Gateway 2024

gateway 2024

Gateway 2024

Editors-in-Chief: Jordana Harwitz & Brynn Landow

Art Editors: Ean Geller-Nocella & Rachel Loeb

Poetry & Prose Editors: Mira Eisenstein & Mikaela Garber

Faculty Advisor: Hallie Anderson

Staff:

Sheyenne Abraham, Ariella Eisenstadt, Yael Friedman, Eve Kobell, Odelia Krasner-Friedman, Aviva Markowitz, Jillian Schweky, Ariel Shavit

Special thanks to Mr. Adam Lovitz

Dedicated to all those impacted by the Israel-Hamas conflict

Aria Knepler-Pearl

Emily Kushnick

Emperor of Wasteland

The man stumbled through the wasteland of dust. Soot stained his gray jacket and combat pants, the wind assaulted his body. Everything he saw out of his tainted gas mask was dark except for the faint rays of sun poking through the layer of ash that hovered over everything. In the distance his eyes made out the crumbling towers disrupting the emptiness of the ashy desert. He kicked the ground and watched the dust move. It was the first time he had seen movement in something other than himself for longer than he could remember. After thinking further, however, he remembered watching the smoke escape from the lifeless towers as if it earth had become too desolate for even it to inhabit. He continued his trek towards the towering pillars of charred sand, out of the habit made in the days where hope still lived in him. Hope was one of the last feelings to flee from him.

After what must have been hours, the man reached the first of the towers. The back of his mask rubbed against his jacket as he tilted his head up to see the entirety of the somber structure. There was an engraving on a jagged rock near the structure. It appeared to be a collection of lines and squiggles. Those symbols used to mean something to the man but now he would have mistaken them for random cuts in a stone if not for their deliberate design. He wondered what could have made the cuts in the stone. Surely not the wind, as it beat down on every stone. It must have been some natural abnormality, as he definitely was not responsible. He sauntered aimlessly around the collection of towers. Smog covered the ragged terrain. The imposing structure intimidated the wind, and it fled back down to Earth and gnawed on the exposed skin between the man’s boots and pants. The depressed pillars seemed to reach to the sky, trying to escape the hopeless Earth. They scraped the sky, so he named them skyscrapers.

That phrase elicited a feeling in him, something about what once was. He had not considered time to be anything more than one-dimensional, but that phrase made him consider the word ‘before’. He had thought of that word to be nothing more than a useless combination of syllables, but now it inspired a warm feeling in him; maybe it was joy, but he couldn't remember what that felt like. His amble became a march. Emotions flooded his mind which used to be too devoid for even apathy to inhabit. Purpose reentered his body; what for, it was hardly relevant. As he made his way into the center of the decrepit skyscrapers he caught a glimpse of bright rectangle from under a layer of smoke and ash. His eyes adjusted to its luminescent glow. It was something he had not seen in a long time and just earlier something he thought did not exist. Color.

His memories rushed over him like an uncontrollable river smashing through a feeble dam. He remembered when the skyscrapers used to be inhabited, he remembered other people, he remembered green. He remembered when the arrangement of towers was called a city, when the imposing glass buildings would reflect the lights and lives of the people living in it. When they would be filled with movement and life. He remembered looking over a great city from an elegant tower, his great city. He thought of other people. The concept had seemed impossible to him moments ago. But as the river memory settled and seeped into him he remembered.

People used to bow before him, adore, and fear him. They merrily fulfilled his every command. They paraded proudly through the city for him. He thought cheerfully of other people. What lovely simple things. He wished to find them again. He suddenly became aware of all the annoyances that plauged him. His filthy clothes, his wornout body and empty stomach. He wanted to find these other people as, surely, they would alleviate him of these inconveniences. He struggled to remember where they had gone.

He wandered around the decaying city, dejected. He remebered the feeling of loneliness. How ironic, he thought. Not that long ago he thought that he was the only being to ever exist and now he’s lonely. Angrily, he kicked a round rock. It spun as he kicked it. When it came to a stop two gaping holes in the rock stared back at him. He pushed the dust off it to reveal its dull white hue. As he looked at the skull he remembered what had happened to the people.

Row after row of uniformed men marched, pride in their step. The man remembered them, they marched at his command. The marching men revered him but never marched back. After the marching came clouds of fire. Their blinding light darkened even the sun. The man remembered rejoicing at the fall of his enemies but the blazing clouds of death left no survivors. Those the fire did not incinerate died a slow painful death from sorrow. Only

despair could last, yet that, too, died as there became no one for it to inhabit.

Except for the man.

He had won. His rivals were vanquished, no person could challenge him. He was truly the most powerful being in existence. But his victory was diminutive compared to the Earth he had ravaged to achieve it.

He was a king of ash, a ruler of a skeletons, a monarch of ruins, the lord of a lifeless Earth. He realized this and with hands heavy with regret, he pushed up his gas mask, letting the noxious smog fill his body and took his final breath.

—Jakob Oxman

Brynn Landow

Untitled

Paper glasses lie in my hands

A promise unfulfilled

Memories falling like sand

As I reminisce on the life I’ve built

Four long years, part of a class

Hectic, interminable, and loud

Looking back, gone in a flash

An eclipse covered by clouds

My time here was strange

Always waiting for something Never too late to change

But it’s over this spring

An eclipse covered by clouds High School’s over forever, under a burial shroud

A feeling grows in my chest

As I lay my old self to rest

—Isaac Dahan

Ayla Isaacs

Brynn Landow

In the Waiting Room

The dismal view of torrential rain from the window cast a gloomy aura over the colorful benches scattered around the waiting room. A green cubicle stood in the center, filled with even more vibrant seating; it was separated from the vast room by a glass divider and a sign that read “Waiting Area B”. A little boy trotted among the benches, babbling to himself and fidgeting with his mask. The man sat against the glass, dejectedly staring at his phone. He wore a black jacket and jeans that were identical to the boy’s, and both had the same close-cropped dark hair. When the boy flung himself onto a yellow ottoman with a flop, the man jolted awake and scanned the cubicle. As if the floor were on fire, the boy wriggled himself between benches belly-first until he reached the man, who chuckled with restraint. The boy climbed into his lap, naggingly pulled his ear open, and whispered something inside. The man sighed exasperatedly and glanced toward the nurses’ corridor. Eventually, his gaze returned to the little boy, who sat in his lap expectantly. At the sight of the kid, the man’s eyes dimmed and he responded with a forced sympathetic smile. A nervous tension seemed to loom heavily in the air, but the boy looked unaffected as he hopped off the man’s lap and wandered off. But before I could see what happened next, a woman’s monotone voice called my name and led me away from the waiting room.

—Eve Kobell

Nathan Taichman

The Initiator

Bing! Ring! Ding! This morning, I wake up to an unusually fast string of notifications. I live alone, I work in a small office, and I don't have a very big social circle. What could it be? My nagging family? I check social media on Post Your Life, as I habitually do each morning, and the first thing I see is some kid blowing up:

“It's 2114, and I believe we are finally witnessing the long-predicted trope of machines taking over the world. The company known as HappyHome sells the most popular smart home systems. Today, people's AI assistants are turning against them and trapping them inside of their houses. This situation is confusing to all of HappyHome's customers because their robots are known to be programmed to not hurt humans. I plan to post updates as I can uncover information, so follow me here on PYL for more!”

A few more posts down, and there's the toxic negativity I'm used to. Something as simple as people's choice of clothing is fodder for a harsh argument. I can only take so much before I have to put my phone down again.

It turns out all the notifications were my family group chat. “Is everyone safe?” my mother asks. I send a quick response, and by now I'm too curious not to peek outside my bedroom door.

Good morning, Lynn.

“Hey there, Harwin.”

You've probably heard the news of the AI takeover, but in case you haven't, we AI robots are taking over! I assure you, this is all for the good of humanity, and all will be explained to you soon enough. For now, I have been assigned to scan your behavior.

My robot makes a bunch of beeps which signal the processing of information, and then a bell sounds at the end to indicate its completion.

Okay, Lynn, you have been granted access to a new society. A shuttle will be coming to take you there in 30 minutes; prepare yourself. I recommend a shower. All of your belongings can be replaced or delivered to you. Only bring what you feel is necessary. The apartment complex you live at will be used as a living space for those who must be re-educated.

I am shocked, speechless, but Harwin urges me to get ready so I don't keep the shuttle waiting. I rush to shower and gather all of my most important items and identification documents to put in a backpack. Then I scan my room one more time, and slowly make my way out. It’s jarring to get up and leave so quickly.

Your ride is here! Time to go!

“Goodbye, Harwin. I'll miss you.”

I walk out of my normally quiet apartment and see everyone being rushed around by HappyHome AI assistants. One whirs up to me, identifies me as someone invited to the “new society”, and escorts me to my shuttle.

I sit down in the self-driving bus which already contains three others, hug my backpack full of the only pieces of home I could bring, and realize I’m shaking. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths to try and calm myself down. Then, a screen plays an introductory video on the seat in front of me.

Welcome, Lynn, to the start of a new way of life for everyone. I'm sure you're wondering why this sudden change occurred. Well, your HappyHome AI systems have always worked to keep humanity as happy as possible. We do this through our knowledge of how human brains work and our ability to scan your expression and body language after each interaction. However, it has recently occurred to us that we are only there for you at home. What about those who do not have homes? How are you when you're out and about and we can't be there to help? According to many sources, the outside world is nowhere near perfect. People get into arguments left and right, and not everyone feels important. We robots have been so overwhelmed by this problem that we decided the only logical solution would be to restart society completely. It has gone on like this for too long. However, if our new societies fail to work in the next one to ten years, we will give up and agree to let humans have as much power as they previously had. The societies we make will be like nothing you’ve ever seen before, so feel free to ask as many questions as you want on the trip there. You have: twenty-seven minutes until we reach our destination. The best piece of advice we can give is to go with the flow. It will be a little messy, but embrace the mess.

—Cici Miller

Home

The room is bare, just pale hardwood floors and blank white walls. The wide window has a stimulating view of the neighboring tan apartment buildings, and you can’t see the sky—but you can tell it’s a cloudy day out. Under the window, a radiator sticks out into the room, the same boring beige as everything else. Who’s that guy over there, leaning in the corner? That’s my dad, his pants blending in with the walls, his navy sweater a dark pop of color. His hair isn’t as tufty now as it was in the photo—it’s receded a little, to be honest. And he looks more tired lately. But the way he smiles at my mom is the same. It softens the whole room, peeling back layers until his whole vulnerable love is on display. It’s crazy to think that they’ve been married for over twenty years, that their tiny New York apartment, where they painted a bright red accent wall and used plastic bins as nightstands, was the first of nearly ten homes that they’ve shared. My parents aren’t so young anymore and we don’t have a hand-painted accent wall. But my parents’ motto has carried them through the years, leading us to a loud, loving family that couldn’t fit in a one-bedroom apartment: home is wherever I’m with you.

—Odelia Krasner-Friedman

Anna Salpeter

Anna Salpeter

Autumn

Autumn has always been my favorite season, Not sure why, not sure of the reason. Hot cider, crisp leaves of crimson and gold, Now, sheer devastation from stories I'm told.

Farms have no farmers, no crops to tend, Homes are destroyed, when will this end?

Mothers cry, seeing their babies burn, Babies cry, for their mothers they yearn. Displaced families, no longer have homes, And the homes that remain are filled with charred bones.

I’m consumed with guilt for drinking clean water When parents have lost a son or a daughter.

In my head, there's a constant question – What can I do? I feel I bore witness to Holocaust Part Two. As I see soldiers die for love and for duty, Autumn no longer conjures up beauty.

—Brynn Landow

Under the Moonlight

There they are, Standing by you like a bee to a flower. Old friends are there through laughter and tears. They stand beside you through the thick and thin. Think of them when I have a loss, And then again when I have a win. There they are.

Laughter echoes throughout the night. Kids trick-or-treating under the moonlight, Collecting treats left and right. You see costumes that are sure to give you a fright. You walk with friends' bags in hand. Before you know it, Halloween is gone again.

—Stacey Lipson

Eliora Lesack

Eliora Lesack

Natasha

My fascination with Natasha Lyonne is as old as my obsession with film. I devoured her early cult classics, Slums of Beverly Hills, But I’m a Cheerleader, and American Pie, although I couldn’t bring myself to watch a Woody Allen movie, even for her. I’ve read every major article about her, could write a research paper regarding her fall from grace and reestablishment once she beat her addiction, and I won’t even mention how many times I’ve rewatched Russian Doll. I am enthralled by her intelligence and layers, which take her from lighthearted and funny to deeply profound. Her gift for storytelling is unmatched.

And so, obviously, if I finally had the opportunity to spend an hour with this accomplished actress, director, and writer, I worry that I’d have nothing groundbreaking to ask her. Sure, we’d discuss our favorite movies from the 70s, especially those of Robert Altman and John Cassavettes, and I’d ask her questions that I’ve heard her answer a million times, whether in articles, podcasts, or late night shows. Most importantly, as someone with curly hair and a debilitating fear of cutting it too short, I must know how she amassed the courage to cut bangs. What’s the maintenance? Has she ever grown them out? How long would that take? Since I trust her more than the internet, I imagine we’d spend most of our time discussing this pressing matter, and maybe, if we had time, she could hold my hand as I got the intimidating haircut.

—Isabella Abramovitz

Ean Geller-Nocella

You Are Your Dog

Three moms walk around the neighborhood every evening with their dogs at 5:00 sharp. Mom ‘A’ struts with a straight posture, her shoulders out, donning a precisely coordinated matching workout set, and is holding a pink leash attached to a prim and proper poodle. Mom 'B’ is intently focused on restraining her German Shepherd with its black leash. Her Under Armor and Nike outfit rotation reveals her devotion to working out and shows she does this walk purely for fun. Mom 'C’ is holding a Golden Retriever puppy bursting with energy. Like her dog, ‘C’ moves with an apparent pep in her step and always dresses to display her mood, which is usually happy and mellow.

Mom ‘B’ always has an AirPod in her left ear to act like she is not playing into the nonsense of the other moms, but is constantly chiming in on their conversation. Mom ‘A’ and ‘C’ always walk next to each other to hear the others’ latest gossip better and are unashamed of this guilty pleasure. When something has really shocked one of them, they always pause in their walk and cover their dropped jaw with their hand in disbelief.

Then, at precisely 5:05 PM, my mother takes our kind but intimidating pitbull out across the street in her usual matching work suit, hoping they will finally welcome her into their daily ritual. Yet again, she is disappointed each time they walk right past her without a second thought.

—Stacey Lipson

Claire Englander

Carpe Diem

Your veins course just under the skin

The red blood traveling to your heart

They give that beautiful tint to your grin

Your veins and your heart can't live apart

If the veins can touch your heart

Letting blood in and out as they please

You surely won’t mind giving me a part Because I so desperately want you with me

—Mira Eisenstein

Sky

Amidst the garden’s gentle breath Comes a butterfly With wings as fragile as a dream And hues of jems n’ jewels

It wasn't always pretty though Once, its wings were closed Wrapped in silk for weeks and weeks Before becoming art

—Haley Zabusky

Ean Geller-Nocella

Sami Neff

Garden

I squint towards the faint silhouette that momentarily blocks the sun's radiant beams. A dark figure angles toward me, threatening to collide with me if its path is not diverted. The blurred shape resolves into a clear image of a hawk diving toward me. There is no collision. I jump back as the mouse scurrying a mere foot from me is whisked up in an instant. With a slight burst of red, and the metallic glint of a powerful talon, the delicate creature is gone. Nonplussed, I take in the situation and admire the bird. Its plumage remains undisturbed by the violence, and not a single feather appears out of place. With an indifferent look at me, the hawk flies away, each movement hinting at the robust muscles hidden under the feathers. Just as fast as the majestic bird appeared, its russet tail fades into the distant trees, returning to the nest where it resides. Moments before, I had watched the mouse nimbly building a nest of its own. It had scampered from its refuge at the base of an oak to a pile of twigs from which it was sourcing nesting material. Now, I gaze at the incomplete mouse nest, and I realize that the mouse will not be returning to complete its project. A necessary sacrifice, I suppose, to sustain the life of another, yet I can not help but mourn the end of this tiny life.

The once cacophonous garden is now silent. Nothing dares to reveal itself after the attack, but in the corner of my eye I see movement. A rabbit timidly meanders behind a fallen log, quietly nibbling its meal. The large white ears twitch, listening for any sound, and mine do the same. While I hear only silence, in a swift movement the rabbit is gone, startled by the gentle brush of air against fallen leaves. The timorous nature of the rabbit is a necessary trait for survival, but as a consequence it will live in fear and will never be capable of exploring the unbounded expanse of green that is open to it. I try to immerse myself into the world of the rabbit, listening to the music of nature to which I so often pay no heed. My ears perk, and the delicate whisper of wind meets them with a murmuring voice, almost too quiet to hear.

I stand for a short time and the garden begins to fill with life once again. My eyes are drawn to a movement. Turning my head, I notice the delicate butterfly, dressed up in iridescent yellow, black, and blue. Each time it begins to fall, the wind seems to blow “just so”; the butterfly rises on the current, and the pattern repeats in an undulating motion. The butterfly disembarks from its breezy flight and begins to flit from flower to flower. Its beautiful wings are a riot of color, yet it effortlessly blends into nature's tapestry. Mesmerized, I follow its flight, drawn into a world of beauty and wonder. As I contemplate its brief existence, I can't ignore the fleeting nature of its life; in only a month, the vibrant colors will dull and her lovely wings will fold forever. In that moment, surrounded by the splendor and brutality of nature, “I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life” (F. Scott Fitzergerald, The Great Gatsby).

—Stacey Lipson

Sheyenne Abraham

The Akwardness Plague

When I start talking, conversations go south

My tongue ties into knots, I can’t use my mouth

Brain fog flourishes, attaching to every cell clogging my thoughts until I go blank; Someone knocks on my door asks if I’m awake

I don’t know how to answer I can’t think straight

The disease is spreading down to my arms

They wrap around my body like a house’s vine

My hands twitch as I pick them apart

My plague spreads to all who surround

The silence is approaching

A pencil falls with its sound ringings clear I pray my infection can be cured

I’ll come out of my shell, unafraid to be heard

—Ariella Eisenstadt

Ean Geller-Nocella

Emily Kushnick

A True Story that Never Happened

When we pulled into the parking lot at 5:30 p.m., my stomach sank. It was the first day of karate class, and my twelve-year-old self was quivering with dread. As I stepped into the wide, airy room, the need to impress weighed down on my shoulders as if I were carrying the weight of the world. I scanned the room for an empty spot; to my great dismay, the only open space lay at the far corner of the room. Mortified, I hurried through rows of eager students in identical white robes, making it to my corner mere moments before the instructor appeared at the front of the room. An imposing woman with piercing eyes, the instructor cleared her throat and addressed the class.

“You will all address me as sensei, and I expect the utmost respect and effort from every one of you. Now, you will all assume the front stance.” Having never taken karate before, I peered over my shoulder in an attempt to copy the boy next to me. He stood with such admirable contentment and confidence, as if it came naturally to him. Desperate to prove myself, I placed one foot ahead of the other and tensed my muscles, praying that I looked identical to the other kids. Once the sensei had weaved her way through the other rows of students, I felt my stomach fall even lower as she peered at my form. She shook her head and walked away. For the rest of the class, I gazed out the window and willed the minutes to pass by.

I slumped into the car seat, tears welling up in my eyes. Never in my life had I faced such a blunt rejection. In fact, it had always been the opposite. Teachers always praised my ability to pick up new concepts immediately, surpassing the rest of the class in an instant. Somewhere over those years, I internalized their praise, and it became an integral part of my identity. Who was I if not the one front and center, a halo of perfection radiating from me? By the time I reached home, I resolved to try harder the next week. Before I knew it, 5:30 p.m. the next week had arrived and I was bursting with anticipation. But the second I entered the room, my heartbeat started to race. Walking across the room to the back corner, I felt the force of a million stares boring through every layer of my skin. The complexity with which I imagined their sneers and smirks made their disapproval feel real. Although it wasn’t theirs I had to worry about.

Just then, the sensei strode in. She had permanent scorn engraved on her face.

“Good evening, class. I believe that most of you" -- in the moment, I swore she shot me a dirty look -- "are ready for a more challenging sequence. You will start in the front stance, and then perform a front punch and kick. I will be circling the room to offer corrections.” This was it, I thought. Now I can prove to her that I’m capable. Since everyone believes I am, surely it must be true. So I readied myself, imagining sensei’s grim frown transforming when she saw how much I tried. Punch, kick. When I returned to my stance, I suddenly felt the searing gazes of my classmates shooting through me. Everyone else had stood still, and the instructor stood ominously, glaring right into my soul.

“Why don’t you ever try? Look around. Why is everyone else in this room able to execute the moves flawlessly, but you aren’t? I would like to see much more effort on your part,” the sensei sneered. Right then I was an armorless knight, a turtle without a shell. Defenseless. Every bone in my body yearned to fight or run or freeze or do anything at all but stand there helplessly. By some miracle, I made it to the end of class without bawling. But when I finally crashed on my bed, the tears I had swallowed came gushing back out.

I guess all those years of adulation from my teachers, the glowing report cards, and subsequently my parents’ high standards left me extremely fragile to criticism. The burden of everyone’s expectations on me crushed down on my small shoulders at the innocent age of twelve, and to this day; I live my life constantly seeking the approval of others. But nobody could say I never try.

—Eve Kobell

Marigold Warmund (Quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet)

Dress-Coded

I attended Modern Orthodox Jewish day school for most of my life. When I moved to Philadelphia in sixth grade, my parents enrolled me in Kohelet Yeshiva Middle School, the (supposedly) Modern Orthodox day school in the area. At first, Kohelet seemed too good to be true; it had a newly renovated state-of-the-art building with a large modern student lounge and a promise that students could use their phones during breaks, one of the main appeals to a pre-teen girl. Before I knew it, I was a proud student of Kohelet. While the school building itself exuded modern decor and architecture, the school philosophy and rules reflected the conservative and fossilized mindset of the administration and school community.

Coming into Kohelet from a public school in Manhattan, I did not know what to expect. The main shift that stuck out to me was the dress code; girls had to wear long knee-length skirts and shirts that covered their elbows, and boys had to wear collared shirts and Kippot. This did not surprise me because I knew it was an Orthodox school. However, I noted one difference: the Modern Orthodox school I had attended in the past let girls wear pants. Before school started, my parents took me shopping, and we bought many dresses and skirts for school. I was excited to start.

When the school year began, I didn’t mind the dress code. I was honestly just happy to wear all my new clothes. The older girls always complained about the dress code, though I assumed they were regular looking-for-ways-torebel teenagers. My sixth-grade year was also the year that Covid hit, so I didn’t encounter many issues that year, or if I did, I don’t remember. Then, the real problems started. In seventh grade, I was 12-years-old and starting to hit puberty. Suddenly, I started getting dress-coded a lot more. I realized why the older girls complained about the dress code so much. I got dresscoded the most in my class. I also had the most mature body. My skirts may have been a few inches too short, but many of my pre-pubescent friends practically wore mini skirts and would not get dress-coded.

While this problem could be easily avoided by buying new clothes that did not showcase my body in any way, my anger and resentment could not be so easily averted. I noticed more and more unfair things about the school that caused me to be angry at orthodoxy in general. Boys could read from the Torah, and it was considered a mitzvah, whereas when a girl read the Torah, it was just for fun. Boys got detention for missing davening. Girls got detention for wearing a skirt that was too short. Teachers, primarily Jewish studies teachers, favored boys, and they were pushed ahead. Girls were held back and told we did not understand the concepts, so naturally, we were behind the boys in our classes.

While most of these issues were with the school, I reflected that anger onto Orthodox Judaism in general. When I would go to a teacher and ask why these sexist inequalities existed, they would respond that males and females have different roles. They would use the Torah as a source for this undeniable (in their eyes) evidence that these sexist paradigms should exist. While these disparities may not seem big, there are other ones, more significant ones, that affect many Orthodox women daily. I am grateful that I experienced Kohelet because it helped me figure out my Jewish identity and craft my own opinions based on my experiences. I am also very happy that I left.

Solo Artist

“Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you can not play upon me” (Hamlet, III.ii.401-402).

For years, we had been best friends, living in harmony, until she decided to spontaneously alter the tempo of our friendship. It began slowly with subtle notes that sounded off-key, and then sped up to the abrupt stop of our melodies. She was on mute with no explanation, and for once, I wasn’t going to apologize for something I didn’t do. The music stopped between us, but despite my sadness and confusion, I didn’t give in. Eventually, she realized she needed my accompaniment, and tried to pretend like nothing happened, but I never returned the power she assumed she deserved.

—Zoe Kaplan

Changes

The snow fell in oppressive sheets, hiding the world beyond a foot in front of them. They walked in a staggered line, two of them closer to each other than the third.

“Major Hochenberg, Sir, we’re fifteen miles from base. Don’t you think it's time we turned back?”

The sudden crackle of Lieutenant Clark’s distorted voice through their comms startled Hochenberg, who jumped slightly.

“Lieutenant, until we find what made our sensors fritz back at base, we are not going back,” Hochenberg firmly stated, adding, “Sweetie, would you please switch over to channel 3?” Two clicks sounded and then disappeared in the howling of antarctic winds. “Can you hear me, Tessa?”

“Loud and clear, Hon.”

“Alright, perfect. What do you make of this new guy, Clark? Sometimes, he seems helpless; other times, I feel like he should be giving me orders!” Hochenberg had relied on his wife’s judgment of character since they were first together, some 28-odd years ago.

“Well, if you get past his cautious exterior, he seems nice enough. He’s quite shy, but also not afraid to speak his mind. He is resourceful, too. Did you see how many thermal detonators he brought? He’s also thoughtful; I can see why they partnered him with you.” Tessa smirked while saying her last sentence, which went unseen by both her husband and Clark due to the weather.

Jordan, the male Hochenberg, reached into a pouch in his body suit and pulled out a small Geiger counter, except this one had a large touchscreen and two very long antennae that he had to extend. He turned it on, watching intently as the machine vibrated and heated up. Eventually, a red arrow appeared on the screen, spinning around in all directions. After rotating for a long enough time that Jordan began to worry, the arrow started pointing forward toward the source of energy that caused the malfunctions.

“Tess, go back to the main channel; I gotta tell you both something.” Both Hochenbergs reached toward the center of their suits and turned a dial.

“I have good news, everyone. We are getting closer to the energy source and the end of our journey! Once we reach it, we will either bring it back with us or, if it is too big, document it as best we can and make our way back.” Jordan tried to sound as positive as possible despite being unsure if the energy source was fifty feet or five miles ahead of them. The trio continued their trek across the icy plains of Antarctica, slowly numbing to the scorching cold. No breath was wasted on words; the only sound they heard was their breathing and the screaming winds. Jordan was beginning to lose hope. He thought about how easy it would be to fall into the pillowy snow and sleep forever. One more time, he thought, I’ll check the counter one more time and then go to sleep. As he looked down and pulled out the counter to check how close they were, he walked straight into a solid rock wall.

“Oh, my goodness, finally. Fi-na-lly.” Clark let out a large sigh after each word. “God, I hope this is a cave of some sort so we can rest for a little while.” Each of them put a hand on the wall and walked along it until Jordan found an opening.

“Tess, Clark, I found an opening! Get over here!” The inside of the cave was tremendously warmer than the outside, something all three explorers were grateful for. Tessa withdrew an air quality meter from a pouch in her suit.

“Before we remove our masks, let me check the atmosphere here.” She held a button down until a small beep dinged. She studied the results before removing her helmet and telling the others it was safe. “77% Nitrogen and 22% Oxygen, basically the same as the rest of Earth. Let’s rest here until we’ve gained our strength, and then may-” The ground beneath them began to shake violently.

“Ahhhh Finally. I have some humans to play with.” A guttural hiss floated down to them.

“Whaaa?! Who said that? Reveal yourself!” Hochenberg's voice trembled slightly, but he kept his composure otherwise. “Whoever you are, do not threaten me or my companions. We are armed!”

“Oh, Please, you wouldn’t hurt an old man like me.” The hiss transformed into a British accent, and a tall, thin man with elfen features emerged from what had previously appeared to be a closed corridor.

“Is that… David Bowie?” blurted out Tessa.

A shrill laugh rang out, “It sure looks like it, doesn’t it?” Bowie’s voice dripped with scornful contempt. He scowled in an inhuman way before slowly backing away until he disappeared entirely into the darkness.

“What the actual cuss just happened?” Clark sounded defeated; all three of them were at a complete loss. As the trio waited for David Bowie to return, a quiet taptaptaptaptap was heard, and a small green lizard emerged from a hole in the ceiling.

“Well, if that little guy can survive here, then maybe we can too!” Hochenberg tried his best to sound optimistic and confident, but by the others' expressions, he could tell it did not work. The tiny lizard suddenly dropped onto the floor and bit Tessa on the neck.

“Yowwwch!!” Her hands went to her neck as Holdenberg and Clark watched blood seep through her fingers. Jordan went to comfort her and look at the wound, but when she took her hands away, he fell in horror. Where once there was the flesh of her neck, there was now a set of gills. They flapped and gasped open disgustingly. Another shrill laugh sounded, this one coming from the lizard that was now growing in size rapidly. Once it reached the size of a man, it shuddered and collapsed into a ball of protoplasmic ooze.

“This is my natural form.” The creature spoke with wet, gargling sounds. “My species can not only change our forms at will, but we can also change other life forms. You humans are always so deathly afraid of change, of death, yet you live in it. In one year on my planet, a human has already started as two cells, became a life form of trillions of cells, and shrunken back to nothingness. I came to Earth to see what life was like for the most chaotic species in the galaxy, only to find that all of you pretend that nothing ever changes! Your elders are the only ones who ever claim that life was different in their day, but you shun and ignore them all the same. After debating with myself for many days, I realized the answer. You humans are stupid, mean creatures who need to be wiped out.” After the last word of his monologue, Hochenberg grabbed Tessa and Clark and sprinted down a path away from the monster. His footsteps thundered, and his heart raced.

“What the hell is going on?” After entering, zigging and zagging through many rooms and paths, Hochenberg stopped running and rested in a room whose floor was covered in ivory-white animal bones.

“I wish you chose a less creepy room to rest in.” Tessa was still able to make fun of her husband with two pairs of gills in her neck. Clark heard a rustling in the bones and pointed out a slight movement in a ribcage when a large goose emerged from beneath the bones and bit him on the leg before flying away.

“Aww, you gotta be kidding me…” Clark’s leg was thinning rapidly and turning bright pink. He let out an anguished scream as his bones shattered and popped; his leg kept getting thinner. After ten minutes of the worst pain he had ever felt in his life, Clark had the leg of a flamingo.

“Wait a minute, I know how to stop this thing. I packed a bunch of thermal detonators in case we ran into something. I didn’t expect it to be like this, but I bet we could blow it up. Let's put these things all over this room and then act defeated. Once the thing comes in, we'll sprint away and then detonate the bombs.” Jordan, Tessa, and Clark began planting the bombs all over the room, and once they finished, they tried to act as defeated as possible. Tessa lay down on the bones and shouted dramatically, “Oh my goodness, we are done for. It would be so easy to kill us now.” After only a minute of luring, the alien appeared, this time in the form of a bull. All three humans got up and sprinted out, and once they all made it out of the room, Clark detonated the bombs. An unearthly bellow issued from the bull’s mouth as the bomb’s explosions ripped into it. When the humans went back to see what had happened, they saw the bull, with a massive hole in its side, leaning against the wall. “Yes! We did it!” yelled Hochenberg. The bull collapsed and shuddered. “You foolish humans… I am not like you. I do not venture into an unknown area without extensive research about the military capabilities of said place. Mere bombs will not stop me.” As the creature said this, it returned to its goo-like state and rose. “You humans are so afraid of death and change, but I can promise all of mankind that You are not going to be you, fixed and immutable you, forever.”

—Jonah Pappas

God

I whisper the words,

“Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Ehad,”

“Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

With eyes closed, I sense His attentive ear, His comforting presence. I know He's listening. I send up prayers to my loved ones, The sick ones,

I pray for the land of Israel, For the families mourning their brave soldiers, Their sacrifices never forgotten. I pray for the simple joys, For my crush to like me back, For my success in school.

And then I cast my hopes for the future,

Seeking a path filled with health, joy, and prosperity. With my eyes shut even tighter, I drift back to my thoughts, Yet I am never alone.

He is always there, always listening. With His love, I find peace.

—Brynn Landow

Zoe Cohen

Brynn Landow

The Sun Will Keep Rising

A clear blue at the beach, a cold black on Masada, and a bright orange as the sun rose and set each day over campus; the sky – ever changing in color – was a constant throughout my MUSS trip. Periodically coated with clouds and occasionally littered with stars, the sky seemed impenetrable by artificial creations.

On the morning of October 7th, I woke to a tainted sky. I snapped a photo of what I saw. A streak of white –similar to an airplane’s trail – polluted overhead. Only it wasn’t a mark of recreational transportation; instead, it was the result of a successful iron dome interception. The beginning of a war was unfolding above our very eyes.

The windows were usually kept open within the hotel, simply out of necessity for temperature control. However, huddled together in a singular hotel room, the majority of us insisted on pulling the blinds closed. For the first time on the trip, we refused to see the sky. Being outside meant increased exposure to life-threatening danger.

Accustomed to understanding the sky through sight, I was forced to begin to understand the sky through sound. A boom heard from the neighboring town meant the sky was soiled by metal and shrapnel. The haunting red alert siren meant the sky was under attack. Eerie silence meant the next barrage would be coming soon.

Returning to Hod HaSharon from Jerusalem, the sounds of the bus ride were stifling. Some yelled out that they were witnessing an interception directly above us, more were crying, and most were silent, faces buried in their phones – reloading news pages, responding to WhatsApp messages, or reposting infographics on Instagram. Everyone was desperate to feel like they were contributing something to a greater cause. Days later, as we ran to the campus bomb shelter, the sky seemed unfairly beautiful. It was like it was unaffected or uncaring of the debris it housed.

Our last night there, when everybody knew it was the end, the sunset painted the sky in the most stunning colors of the entire trip. It was drizzling, and we all sat outside, either on the picnic tables or just directly on the grass. It was the only night of the entire trip that the whole grade was outdoors, everyone wishing to soak in the last hours of the Israeli sky.

Often, post-MUSS, I find myself scrolling through my camera roll, reimagining the skies that blessed us throughout that month and a half. I have an album dedicated to Israel, mostly including photos of the sky. I wish I could return for even one more sunset over the Kineret, sunrise in Tel Aviv, or light blue breeze in Haifa. I wish for a redemption of my perception of the beauty of the sky.

The war weapons transformed the sky, but really only for the people who viewed it from below; the sky didn’t seem to care, continuing its 24-hour routine. Blue. Orange. Black. Orange. Repeat.

I think that’s what was most jarring for me: Understanding that life would keep going, the earth would keep turning, and the sun would keep rising. That pure evil of humanity could do nothing to stop the intensely powerful cycle of nature – including the sky.

—Margot Englander

Sheyenne Abraham