared

-36-

The End of the World by Noah A. ‘13 The world ends today.

The world ended last Friday, when I received my acceptance letter from Yeshiva University.

The world ended the Friday before, when I met new people and made new friends at a convention in Connecticut.

The world ended last summer when my brother got married.

The world ended when I got my permit.

The world ended when APs ended.

The world ended yesterday, and the world will end tomorrow.

Each and every day, the world ends, and each and every day after, the world begins anew.

Every day a new world is formed, and the world you knew before ends enti rely, because without the experiences of today, the world of tomorrow would be pretty much the same. The world ends whenever you meet someone, whenever you learn a new idea, whenever you visit a new place.

Each day, God gives us not just a new day, but a new world entirely.

So today, 12/21/12, when the world ends, I doubt it will end in the way some people will have you believe. No solar flare, no meteor shower, no neutrons melting the core of the earth, no mutant planet colliding with ours, no alien race invading. Rather, there will be a new song, a new friend, a new place visited, a new dish your wife cooks for Shabbat, a new article your husband finds in the Times, or a new project your child brings home from school – something gained or something lost, which will end the world as you knew it, and will begin again. You won’t notice it, but if all we ever do in life is wait for the end of the world, for an Earthquake, birds and snakes and aeroplanes, and everything else R.E.M. predicts, well then, you’ve missed the constant ending and rebirth of whole new worlds.

The world ends today. Make sure it ends on a high note.

Photography by Jenny R. ‘14

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Passionately Unique, Uniquely Passionate— They Broke the Mold A Tribute to Lance Allen

By Rabbi Aaron Frank Cane aided purposeful limp, 60’s western, string neck tie, handlebar moustache Vietnam Vet, sport coat, jeans and black shirt, Meticulously braided motorcycle pony tail

Passionately unique.

When they built you, brother, they broke the mold.

CAPITAL letters Page long emails, Reflecting CONVICTION! A new angle for our Comp Sci program, A current student’s newly sold app.

An alum’s success miles beyond Old Court.

POTATO CHIPS! In the computer lab?!!

Supporting the struggling student without coddling, Lists of suggestions on how to keep our building safe.

Friend, the office will miss the countless deliveries On birthdays, anniversaries, valentines or just “regular” days.

For when there were balloons, Or candy Or flowers, They were for your honey.

Uniquely passionate.

“Now the world is filled with many wonders under the passing sun And sometimes something comes along and you know it’s for sure the only one Cuz when they built you, brother, they broke the mold.”

The last 3 lines are from “Terry’s Song” by Bruce Springsteen.

-38-

Artwork by Eli L. ‘14