2017-2018 Literary Magazine

A Thousand Words “The Power of Nature” 2017-2018 Volume 5

A Shalhevet Literary Journal Short Stories, Poems, Photography

Table of Contents 3 Orange Leaves by Aviva Katz

21 Throw it to the Wind by Aviva Katz

5 You Are the Weather by Hannah Jannol

23 The Orchestra by Neima Fax

6 Endless by Noa Segal

24 The Answer by Anonymous

8 Just Beyond the River by Tyler Ekaireb

25 My Backpack by Anonymous

9 The Plum by Aidel Townsley

27 Beautiful Days, Not So Beautiful by Maya Cohen

12 Changing Leaves by Avi Weinreb 13 An Apple by Rachel Namvar 14 The Girl Who Got Caught in the Waves

by Kira Faerstain 15 Summer in Texas by Gabby Grunfeld

28 Last Days by Ben Mashiach 30 The Butterfly Effect by Amin Lari 31 My World by Sivan Platt Ominoius Forest by Jessica Dawoody Just Keep Climbing by Noa Silberstein

17 The Outlier by Tyler Ekaireb

32 Cycle by Rebecca Navon Autumn by Amanda Melamed

18 Death of a Dandelion by Danielle Mandel

33 A Grave Without a Tomb by Jessica Dawoody

20 Our Garden by Shana Lunzer

34 The Eruption by Danielle Mandel

Photography by Tirtza Schramm

Contributors

Letter from the Editors

Anonymous, 9th grade Noa Silberstein, 9th grade Neima Fax, 10th grade Anonymous, 11th grade Gabby Grunfeld, 11th grade Kira Faerstain, 11th grade Lily Drazin, 11th grade Jackie Faerstain, 11th grade Jessica Dawoody, 12th grade Danielle Mandel, 12th grade Hannah Jannol, 12th grade Noa Segal, 12th grade Amanda Melamed, 12th grade Maya Cohen, 12th grade Aidel Townsley, 12th grade Tyler Ekaireb, 12th grade Ben Mashiach, 12th grade Rachel Namvar, 12th grade Justin Silver, 12th grade Rebecca Navon, 12th grade Shana Lunzer, 12th grade Avi Weinreb, 12th grade Amin Lari, 12th grade Elie Helfand, 12th grade Michaela Somekh, 12th grade Sivan Platt, 12th grade Aviva Katz, 12th grade Tirtza Schramm, 12th grade Amberly Hershewe, 12th grade Tali Schlacht, 12th grade

Dear Readers, The Literary Magazine is a Shalhevet tradition that brings student creativity and inner voices to the spotlight. Through the mediums of storytelling, poetry, and photography, students share their imagination and hard work. Literature is an artform of deep emotion, a method of expressing experiences and reflections, and we wanted to share that with you.

The theme of this year’s A Thousand Words is Nature. With all the natural disasters that have occured recently, we felt it was necessary to acknowledge the power of nature, for both good and bad. Nature can destroy, but it is also easy to preserve, and when we treat it with the proper respect, it is the most beautiful force on this earth. This year’s magazine aims to focus on the nuances of nature, be it human nature, our relationship with the environment around us, or the potential harm or beauty of nature.

When we came together to create this magazine, we had a certain vision in mind. But what came out of it was so much more - we created a book of insights and perspectives on how people approach nature and its different facets. The collection of work we received took us on a journey of redefining nature’s role.

This magazine would be nothing without the submissions, and the help of our teacher, mentor, and advisor, Ms. Crincoli. We are extremely grateful to everyone who contributed to this project, and we sincerely hope you enjoy the final product.

So, now we invite you to join us on this adventure of rediscovering nature and its multi-facetted powers.

Sincerely, Aviva Katz, Danielle Mandel, and Noa Segal

Advisor Michelle Crincoli

Front and Back Cover Photography by Danielle Mandel

Orange Leaves By: Aviva Katz Last leaves on an empty tree, scattered, concealing the bare branches, revealing bright patches of orange the remnants of beauty.

Last hope on a desolate plain, isolated, a single blade of grass, at last, that little bit of joy before the next rain.

Like a lily pad on a dirty lake, or a daisy amid the endless weeds, orange flowers on leafless trees bring the hope, remove the sorrow, carry life forwards, towards tomorrow.

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Photography by Tali Schlacht

You Are the Weather By: Hannah Jannol You feel like the crashing waves of the ocean, Smashing into me, knocking my balance.

You feel like the sun, my thighs and shoulders kissed by your warmth.

You feel like lightning, I am electrified and burnt.

We do not hold each other close to share an umbrella; you are the rain.

We do not duck for shade on a sunny day: you are the sun.

I do not look for you in a storm, I peer out my window at your thundering sky.

I would follow you into the tempest, but you are the weather.

Soaking wet, I suppose I understand your pain.

You are the weather -- cold winds intermingle with sunny days and sunny days turn into Tropical storms and warm rains turn into downpours.

It must be hard to twist and torture, to turn on a dime from rain to shine.

Your touch feels like rain, The soft pitter patter of your fingers on my ribs Could grow a forest from desert sand.

I guess that is what I am to you, A terrain for you to weather, To rain on, to shine on, to shock with lightning or move with wind.

You are the weather, We are merely the trees and flowers.

I like to think I choose when to grow, But I know you are the one who controls the branches and bushes.

5

Photography by Lily Drazin

Endless By: Noa Segal Far on the horizon Is a mountain under fog And a boat on the line of the ocean.

The translucent waves Crash into white foam And produce holes in the sand.

As I wade through the tangled seaweed I feel the sun heating my cheeks And I float in the endless water.

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Just Beyond the River By: Tyler Ekaireb Anders and Dahlia watch as the children make their way to the sandy riverbank. The townsfolk trek there every day, almost religiously, after lessons end at the schoolhouse. And every day, Anders and Dahlia watch over them from the shelter of the forest. It was a dour woodland, with a dark maze of tree trunks below a thick canopy. But it was their home.

Anders and Dahlia gaze at the two of them, brother and sister, the only children in their tribe. Most days were spent treading through the undergrowth in search of food, their footsteps kicking up a dark pall of fungus spores. Anders and Dahlia had grown accustomed to their dim domain, almost bored of it. They longed to make contact with the outside world, to communicate with another that was not their own, but it was forbidden.

Outsiders stay away from the forest, so the two worlds remain apart.

The sunlight beams down on the calm waters, its pattern disrupted only by the splashes of the town’s children romping around. Its rays stop at the forest’s treetop barrier, and the siblings are bathed in darkness. The boy, tired of the water, plods just beyond the shore towards the forest. A slight rustle in the brush commands his gaze, and he moves slowly toward the trees. Anders realizes what he has done, and he retreats further into the shadows.

“Danny! Get back here,” a woman shrieks. “You know the forest is off limits.”

The boy obeys and shifts his attention back to the river, not realizing that someone just like him lives a few meters back, in a realm frozen in twilight and forgotten to the world.

Photography by Tirtza Schramm

8

The Plum By: Aidel Townsley I sit on the steps watching the crowds. The lawn spreads out, butter on bread, never ending. Children laugh, girls in dainty summer dresses and boys in delicate pants that look like burlap. The grass I’m picking stains my fingers, but I cannot wipe my hands on my white dress. I try to remove the green on the wooden slats beneath me, careful for splinters. I give up and let the remnants dry on the tips of my fingers.

I see him across the field and my spine straightens. He’s beautiful, smile wide and animated.

I rise and smooth down the thin cloth beneath me, fingers catching and twisting nervously before letting go. I walk around, trying to look busy, talking to family friends whose questions I answer without thought, entirely focused on where he is in the space around me. To the left, right ahead, diagonally behind me. He is my beacon in this ocean. I glance at him every few seconds like I have some strange tick.

I walk towards the field’s edge which slopes down a hill overlooking the lake. His eyes meet mine and he calls out to me, voice echoing like a rock falling down a canyon. In no time he’s right before me.

“Mary-Anne, I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I’ve been here since nine.”

“I was wondering if you were coming at all.” He smiles, ducking his face like he’s trying to hide it from me.

“I was wondering the same about you.” My heart beats faster, even though he’s said the same, I fear I’m giving too much away.

“Would you like a plum?”

“Why would I like a plum?”

He laughs.

“Well we are celebrating springs plentifulness are we not? And my father came bearing his plums.

So would you like one?”

“I meant why would I want a plum in particular. Peaches are much more delectable.” I don’t know why I’m being so rude, but he smiles and it’s okay.

“Well, all I can offer is a plum.” He starts walking down the hill, veering left. I follow.

“Where are we going? There are bunches on the tables.”

“I know where they keep the real fresh ones.”

While we walk, he turns towards the lake, sun on his tanned skin and reflecting off his sandy hair.

I look up at him in wonder. We start talking about school and he asks me about the tenth grade. I talk on and on, for he needs to know of my intellect. The grass tickles my feet through my sandals as we walk the bank, but when he talks, I don’t notice. We reach the row of plum trees on the edge of his father’s land.

“Now the trick to plucking a good plum,” he says, reaching up and caressing the hanging fruit, “is to find a heavy one that isn’t too soft. Press at the bottom and it should give just a little.”

I reach up to copy him but when I press the end of the fruit it bursts a tad and juice swims down my arm. He laughs and I quickly lick my fingers, face red, and wipe it away on a leaf.

“Here,” he holds a big purple one out to me after polishing it on his shirt, and I take it.

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Photography by Jackie Faerstain

He walks into the trees. I stare after him before looking down at the plum. I bite into it. Sweet.

I race up to follow behind him, not wanting to lose sight of his back. I eat the plum in small bites, savoring it, as I follow him through the trees, and he talks about the planting and his father wanting him to dropout of school to help him with the harvest. When I am done I stick the pit in my pocket.

I ask him why he doesn’t want to leave school, when I often do. He turns to face me. He’s awful close.

“When would I see your pretty face Mary-Anne, if not in school?”

My heart stops. I feel the back of my neck heat up but it’s distant, like it’s happening to someone else. There is something about the way he said my name.

I think this is it, the kiss, it will happen, the moment suspended in time, ready for remembering for the rest of my life.

He looks up. The sun has started to set.

“We should turn back.”

I startle. Just like that we are moving back through the trees, steps hurried so as not to be caught in the maze of them during dark. As we walk back on the water’s edge, I start to shiver, but he does not give me his jacket no matter how much I yearn for it. He talks about joining the army instead of working for his father right away, to get away and see the world. His words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, sour. How selfish.

We reach the edge of the crowd as darkness becomes full, lights turn on and candles light up around us. The crowd seems so quiet in the night. A boy calls out to him and he waves back.

“Well, I’ve got to go Mary-Anne.”

With that he’s gone, clapping his friends back, smile wide. I move forward through the crowd in a daze, thinking back on the night. It was not too awful, that he hadn’t kissed me, that there was no confession of love. I clench my fingers around the pit in my pocket. He could still be mine. I mustn’t be afraid of a boy who picks plums as sweet as him. I’d see him in school.

I look up and see it.

Him. And her.

Strong arms around her waist, his jacket on her shoulders. Her painted smile wide towards their group of admirers. He has a girl. A pretty girl with fitted dresses and makeup.

Who cares, I think, tears in my eyes. I should have known, when he didn’t kiss me. I wipe at my eyes quick, chest tight. I rifle furiously through my skirt, dirtying it with grass stains in my hurry to find the pit.

He smiles at her. Kisses her cheek. My toes curl.

I place the pit in the cup even though I want to throw it straight at him. I imagine myself flinging harsh words like “Do your words mean nothing? Have you no remorse?”

But if I did that he might laugh at me, they might all whisper, and the pit might fall and maybe, in ten years, a plum tree would stand in this yard and a boy would pick a girl a plum that means nothing to him and everything to her.

So I throw the pit away in a bag going to landfill while in the distance the black lake splashes.

10

Changing Leaves By: Avi Weinreb The leaves fell from the trees, smothering the ground, like fire falling from the sky. Time went on, and the leaves stacked higher and higher, until I had to swim through them to get to the sidewalk. Everyday it was a struggle to enter or exit my house. When it rained, leaves clung to my clothes and shoes. I eagerly anticipated cold windy days so some leaves would blow away. Leaves were my whole life. I was desperate to get rid of them.

When I got home from work I went straight to my garage and start brainstorming. I selected a box and poked a small hole on each side of it, put a sting through both holes, then tied each end together. I took it outside, put the box on the ground, and started pulling it. It was working - leaves were going into the box. That was, until the box flipped over and all the leaves fell out. I tried again but the wet leaves and grass made the box rip. The leaves won this battle, but that was life, and I had the larger war in mind. Idea after idea came, but none of them worked, and my mind became numb from all the hard work.

Although my mind was still firmly attached to the leaves problem, other duties took over my time, forcing the leaves to wait. They waited, piling higher and higher in front of my porch. Meanwhile, I was helping my brother on this farm. I thought his farm was so distant from my life, but it was there that I discovered the solution to my problem: the rake. A weird metal pole with sticks on the end, like a fork. My mind was blown. It picked up all the weeds, and I knew it would work for leaves.

But it didn’t. It worked, almost. The spikes were too far apart and they were not getting all of the leaves. But I didn’t stop, I started building, making the spikes closer together. I took the tool outside and pushed the leaves into one giant pile. Finally my yard was clear of leaves, except for one big pile in the middle.

I was heading inside to get a garbage bag when I saw a leaf fall softly on the top of the pile. An idea floated into my head. I ran towards the leaves and jumped into the pile. The pile spread out, then I started making leaf angels. My antagonist had become a friend.

When I was done playing with the leaves, they were covering my yard once again. This no longer bothered me. I liked how the leaves looked, spread across my yard. I went to other people’s lawns and used the rake to gather the leaves and bring them to my lawn. By the end I was standing in five feet of leaves. I was having way too much fun playing in the leaves.

I looked out the window at the beautiful leaves covering the ground. Instead of enemy fire falling from hell, I saw in the leaves a blooming orange and yellow flower.

Photography by Noa Segal

12

An Apple By: Rachel Namvar Going through the garage tool by tool.

Jars of nails and bolts on a shelf, A boxcutter with a rusty blade, A screwdriver in a coffee can.

The man walked back out to the barn.

The strong odor of cows reeked.

Everywhere he looked was dead and dull.

The grass was as dry as sand paper.

Walking on the dead grass, He stepped on something hard.

Took a pace back, bent down and picked it up.

It was an apple.

13

Photography by Tali Schlacht

The Girl Who Got Caught in the Waves By: Kira Faerstain Anxiety has got nothing on me.

I’m getting better but it’s hard to see.

The saltwater reached out to hug me, But it strangled, suffocated, and slapped me instead.

It acts like waves in the ocean, The tides rise and fall, But I appreciate it all.

Occasionally I feel like a baby without its mom, Like I’m missing something I can’t live without.

I need to feel happy and healthy.

But instead, I feel un-wealthy.

At least once a day I worry, Because of this, the world looks blurry.

I can’t wait for the day to come where I can see clearly.

All the vibrant colors that I am supposed to enjoy so dearly.

Amongst all the sadness and panic, There is a girl who dreams to travel across the Atlantic.

One day the girl finally realized that life is filled with fear and hardship, And once she defeats it there’s nothing she could not accomplish.

Photography by Amberly Hershewe

14

Summer in Texas By: Gabby Grunfeld The blistering sun of summer begins to rise, This town holds the biggest lies.

Yet to many that is no shocking surprise, Summer in Texas, the heat was no match.

For the blazing, vivid, fire about to burn, Standing there, you quickly felt your stomach churn, And suddenly, there he is, Wading through the thick green grass.

You smirk, seeing his smile, walk over to give him a chance.

He grins and grabs your hand, Running off into what seems like “Neverland.�

Your friendship bloomed like a rose in spring, Happy, smiling, even going out dancing.

Thorns there only to prick you, leaving you gushing.

Bright ruby.

He said he loved you, only to suddenly leave, Leaving an emptiness you now have to grieve, Thorns stained with the blissful memories, Only leaving true unrelenting pain.

Shocked. Vacant inside.

He led you on to let you down.

Because behind the fenced facade, lies something blatantly odd.

That flower that seemed so bright, Was hiding something of a devious might.

Your loving expectations are great, Yet trusting him was your biggest mistake.

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Photography by Noa Segal

The Outlier By: Tyler Ekaireb He limps and stumbles on the jagged trail Beside the asphalt road stained with exhaust, And shields his eyes from the thick dusty gale As the sun emerged to melt the hoarfrost.

This trek he takes comes at a great expense, For he draws nearer to the city gates.

He plans to commit the greatest offence For a chance to bend the will of the Fates.

He swats at the gnats with a feeble hand.

The spiders scurry and hide in their nest.

Through cobwebs, he sees the forbidden land, An army of towers standing abreast.

He started to run, an unsteady trot, Toward the glistening skyscrapers ahead.

But he soon forgot that he could be caught, Whence he was spotted and promptly shot dead.

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Photography by Noa Segal

Death of a Dandelion By: Danielle Mandel Spring laid her eggs, and furnished the earth, Sprinkling her seeds, a great rebirth.

There it was, standing all on its own In a forest of green, a yellow gemstone.

Blossomed as yellow, but now it was grown, Her white furry fluff, the color of snow.

She aged with time, the two were a pair Her roots weaved seamlessly, without a tear.

The wind couldn’t shake her, no matter the gust, She swayed as she pleased, prepared to adjust.

She basked in the rays, and breathed into life Until there was a hand that cut like a knife.

She was uprooted, stripped from her land, Her petals blown everywhere, for the wish of a man.

Then she was tossed to the side of the road, Left naked and bare - a stem all alone.

The forest of green soon after began to fade, Her child in ruin - Mother Nature filled with rage.

Spring did not return, leaving behind a slate of brown, No longer willing to flourish in this desolate town.

Photography by Noa Segal

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Our Garden By: Shana Lunzer The garden was a staple of my childhood Every sunday we skipped the three blocks, my small hand in hers.

Our laughter filled the soundless streets.

I remember the ivy covered gates The green leaves tenderly holding to the iron, I remember the sign on the brick wall “Please be respectful.”

I remember the scent of the flowers No matter the season, they enveloped us.

I remember the grey stone bench It was beautiful in its simplicity.

Now there are two halves of the bench Both enveloped by overgrown weeds.

Now there are only wildflowers And a nauseating odor engulfs me.

Now there is no sign on the brick wall Instead Growth Kills in red.

Now the gates are strangled by overgrown ivy Webs delicately spun around cracked iron.

Our garden only exists in my memories I walked the three blocks back to my mother’s memorial.

My tears ignored by the bustling streets.

Photography by Neima Fax

20

Throw it to the Wind By: Aviva Katz The children giggle as they trample over branches and drooping brown vines. The wind responds with a sigh, picking up dirt and smearing it onto them, as if attempting to convert their bright outfits to the drabness of their surroundings. Their attire, full of blues and reds and greens, stand out against the mounds of dirt and lifeless leaves. Dahlia picks up a twig and puts it in her hair, behind her ear. Parker picks up a leaf, laughing and counting every shade of brown, playing the game.

A bell rings, and swiftly they drop it all. They wipe the dirt off of each other’s clothing, take the twigs and leaves out of their pockets, plucking them out of their sleeves, their hair.

They walk into the vibrant complex, a maze of neon buildings, without any space between them. The children enter the first tunnel, with a high light blue ceiling and furry green carpet. The door shuts behind them, enclosing them in the tunnel of endless reflecting light, and completely shutting out the wind and trees and dirt.

“Parker! Thank God you’re finally inside!” his mother calls as he scurries into the apartment.

“Mom! Guess what? Today we came up with roni brown, like macaroni, and wirt brown, like wet dirt, and buff brown, and—” “Sweetheart, they’re all brown, a muddy mixture of the blues and greens and yellows that we have here.” Mrs. Turner gestures to her flowerbed, the plastic tulips bursting out of the jade and emerald grass-imitating pebbles. Parker nods along, and grabs the watering can, certain his mother would want to refresh the plants.

“Run along, Parker.”

He shoulders his bag and walks to school, through the tunnels that connect each building in the complex, in their universe. He walks through the tunnel, looking up at the unchanging sky and walking on the carpet they called grass, never seeing a window, never allowed to go out except for that one time a day, if he was good. Lately, it was being limited more and more. *** Parker hears voices coming from their apartment and takes his hand off the door knob, instead crouching down to listen.

“I don’t like sending them out there,” his mother whispers. Parker strains to hear.

“Why? It’s not dangerous anymore.” It sounds like Dahlia’s mom.

“We don’t know that.” There’s a long pause, and Parker can’t tell if they’ve stopped talking or if he simply can’t hear them.

“They’re just being kids.”

“I know. But it’s better for them inside. We have everything here – we’ve made gardens,

21

Photography by Noa Segal

and the sky, and fruit. I want them to have a childhood.”

“Playing outside is a childhood.” Another pause. “I think you’re just afraid. I don’t like looking out there either. It’s terrifying, but we can’t coop them up inside.”

“Actually, I think that’s what we have to do.”

Parker gasps. *** “Why can’t I go outside, Mom?” “Come help me with the garden!”

“I don’t want to.”

“Parker! Don’t you see how beautiful it is? We have to take care of it to keep it that way.”

“I don’t want it that way. It’s not beautiful.”

“Then what is?”

Parker’s gaze turns to the window, to the foggy grey sky and the dry and dusty hillside.

“No. That’s not beauty, Parker. You don’t understand.” *** It’s two weeks before Parker is allowed outside again. He scampers out of the tunnel, eager as a puppy. He grins when he spots Dahlia standing by the gate leading out of the complex, holding it open.

“Hurry up, Parker. We wanna show you the mystery patch!”

Parker runs along, dying to discover the mystery patch his friends had found. They said they had been digging and found a box. The box was as lifeless as the rest of the outdoor world, crusting on the edges, soggy and ripping. Most of its contents were trash, but the children had found a small non-edible bean that was a new shade of brown.

“What will be call it?”

“Seed.”

“What? Why?” “That’s what my mom called it,” Parker said with a shrug. “She has a fake one inside. The fake one sparkles. I like this one better.”

“What do we do with it?”

He shrugs again. “Well, if we can’t eat it…”

“Let’s keep it,” Dahlia suggests. “It’s pretty. I can make a hair-clip out of it.”

Parker nods, placing the seed in his pocket. With that, the kids race off into the hills, crunching on twigs and leaves, stirring up a dirt storm, completely happy to be playing in the ruins. They jump and play in the lifeless world, and no one hears the little laugh of the seed as it falls out of Parker’s pocket and gets taken up by the wind.

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The Orchestra By: Neima Fax The brook races through the foliage and shushes the crowd The quiet tree trunk raises it’s branches in conduct The creatures pick up their instruments one by one The bees hum their tunes in unison And the animals fall into line with the bees.

And one by one each instrument plays in to a tune that you can’t quite make out And your ears squint as it becomes clearer and clearer with every delicate drop of water The squirrel plays it’s violin with its gentle urgency The bird plays the flute as she flutters on the clouds The fox plays the drums as he sneaks around the tree The butterfly plays a chime as it bounces amongst leaves And the lion plays the cello as he steadies the music.

And the animals create a symphony And the symphony is sung like a secret waterfall amongst trees.

The tune is beautiful and elates your spirit The hope is like fresh snow The leaves are untouched The quiet tree trunk conducts the melody And the ruffling leaves play the harmony And the song is performed between all forms of life And the forest is an orchestra

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Photography by Danielle Mandel

The Answer By: Anonymous My eyes shut as I fall towards the damp floor. My hands reach out to catch my nimble body and my knees follow as I crumble. My mind is racing and my lungs are screaming, grasping for the clean oxygen surrounding me. I kneel to only see my hands dark, concealing the softness of my skin. I look behind me swiftly, hearing a voice yelling, trying to pull me back into the darkness. I inhale sharply and sprint past where I knelt nearly lifeless moments ago. My worn lungs attempt to collapse but I stop their desperate cries and run faster. My soles dig into the dead leaves surrounding me. The leaves laying on the ground crack under my weight as I run. The darkness is blinding as it hovers in the corners of my tired eyes. My mind starts to spin but I ignore the feeling. I convince myself not to fall again as I continue to run. The soft earth gives way as my destroyed feet hit the ground. I push my legs to continue. I look behind me and attempt to catch a quick glance at my predators. There is no figure, just a blur of terror, bright. I turn around and a branch slices my arm. A streak of crimson tears through my tender skin and I stop. My hand grasps my red biceps and my fingers become covered in the paint of the fear that has been hunting me through the woods.

He promised me he would help me run. He promised. He is unseeable and peaceful and I am quite the opposite. Wishing I was with him, I take a deep breath and continue, starting my pace again. I run for what seems like miles and follow the path he told me to follow. The thoughts in my head are his mere whispers, cautioning me to keep breathing. I keep running, the voice behind me becoming fainter with every breath that leaved my dry lips.

I see it. The darkness starts to fade turning into a light grey. The trees part and I see it. The vibrant blue flows into a chasm with incredible force. The cold water rushes from the dark gravel beneath my feet and falls into absolute uncertainty.

This beauty is what I have searched for and I have finally found what he was leading me to. I am here. I kneel and look up towards the open heavens and scream with tears cascading down my face like the water before me. “God, I am here! I have searched for you and I have found you. Are you this beauty? Am I designed for this? Is this my destiny?� The water thunders, answering, as it smashes into the unknown surface below. The fear that has followed me fades as the water drowns the now distant emotion. The call is a powerful blast that rings in my ears. This is it. I have met my fate. And with that, I jump.

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My Backpack By: Anonymous When I leave the house, I imagine a heavy backpack strapped to me that I can’t remove. The backpack is filled with rocks: little pebbles, huge boulders, dirty rubble, sparkling gems. Even the beautiful stones, the rubies, emeralds, and opals, are so heavy that I can hardly breathe. There are so many rocks that I can’t wrap my head around them all at once, so some days I’m aware of the pebbles, sometimes the boulders, sometimes the gems. The pebbles of the small things which make me feel awkward. The boulders of parental pressure, the eyes of my classmates, the need to impress. The gems of awards, success, and praise.

I love my selection of gems. The glittering jewels look so stunning. I was so happy to collect them. That shining moment when I know all the work I’ve put in has been worth it because they’re applauding, cheering my name, congratulating me and marveling at my leadership, talent, dedication, brilliance! Light simultaneously radiates out from me and fills me up, buzzing along my arms, my toes, my chest. I feel free, for a moment.

Until that awful, crushing realization that it’s not enough. All I’ve gained are new expectations that I can’t just fulfill, I have to exceed. And the cycle begins again, because gems are as heavy as boulders.

I am special. I know that. Yet, apparently I don’t. Everything is a churning mess. Sometimes the water is crystal clear, a calm placid lake. Sometimes, though, it’s like being in thick mud, and it’s in my eyes, down my throat, choking me. Then in a split second it’s all breezy, and the mud turns to pure, sweet water again.

I’m a swirling storm of contradictions. Sometimes all I do is giggle, smile, and bat my eyelashes. Everyone loves the cute girl. The girl who needs to be protected, who’s bubbly, sweet, with wide eyes and an innocence people can’t help being drawn to. It’s so much easier being that girl. I am that girl, sometimes. Sometimes I’m tough, quick-tongued and witty, tearing everyone’s arguments to shreds with the razor-like edges of those diamonds, until they’re in awe because I’m amazing. Another gem to add to my backpack! But those same jewels pull me down, make my tongue heavy in my mouth, swollen like its been stung by bees, and that goddamn stutter of mine turns me into an imbecile. I try to slow down, but I can’t help it. I always go fast. I talk fast, think fast, read fast, write fast but I’m also so slow. I run slowly and walk clumsily until I’ve spilled the coffee or the nail polish or the soup. The cute girl is allowed to be slow— it’s expected! But if the leader spills then how will she ever survive on her own and isn’t she too old to be doing this? More rocks to fill the backpack. Spilling as a cute girl brings friendliness and help, makes me feel loved and protected. I think I’d do anything for that feeling— even if it means spilling on purpose. This is where I get trapped. I don’t know how to tell the jewels from the rocks, the real diamonds from the fakes. I want to be real, but even I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.

Here’s what I do know: I need the jewels. I crave them. I hunger after the shimmering colors like a man starving in the desert. Those beautiful nuggets of self-worth fill me up but also leave me empty. I chase after them, and when I get them I feel like a dog being pat on the head “good girl!”. For a second nothing else matters because I’m a shining star and I can pause, breathe, because I did it! The jewel is mine! Then it goes into the backpack and I shoot off like a rocket, looking for more. The jewel adds to the weight pressing on my upper back, squeezing my shoulder blades, crippling me until I’m bent over.

Sometimes when I’m feeling sad or worthless I take the jewels out of my backpack. Feel them, polish them, admire the way they catch the light. When it all comes down to it, do the jewels really matter? Will they get me a good husband, healthy children? Will they make me happy? That’s what I’m most scared of, sometimes— measuring my self-worth by the jewels, never ending the chase, always hunting for more. I know this isn’t a healthy way to live. Backpacks cause scoliosis. I need to take off the backpack— I would, if I could. If my arms were strong enough to slide the straps off my shoulders. Maybe someday.

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Photography by Noa Segal

Beautiful Days, Not So Beautiful By: Maya Cohen The sound of dead shriveled leaves crunch with every step.

Crushed beer cans and shiny gum wrappers overwhelm the green grass, Tires of industrial trucks screech with every movement.

Fumes of Gasoline overwhelm the sweet smell of roses that line the porch, Houses so close almost waiting to touch.

Tall buildings hide the sky’s beauty as the sun seeps through the cracks, New buildings built each second that passes.

Vehicles release deadly fumes, black smoke disappearing into the sky, Smog seeping into the lungs of fathers and children walking hand in hand.

Every turn we take – is a wasteland, Isolated, trashed, destroyed.

Negativity spreads gaping through towns, The urge to be free, unchained, unrestricted.

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Photography by Lily Drazin

Last Days By: Ben Mashiach The baby blue wooden porch creaked, more dusty than I remember it being. I stepped up to the doormat, read the“Welcome” in a worn out classic font, and brushed off the mud living under my sneakers. As I turned the doorknob, a voice echoed from within the house, anticipating my arrival.

“I’m up here Robbie! Come give me a hand!” Jennifer yelled.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even know what to say. She and I never talked, not until her recent illness. When I was younger, she woke up early in the morning and worked very late hours at the salon to support me and Jeremy. Hair was her everything, her prized feature. I remember her yearning to go to work everyday, wanting to embellish the looks of others. I know she worked hard, and I wish I had needed more monetary support from her, but I was actually doing well balancing school with my day job at the market. Jeremy, on the other hand, needed formula, diapers, and all the various necessities a baby would need. At least he was dependent on her. She did the best she could under the circumstances.

Jennifer decided to spend her last few days cleaning out the house. I figured the voice came from the attic because that’s where she kept all the old junk. I climbed up the hanging ladder that extended from the ceiling of the main hallway; I looked for Jennifer through the piled boxes and suitcases that were thrown around. As I crawled across the small space provided, my foot crossed one of the many mouse traps laid out. SNAP! “Ouch!” I screeched.

“Jesus Robbie, you scared the life out of me,” she gasped, out of breath.

“Wow...you look different.” I blurted moments after seeing her face to face.

The new shine on her naked head was difficult at first glance. She touched her head every time I looked at her and she immediately tried switching the topic of conversation.

“Look at this Robbie,” she said. “I found this in my boxes when I was cleaning out.”

She yanked out her first tools of the trade: hair dryers, curling irons, flat irons, and big pink clad scissors.

“This was my first set,” she said as she caressed the hairdryer.

I felt a lump in my throat.

“Here, let me help you out with that...mom.”

I wasn’t ready to lose her forever.

Photography by Amberly Hershewe

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The Butterfly Effect By: Amin Lari You stand in the woods, gun in hand, with one bullet in the barrel.

You are about to introduce your two closest friends, Mr. 9mm and Mr. Brain. Do you wonder how you got into this position? Well, it’s simple really. Two years ago, when you decided to quit your job to follow your dream - that’s when all the problems started. You tried for a while, but dreams don’t pay the bills. That’s what your wife said anyway, as she packed her bags. You moved from your apartment, to the alley behind it. You aren’t responsible, and can’t take care of anybody. That’s what the judge said anyway, before giving your wife full custody. You’re a failure, good for nothing, useless piece of garbage. Abandoned your parents at 18 to marry a girl, whose parents never liked you, and who left you alone. Then bring the gun into your mouth, as you look off at the nature around you, seeking comfort and respite. Just then, a butterfly lands on your hand, its wings moving slowly, golden brown flapping up and down. You gaze at the circular pattern, transfixed. The gun leaves your mouth, and you stare… just stare. You could use this gun on yourself, but who would that help? What good would that do? You put down the gun, pick up your guitar, and decide it’s time to take the next step in the circle.

Photography by Neima Fax

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My World By: Sivan Platt

The Ominous Forest

A breeze in the brush, My heart fills with a rush.

The sky a pale blue, Like a painting I once drew.

Droplets patter along the floor, The day is empty, filled with chores.

It’s a pleasant day in the park, Sitting there from daylight to dark.

This is my escape from the world around, I soak in the warmth till my happiness is found.

By: Jessica Dawoody The trees waving, yet the forest still cold and unwelcoming.

Distant sounds of strong winds and screaming birds.

Greenery covered by the icy snow.

The young oak tree shivering with nowhere to go.

Its limbs bear no leaves, decaying on floor.

Owls hooting, but it’s dark as night.

For every day the forest, like a raven sheds no light.

Just Keep Climbing By: Noa Silberstein Climbing up the stairs with a weight on my back: A thousand school books as heavy as gear.

Four flights of stairs, burden strapped, a steep stack To my destination. No breath. I fear this prep is no use. Hours of hard toil, My brain’s on fire. I experience this Fatigue. The sun is blazing like hot oil, but I go on. “Focus, Noa, focus.”

The grades and status are worth it, aren’t they?

I take my last step, arrive at the peak .

The view is exquisite; I want to stay.

The satisfaction is short lived. I seek My gear, strap it on, and resume climbing.

Realize the flame is still igniting.

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Photography by Lily Drazin

Cycle By: Rebecca Navon Your heart beats at a rapid rate As you start to accelerate Feel the cool breeze hit your face Switching gears to find your pace The uneven pavement can cause you to teeter But good stability will not let you falter The pedals surround your shoes As you take in the beautiful views The wheels rotate and spin While a gust of wind hits your skin You glance up at the clear blue sky As you spot all the plants and cacti The smell of sweet flowers fill your nostrils As the slight strain starts to hit your ankles Tired but eager to see more Focusing on the sky and not on the floor The balance of beauty and pain Overwhelms you while staying in your lane Wishing there was no soreness in your feet As you struggle to travel over the concrete You realize the beauty in the bike Now one with nature there is nothing alike.

Autumn By: Amanda Melamed Falling from Elm trees, One by one.

With a breeze, Summer now done.

Ginger, gold, ruby, Crunched by feet, Branches looking dead, A bit defeat.

Scarves wrapped tight, Mittens on too, During the night, Lips turn blue.

Photography by Neima Fax

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A Grave Without a Tomb By: Jessica Dawoody The trees are waving, yet the forest is still cold and dark, wind whistling without welcome. His legs are moving fast, but quietly. The boy stops to hear the distant sound of crunching leaves. He hides behind a tall oak tree. His eyes widen as he peers at the raccoon, head down and shoulders dropped, he continues his search for his dog.

The boy pulls his backpack off his shoulders and rips it open to find the dog treats. He starts dropping a piece of dog food on the leafy pathway as tears start rolling down his face. He raises his palm to his face. Then, wiping away the water, he starts kicking the dirt and leaves into the air with the force of a wrecking ball. The boy leans up against the rough old tree, and the bark starts to chip as he sinks down to the floor. His face is now red and and covered in dirt.

Staring into the distance, a big pile of dirt catches his eye. He gets up off the floor gently and walks towards the pile with caution. The boy throws more treats onto the soil, but the bag of food now scatters on the floor and the boys’ mouth hangs slightly open. The boy stands frozen with his eyes locked on the cold naked body in the ditch right beside him. His throat moves as he gulps and he bolts through the forest, stumbling on his feet to get home. He comes to an immediate halt and turns in the direction of the ditch, his eyebrows clenched and his fingernails digging into his palms.

This time he inches closer towards the pit, as if there were lions inside. Covered in sweat and shaking, he kneels on the ground and pulls out his jacket from his backpack to set over the woman’s colorless body. Her hair is still a lively blond, but her skin is decaying like a fruit fallen off a tree.

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Photography by Lily Drazin

The Eruption By: Danielle Mandel She burst in the night, and seared through the town, Orange and crimson coating the ground.

Try to run with not a place to hide, She’s coming for the dead, and for the alive.

Books and pages cast up in ashes, Piles of bodies, broken into patches, Merchant or Noble she didn’t mind, They all taste the same, when they’re combined.

Shells of skin peeled from their bones, Whaling children p r i e d from their homes.

She rose through cracks like chimney fuels, No man would dare attempt a battle or duel.

Our fates were sealed by the fiend in black, She slithered the earth, seeping into every crack.

She watched them jolt like fish on land, Laughing as she played, their lives in her hand.

Husbands wielded wives, and used them as shields.

But she grew bored of this game, it lost its appeal.

No longer human, they became beasts, She got what she wanted, a crispy feast.

Then she let out one last final ROAR,

And left them in ruins they could not restore.

Photography by Danielle Mandel

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