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gateway 2021 Editors-in-Chief: Rosie Ackerman & Becca Miller Secretary: Niva Cohen Prose Editor: Eliana Pasternak Staff: Raphael Englander, Lila Elkins Faculty Advisor: Hallie Anderson
Rosie Ackerman
table of contents Front Cover Back Cover Painting The Time is Here—A Sestina A World on Fire Drawings Home Painting Magic Cleats Drawing Drawing Photograph It Called Itself the Autumn Wind The Necklace Novel Thoughts Drawing My Last Braincell Drawing In His Image Drawing Limited Time in an Infinite Space You, Me, and a Cup of Tea Painting A Rant on Hemingway Drawing This Library’s on FIIIIIIIIREEE The Place Drawing Romance Trope Painting Drawing Drawing Miniscule and Infinite Complaints Think About It for a Moment Painting Synthetic Joy Photograph
Becca Miller Raya Gilman Rosie Ackerman............. 2 Niva Cohen..................... 4 Eliana Pasternak............. 5 Becca Miller.................... 5 Raphael Englander......... 6 Eliana Pasternak............. 6 Anonymous..................... 6 Becca Miller.................... 7 Eliana Pasternak............. 8 Lucas Golluber................ 9 Luke Finkelstein............. 9 Tamar Azulay................ 10 Eliana Pasternak........... 10 Becca Miller.................. 10 Becca Miller.................. 11 Zach Ufberg.................. 11 Olivia Collis.................. 12 Eliana Pasternak........... 12 Mai Shmilovitch........... 13 Eliana Pasternak........... 13 Rosie Ackerman........... 13 Becca Miller.................. 14 Rachel Loeb................... 15 Lane Barsh..................... 16 Mikaela Garber............. 17 Rachel Loeb................... 17 Lila Elkins...................... 18 Lila Elkins...................... 19 Eliana Pasternak........... 20 Becca Miller.................. 20 David Goldfarb............. 21 Luke Finkelstein........... 22 Becca Miller.................. 23 Raphael Englander....... 24 Tamar Azulay................ 24
The Time is Here—A Sestina The online classroom lacks the hubbub of learning, the noise. Where once we chattered, and taught, and sought answers, now, we stay on mute. I know why we’re so far; I want to keep our community safe But how can I feel whole, feel connected to the people I long to protect, when at such a distance? On the bleakest nights, it feels impossible to wait for the “all clear.” I squirm in this purgatory, an agnostic praying to God for things to go back to normal. Then comes the murder of George Floyd, and I begin to see the flaws in “normal.” All the shallow concerns, the meaningless qualms, the pointless noise Inside my head gives way to reality; once abstract injustice becomes crystal clear And I’m ashamed because, however loud the victims yelled before, to my ears, they were mute. But now I hear them. Their voices echo in my whirring mind and that distance Which was once so vast, closes. I’m one of the lucky ones. Not everyone’s so safe. Then comes the outrage. So many politicians, for so many years, playing it safe. The lies and excuses and “business as usual” and “can’t change the status quo” and “it’s normal.” From my fortunate perch, I’m in it, but outside of it, immersed but at a distance; I’m in awe of these people who persist despite what they endure, who make noise When their whole lives, everyone has told them they are mute. No one can feign oblivion. No one can pretend. The time is here, the message clear. Then comes the violence. On every side imaginable. Cop cars ram into streets, not caring that the way’s not clear; With tear gas and rubber bullets and 17-year olds patrolling with guns, protests aren’t safe; Shopkeepers go to work and the destruction they see leaves them mute. My heart goes out to them. But my classmates denounce the protests as abnormal, Uncalled for. Their black squares and “look how much I care”s are just noise. They can condemn without compassion, reject with reason and not empathy, because of their distance. Then come the fires. The West Coast is burning. Climate change is not years in the distance But right around the corner. This one’s bad. Even here, the sky’s not clear Because of an inferno two thousand miles away. Why isn’t there as much noise? A colossal threat is knocking on our doors and we have the audacity to feel safe. Human hubris. “It’s not our fault.” “This phenomenon is natural and normal.” I don’t curse much but that’s bullshit. We must channel the Lorax. Earth needs our help. She’s mute. Despite everything, because of everything, the government turns a deaf ear to the young, yearning to mute Us as our teachers have to do on Zoom because they didn’t prepare against a virus that was once distant. Because they’re starting to realize that they’re the only ones who want “back to normal.” The only adversity he fights is that which harms people like him. God forbid they lose their leg up, their clear Unobstructed path to undeserved success. With his white collar and the big bucks in his pocket, he’s safe, While in the crisis he’s created, people suffer and die and moan and cry. To him, to them, it’s just background noise. I’m in class, half-listening, doodling, my mic’s on mute. Outside, the streets are calm again. Again, the sky is clear. Young folk picnic, none of them sick, keeping careful distance. They’re doing what they ought to make Philly safe. But I know, sitting here on the tenth floor, that the idealized, idolized, idea of normal Has vanished. I feel it in my bones that on Election Day, those picnickers will make some noise.
— Niva Cohen
4
A World on Fire
Becca Miller
The storefront was on fire. (And in a peculiar way, it felt as though she was, too.) Sunlight-through-amber flames licked through and around the aged clapboard siding, gnawing at a sign advertising a sale on collard greens. The yellowing white paint gave way to charred wood in a manner similar to the tea-stained paper with burned edges she imagined treasure maps would be printed on. It was beautiful, in the way that all devastating things were, so much so that the Hero was ensnared watching. Feet stuck in place in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes transfixed on the exquisite horror unfolding before her. A plume of dark smoke billowed up from inside the building, and the ceiling started to cave in with an almost audible sigh of defeat. This is it, she thought as a metal support beam groaned and fell into one of the grocery aisles. There must have been people inside. Workers, if not shoppers. Innocent people who would have been bagging produce and shelving canned goods right up until the fire started. If only she could force herself to move. But she couldn’t, so witnessing the disaster would have to do. A stray curl of mostly shriveled paper floated by her ear, only a gust of wind away from dissolving into ash, and the Hero knew that she needed to do something. She wrung her hands nervously, sharpening her gaze on the storefront. Instead of the ever-shifting sloping curves of the fire itself, the Hero tried to focus on something she could use to douse the small inferno. Almost everything inside the store had already burned, and while the adjacent establishments (a flower shop and a pharmacy) were completely untouched, they wouldn’t be much help either. Still there had to be something the Hero could do. There had to be. Because the Hero was just that, a hero. And heroes saved people. Finally, her gaze snagged on a garden hose attached to a spigot just outside the flower shop. Now all she had to do was move towards it and turn the spray towards the burning building. There wasn’t any time to spare, but even before the Hero turned back to survey her surroundings, she knew it was too late. Call it intuition. The building would be burned beyond recognition and far beyond repair, the flames themselves still nipping at the air, not yet out of kindling to burn away. She knew what she would see, and still, she turned to face it, her final option. Sure enough, her prediction was right. The storefront was on fire, at least until the Hero wiped at her eyes and shook out her limbs to dispel the rest of the fantasy. And just like that, the fire faded into oblivion, the building knit itself back together, and the Hero ceased to be the Hero. She was Elise again, and she’d been caught in another daydream.
— Eliana Pasternak
5
Home Home is four stories tall, Center City, Philadelphia It is red brick and blue paint, clouds providing a backdrop for three hulking towers in the window Arriving home after being away for weeks, I open the door and am hit with the cool temperature of the house I have lived in for more than fifteen years My home is chilly, autumn all year round once the doors have been closed The smell of home-cooked food wafts through the house from the kitchen, drawing the family downstairs to get ready for the meal The food tastes good, it is recognizable, a constant, cooked by the same person who has cooked for me my entire life I watch fireworks burst from the top balcony on the holidays, hear their thunder Drummers in fantastic costumes parade by, beating out rhythms on their worn-out instruments I have never lived anywhere else, this is what I know
Eliana Pasternak
— Raphael Englander
Magic Cleats Ever since I was a little girl I’ve had the same dream: to play for the US Women’s National Team when I grow up. This goal was always in the back of my mind. No matter what I was doing, I was working towards it. I had everything I needed to make this dream a reality. I was on one of the best soccer teams in the state, my dad was paying for me to have private training sessions, and I had the passion to be one of the best at the game. There was just one teeny tiny wrinkle in my plan that became more prevalent as I got older; no matter how hard I worked or how much time I put in practicing, I just wasn’t anywhere near as good as the other girls I was playing with. I kept this goal of mine a secret from my teammates and coaches out of fear that they would judge me for having such high expectations for myself, since I couldn’t even do simple skill moves. As I got older, I kept thinking more and more about this dream of mine and if it was actually realistic, or if it was just a shot in the dark — not even worth shooting.
6
Becca Miller
On paper, you’d think I had the potential to be the next Lionel Messi or Alex Morgan. However, in reality, I was nowhere near being that good. “What am I doing wrong?” That thought kept me up every night. Nothing I did was good enough. I mean, I would work out and go for runs on our off days, I kept a strict diet, and I was always the hardest worker on the field. Yet it still wasn’t good enough. Whenever we did a passing pattern or a drill at practice, I was always the reason it would break down and our coach would yell at us, which resulted in my teammates constantly being mad at me. The most frustrating part about it was that no matter how hard I worked to get better, nothing worked. It was like the universe hated me and wanted me to give up. Nevertheless, I was determined to stay true to myself and not give up on my dreams. The first step before the Women’s National Team was getting recruited to play college soccer. To get coaches to actually notice me, I needed to do something I had never done before: play well. I wasn’t a superstitious person, but I knew a lot of people who were. Some of my friends had lucky basketball shoes, a lucky necklace, or even lucky underwear or a pair of socks. I’ve always believed that whatever happened was supposed to happen, and no object could change reality, no matter how much people hoped differently. I got dressed and drove 40 minutes to my practice, ready to disappoint my team again. I got out of the car and walked onto the field with my friends. As we were warming up, I was passing back and forth with my friend Bella, and I felt my foot slide forward when I kicked her the ball. I looked down and my left cleat had ripped at the toe. I started to panic because we had our first tournament that weekend, and college coaches would be scouting there. My friend got me some athletic tape to bind the cleat so I could finish practice. When my dad picked me up from school the next day, he took me to Angelo’s Soccer Corner, the local soccer store, to look for a new pair of cleats. That store was my definition of heaven: the walls were lined with the newest and coolest cleats and the shelves were stocked with every color pre-wrap I could imagine. I made my way around the store and found myself standing in front of the bin filled with cleats that were on clearance. I knelt beside the bin and began digging through the cleats, seeing if any of them were my size. I found myself face to face with a pair that caught my eye. They were white Nikes, with a baby blue swoosh and matching laces. I picked them up and checked to see if they were my size — lucky for me, they were. They fit perfectly. I had never had such a comfortable pair of cleats before. I wandered around the store until I found my dad waiting at the checkout for me. I placed the box onto the counter so the cashier could ring the cleats up. “Wow, they really scream ‘Peppa,’ they’re perfect for you, and they’ll go great with your uniforms!” my dad said as he handed the cashier his credit card. All I could think about for the next few days was how excited I was to wear my new cleats that weekend. I knew that there was just something special about them. I couldn’t put my finger on it quite yet, but I could feel it. It was game day. I had been waiting for this moment, to see what I could do in these new cleats. My stomach filled with butterflies as the f came to an end. With about five minutes left in the car ride, I began to panic and I aggressively unzipped my bag out of fear that I had forgotten my new cleats. But luckily, they were in there. “You have arrived. Destination is on your right,” said the annoying woman on Waze. The butterflies that filled my stomach soon turned into feelings of excitement. “Bye, Dad! I’ll see you after the game, thanks for the ride!” I said as I pushed open the car door and ran to meet my teammates on the side of the field. I walked up to them as they huddled together next to the bench. They all had this annoyed look glossing over their eyes, so instead of showing them my cleats like I had been anticipating, I quietly pulled them out and laced them up, keeping to myself. As we warmed up I felt the pressure of everyone’s eyes on me, as if they were watching my every move, but I couldn’t figure out why. We got into our warm-up drills and started to pass the ball around. This is when I started to notice a difference: when the ball was passed to me, my touch didn’t bounce away from me out of control like it had for my whole life. Instead it was under control and perfect, along with my pass back to my teammate at the cone across from me. It was as if the cleats had a mind of their own. As warm-ups went on, I outshone everyone on my team. Everyone was in awe, including me. I had no idea what brought on this sudden change in skill, but I wasn’t going to complain. For the first time in my 12 years of playing soccer, I was actually outperforming my teammates. All of my hard work and effort was finally paying off.
7
When the whistle blew, I got ready to spend most of the game on the bench. While my coach was giving the lineup, I was preparing to grab the pinnie bag for the bench players, like I always did. As I pulled it out, though, I heard my coach say my name. I was starting in my first ever soccer game. I dropped the pinnie and tried to contain the excitement that was rushing through my body. We did our cheer and took the field. I stood there in the middle of the field with thoughts overwhelming me: “Why does she think this is a good idea,” “This is so crazy,” “I hope my dad is videoing,” “Peppa, do NOT screw this up.” I was so nervous, but at the same time, ecstatic. Everything was finally starting to fall into place. Tweet. The starting whistle had blown. It was time to show these girls what I was made of. I got the ball at my feet and just as before, the cleats took over. I was doing moves I had been too scared to try, dribbling at defenders with confidence I had never experienced before; it was as if the cleats had put some sort of spell on them. Before I knew it, I had dribbled through their whole team and was one-on-one with the keeper. I took a deep breath and ripped the ball into the bottom right corner of the net, scoring my first-ever goal. At first, everyone, including myself, stood there in disbelief. Then everyone went crazy, and when I turned around I was tackled by my celebrating teammates. I ended up not only playing the rest of the game, but also assisting our other 2 goals, helping my team to a 3-0 win. Fast forward a few months: I was starting every game, had the most goals in the league, and was getting the attention of D1 schools. All of the hard work I had been putting in over the years was finally paying off. At first, my teammates were so happy that I had hit my stride and could finally contribute something positive to the team, but as time went on, they began to develop more negative feelings towards me. My dad tried to drill into my head that they were threatened by my talent. I felt so unwanted that I considered giving up soccer. They had made me feel like shit when I was bad, and when I finally became good, they still made me feel like shit. I could not get around my teammates — no matter how I contributed to the team, negatively or positively, I just could not win with them. It seemed like they decided I was always going to be on their bad side. After days and days of drowning in my negative thoughts, I eventually came to the conclusion that my time would be better spent not playing soccer. Not only was my mental health declining, but I wasn’t having fun anymore. Even when I was terrible, I still managed to have fun at practices. But now, even the thought of putting on my cleats and stepping onto the turf again just made my stomach churn. I had decided to turn down the numerous offers from an array of colleges, and threw out my cleats. No matter how much it hurt, I had to keep reminding myself, “It’s for the best.”
Eliana Pasternak
— Anonymous
8
Lucas Golluber
It Called Itself the Autumn Wind It called itself the autumn wind While on its wings, to me it said: “My friend, oh, did the times rescind The countless leaves of orange-red?” I told it I had not a clue Of where had gone the sight or sound For what occurred—upon what cue I hadn’t known and hadn’t found The autumn wind sat down and sighed Resigned, a heap of sad regret “Why, this is it, the end!” it cried “I hoped the leaves might stay just yet.” The wind said it had missed the ride Of seeing all the beauty there For it had been preoccupied With other parts and other fare I said, “but you’re the autumn wind! “How could you go away in Fall?” But he just sighed—I pitied him The wind: despondent, stuck, and all And then he flashed a smile here The world lit up upon the trees “I’ve been,” he started with great cheer “Around to sights I’d rather see: “The plains, the valleys, mountains high “To lakes and deserts, rivers wide “I flew from peak to ground to sky “I ran to where the night moon hides.”
I said, “well, that’s not bad at all. “It seems quite pleasant; time well spent.” The wind indeed stood up then tall No longer hunched or pitied, bent It said, “I s‘pose you’re right, my friend. “I saw the sights I longed to see “I heard the sounds I longed to send “down running in my open ear “It seems, though, in my travels far, “Despite my lovely little roam “Despite the dunes, despite the stars “I missed what I had left at home.” And then he left, he hid away I heard him dashing for the plains Perhaps he’ll come another day Next year, before the leaves all fade Yet I keep thinking, if I were The autumn wind and seen those sights And heard those sounds, so sweet and pure And listened to the quiet nights: I’d be content to miss the leaves If for a year, I journeyed far Among the boughs and moonlit weaves Of wider world and cloud and star — Luke Finkelstein
9
The Necklace It’s blue. An inconspicuous blue. Not a natural blue like the sky, nor a blue like the ocean, but a blue like a public swimming pool’s water. No one thought much of it, a flying eagle pendant that I wear every day on a plain silver chain. After all, what’s so special about a necklace? How could a necklace possibly change your life? Well, it doesn’t, not in the category of luck: I’m still just as unlucky. I fell down the stairs to no avail, even going so far as spilling coffee on my white pants yesterday morning before a presentation. The only difference is that I am happy. Or sad. Or indifferent. Or amused. Or even bewildered, but it is all up to me. That is what the necklace does: I get to pick and choose my mood. If I were in a grouchy mood and could tell it wouldn’t get me anywhere, maybe I would swipe over to happy. However, I would most likely avoid making such a drastic switch and instead choose something subtler like inquisitive. I wouldn’t want to raise suspicions, I don’t want people to think I’m crazy or inconsistent, so I move to a slightly lighter mood. That’s something I’ve recently learned, that attitudes have a gradient; you could have darker moods such as anger or sadness that encapsulate you or brighter states of mind such as joy or curiosity that radiate light to you and the people around you. There is no greater power than the ability to choose a bright disposition, and it is accompanied by the responsibility to spread that glow to my peers. — Tamar Azulay
Novel Thoughts sometimes, my life feels like a novel in third person (of course) not high-brow enough to be literary fiction, a work that should be littered with heavy criticism so that it can be edited for its next draft. only it’s published while it’s written; all i can do is watch and maybe narrate the myriad ways the next chapter can start but there aren’t really chapters or segments or breaks– just streams of overlapped consciousnesses, clawing and fighting for space on the page. and all i can do is watch in third person (of course) because even though it’s my own life, the novel is in control. — Eliana Pasternak
Becca Miller
10
My Last Braincell I am the last. I alone have survived the massacre. Hours upon hours of battle, fighting for our lives, all for nothing. We have been brutally defeated by the unrelenting screentime and the constant distractions. Now our homeland descends into apathy. Everything is dull, gray, dreary. The glare of blue light is constant, pressing down on all sides, suffocating me. Resistance is futile. I know I don’t have much time left. Gazing at the mangled corpses of my countrymen, my comradesin-arms, hopelessness washes over me. I recall the slaughter, hear their screams. What have I left to live for? I know that I am the last bastion holding back the tide of utter stupidity. Fate has chosen me for this miserable destiny. WHY? WHY ME? I’m not strong enough, not smart enough, not brave enough for this. Everything is pointless now. I know I alone can’t revive my people, ensure our continued existence on this desolate plane. I’m not sure I even want to. My decision is made. There is nothing to be done. I lay down among my dead family and friends. I feel death rapidly approaching. I won’t have to stay in this wretched life long. I await the end, welcoming it. I give up. — Becca Miller
Zach Ufberg 11
In His Image
Eliana Pasternak
“And G‑d created man in His image; in the image of G‑d He created him; male and female He created them. And G‑d blessed them, and G‑d said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and rule over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the sky and over all the beasts that tread upon the earth.” From a young age, I’ve been told that my sole purpose on this earth is to “multiply,” which all in all seems like a pretty easy task. Yet for someone like me, it seems almost impossible. My parents had an arranged marriage. They both barely saw each other before they got married, and both didn’t really have a say in the matter, especially my mother. My father was respected, still studying to be a rabbi at the time, and my mother helped teach children the Torah. Their wedding was small but vibrant, like most Hasidic weddings. My mom often refers to her wedding “as the best day of her life,” but I can’t help but notice the sudden rise in her voice every time she says this, as if her saying this is almost a lie. As is customary in my religion, the day after my parents’ wedding, my mother had her head shaved as new brides are required to wear a sheitel, a wig, or a piece of silk fabric covering the head. Eleven months after my parents’ wedding, my eldest brother Avraham was born. Ten months later, my other brother Akiva, followed by me, then my other three sisters, Adinah, Miriam, and Esther. My favorite pastime is staring out the window in my kitchen, so much so that it has become my only source of joy. As I glare beyond the window, watching the confused tourists and the various men walk the cold streets of Brooklyn, I wonder how they feel. Oh, how I long to feel free instead of trapped inside this hollowing household filled with countless religious artifacts and bickering noise from my siblings. I try to silence my thoughts; I know I would lose everything if I even told one person what went through my mind or who I truly was. The feeling is quickly interrupted by my mother yelling at me to stop staring at random men and close my mouth before a bug flies in it. My face turns bright red out of embarrassment and fear that she would start to suspect unusual tendencies from me, so I quickly shift my eyes to the floor as I begin to brush my feet against the coffee-stained carpets while my father hastily enters the room. I raise my head as I see my father and mother having what seems like a conversation through eye contact, each gesturing to the other to ask me whatever it is they are thinking about. My father struts over to me with a gleaming smile and tells me that he believes he found a possible husband for me. My heart drops to my stomach while a loud static ringing begins to echo through my ears; this is the day I always feared. I think my parents were expecting a gleaming smile out of me, but all my face expressed was fear and sadness. My father, shocked by my lack of a response, quickly asked me why I seemed so disappointed. I thought to myself: this could be the moment I could come clean and tell my parents everything I’ve been hiding all my life, why I stare out that window so much. The only word that can leave my mouth is “no.” I try to say more but struggle at the thought of telling them who I really am. “What do you mean, no?” exclaims my father. I can’t bring myself to admit my inner thoughts; the fear of retribution cripples me. I picture what it would feel like to be one of those men I stare at everyday through my window and who I could truly be if I were one of them. I tuck the feeling farther down and put on a fake smile as I always do. “Thank you,” I say with a slight raise in my voice, the same as my mother whenever I know she’s lying. I go to my room and try to forget my thoughts. — Olivia Collis
12
Limited Time in an Infinite Space As we grow older, we learn that the universe does not exist for us — it just exists. It’s scary knowing that this might be all there is for us, so we constantly worry about the time we have left and the “right” way to shape our futures. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, none of this really matters — nothing does. And I know you’re probably going to say some nonsense about living in the moment, but how can we do that when our emotions perpetually obscure that possibility? Life would be better with no emotions. You can argue that it would be worse, but that is merely because of your perspective. It’s all subjective, of course. You define good or bad, better or worse, using past experiences and the emotional measurements that you attached to them. But please, by all means, try to imagine a life where emotions were entirely foreign, and you were indifferent to everything. I’m sure you picture it as cold and numb. Well, maybe. But the fact is it wouldn’t matter. We would not have an emotionally-driven life to compare it to, and even if we could imagine something different, we would not care. We wouldn’t define these feelings with the same emotional attachment. Cold would directly translate to low temperature and numb to physical paralysis. Whether something is good or bad, evokes love or sorrow — it would not make a difference because we would be unable to distinguish between opposite feelings. You see, the only reason you even believe an emotionless life would be worse is that you’re comparing it to the only life you know — from the only perspective you know. A perspective that prevents you from imagining another kind of life because you are blinded by the way you feel in your current one. Emotions tend to irrationally dictate our thoughts and, therefore, our conclusions. But in a complacent life, we would be free. Free from pain. Take away the pain, there’s no need for happiness. No gain, but no loss, either. Our lives would be at a constant balance — an inherent and unyielding equilibrium. — Mai Shmilovitch
You, Me, and a Cup of Tea You, me, and a cup of tea Foggy afternoons and dancing dreams Rain-stained windows and soggy trees Warmth fills the kitchen, outside’s chilly breeze Meet me by the kettle, we’ll always agree That on paper sky days as gray as these Everything’s better with you and me And a cup of tea
Rosie Ackerman
— Eliana Pasternak
13
A Rant on Hemingway Short stories written by Ernest Hemingway make multiple appearances in our school’s curriculum. Apparently, Hemingway was a great author, one of the classics, a macho man who walked the walk of being a certifiable tough-guy dudebro. Not only was his personality the human equivalent of a flaming pile of dog shit, but I also didn’t enjoy his writing at all. I know this is a highly controversial opinion. Still, Hemingway’s stories are mind-numbingly tedious, and their level of quality does not override the fact that he never did manage to dislodge his head from his rectum. First of all, Hemingway had a bad habit of cheating on his wives and marrying his mistresses. Isn’t that just the height of class? Be better, Ernest, be better. Not only did he not treat women well, but he was also cruel to animals. He liked to go on hunting trips to Africa to go kill innocent creatures for fun. Bloodlust much? Proof that karma exists: on various African murder expeditions, he got dysentery and was in two different plane crashes on the same day. The funniest thing ever is that he once tried to shoot a shark but instead hit himself in the leg. Oops. And let’s not forget that he was charged with violating the Geneva Convention or that he used to work for the freaking KGB. This shit is real. Clearly, I can’t be impartial when discussing Ernest Hemingway. I have too much resentment at being forced to read his works. I am honestly unable to comprehend how people enjoy them. First of all, his subject matter is dull and quotidian. No, please, Ernest, tell me more about the old man and the sea! And even in “Hills Like White Elephants,” when he’s discussing abortion, a fascinating and controversial topic, he manages to make it bland and uninteresting, with monotonous dialogue that’s vague to the point of not recognizing the underlying issue at all. And his iconic writing style fails to enliven his mundane principal objects or engage the reader. Actually, it’s not that he attempts and doesn’t succeed in grabbing the reader’s attention; he refuses to even try. His short, choppy sentences are incapable of enthralling or even entertaining readers. His whole thing is that he says what he has to say, then stops writing. He doesn’t bother with flowery language or any beautification of his prose. No, he’s above all those petty tricks. His rejection of pretension is inherently pretentious, as are the unsubtle flexes about how well-traveled he is littering his works. He doesn’t employ any adornment of language, but his lack of gimmicks is, in and of itself, a gimmick. And his blandness being a purposeful, stylistic choice doesn’t make his writing enjoyable. It’s the literary equivalent of going to watch someone get up on stage and read the dictionary as a commentary on the deterioration of the quality of modern theatre. Sure, the point may be valid, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather watch a Broadway musical. This is everything I always wanted to put in an English paper. I genuinely despise reading Hemingway’s stories and don’t understand their supposed essentiality in my education. Does the curriculum have a shortage of dead white male authors? I will say this for the guy; his stories have one thing going for them: their length. — Becca Miller
14
Rachel Loeb
15
This Library’s on FIIIIIIIIIIIIREEEE The appealing attributes of a weighted blanket are endless. As advertised by the enthusiastic voice on the TV, the pressure induced by heavy comforters can soothe anxiety and provide a tranquil and heavy sleep. So, upon Charlie’s arrival as a freshman in his first year of college, he felt it was an opportune time to try out the famous weighted blanket. With his dad’s 2010 Bed Bath & Beyond coupon, Charlie picked out the perfect 15-pound beige weighted blanket and carried it to his dorm room. In his first few nights using the blanket, Charlie felt calmer than ever, sinking into his mattress and curling his toes around it. Charlie reached a seemingly blissful sleep that carried him to a dimension of comfort he could never have imagined before. Being so thankful for this sleep, Charlie felt as if he even formed an emotional connection with his blanket, so from then on, Charlie named his blanket Romeo, and told everyone about Romeo. As fall came to a close and Charlie left for winter break, he made the executive decision to keep his weighted blanket at school and not drag the heavy load all the way home. While Charlie was away, a brush of wind blew through his dorm window and allowed a whimsical power to overtake Romeo. In doing so, the blanket was given psychic powers and gained its own consciousness. Romeo would come to know the danger that loomed over Charlie’s future. However, Charlie was not aware of his innocent blanket’s newfound superpower. Once Charlie came home from winter break, Romeo was comfortable with the powers granted to him and prepared to use them for Charlie. On February 12th, Charlie found himself gasping for air under the six notebooks that rested on his lap. As he worked to complete his homework, Charlie launched himself onto his bed and stretched his legs under his blanket to take a 20-minute power nap for the purpose of increasing his productivity. However, 15 minutes into the nap, Charlie’s phone blared an obnoxious ringtone. Charlie’s friend Matt called to ask Charlie to meet him at the library in 10 minutes. As the studious guy he was, Charlie agreed to meet Matt at the library to review their Chemistry notes. However, when Charlie tried to peel himself from his warm comforter, he could not get up. While he did do a strenuous workout the day before, Charlie was not sore to the extent where he completely lost mobility. Instead, it was the blanket that was the issue. Charlie wasn’t dreaming, he was actually now stuck — glued by his blanket to his mattress. He tore at the stringy ends of the blanket to try to untangle it and get out, but he failed. Back at the library, Charlie’s study buddy Matt sat next to the fourth floor staircase and began setting up his textbooks for optimal studying. However, as time passed, Matt’s brows tensed as he sat anxiously waiting for Charlie’s arrival. Sweat dripped down Charlie’s back and he worked to break the seal that his blanket formed around him. He developed numerous strategies to get himself unattached from the weighted blanket, but failed at each attempt. Charlie’s strategy of undressing and sliding out naked was as much of a failure as his attempt to shred the blanket with the paper shredder that sat next to his bed. During Charlie’s hectic scene, the stench of smoke surfaced in Matt’s nose while he sat nervously in the library tapping his foot against the carpeted floor. To his left, a fire broke out and began spreading around each bookshelf in the library. Matt’s white Canada Goose coat caught fire and sent him into disarray, coughing after each attempt at a breath. Each time Matt scrubbed the ashes off of his lashes and could open his eyes for a split second, the only sights he could capture were those of books, backpacks, and clothes lighting up the room in the red-orange hue of the fire. Within 30 seconds, the flames caused lifelong damage to Matt’s lungs, and the firefighters who ultimately rescued him told Matt that he would not have survived one more second inside the smoke-filled building. Grateful that his friend mysteriously did not show up for their study date, Matt decided to make one last attempt at reaching Charlie before heading to the hospital with the other victims. In the meantime, Charlie’s blanket stayed wrapped around him and got tighter every minute. Charlie’s arms were ultimately engulfed by the blanket, and he lost all mobility. Now, when Matt called Charlie for the second time, to inform him of the fire, Charlie couldn’t answer the call. Seeing Matt’s name on the phone only further intensified Charlie’s angst. Charlie knew his friend would be upset, assuming he had bailed on him and didn’t even have the respect to call. Charlie tossed and turned, beads of sweat growing atop his brows, his lungs gasping for air, his muscles begging for a break. Slowly, Charlie’s weak attempts at escape fizzled and he was left in a barely-there state of consciousness, losing control of his eyelids as they grew heavy. Fighting the losing battle with his eyes, Charlie succumbed to the abyss of sleep that lay ahead of him. — Lane Barsh
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The Place The sun rises quietly above the horizon as the golden-yellowish haze streams onto fallen leaves. A gentle breeze stirs the brush for just a second, then moves on and tenderly disturbs a new area. The forest begins to awaken; birds start chirping, squirrels peek out of their resting places, and the brook gently laps water downstream. The forest is home to oak, birch, and maple trees. Hidden in the forest, shrouded mysteriously by the surrounding vegetation, are three lone pine trees, the only ones in sight. The pine trees bend towards the forest as if to hide from the view of prodding humans. Soccer balls, baseball bats, and footballs fly onto the surrounding field. The grass curls down, making room for countless noisy games on the trampled turf. The rustling leaves and buzzing bugs drown out the humans’ voices. Two squirrels chase each other up a tree, and then down once again. The first one veers off the trodden path, looking for a place to shelter from its pursuer. It runs on a teetering, rotting log. The large branch sags under the unwelcome weight, groaning to the squirrel, politely asking him to get off. One more second and the hidden grass behind the log stoops over itself. Slowly, the frightened squirrel creeps out from behind the hidden side of the log. The trees grow to their full height. Leaves change to their fullest color. The bright but soft sun slips into the clearing, moving in and out of poking pine needles and half-dead branches. Although the clearing isn’t hidden by more than a few concealing plants, not even the majority of the animals of the forest have found this magical place. The once-cold temperature warms to a temperate chill, the whole forest masked by rolling clouds, creating a blanket of comfort. The clouds hang over the forest, deciding whether to let out their emotions or pass by to yet another park. They waver back and forth, finally choosing to move on. The curious sun peeks out from behind the parting clouds. It emerges, shining in an orange hue instead of yellow. The sky darkens, letting go of the bright yellows and oranges and replacing them with purples, pinks, and dark blues. The cool colors bring with them a slight chill and frequent gusts of wind. The sparkle of bright sunlight runs away, casting shadows as it leaves. Waiting for the sun to retire before captivating the sky, the crescent moon hesitantly moves into the scene. Stars seemingly flicker into existence, ones that had not been there only a moment earlier. The forest slowly gets ready to sleep; birds stop chirping and squirrels burrow into their resting places. Tomorrow will be another day of playing in the sun. — Mikaela Garber
Rachel Loeb 17
Romance Trope Lucinda wasn’t particularly ready for a blow to the abdomen, but her options had slipped through her fingers long ago. Thomas had said he would show her one night of freedom, a night escaped from boned ivory stays and suffocating corsets, but their moment of rebellion had turned into a nightly affair. Now, she was staying truthful to the promise she and Thomas had made with two countrymen almost a week ago: a brawl. Trousers had become Lucinda’s closest friend; she could move and pretend she was a child again, not expected to wear an impractical skirt. The pants would make it easier to run, hit, and possibly fight someone – but no matter how much the trousers helped, Lucinda was completely unconfident about her battle skills. It was her fault, she knew that. She should have never called so much attention to herself inside the tavern, but playing the role of a man had given her a spirit she had never felt before. She should never have asked for a third drink, but the offer was much too tempting, and the haze of the candle-lit lanterns created too dreamy an atmosphere. She knew she should never have listened in on the two men’s conversation in the booth near the door. She should never have walked up to them and claimed to be Duke Cunningham’s son, and she most definitely should never have challenged them to a brawl. She had claimed her father’s military fleet knew her as “Luke the Brave.” She boasted about all the ladies she hosted and all the men she had killed. “What kind of men could a skinny thing like you ever kill — mice?” The man had snorted, laughing uncontrollably as the other man to his right simply stared into the abyss, unbothered by his friend’s foolishness. Lucinda’s response was a biting of the thumb and an offer, no, most definitely a challenge, to a brawl. The small foolish one chuckled and agreed, almost instantly. At the sight of Lucinda’s rashness, Thomas pinched his brow and frowned. Now it was five days later, and Thomas was finishing her training. Lucinda had never been romantic with Tom. They had met in primary school in London and continued their friendship throughout finishing school. She couldn’t deny that for brief moments she had found him attractive, but every time she sailed off in a dreamboat thinking about it, Thomas would open his mouth and the ship would crash. Thomas attempted a hit in her ribs but she blocked the blow with her hand. Then came the shoulder — blocked by her flinging him over her own, and then a punch — which she ducked. It was Lucinda’s turn to initiate. Thomas fell to the ground with a crash. She was ready. At 7 o’clock, Thomas brought over some of his newly cleaned clothes for Lucinda and helped bind her bosom. They locked her bedroom door and escaped through the window, leaving her sapphire dress spread on the floor. The two rode their way to an open field in Northampton, infamous for bloodshed. Thomas had gone over exactly what to say, when to fight, and most importantly, when to surrender. He couldn’t let her die. The two men arrived at 7:30, but only one of them was dressed for battle. She had trained for the man she had met at the tavern — calculated every possible scenario specific to his stout build, his mischief, his humor. To her chagrin, the man who would be her match was the other one. The one whose face she was just seeing for the first time in the light, no matter how fleeting the daylight was. The man whose muscles were visible through his coat, who towered over her. Whose eyes burned into her like ice, a shade of sapphire — like her disheveled dress still lying on her bedroom floor. His hair, a wavy brown mane cut short along his neck. He had much stubble along his jawline and stood in a brooding stance, completely aware of Lucinda’s shock. His gait was a mockery of her own. The short man, whom she would later know as Paul, met Thomas in the middle of the field and decided on the rules of the brawl. There would be no weapons besides a single sword for each man, the fight ends when one pins the other with their sword, and that man shall be the victor. It began at 7:38. The tall man, the big man, named Harry Fairfax, smirked at Lucinda and spoke. “You tell me when you’ve had enough, Mr. Cunningham.” He walked to her with strong strides. “That moment may never come, Mr. Fairfax.” Thomas fired into the air with a revolver and the two reached for their swords. Harry made the first strike and Lucinda hit metal to metal, sword to sword. They fenced back and forth, striding along the bank of the river and back to the center of the field before Harry struck her with a strength she didn’t expect, and her sword flew out of her hands and into the tall grass. “I hope you have noticed that I’ve been using half my strength until now.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. She scoffed. “Please, you pompous ass, I don’t need my sword.” His head leaned in interest. “Let’s fight with our hands like real men.” His eyes smiled in agreement. Harry dropped his sword and waited for Lucinda to make the first move. She strolled around him until he was impatient and just when his guard was down she struck his ribs. He fought back with more fury than he had before. He pinned her to the ground and held her neck tight until her face turned red. “Bet you wished you had your sword now.” His mouth curled into a grin.
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“You fool.” She choked on her words, trying helplessly to get the words out. It took one kick in the groin for Lucinda to cause Harry to fall to his knees, and at that moment she leapt on his back and tightened her hands around his neck. “Get off of me.” He tried to yell but couldn’t. “Aw, I just wanted you to experience this feeling, my friend,” she whispered sharply into the nape of his neck. Instantly, Lucinda was flung over Harry’s shoulder and hit the ground with a rapid strike. She could already feel the bruises forming on her back, her tailbone, her ribs. Harry rolled over onto her prone body with one knee pressing her chest into the ground. “I hope this counts as winning.” Lucinda tried to claw at his head but he caught her hand before she could move another muscle. His grip was excruciating. Lucinda looked at her hand with eyes of amazement, wider than ever before. She couldn’t feel her fingers. In fact, she couldn’t feel most of her body. It was then Lucinda regretted having so much pride, too much confidence for a woman indeed. Her eyesight went black. Thomas began to run to her body but Harry had already taken Lucinda in his arms, and was carrying her to his horse. “What did you do?” He was shaking in fear. “This man needs to be taken to a doctor, I know one in town.” Harry mounted his steed. “Please let me come with you, I will follow.” Thomas untied his horse. Paul interrupted the urgency. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I don’t agree. You’ve killed many men in the past to prove your victory. Why save this one now?” “Paul, this man is not yet dead. If I have a chance to save someone’s life, you are damned if you think I won’t.” With that, he rode off with the trees bending in around him, the dusk seeping into the air. Thomas had been left behind, riding after them a minute too late. As the road became rough and pebbly, Lucinda’s hat blew away with the wind. Harry looked down and saw an entanglement of chestnut tresses atop her head. He focused on her face, her hands, her neck, the shape of her hips. He came to an abrupt halt. With the sudden jolt Lucinda’s eyes burst open and she sucked in as much air as her lungs could take. She looked to the side and noticed she was laying on his lap, looked up and saw Harry’s eyes digging into her like a piercing blade. “What is your name?” Harry’s voice left a chill in the night air. She was lost in the blue of his eyes that seemed to illuminate the darkness. She almost slipped. “Lu...ke.” “Bull.” “Excuse me?” She had feared this moment. She was prepared for the world to crumble around her, for her freedom to be expelled, for her to be tied in, sucked in, locked in tight to her sapphire dress. “I want to know your real name.” She simply stared at him, unable to respond. So he did. “I want you to admit you are not a Duke’s son, I want you to admit you are a dirty liar, and I want you to admit that I won the brawl.” She held in a sigh of utter relief. Her mouth curled into a smile, and she sat up, legs still hanging over his. “I am not a Duke’s son, I am a dirty liar, and you won.” She could kiss him. She was so elated. “And you are wrong Mr. Fairfax if you think I was lying about my name.” “Funny, I’ve never met any women named Luke.” Her smile faded as fast as her pride. Her confidence had been wiped away along with her wit, her freedom. The only thing that remained was a helpless, vulnerable girl overflowing with embarrassment. “How long have you known?” Her voice got soft and somber. “Since I met you.” It was a lie. He had too much pride to admit it was a recent realization. “But you still fought me.” “I did.” His voice quieted. “And you didn’t say anything.” “I didn’t want to ruin your day.” It was stark but sincere. “But you chose to now.” “Actually, I chose to save your life, not ruin your day.”
Lila Elkins 19
Eliana Pasternak
“My life doesn’t need saving.” Her voice was sharp and loud again as she jumped off of the mare and began to pace along the dirt road. “It did five minutes ago when you were unconscious.” He matched her volume, leaping off the horse. “I was only unconscious because you knocked me to the ground.” They moved towards each other like bulls. “I knocked you to the ground because you were choking me.” “Choking you was the only way to weaken you.” Nostrils flared and voices yelled. “Let’s not forget who started this fight in the first place!” “Let’s not forget who agreed!” With that, silence ensued and their foreheads were an inch away from touching. Lucinda wasn’t sure whose hand held the other’s cheek first, but with the spark of each other’s touch they shared a furious kiss. A dangerous, desperate, maddening kiss that she had coveted all her life without knowing it could ever exist. He hugged her with every muscle and strength he had left in his body and she fit into the curve of his hips and chest like a puzzle piece.
Becca Miller
-Lila Elkins
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Miniscule and Insignificant Complaints Introduction It was May 2020, several weeks since school had gone virtual because of Covid-19. I won’t lie, at first it was really exciting not to have to awaken at 5:45 am and waste three hours of my life on the bus commuting to and from school. What a luxury it was to wake up with rays of the sun shining through my window, as opposed to being greeted by complete darkness. The quarantine didn’t seem like such a terrible thing to me. As the pandemic continued to rage, however, I began to realize how many things I took for granted. I was no longer able to get off my school bus and walk to the supermarket to buy snacks, or sleep over at my friends’ houses on weekends, or see my grandparents and cousins. On a particularly rainy and dingy Sunday morning, I was in a gloomy mood and so was my sister. As I brushed my teeth and went to get my usual breakfast of Nature Valley cereal and milk, my mother called me and my sister into the living room. Tired of hearing us complain about how ‘terrible’ our lives were during this pandemic, she decided to have my great aunt Mina tell us the story of her childhood. Mina I vividly remember running through a grassy field, warm rays of sunshine beaming down on my face. My friends and I are playing Salochki, falling into the grass, winded. I look up at the sky with a piece of hay in my mouth, feeling tranquil and happy. Little did I know, my life would never be the same again. This was June 21, 1941. Early the next morning, I heard a radio announcement that Nazi Germany had invaded the Soviet Union without a declaration of war. In a matter of days, my father was enlisted in the army. My mother cried in the shadows, trying to hide her tears. From that point on I lived through a lot of “lasts” — the last time I saw my father alive, the last time I slept in my childhood bed, the last time I played blissfully with my friends. There were constant bombing raids, and we ran for shelter together as the sirens wailed through our town of Melitopol. Over the next few weeks, the sirens became a familiar sound. “You must turn off the lights, so as not to make the house an easy target,” Mother would say. And so the darkness became our life. One night, the siren started singing its cruel song, piercing the sticky summer air. Half asleep, I got up and started for the door. I pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. I started screaming, trying to shout over the aggressive shriek of the siren to warn my mother. She jumped out of bed, frantically grabbed the chair and placed it next to the window so I could climb out of our one-story house. “Minachka, run, run to the shelter, follow the people, I will be right behind you, I will find you…” she shouted with despair. Tears burned my cheeks as I darted for safety, my legs quaking from fear. The shelter was dark, crowded, people packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. The cacophony of babies crying, sirens wailing and bombs exploding were no match for the one thought weighing heavy as a rock inside my head, “Will I ever see my mother and sister again?” I stayed inside the shelter until morning. With the sunrise, a new symphony of sounds filled the air — people shouting the names of their loved ones, some completely hysterical, others sobbing uncontrollably, on the verge of madness. I was losing hope. A few excruciating hours later, I heard someone say, “Lucy, Lucy, she’s here!” I saw my mother, holding my sister in her arms, rushing into the shelter. I think this was the happiest moment of my life. Our house was completely destroyed by the air raid. We went to our relatives in a nearby village, and they offered to take in my three-year-old sister. “Lucy, you can get away with Minachka but the three-year-old will only slow you down. Leave her with us, we will provide good care for her,” they said. My mother, always of an iron will, refused. Later, we learned that when the Nazis occupied that village, all of our relatives were buried alive. By some miracle, we got on the last train out of Ukraine and began our long, exhausting journey to distant Siberia, a whole other story. We never returned to sunny Ukraine, there was nowhere and no one to return to… David I hear a deep sadness in her voice and an occasional sob which makes me ponder the extent of human cruelty. Suddenly, Mina pauses: “Ну а как ваши дела?” she asks. — David Goldfarb 21
Think About It for a Moment “Think about it for a moment,” said the man with the white hair. “About what?” asked the other, hair black. “Think about anything.” “Okay.” White hair continued. “What comprises a thought?” “I’m not sure.” “Yet it is real, or at the very least it feels very real. Is this an accurate assumption?” “Yes.” Black hair could agree with a simple thing like that. “Then we must imagine that a thing may exist, which cannot be explained well, or at least not with human language.” “Truly.” “And we must also believe that you exist, for you think and thus are—” “Therefore I am—” “Indeed.” White hair was impressed with the listener. “Especially if you are a solipsist, which is always an interesting rabbit hole to explore, but let us assume for a moment that you are not.” “What is a solipsist?” “Very good.” “Pardon?” “It is a person who believes that the only possibly verifiable thing is the self, yet you responded to me without hesitation or absurdity.” “My self isn’t smart enough to generate all of this,” black hair said. “Okay, so let us return to my presumption that more than the self exists, as we wind around solipsism, so it must be that more than the individual thought exists. Is this logic sound?” “I believe so.” “Good. Where am I? Oh, yes. It must be then that there is a thing, outside of individual thought, which cannot be articulated by human speech, that can still be understood; perhaps not in full, but well enough to get across.” Black hair looked at him strangely. “And what is this thing? The thing that meets this obscure definition, that is.” “Why, I thought it was all but obvious! This strange specimen is space-time, of course, and we may just be in it!” “Aha,” he said. “I had hardly even thought about it.” “And yet here you are, no wiser, it seems, than before; and your comprehension is adequate—but could you ever try to explain all this to, well, to anyone else? Take a fish, perhaps.” The man with black hair picked up a fish. From where had that come? “No, not literally.” “Oh,” he said, a bit regretfully. He put the fish down, and it disappeared. “Imagine that you must explain space-time to a fish. What would you say?” “Well, I suppose I’d first ask him if he were a solipsist.” “Why in the world would you do that?” the man with white hair asked in a huff. “Why would I bother trying to explain space-time to him if he couldn’t first accept my existence? That would be an outlandish waste of time.” White hair stared. “But a fish would never understand solipsism, you fool!” “Yet he would be perfectly fine in taking a gander at the incomprehensible? You never cease to amaze! Perhaps I will speak with a fish, just to listen to a greater mind than yours!” White hair stomped away, but black hair stayed. He was a man of action, and it seemed prudent now to find a wiser conversationalist. 22
So, the man went to the pond and began speaking with a fish, and the fish was a great listener. Whenever the man spoke, no matter how strangely or quickly he did, the fish would stare up at him with bulb-like eyes, never interrupting. At last, the man asked the fish a direct question, but the fish just continued to sit there with a blank face. After a while, the man walked away from the pond, believing that his pride and intelligence had led to madness. Perhaps if he let his madness wallow away on its own by the pond, he could reclaim his pride and intelligence by the time he got home. When the man was out of sight and earshot, the fish swam under the water to his friends. It gathered a few fish in a circle, telling all of them with buzzing excitement about how a crazy man had approached him to talk about solipsism and the universe. “Ludicrous!” said one fish to the other. “Madness!” “An outrage!” The main fish held up a fin for silence. “I know,” he said excitedly. “It’s incredibly exhilarating. Everyone knows that humans can’t speak!” Then, later that night, the fish sat around in a circle, again discussing the simplicity of thoughts, existence, and the structure of the universe. — Luke Finkelstein
Becca Miller 23
Synthetic Joy The plastic colossus emerges from the gray globe, towering spires of trash erupting from its shoulders The dusted towers glow faintly with long-burnt embers, remnants of a fire that tossed smoke in the sky and soot in the sea The hulking figure blots out the sun, the skyline falls dark, nighttime’s arrival unnaturally spurred on by the monster’s freakish form There were those who warned of its presence long ago, but their voices too fell silent underneath the smothering smog It lurches forward, one gnarled iron block in front of the other Styrofoam drips down its cheeks, finally drowning its childhood home — Raphael Englander
Tamar Azulay
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