Parallax 2021 Vol. 24

2021

Parallax Vol. 24

Parallax

T h e Ye a r o f

L iv in g D an g ero u sly

Parallax The Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein Upper School of Ramaz Parallax Literary and Art Magazine 2021 Vol. 24 60 East 78th Street New York NY 10075

T h is p u b lic a tio n is d e d ic a te d in lo v in g m e m o r y to E d ith S c h ra n k . F o r m o re th a n a d e c a d e , sh e ta u g h t E n g lish in a d istin g u ish e d a n d d istin c tiv e fa sh io n . S h e h a d th e c a p a c ity to im p a r t to h e r stu d e n ts a se n se o f u rg e n c y a b o u t re a d in g a n d a n a p p re c ia tio n fo r th e w ritte n w o rd .

T h e Ye a r o f L iv in g

D a n g e r o u s ly

In his famous work Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez depicts a time of pandemic when there were boats full of the dead and the living dead, accompanied by immense fear of personal contact. And yet life flourished: there were parties, love letters and dangerous liaisons. 2021 has been our pandemic year, a “Year of Living Dangerously” (apologies to the writer Christopher Koch). And just as Marquez depicts, we have chosen to embrace life despite its dangers. We have had the time to look back on our personal histories for solace and inspiration. We have been moved to analyze our difficult present tense. And we have been inspired to look ahead to a time that we hope will be better—or just different. While we are still a little bit in quarantine mode, like the captive golden bird in Yeats’s “Sailing to Byzantium,” we use this time to create, “ to sing . . . of what is past, or passing, or to come.”

Editors

literary Samantha Sinensky Arielle Levy junior editor Anna Braun junior editor Eve Schizer

design Samantha Sinensky Arielle Levy

advisors literary Dr. Edith Lazaros Honig art & design Ms. Barbara Abramson art & photography Ms. Rachel Rabhan

Parallax is the creative writing club of the Ramaz Upper School, as well as the name of our literary and art magazine. The club meets every Thursday after school. Parallax 2021 is a juried publication created by the student editors and published online in June. Parallax is published on ISSUU’s website and will be printed by Allied Printers in the fall. Copy and layout were prepared by students on an Apple iMac in InDesign Cs6. Fonts featured in this edition of Parallax include Myriad Pro and Myriad Variable Concept.

All rights belong to Ramaz Upper School, 60 E. 78th Street, New York NY 10075.

Past 12 A Song of My Selves 14 Drawing

14 Charcoal 15 Covid 16 Mangoes on the Floor 17 Painting 18 We Used to Be Friends 19 Our Ice Palace 20 Ode to a Salt Shaker 21 Photo 22 Vlad, Enough Vodka!

24 Photograph 24 Victorious 25 Eulogy for a PillowPet 26 Goodbye Purple Pen 27 Photograph 28 Drawing 29 Funeral 30 Photograph 31 Forgotten Childhood

Anna Braun Eliana Sobel Fortune Laboz Olalla Levi Daniela Woldenberg Caroline Schwartz Anna Braun Tova Solomons Samantha Sinensky Sophia Rein Emily Vayner Anna Braun Ron Alweiss Lauren Goodman Arlette Gindi Eitan Goldberg Fortune Laboz Arielle Levy Eitan Goldberg Anna Braun

Passing 34 Parting Party Celebration 36 Winter 37 Photographs 38 Fast Food 39 Photograph 40 Bittersweet 40 Painting 42 Photograph 43 Burning 44 You’re Welcome, Princess 45 Drawing 46 Hot Chocolate 47 When We Were Younger 47 Painting 48 Through the Blinds 49 Photograph 50 My Neighborhood 51 Watercolor 51 Cigarettes 52 Rewinding 53 Photograph

Samantha Sinensky Olalla Levi Eitan Goldberg Olalla Levi Eitan Goldberg Emily Vayner Finley Horowitz Anna Braun Esther Cabot Abe Coburn Anna Braun Eliza Binstock Abby Gurwitz Rebecca Kalimi Lauren Goodman Eitan Goldberg Daniela Woldenberg Adena Horvitz Arielle Levy Arlette Gindi Brayden Kohler

To Come 56 Epitaph David Gitelman 57 Painting

Harry Katz 58 Drawing Daniella Norman 59 The Lily of the Incas Tova Solomons 60 Midnight Grocery Run Eve Schizer 62 Creation Eve Schizer 62 Painting Finley Horowitz 64 The Honey of Our Heritage Emily Vayner 65 Photograph Eitan Goldberg 66 Hey Stranger Emily Vayner 66 Drawing Sasha Dunst 68 Photograph Ari Porter 69 Grave Watching Arielle Levy 70 The Door David Gitelman 71 Photograph Eitan Goldberg 72 Photograph Eitan Goldberg 73 All the Words That Arlette Gindi Couldn’t Last 74 Conductor of the Forest Arielle Levy

Cover photograph Inside front cover drawing Title page photograph Editors’ page collage Table of Contents collage Past photograph Passing photograph To Come photograph Inside back cover photograph

Eitan Goldberg Sasha Dunst Ari Porter Izzie Ottensoser Samara Blatt Anna Braun Eitan Goldberg Ari Porter Ari Porter

Table of Contents

Past

st

Past

PAST

A Song of My Selves Anna Braun 12

There was me.

A girl with five names.

An average brunette.

Not sixteen.

There was the crooked smile everyone loved, The gentle one that was full of confidence and true, burning joy, The contagious one that would not cease to spread positivity.

There was me.

And there were the questions, The ones that aimed to delve into the bone of every matter, The ones that proved she had endless curiosity, The ones that evoked a spark in every single little thing.

“How do the blue jays fly?” the past me would ask, And her heart was convinced there had to be a definitive answer.

“And how can people make a better world?”

There was me.

Always looking for a perfect world.

Always sure there would be one.

13

14

Eliana Sobel

Fortune Laboz

Covid

I’d go to bed at four and wake up four hours later. Pulling at my eyelids, I’d reach for my computer and the orange sweatshirt that was situated on the oversling compartment of my bed. Its repulsive smell after days of wear would revitalize my senses, and I would quickly transform my bedding into the proper classroom setting. Lying stagnant for hours, I’d gently slide my finger from Chrome browser to Safari, logging on and off. The incoming spring breeze blew the lethargic days along as my hand’s firm grip would tighten around the parameters of my IPhone.

Staying at home as much as I did, my mind would grow foggy and immature, and I’d voluntarily invite hallucinations, mere daydreams to fill my mind as I reimagined my bed as a desert island.

It was all part of the game, the endless stream of faces and figures that seemed to exponentially ingest the pixels on my IPhone as the night moaned on.

All day we lived at face value. There were no more embarrassments of first words or flustering teenage eye contact. It was the way your body curved on the post and in the mirror that caught their eyes, not the way you bloomed in social situations.

As I stared at my hips’ width on the short walk from my bed to my desk when I retrieved my phone each morning, my brown, timid eyes silent, I’d admit to the imperfections I’d never noticed before. And yet, is it possible this time of reflecting was a gift?

15

olalla Levi

MANGOES on the

FLOOR 16 As I peek into the framed picture, My eyes replace the photographer’s camera And I become part of the chemical world, A world that is no longer mine With someone whom I no longer see.

As a version of me stares at us Eating mangoes on the floor, She is jealous, Craving the once uncomfortable feeling Of the sticky juice running in droplets down our arms.

She wants to be stuck in that chemical world, But is rather stuck in an everlasting winter Where mangoes do not grow.

daniela

17

Woldenberg Caroline Schwartz

We Used to Be

Friends

anna Braun

We used to be friends--good friends--the cliché type that was capable of nearly reading each other’s minds, the type that couldn’t stay mad at each other for long, the type for whom a mere glance would bring out some sort of giggle.

Honestly, I’m not sure what happened – why we stopped talking. Maybe we just didn’t have much in common anymore. I like to think we each aimed for something different or, more formally put, we grew apart. She cared to be superficially liked by everyone, to have “The True High School Experience” as she called it, while I preached I wanted to find people I really cared for, knowing they cared for me. But looking back at it, I don’t know if it was all just silly. Was it my fault that we are strangers now? Maybe I was jealous, or maybe I subconsciously wanted the same things as she. Did I just stop caring? Did she?

I guess at this point, it doesn’t really matter anymore. Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder if she ever questions our estrangement the way I do, especially after one of those rare, once-in-a-blue-moon moments when our eyes meet and we both awkwardly smile, not sure how to react. My mind swells with memories – those times we sat in long car rides, making friendship bracelets, laughing at made-up words, or all the times we did handstands on the wall in our school gym. When she asks, “How are you?”, I sputter, trying to think of how to reply, my eyes focusing on the figure before me, standing under the school’s fluorescent lighting. “I’m pretty good,” I say, as my heart for whatever reason skips a beat. “How are you?” I return the question. “Good,” she says. We go on to complain about some class, lacking the creativity to talk about something truly meaningful.

Throughout the entire empty conversation, all I can think is that I was unfaithful to someone and now I’m here.

18

Our Ice Palace

When my brother and I were still the adventurous type, before age siphoned that childlike feeling of invincibility from us, we would venture into the forest at night. We trekked for hours in the dirt, our clean white shoes steadily darkening, as our small feet kicked up the dust and uprooted the occasional, unsuspecting worm.

Any leaves that survived autumn desperately hugged outstretched branches. The beginning of the winter frost drained their remaining color and life. A quiet and monotonous drip-drop was audible as water had frozen on the crisp arms of the tree, forming sharp, dagger-like icicles. Looking through those limbs, we could see the occasional star dotting the sky and marveled at the insignificant size of the forest--or, in our eyes, an impenetrable ice palace. I was the queen and he the king of this domain, ruling over the black, sometimes fuzzy, miniscule creatures that were our subjects.

At least, that is how the bush in our back garden appeared in our minds.

Tova Solomons

19

Your turquoise sombrero reminded me of the waves in Cancun.

A small gift shop in a crowded marketplace, you sat shyly on the shelf of handmade creations next to bells and painted bowls and dreamcatchers.

I knew you were meant for my dining room table when I saw your unwavering smile and thin, curly mustache.

You greeted me each morning to embellish my eggs with the salt crystals you provided.

I never ate alone as you kept me company, taking your place next to the water pitcher.

Then I had guests and I was in a rush.

I wanted to use the salt, packed so neatly in a vessel that showcased my travels. I picked you up carelessly from a high shelf and you plummeted to the floor. Each shard dispersed, merely parts of a whole. I swept up the appendages and said my final goodbyes.

20

Samantha Sinensky

21

ODE TO A

Sophia Rein

SALT SHAKER

Vlad,

Enough

Vo d k a !

22

Emily

Vayner

As I go down the stairs to the dirty train station, I look back up at the concrete jungle and its tall skyscrapers. Once I smell the urine and see rats fighting over a pizza slice, I know that the double-named city is not what movies so often romanticize. Halfway through my journey, the rickety train emerges from underground. Upon the Manhattan Bridge, I see the famous skyline once again. I stay on the train long enough until the tall buildings are far out of sight. I slowly watch commuters fade until it is the last stop, where only Russian Babushkas, whom you can’t tell apart from one another, and that one sleeping guy who forgot to get off at Church Avenue, are left.

After the train makes its final stop, I walk down the stairs into the neighborhood I call home.

Little Odessa greets me with the bright lights of all the different stores with Russian names. As I read “АПТЕКА” on half of them, always in all caps, I realize how much of a foreigner others are to the place of my despised smell of borscht. From the train to home, I pass the traditional blonde Russian mom in her fur coat and fake designer belt, rocking a classic, blindingly red lip. I already know she is convinced that her style is different from the rest of the identical women there because my mom is too. I soon pass a Russian man with a beer belly, who creepily stares me up and down. He reeks of pelmeni and more than enough vodka, even though it is 6:30 PM on a Tuesday.

When I finally get home with an aching back from my school backpack and an almost- solid face from the winter air, my grandma will force Russian food I despise down my throat, while simultaneously body-shaming me for the millionth time that day. As I sit and study, I reminisce about the summertime. I miss the beach and the view of the amusement park, as my best friend and I bike into the horizon, while passing strange, naked men cat-calling us. None of it phases me, though - I will always love the grumpy neighborhood we call Brighton Beach more than the false cliché that is Manhattan.

23

Victorious

“I was born for this,” I told myself as I walked on the stage. I felt the eyes of my peers witness the beads of sweat trickling down my neck as they collected in the polyester material of my collar. I looked into the audience to distinguish faces that seemed interested or eager to hear me. A deafening silence came over the crowd as the spotlight shone on me. I could hear the laughter of my doubts mocking me from my subconscious: “You’ve been preparing your whole life for embarrassment,” I heard them taunt. They reminded me of the way friends had treated me before high school: teasingly and disrespectfully.

I grasped the guitar in both hands as I took a deep breath, letting all my stress and anxiety drift away. I nodded at my partner, and we began playing. I sang and strummed a few chords as all of my nerves melted into the rhythm. My foot kept the beat while my partner swiftly moved the bow back and forth across the strings of his cello. I sang my heart out for what felt like the first time, and the audience fell into the melodic vortex of the song. The performance was everything I could have wanted. As the song seized and faded into the packed auditorium, I walked off the stage, victorious: a cheering crowd and a room filled with smiles.

As I went to greet my beaming parents, my friends approached and complimented me on my performance. They told me I had a great voice and that they could feel the excitement emanating from the stage. For the first time, my doubts diminished, replaced by hope and happiness.

Ron

Alweiss n

n An

u ra aB

24

25

eulogy for a

PILLOWPET

I remember when I first saw you. A single commercial was enough for your musical slogan to stick to my young, eight-year-old brain. I remember how it played over and over on my dusty TV screen, stuck in an eternal loop in between my favorite cartoons.“It’s a pillow! It’s a pet! It’s a PillowPet!” your siren song crooned. It was an enchanting intonation that let me know I had to have you. When you came, you were modest, but also all that I had dreamed you to be. A baby pink bunny rabbit with fluffy fur that longed to be ruffled, and big, floppy ears that seemed longer than my whole arm - so simple, so perfect. I remember how I would sit on your back, urging you to gallop and ride me to freedom. I remember how I used to set you up before a playdate, how I made you into a steadfast soldier, guarding the front of my bed with your life. I remember how after watching “Toy Story,” I stayed up past my bedtime and looked skeptically into your beady, black eyes, pleading with you to talk to me and reveal your deepest secret. I remember everything, except for the moment I lost you. Maybe it happened gradually, as homework became lengthy and school turned from novel to exhausting, and when I traded the term “playdate” for “hang out.” Maybe it happened all at once, the moment I became bored of you. Maybe it happened over the years of you collecting dust in a pink gingham bin that was stiff and immovable - a monument of the days when I would hold up a number on my fingers to show how old I was. All I know is that I held you last night after a long day of trying to be mature, nostalgic for the times when I had endless energy. Your dark, plastic eyes looked right through me, soulless and still. I was suddenly eight years old again, searching for a sign of life in the stuffing of my old friend, silently begging you to speak.

Lauren

Goodman

26

Goodbye Purple Pen

You were always my first pick. When the zipper slid open, my hand looked for you, and only you, every time. Lavender hues danced across the paper as your ink flooded my page. The words always seemed more plum at the start, but as you conversed with the air they turned into a light purple that I’m not sure I knew before you. The beauty you created each time we wrote together was immeasurable. You made the Revolutionary War look pretty. My handwriting got along with you so well. Somehow you could tame the most restless squiggles that I claimed were legible. I don’t know how you did it. I remember how long you tried to hold on, rationing yourself every time I took notes. You were doing so well until this morning, when the last of your ink tried so desperately to finish the end of my letter “y.”

As I lifted you from the page and saw the transparency of my letter, I knew you were gone, but I didn’t want to believe it. You were so calm as I desperately drew some quick lightning bolt shapes on my paper, trying to shock you back to life. As much as I wished to see your beautiful, flowing ink again, I knew your time was up, so I let you go. We had a good run together. My abnormal way of holding a pen will forever miss the way you fit so perfectly in its grip.

ARLETTE GINDI

Eitan Goldberg

27

Funeral

Fortune Laboz

28

29

She sat in the center of the room on a wooden stool, Her hair still; She was the image of wasted youth.

The painter whispered the words of a sad song as the girl unwrapped a cigarette from a ribbon.

She held it between her palms as if the painter’s poetry was for its birth.

The windows were open and the wind was an aged piano.

It called to her: “I play the melody of a funeral for you.”

The painter stirred the paint; It was the color of eggshells.

Then he traced a crack on the yellow wall with his thumb.

She thought about that perfectly split crack, Its symmetry matching the wings of a blue jay.

She remembered the first time she noticed it, the night before she kissed a boy.

“Usually I don’t paint with others in the room,” the painter said.

“I won’t bother you,” the girl replied.

The painter’s brush painted white over the yellow, The brush strokes grew louder like rain, The rain screamed: “I remember your sister--how the two of you would laugh here, sleeping on opposite ends of these walls, how the two of you would tell stories.”

The painter’s melody grew deeper, His song silenced the rain.

He was a musician on the side, but his only audience was the walls.

“My mother used to sing this to me before she passed,” the painter said.

There was silence and the girl nodded.

“My mother’s been gone almost ten years now. She never sang. Dad passed last June. He left me the house and it needed paint.”

She watched the painter’s eyes as they followed the yellow.

She remembered how much light entered the room, How it would be the color of a fireplace.

The white paint stared back at her, bringing her porcelain cheeks to a river.

The fireplace and river spoke softly: “We remember the time your parents painted the yellow.”

From the window, she watched the painter walk down the cement sidewalk.

The potholes of the sidewalk were like graves.

The graves gave her the last words of her youth: “The yellow is gone. It’s dead.”

She couldn’t hear the piano, the rain, or the river.

The girl lit the cigarette as she watched the ribbon fall to the floor.

It sat wasted next to the empty cans of paint.

Her parents’ faces, her sister’s laugh, and the stories of her imagination were buried with the yellow.

Only the shadow of a woman and the smoke of a cigarette remained, reflecting a gray of mourning onto the white.

Arielle Levy

Eitan Goldberg

Forgotten

30

Childhood

31

To be a child: You forget. You forget it all. You forget the excitement of holding an ice cream cone, the sugary delight that slithers down your hands. You forget the concerning stickiness that follows, somehow covering your whole face and the countless hours you spend dawdling in your living room, your toys lifeless on the floor, the TV serving as a mere buzz to the background of your imagination.

Yes, that silly corner of your brain that you forgot about or thought you grew out of because it only provided you with unrealistic dreams. That corner that made you think you would grow up to be a superhero, or a movie star, or an astronaut, or, even better, all of them combined. That corner that wouldn’t allow you to sit in a dark space without your breath tightening and your heartbeat rising. Yes, that imagination.

You remember the big and the exciting, and the rest just disappears into the opaque unknown - a childhood trauma, possibly a few birthdays, someone’s wedding, one or two long cries, an exotic vacation, that time your car broke down and you were stuck in the middle of the road. Don’t forget the overly exaggerated story you dramatically retell at every family reunion just to get those laughs. A yellowed, crumpled shopping list of the good, the bad, and the ugly is what your memories are. But anything in between is gone. You know those moments were there. To define them and to explain where they went or why they left – no one could be asked such a task.

Anna Braun

PASSING

She carried a large rectangular cake. Its inside was heavily filled with custard, making the whole dessert sag downward. Slices of canned peaches were laid on the top, slowly sinking into the frosting. The old man never used to like canned peaches, but after spending time in the hospital, he started to enjoy their artificial sweetness and fleshy texture. The bed, too, that once felt stiff, was now acceptable to his body. His birthday, which he knew would be commemorating his final year on earth, was celebrated by those who knew him best: the 4th-floor nurses. Even the doctor promised he would pop in for a toast. His medical team knew his blood type, preferred dessert, and what time he would wake up in the middle of the night, startled and sweating from a nightmare.

Any remaining relatives (of which there were few) were represented by a large vase suffocated under purple tulips. Beside it rested a small envelope with the illegible words “sorry we couldn’t make it” scribbled haphazardly. They hadn’t cared to wait long enough for the ink to dry. The tulips were lovely and robust, with thick bamboo-like stems. They made up for any lost company. He smiled at the nurses and cake that surrounded him. This was the ideal setting for his final days.

Samantha 34

Sinensky

PARTING PARTY 35

CELEBRATION

Olalla Levi

The air around me scratched my neck as my hair flew away in the chilly mid-November breeze. My outfit had been meticulously planned, running through my mind all the previous week: my father’s black, oversized leather jacket layered perfectly with my cozy black Ralph Lauren polo. Hanging underneath, my white ironed jeans were accessorized by a pair of leather platform Docs. I made my way down Eighty-Sixth Street and up Broadway towards the park, disregarding the blaring signs of traffic lights as I carefully analyzed the reflection on my phone screen. Through the shutters of my camera, which displayed the faults in my complexion, I estimated my proximity to the park. Pulling my face away long enough, I read “Central Park West” plastered across a green, dangling sign adjacent to Orli’s building. I perched myself on a bench to the right of the park’s entrance and awaited Orli’s arrival. I could feel the rim of my blue surgical mask rubbing against my skin like sandpaper and quickly drew it down towards my chin.

I could feel the mosaic of beige, sandstone bricks that decorated the building across the street stalking me, and its windows shut tight pulled me deep into their mirroring night sky abyss. I met the prying eyes of the rat who sat by the trash, politely ingesting the last of his McDonald’s happy meal. The lamppost on the corner showered me in its harsh gaze and I felt suffocated as the willow trees behind me that used to wave a lengthy, brown branched hello just a few years earlier, sent their roots breaking through the stone Central Park sidewalk beneath me, wrapping around my legs and pinning me to the bench. Budding bottle caps and late-night excuses for my mother seemed to bloom as the limbs of the tree further entangled me within them.

I heard my name being called. My eyes regained focus and I saw Orli making her way down the block.

She stopped, towering over me. She stood, black bodega bag in hand, awaiting the usual, unnecessarily dramatic best friend embrace. Swaddling myself in her warmth, I submitted to her contagious sense of carelessness. I sat as she reached into the plastic bag and handed me the bottle. Its cold touch sent a reparative shiver through my veins that seemed to wipe my mind of all and any prospect of responsibility. Next, a sip, and I found myself frostbitten, numb all over, as I exhaled white air out into the 40-degree November night.

36

37

Eitan Goldberg

38

It’s so generic, that poem of roses and violets. That first line of an interminable list of loving. I wanted to follow that aesthetic, paint my words that light pink color of blinding affection and love for the world. I wanted to write the “I found someone’s boombox in the rain as flying rocks shattered her window glass” type of love. I wanted to be happy with the weather outside, romanticize a sunray and the aroma of some green grass. I wanted to be simple me in a clean bikini on a well-kept Cape Cod beach.

And yet I’ve written five drafts already, listed the things I like, explained what I don’t, and still, I can’t read over the words, print my name on the top of the page, and hand it to you. The phrases bake together like the edges of a steaming marinara pizza as my Microsoft Word indents to the next line.

All five drafts smell fresh out of the Domino’s diabetic oven, resembling a nice maple syrup novel, going down quick and easy. Their ingredients categorize them as American fast food consisting of a coating of cheese or sugar, not much else. In short, Literature’s lactose intolerant standard has prevented me from telling you all the things I love.

My mom’s cruel critique of my miscellaneous placement of Monterey Jack and cheddar, accenting my E’s and A’s, forces me to rethink and cry out desperately, craving a new recipe as the essay’s 11:59 due date looms over my head. But I want to show you all my favorite things, tell you about how I dream of running through the mountains of Europe singing without sounding like a fraudulent Julie Andrews. I want to tell you that I love weekends. That I love nights with free houses and loud noises and music, small tops and smug faces full of straight teeth, captured by film cameras.

I want to write about how complete I feel now that I have found my person, not a kissing at midnight person, but a matching rainbow loom and inside joke validation person.

I want to illustrate and idealize my parents and our relationship in earnest. I want to talk about how my favorite season is summer and how I miss spring’s smell and not be ashamed that my wish of waking up tomorrow morning with a pina colada in-hand, sprawled out on some beach in Hawaii, is too common.

There’s no need to criticize my dreams and claim that lactose intolerance requires an EpiPen when my grocery list of why I love the world, my steaming unhealthy pizza and amateur cheese dispensary skills are the only way I’m going to make it past another snowstorm this February.

FAST Food

39

Eitan Goldberg

Olalla Levi

40

On that steep hill I stood staring down Crystal white flakes melting on my tongue Soft newborn’s skin, a light shade of brown Bundled and warm, nurtured and young Crisp air seeping through the seams of my pants Slivers of fear crawling up my spine Feeling unsteady, yet ready to advance She’s about to walk in a fine straight line Sitting on my sturdy wooden sled A sudden helping hand upon my shoulder Steering my first bike, wheels ahead She knows no fear, she’s growing older My skin ablaze with winter joy Brings out the smile on my face Each time she finds a brand new toy A new adventure to embrace Instinctively I steer around Bumping elbows, knees, and head Training wheels on steady ground Scrapes and scratches are ahead

Emily

VAYNER

Bittersweet

41

Finley Horowitz

Burning

esther

cabot 42

43 “I never thought I’d be a father,” your father admits to you. “But your Aunt Eileen convinced me.

She said parental instincts would kick in. You know what happened instead?”

“What?” you say, your tone curious, but not genuine.

“Nothing.” He waits before continuing. “Your mother wanted to be a mother.” These are the last words he ever says to you or the last words you remember.

You walk down the hallway and put your ear to the door of your mom’s “at home office.” She’s defined the room as an office but you know she’s just putting up a front for the benefit of your feelings. In reality, the room holds nothing but books and catalogs that she wastes her days reading. You blame your father—who left you at age eight—and the man in the white coat for her pain. After hearing silence, you sneakily walk over the creaky floorboards to your kitchen, but trip over your oversized hand-me-down clothes from the Salvation Army.

You drag your now twisted ankle over a grimy wooden floor to the fridge door, a refuge for you to place all your weight and pain. You open the door and see a half-empty bottle of water and a dusty piece of broccoli. You stop yourself from stuffing it down your throat and close the door.

Over the noises your stomach is making, you leave the kitchen and try to do your homework, but after an hour has passed, you reach a question you don’t know the answer to. You decide against asking your mom because she’s in the kitchen “cooking” dinner.

“What do you think the answer is, Bailey?” you ask the peacock in your room. You hear a response that can only be heard in your head and you laugh. Bailey is your “out-of-school friend.” The girls your age—age ten—at school don’t talk to you because they say you smell funny. At first, they make this claim based solely on your ripped, stained clothing, but as time goes on, you let their perception become reality. You stop showering because you believe their whispers. You lose height from their words like a candle loses height from a single breath; you’re at a point where you feel you could be extinguished.

You ache for approval from your mother, who only talks to you at mealtimes or to give you an origami peacock. The man in the white coat says hobbies are good for her. You wish your dad would come home and put an end to the layers of eviction notices that blanket your front porch. You want to know why he left because you want your flame back.

“Wake up already! Dad’s been gone for eight years,” you yell at your mom. “We have to take care of ourselves and I can’t handle the expenses alone. You can’t miss your shift.” You feel hatred for your mother— whose approval you no longer care for—burn inside you and a hatred for the run-down studio apartment you’ve been forced to live in. As you drag your mom to the grocery store on Sixth Street, you pass by a man in a white coat, a doctor. You slip your hand inside his coat and grab the green paper you so desire.

After watching your mom enter the store, you spot an old lady crossing the street and run to give the stranger one of your “baby hands,” as your dad’s sister, Aunt Eileen, used to call them.

“Thank you, Miss,” she says.

“Of course,” you whisper to yourself as you walk away with her wallet in your now rough feeling hands. You feel a fire rise inside of you and know that this will be a good day.

“Two hundred,” you tell your mother upon returning home, expecting her to bow at your feet. She responds by giving you a look of desperation, and at that moment, as you hear the creak of her rocking chair, you know she’s not the same mother who wanted a child. She’s a mother who needs one. You’re talented at what you do and you know that she would be nothing without you. As you wait for her gratitude, you wonder what it would be like if you left her. You walk into your room and smile to think how much she would miss you then.

You feel tall, like you could do anything. With your newly found confidence, you throw your shoebox of forgotten paper birds into the ancient-looking trash can under your desk. You light a match and let it fall, watching the flames rise and subside. You stare at the smoke in your room as it leaves through the window and wish it back.

Anna Braun

You’re Welcome,

Princess

“And you’re sure about this, Olivia? I don’t like the idea of leaving this poor bastard here like this.”

Olivia stopped short and turned around swiftly, angrily. She made that face again. And went on that rant again.

“How dare you call her that, Austin? Of course, I’m sure. It’s the most natural way. How many times do I have to explain this to you?”

One more time, please. Austin needed to hear it again, needed to make sure he was hearing her right. Needed to make sure that his girlfriend seriously wanted to do this to Princess. Austin had known that Olivia was kind of weird when they started dating, with her being vegan and all, but he never expected to find himself doing this crap--taking a blind, deaf dog out to the middle of the woods to die. Poor Princess. At least he wouldn’t have to say that stupid name anymore. ******************** Darkness.

Princess could only feel, and right now she felt the warmth of Olivia’s chest. She felt the soft, rhythmic shifting of her owner’s sweater on her fur as they walked deeper into the woods. She felt the wind cool her dangling legs and occasionally felt a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

Princess tried to think about the things she used to see, but nothing came to her. As a result of years without sight, her memories were reduced to distant feelings. For Princess, time meant nothing.

While her disease slowly killed her, she waited to be touched, to be held, to be kissed. And while carried through the woods, staring into the darkness of her primitive mind, she waited for it to be over.

“How about here?”

“I don’t know, Olivia. You tell me.”

“I think it’s perfect--a gorgeous place for my Princess. Look at how beautiful those flowers are!”

“Princess can’t see.”

Olivia looked annoyed. “Yeah, but she can smell, can’t she?”

Walking over to a chrysanthemum plant, Olivia bent down and held Princess out so her nose brushed the yellow petals. Princess flinched.

“No, Dr. Brown said the leptospirosis is ruining her sense of smell,” Austin said, annoyed. He impatiently looked around. This was taking too long.

“I don’t remember him saying that.”

Austin thought about arguing. “Look, if you’re gonna do this, can you just get it over with already?”

“Don’t get angry with me. You need to control that.” Olivia rubbed the dark spot under her left eye before continuing.

44

Anna Braun

“And we are going to do this, together, for Princess. I’m not going to let some vet kill her when she could connect with the earth one last time. Look at all this nature. Princess is a living being, Austin. Just like the earth. You’re telling me you seriously don’t think she can feel this connection?”

Princess shivered in Olivia’s arms.

With her eyes closed, she held her tighter, too tight. For some time, Austin watched as his girlfriend squeezed Princess for the last time before setting her down on the dead leaves next to a large, lime-splotched rock. Before she got up, turned around, and started walking back through the trees, Olivia whispered something to her deaf dog. ********************

The warmth was gone.

Princess felt the cold leaves and the cold dirt on her paws and belly. As usual, she saw darkness, but now she felt it as well. Something was not right, she would not be left untouched for that long. Someone was always there, comforting her, relieving her of the pain for a brief moment.

Now, alone on the ground, Princess convinced herself that a moment was coming, one that would suddenly remove the suffering.

For a minute, Austin watched Princess shiver against the damp ground under the forest shadows. He looked down, looked at the footprints that Olivia’s Uggs had made when she walked past him. Austin looked back at his girlfriend’s distant stride, and he looked at the rock. Austin looked at Princess, and Austin got mad. With his arms, his lower back, and his adrenaline, Austin relocated the rock. And with his mouth, Austin whispered, “You’re welcome, Princess.” ************************

She waited. She saw darkness, and suddenly, she saw nothing.

Abe Coburn 45

Hot Chocolate

On the porch on a cold day in November, the only warmth in the world is in the white mug I hold with burning palms. The early winter wind finds its way through the gaps between my jacket and body. I curl my legs up to my chest, sinking deeper into the navy blue pillows that overwhelm the small, white rocking chair. I raise my mug to my mouth to take a small sip, but the hot chocolate fire reaches the edge of the cup too fast.

The fire burns my mouth and throat without mercy. I abruptly let out a breath of white steam, confirming the winter’s brutal arrival. I sit on the porch for an everlasting hour, allowing my cheeks to flush and my hands to numb in the cold. The porch is bare, just as the world has emptied. The world has rid itself of the sun’s shine and the moon’s light.

The world seems forever gray as a disease arrives unannounced with mystique and power.

The crown of death saunters into a place where he does not belong, making the world feel isolated. But now, on my island of winter oasis, I am thankful for my hot chocolate.

Eliza Binstock

46

Abby Gurwitz

When we were younger, we would get on the swingset and try to get as high as we could, never looking down. We would swing and kick our legs until they were sore because all we wanted was to fly.

A fun day would be outside on the water, canoeing. We would try to get to the other side of the lake as fast as possible, moving too quickly to be scared of tipping over. We would run until our faces were red and we couldn’t run anymore. Then we’d laugh, gulp down a glass of ice-cold water, and do it again. We had no care in the world other than laughing with each other and having fun. Getting hurt meant that we scraped our knees.

The things we did to pass the time would drain us of our energy. Afterward, we went home and had our parents cook pasta. We would eat so much that our stomachs hurt. We weren’t afraid to be seen because there was no reason to be. The worst possible offense was to be told, “You are not invited to my birthday party!” We would sit down and write like we were professional authors, like every story about how we’re secretly princesses would be a bestseller. We would have dance parties and never think of who was watching.

Our gossip and drama consisted of which character each person would play in our next game of house and whose American Girl doll had the coolest hair, clothing, and story. We argued about those pieces of plastic as if they were the only things that mattered--as if without them, our worlds could not go on.

When We Were

Younger

Rebecca Kalimi

47

Through the

BLINDS

48

I peek through the blinds of my bedroom window to see if anything has changed. Sure enough, nothing has. The sidewalk still belongs to Jewish families of five walking to the synagogue, stepping on cigarette butts discarded by unsatisfied twenty-somethings. The streets are still populated with the perplexing combination of sensible, carpool-ready minivans and loud, perpetually revving race cars that wake everyone in the dead of night with the vroom of their engines. Two of my fourth grade bullies still live a few blocks down, whose pale pink leggings, vaguely disgusted expressions, and ear-splitting squeals on the school bus still haunt me to this day. There are always at least seven houses under construction at any given time, five of which seem to never not be under construction. But it’s guaranteed that when these houses are finished - if at all - they will be considerably both extravagant and obnoxious. The number of these houses grows exponentially, spreading like parasites - if parasites tried and failed to look wealthy.

And of course, the park has always been just a block away. There’s not much variety among those who visit the combination swingset and basketball court. A pack of greasy teenage boys is usually on the court, with their sweat-stained tank tops, gym shorts, and cracking voices as they announce that Andrew’s layup was trash. Small children and melancholic high school seniors both occupy the swingset. One group yells at their parents to push them, and the other yells the lyrics to the song “Ribs” by Lorde. They are yelling at the same volume. The ice cream truck still pulls up by the playground, and the irritatingly classic jingle still floats into the ears of everyone within a ten-mile radius.

Then there’s the real park, the scene of which is as charmed as it is predictable. The middle-aged athletic bikers ride down the track, pedaling to the beat of the music playing on their fake Airpods. Young women lie on their backs to sunbathe and stand up to discover their legs covered in mosquito bites. They are disappointed, but not surprised. Little League teams gather at the baseball field to practice for a game they won’t win. Boney old men jog, and suburban moms with visors racewalk. They pass each other and fail to realize that they are wearing identical light blue tracksuits. Yes, everything is as it always is. I scoff at it all but feel slightly pleased by my unmodified neighborhood as I draw the curtains and go to bed. I fall asleep to the familiar sounds of rap music from car radios, booming illegal fireworks, and chirping crickets.

Lauren

Goodman

Eitan G rg

oldbe

49

My

Neighborhood

My neighborhood is encompassed by walls I cannot bring myself to exit. It contains the Eiffel Tower of Paris and the recording studio of The Smiths. My neighborhood welcomes A Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat and An Unquiet Mind. My neighborhood feels safe, yet cold. Although in my neighborhood I cannot shoot an arrow with a bow, I can make angels on turquoise snow.

In my neighborhood, the single inhabitant stays up late at night. One may even call it the neighborhood that never sleeps. Although my neighborhood may be considered one, it lacks liveliness. It is devoid of company. It is lonely.

I have little communication with the outside world, only speaking to others outside of my neighborhood when in need of food. When I smell the aroma of the savory black beans of my childhood seeping through the cracks of the walls, I scream out and my mother brings me the delicacy. As the steam dances in the air and enters my nostrils, I am nostalgic for the time when I used to cook those beans. This was back when I trekked beyond the wall.

Back in those days, my neighborhood had visitors--visitors who were lively, energetic and enthusiastic. As I reminisce about the distant past, my lips curl further into an inverted U, as I am aware that time is an unattainable reality.

I can see some of these former visitors as they attend my school. My school is in my neighborhood, as it exists in a black box better known as my computer. When I see my friends virtually, all who live beyond the wall, that inverted U slowly flattens out and teases at a smile.

Daniela

Woldenberg

50

It was July 1970 when we sat out on his rooftop. He stood where he always did, by the ledge with a cigarette between two fingers. Sometimes we would sit there in silence to watch the smoke fade into the background, a background of gray clouds drifting till they too faded. Other times, I would use his binoculars to watch neighbors cry in their bathtubs or lie still on their wooden floors staring endlessly at ceilings. There were so many windows, but never time to look through them all. They too faded when the lights went out. I always felt lonely out there, looking through all the smoke, clouds, and windows. And he’s gone now too, but I don’t know what was once there. I never looked at him with binoculars. I never watched him cry or saw him dance. I knew the woman across the rooftop, who danced with curlers in her hair or the pianist in the corner building whose music illuminated the polluted sky. I haven’t been up there since he died because I don’t want to see all his cigarettes scattered across the roof, still like corpses. I don’t want to imagine him by the ledge where he always stood. It was August when I realized I left his binoculars up there. I opened the latch to the roof as I heard the pianist. My eyes met the rows of neighbors, unmoved as if time was my illusion. I picked up all his cigarettes that lined the floor. The moon was out that night and as I threw his cigarettes off to the wind, I watched them fade with the clouds.

Cigarettes Arielle Levy

51

Adena Horvitz

52

Nothingness holds the universe hostage. It steals the colors of a midnight sky and keeps them shrouded in emptiness.

Snowy mountaintops shiver as invisible hands pick every flake off their heads. Tears race down their peaks as the flakes disappear into the emptiness where the sky’s colors remain smothered. There are no people walking down busy streets. Nothingness took them on a vacation and still hasn't returned them home. Monotonous street lamps blink at empty lanes, wondering where the cars with glaring headlights have gone. There are no squeaks as squirrels race up trees, no AC units whirring against the summer’s humid air.

Everything is entrapped in the emptiness as Nothingness holds the universe hostage.

Arlette

GINDI

Brayden Kohler

Rewinding

53

TO COME

56

EPITAPH

Who by fire and who by plague? Who can recall as the memories fade?

Who will lead us, who will crawl, from out the darkness surrounding us all?

Ghosts lie in the shadows wherever I chance to look around.

They haunt the embers of the burned down forests and the bombed-out downtowns.

Over the howl of the winds and the car alarms, they can’t even find solace in each other’s arms.

And the living are left to carry the line, left to pray and keep moving and wait till the end of time.

Their faces swim before my sight, as they were long ago before they vanished into the night.

Do you think they’re gonna come out all right, when we manage to rekindle the light?

Harry Katz

david

gitelman

57

58

Tova Solomons

THE LILY OF THE INCAS Sits delicately on its vine Perched ever so gracefully Like a bird preparing for flight Its leaves shoot out in soft points Its petals reach with confidence Wearing bright, brilliant red Adorned with highlights of orange

59

Daniella Norman

Midnight Grocery Run

I park my car in the lot of the shopping complex. Well… I say “my” car, but really I appropriated it five years ago while running for my life. Given the time lapse, I think it’s a fair assumption that the original owner won’t be accepting returns.

I slip the keys into my pocket and slam the Camry’s door. Scanning my shopping list, I decide that the complex’s Walmart is the best place to make my purchases.

The automatic doors of the Walmart whir in technological welcome, unaware of whom they have admitted. It’s awfully late—well into the small hours of the morning—so I forgive them their lack of recognition. Some doors are just savvier than others, and these seem to be pretty low down on the scale.

I’ve always wondered whether large communal spaces slip into a different dimension once it passes 10 pm. Their character changes in the dark, and my senses tingle in the same way they do when I deal with things that actually come from other dimensions.

I disregard the flickering fluorescent lights and complete silence that contribute to the sense of otherworldliness and head deeper into the store, humming Imagine Dragons’ “Demons” as I go.

My first stop is the dairy aisle, to get the essentials (milk, cream cheese, ice cream, the usual, y’know?); then I make a sharp right into the cleaning supplies.

Bleach, Tide pods, and Bounty Paper towels all go right in the cart. That’s the holy trinity right there—bleach removes blood stains from white stuff, Tide pods clean off general grime, and the quicker picker-upper cleans up the bloody handprints that end up on everything when I come home from a job.

What’s my job, you ask?

Well, I majored in computer science in college, but after the whole kidnapped-by-a-demon thing and the subsequent spent-five-years-in-Hell thing, I decided that wasn’t for me. Now, I enjoy my reputation as the most sought-after enhanced mercenary. The fact that I can’t stay dead anymore certainly helps scare the daylights out of my marks.

Glancing back at the shelf of paper towels, I add another two six-packs for good measure. Paper towels are the best because I can fit so many of them into a biohazard container. Cloth towels need to be either washed or burned, which isn’t really feasible considering the mess I make. Why do I have to do all that, you ask? Because, obviously, I do not want anyone getting their hands on my genetic material.

I check off the rest of the food items on my list: bread, deli meat (mmmm… corned beef ), potato chips, instant ramen, and strawberries. One of these things is not like the other, as those wack jobs on Sesame Street used to sing, but I have to make some kind of effort to avoid scurvy!

60

61

… Can I even get scurvy anymore? Note to self: investigate at a later date.

Bounty acquired, I head to checkout. The dull-eyed teenaged cashier scans my prizes, bags them, then hands the weak-handled plastic monstrosities to me (I regret not bringing my reusable Fairway bags.

They’re much superior. And better for the environment; I have to account for all of those paper towels somehow!). Only at the sight of my eyes—an unnatural neon green—does the teen startle to complete alertness. I wink at him, then slide sunglasses onto the bridge of my nose.

It may be obnoxious (and reminiscent of a bad cop show) to wear sunglasses at night and indoors, but it keeps people from noticing the shade of my irises. I’ve tried contacts before, but they don’t work as well (and they itch!).

My next stop is Goodwill. In the strictest sense, I don’t fit the demographic that Goodwill is striving for in their shoppers, but I ruin clothes so regularly that it doesn’t make sense to buy pricey ones.

Halfway through the drive, I realize that, unlike Walmart, Goodwill is not open 24/7. Grimacing, I pull my car over to the side of the road. I put the car in park and open a special app on my phone: VigilanteLife™. I coded it personally. It’s a combination of Facebook, news, and the Citizen app. It’s a perfect information hub for those of us who creep around at night. It also allows users to message other vigilantes for a team-up!

The best part, though, is the fact that if your account gets hacked by someone you don’t want snooping (the standard people: FBI, CIA, MI6, the rest of the alphabet soup, or any personal enemies), a subroutine is activated. It makes the app seem like just a videogame. All the actual, critical information is scattered and buried. Clever, right?

It turns out that my friend/colleague, Mike, has texted me asking for help. He needs to take out the head of the Russian Mafia and wants an assist from yours truly. Now, Mike’s name isn’t actually Mike; that’s just the name I gave him when we became regular head-bashing associates. Given that I use my powers for money while Mike is a bleeding-heart superhero kind of guy, it makes sense that he hasn’t given me his real-person name. That requires a very high level of trust (which is why I haven’t given you mine).

Given my shopping habits, I expect that you, dear reader, are very confused. It is understandable that you might be baffled about how an oboe-playing, computer-science major ended up as an enhanced gun-for-hire who dabbles in occasional heroism. And what was that about demons and Hell?

My story is a rather complicated one. For now, suffice it to say that getting kidnapped and sucked into an alternate dimension (yes, that’d be Hell) does odd things to one’s health. (One star on Yelp, would not recommend.) Let’s save the rest for another time. I’d better go help Mike catch some mafiosi.

Eve

Schizer

CREA 62

The big bang, the humans call it. An explosion of color and light and substance that shattered the dark void of nothingness. One moment that forever delineated between nothing and something.

But that’s not what happened. Imagine the universe pre-creation as a box containing millions of different puzzle pieces, all from different puzzles.

You can scrounge through the box until you find matches, or you can force mismatched pieces to connect, bending them in some way.

Planets that can sustain life are matching pieces. Planets that can’t are mismatched. And the horrors that should never have been created? Those are pieces that had to be so fundamentally bent out of shape that they’re nearly unrecognizable.

How do I know all of this, you ask me.

Well, I was there. I helped match some of the pieces.

God?! You exclaim.

No, not quite. You see, I’ve never understood why the majority of humans are set on the idea of a god. My siblings and I? We were just here. Does the fact that we were here before you make us gods? I don’t think so; you don’t say that the dinosaurs were gods.

We were just here.

We found the pieces and tried to put them together, as children are wont to do. My sister searched for matches, while my brother forced pieces together.

And me? I did some of both. We lost track, in the end, of who created what, but I’m pretty sure I made the Milky Way. I liked the colors.

Does that make me your god?

You tell me.

TION

63 Finley Horowitz

eve schizer

Radiating golden,

half my stripes are painted by rays of the sun.

I fly amidst delicate petals, rose and blush.

Every flower’s joy, delivered to your table.

The queen bee watches me travel, one honeycomb to the next, a journey of treasured nectar.

My work is my life, one that ends, as quickly as a single sting.

I provoke fear, half my stripes an ominous black, my stinger a threat to giants near and far.

Intrude in my hive, invade my home, expect no less than my sharp burn.

Our nature is sacred, animals, traditions, and trees expansive, untouched green.

We pass down our land, honey of our heritage, values of love instilled to the music of buzzing bees.

We unite to protect against the deceitful invaders, toxins and poisons who sting.

Our work is our lives; it ends with the death of the final bee.

Instead, we must fight for our rights.

We will retaliate with our sting.

A sting is not our end, but merely a new beginning.

Emily Vayner 64

THE

HONEY

OF

OUR

HERITAGE

Eitan Goldberg

65

HEY

STRANGER Matching your bulky combat boots were your eyes, almost a jetblack.

With a single glance they burn through my soul, causing a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

Your hair reaches your waist.

I watch you toss it over your shoulder.

Amidst the profound blackness are quickly vanishing highlights of seaweed colored streaks.

I watch you wait patiently in line for your ice cream at the carnival.

You reapply your Indian Red lipstick right before you wash it away with the dessert.

But you know that— and I already know you.

Your lipstick slowly disappears as I watch your tongue graze over the ice cream.

You moan in delight, handing the clerk a five dollar bill.

64

I watch you move swiftly, your every curve shifting, almost as if we were in slow motion.

My heart bounces inside my chest like someone on a trampoline, igniting the burn in my stomach, causing the butterflies to flutter.

Even though there is more than half of your dessert left, you take a bite from the bottom of the cone and suck the ice cream out, the same way I childishly did with my father long ago.

I continue to follow you to the chartreuse colored rollercoaster, its undertone a variance of your seaweed hair.

You wait in line and I wait behind you, contemplating how to introduce myself, “Remember not to stutter… It’s only your name,” I tell myself repeatedly.

66

Roller Coasters have always terrified me, whether it was the twists and turns, or the clinking and clanking, I didn’t know who I had to be brave for now, but I did this for you.

67 Now the once-gentle butterflies aggressively thrash, they flail and squirm.

Cacophonous noises radiate from my stomach, the intersection of love and fear.

You climb into the first seat.

With a daring smile in your eyes, you reach out your hand, and I clasp it and sit next to you.

I grip the arm bar and fasten my seat belt.

I close my eyes, recite a familiar prayer in my mind.

You put your hand over mine to comfort me.

Fear has exitted and only love remains.

We begin our journey together slowly to the sky, you’re the angel escorting me into heaven, except no angelic harmonies are present, only sounds of the ticking of tracks and screams of children from behind us.

Emily

Vayner

We slowly ascend, quickly descend, followed by loops and more loops, drops, and by the time it’s over, we simultaneously scream “again.”

Hand-in-hand, we walk through the exit door, giggling and panting.

“I’m Emily,” I say.

“I’m Raven,” you say.

And you run into this boy’s arms.

“This is my boyfriend, Jason,” you say, “Do you want to hang out with us?”

Our divine ride to heaven and back comes to a tragic halt.

My heart shatters into one million pieces.

The butterflies cease to exist.

Only a pit of despair remains.

Sasha Dunst

I reanalyze every moment.

Was the connection only in my head?

Were we brought together by random chance, and not mutual attraction?

But I quickly put a smile on my face and acquiesce.

I guess heaven only exists on rollercoasters.

GRAVE Watching

68

69

“That sunset looks like a popsicle,” I said as we drove on that unpaved, winding road. I placed my finger onto the car window to trace the graveyards that lined the sidewalk.

“What do you think of this one?” he asked as he pointed to a new grave. It was one of those tiny box ones. Plain Jane’s we called them.

“He must’ve been fat. No one named Greg isn’t.”

We laughed.

“What about the one next to him? Same last name, maybe his wife?” he asked.

“No,” I said as I opened a can of coke and placed my feet up onto the dashboard.

“Greg’s are never buried next to their wives. They don’t have any. Definitely his mother.”

“You’re right!” he yelled. “The one next to our Greg died thirty years earlier!”

We burst out laughing, causing me to spill my drink onto my white shirt.

“Crap,” I said.

“New shirt?” he asked.

“How’d you know?” I smiled.

Then we drove past the McPhearson family graves. These graves were the tackiest skyscrapers anyone’s ever seen.

“Shall we say hello to young McPhearson’s grandpa?” Luke asked mockingly.

Claire McPhearson was in our grade, and I was convinced that she was the biggest smartass in America.

We opened the windows and I felt the cold air on my eyeballs. Damn wind. Then, Luke and I did our ritual. Our middle fingers waved hello to Grandpa McPhearson.

As the popsicle sunset faded into a sky the color of a Goth kid’s eyeliner, I argued with Luke over visiting our favorite grave, the place we first met. He had an assignment from Ms. Heathers, our P.E teacher, due that night.

“C’mon Luke, we’ll go quick. I promise. It’s P.E for God’s sake. Relax,” I said as I slammed the car door and escorted Luke out of the front seat.

“My Lady,” I said as I took his hand.

“Ok. Move away, crackhead,” he said with a smile.

I skipped down the pebbled path leading to the grave. I placed my fingers into the shape of a square and took a picture of him in my mind. But I’m blind without my glasses and so I could only make out his dirty blond hair. The awkward way he moved one foot before another started to tear me up. God, I hate crying.

“You walk like a penguin!” I screamed, wiping my tears as I smiled. It was the last time we’d go grave watching before he’d leave this crappy town for college in New York City. He’d be surrounded by skyscrapers taller than the McPhearson graves. I wondered if there were graveyards there like this one, where young and sad people with nothing to do drove around and laughed for a while. I wondered if he’d visit them and think the same thoughts we always did: thoughts of cans of coke, new shirts, plain Jane’s, and popsicles.

Arielle Levy Ari Porter

70

I climb down the rickety stairs to the basement. Books are strewn about the room again, old boxes lie all over the floor. Again? And I see an old door in the basement that I had never seen before. A door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. Odd. Twenty years and it has never once registered with me.

Perhaps it wasn’t there until today, but that couldn’t be possible. This wouldn’t be the first time something odd has happened here. I am cleaning the basement constantly. I tell myself I’m not losing my mind, that these things do happen. Everybody knows the feeling of tidying up a room so that it is neat and orderly, only to come to the sudden realization a week later that it has gotten completely filthy again. There is nothing special about that. And yet I feel positive that the door has never been there before. I am not apprehensive about opening it, I truly am not. I swear.

But I get a strange feeling when I look at the door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen before… like deja vu. A memory seems to be trying to claw its way to the surface of my mind. A terrible, dark, twisted memory. I dismiss it with a shudder. From up above, I hear the sound of thunder.

I’m reshelving an anthology of Edgar Allen Poe when I hear the creak. It’s an old house, it cannot be blamed for creaking occasionally… I whirl my head around, my heart suddenly jackhammering against my ribcage.

The creak was not coming from the old house. It was coming from behind the door. The door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before, now I am sure of it. What could be behind that door? The boiler perhaps! And nothing more. Maybe it holds an old fuse box. Who knows? Who really cares? Who wants to know what is behind the door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before?

A couple quick striding steps and it crashes open with a bang. I stand in the phantom doorway, the doorway that is but never was. The dim flickering of the overhead light in the basement casts my shadow onto the cold stone floor of that room that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. A cold sinister voice floats over the damp air. “Must you keep disturbing my slumber? Must you keep disturbing my peace? Must you be made to forget time and time again about the fact that there is a small door that must have always been there, and yet you have never seen it before? Begone. You have forgotten before, and you will forget again.” The hairs stand up on the back of my neck; I want to run but my feet remain firmly rooted to the place. The voice begins to chant in a language I have never heard before. An old, rasping tongue from eons ago, one forgotten long ago by men. It is a cruel oppressive speech, like old hinges scraping against a door. A door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. A swirling wind picks up from deep in the shadows of the room. I am blown backwards, into my basement, into my bookshelf. Books fly from the walls and boxes fly through the room. A pinprick of light appears in the center of my vision, slowly expanding until I am blinded and then everything goes dark.

When I wake up I get up off the floor and sigh. I must have dozed off again. It happens so often in the basement, perhaps there’s something about the air. I resume cleaning the old books that have been knocked from their shelves when I see a door. A door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before.

No matter. Though perhaps I should check, just check… and yet some distant memory compels me, and I know I should not go. I climb up the rickety stairs away from the door that must have always been there, and yet I had never seen it before.

David Gitelman

THE DOOR

71

Eitan Goldberg

ALL THAT COULDN’T Arlette Gindi

72

THE WORDS LAST Shivers crawl down my skin.

They prick at my sensitive spine As my hand dictates the thoughts That are meant to mean something.

Worry is picking at my brain.

“Do better” it whispers as it peels back The thin layer of confidence My thoughts desperately cling to.

The worn-down eraser punches the paper.

It attacks my words And the thoughts that birthed them.

My paper is blank.

The only evidence of use Is the barely-there indent Of words destroyed by doubt and uncertainty.

Eitan Goldberg

73 Eitan Goldberg

Conductor

of the Forest

A grass hung out of my denim overall pocket.

It blew in the wind.

The sky was above me, But also below, As my eyes met the lilies of the creek and the clouds they rested on.

Poetry whistled from the trees, As my pencil danced.

I am the conductor of the forest.

Arielle Levy

74

Parallax n. fr. Gk parallaxis, the apparent displacement of an object due to a change in the position of observer.

The Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein Upper School of Ramaz

60 East 78th StreetUpper New York NY 10075 The Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein School of Ramaz 60 East 78th Street New York NY 10075