Charlotte's Web: ICJA's Literary Magazine 2015

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Staff StaffList List Editors-in-Chief: Editors-in-Chief:

Frannie Miller, andand Haia Bchiri, Bchiri, Machol MacholBenmelech, Benmelech,Sophie SophieGordon, Gordon, Frannie Miller, Sarah Otis Otis

Prose Staff: Staff:

Bellows, andand Sarah OtisOtis Seniors: Haia Haia Bchiri, Bchiri,Machol MacholBenmelech, Benmelech,Emma Emma Bellows, Sarah Stadlan, andand Miri Juniors: Shoham ShohamBenmelech, Benmelech,Sara SaraOkner, Okner,Batsheva Batsheva Stadlan, Miri Tannenbaum Tannenbaum

Poetry Staff: Staff:

Sarah Otis, andand Seniors: Avi Avi Asher, Asher,Haia HaiaBchiri, Bchiri,Machol MacholBenmelech, Benmelech, Sarah Otis, Anat Berday-Sacks Berday-Sacks Juniors: Ari Ari Rosensweig Rosensweigand andBrocha BrochaShanes Shanes

Art Staff: Staff:

Seniors: Sophie Sophie Gordon Gordonand andFrannie FrannieMiller Miller Kolom, Moshe Herst, Juniors: Rena Rena Auerbach, Auerbach,Zalman ZalmanBrimm, Brimm,Yakira Yakira Kolom, Moshe Herst, and Zoe Wolmark Wolmark

Layout Staff: Staff:Tamara TamaraSoleymani Soleymani Photgrapher: Moshe Photgrapher: MosheHerst Herst Event Coordinator: Coordinator:Anat AnatBerday-Sacks Berday-Sacks Advisor: Mrs. Mrs. Marsha MarshaArons Arons

Dedication Though we were never privileged to meet Mrs. Charlotte Rosenwald, a�h, it is in her memory that we dedicate Charlotte’s Web.We have heard about her and we understand that she was an extraordinary teacher; she inspired her students to think, write, create, and be proud of their accomplishments. It is our hope that the words of this magazine will perpetuate her legacy, imparting that inspiration to this new generation of students.

Thank You to The Susan and Joseph Ament Endowment Fund for their continued generous support of this project.

This foundation has enabled the students of Ida Crown Jewish Academy to showcase their best literary and artistic efforts in a public forum. Thank you to the Aments for enabling young writers and artists to soar.

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4 A Letter from the Art Editors in Chief In this millenium, people’s communication increasingly relies on technology. Ida Crown is no exception. Ida Crown has made efforts to embrace new technology such as smartboards, tablets, WIFI, Mrs. Wasserstrom’s projector, and the intercom system. Charlotte’s Web has taken inspiration from the wave in which we communicate through devices. Whether students or teachers are talking on the phone, snapchatting (each other), or tweeting, we are participating in this emerging language. #artsysen15rs #CW2015 #foodforthought

A Note From the Writing Editors in Chief Dear reader, The theme chosen by the editors of Charlotte’s Web for this year’s magazine captures one of the most important forces in our lives: communication.

Communication breeds complexity, desires effectiveness, and conveys meaning. It bridges gaps and helps people understand one another. It elicits emotions, goals, and change. It is empowering. Communication breaches cultural, physical, and psychological barriers. Though the lines of communication that crisscross our world may at times waver due to mitigation, obfuscation, or ambiguity, they can never be fully severed.

Every living being communicates. Queen bees direct their workers in buzzes and movements. Chimpanzees greet each other by touching their hands together. Deaf people in various countries talk with their hands in employing various forms of sign language, while we Jews are famous for talking with our hands as they speak aloud.

Musicians create a language of their own through their art.

Mothers cradle their children and show their offspring how to love.

Writers speak through ink and paper and pixels. No matter the medium or message, verbal and non-verbal communication weaves together everything in our world.

5 Table of Contents 6-7 8-9 10 11 12 14 15 16-17 18 19 20-21 22 23 24-25 26 28-29 30-31 32-33 34 36-37 38-39 mani 40 42-43 44 46 48 49 50 51

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“Sundays with Mrs. Z” - Sophie Gordon “The American, and Therefore, Unbiased Approach to Operation Protective Edge” Emma Bellows “If” - Ariella Zwelling “The Meaning of Feminism”- Batsheva Stadlan ”God Fearer” - Emma Bellows “If” - Raina Kutliroff “Perspective” - Sarah Russman “Names Not Numbers”- Emma Bellows “Passover Story” - Ben Weinger “Never Forget” - Sophie Gordon “The Remainder” - Machol Benmelech “Change” - Zoey Shulman “Bystander”- Zoey Shulman “Orange Ball”- Sarah Otis “Memory” - Natan Oliff “The Ugly Doll” - Dena Lebowitz “Hunter Turned Prey” - Elana Berger “Letters about Literature” - Tamara Soleymani ‘“The Raven” Alternate Ending’ Josh Polster “Agora”- Joey Weinger “Young Girl Eating a Bird” - Tamara Soley-

54 55 56 58 59 60 61 62-63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70-71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80-81 82 84-85

“Trapped” - Zoey Shulman Obfuscation - Emma Bellows ‘“The Raven” Alternate Ending’ Batsheva Stadlan “Fourteen” -Eliana Dachman “My Brother and Me”- Gidon Neuman “Common App” -Machol Benmelech “How to Play the Piano” - Nechama Goldstein 88-89 “A Broken Man” -Matan Bauman

“The Raven Continual” - Sarah Quintas

“Every Story is a Love Story” - Machol Benmelech “The Meaning of Potential” -Shoham Benmelech “Stereotypes” - Zoey Shulman “I Am” - Zoey Shulman “How to Work Hard, Persevere, and Never Stop” - Ilana Peritt “How to be a Caring Sister” - Raylie Aberman “The Meaning of Time” - Ben Weinger “Spinal Fusion” - Noah Aberman “How to Win a Game” - Ilana Peritt “How to Let a Brother Go” - Raphi Chernoff “I Repeat” - Revital Chavel “Victory” - Eliana Arnet “Believe to Succeed” - Eliana Dachman “Seven” - Jennifer Sorscher Obfuscation” - Haia Bchiri “Ode to Elevator Button” -Joey Weinger “Fingers” - Tamar Grey “Balancing” - Ben Weinger “The End of Forever” - Brocha Shanes “Balancing” - Amanda Sugar Young Woman-Haia Bchiri “The Meaning of Relief” - Didi Karp “Ten” - Raphi Chernoff “Pillar of Fire” - Didi Karp “Ah! That’s Better” - Didi Karp “On the Misconstruction of Philosophy” - Sara Okner “On Sitting Down To Read King Lear

Once Again” - Haia Bchiri

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Sundays with Mrs. Z

{Sophie Gordon}

At the young age of five, I began accompanying my father on visits to a nursing home. To this very day, I go with my dad on many days off from school. A major function of my father’s position is to visit with the residents. Over the years of visiting, I have met and befriended many residents and have been enriched from these relationships.

One particular resident that I felt especially close with was a lady known to as “Mrs Z.” I vividly remember the first time my father introduced my two older siblings and me to the petite 4 foot 10 inches, slightly built woman. Although my siblings and I towered over this diminutive woman, we were blown away by her feistiness, sharp sense of humor, optimism, and especially by her great joy in recalling the highlights of her life. I always enjoyed listening to Mrs. Z enthusiastically sharing memories like those of her late husband, her career as a bookkeeper, and her tightly knit family.

Soft spoken, yet attentive and always interested in hearing what was happening in my life, Mrs. Z. was extremely well-liked by other residents, staff and youth volunteers. She viewed me and other visitors as her “window to the world.” I shared with her what was going on in my daily life - - what I was studying at school, my art projects, my relationship with my family and friends. Mrs. Z. also enjoyed telling me about her life. She shared with my how close she was with her husband and how she misses him dearly, and how in spite of not being able to have children, they still had a meaningful life together. I took the responsibility and felt it was

“Upper-West Side” - Moshe Herst

especially important to visit her. Whether it was playing cards, bingo, or just having ice cream in the parlor, Mrs Z and I always had a good time together.

When I was thirteen my dear friend Mrs. Z passed away. As her Rabbi, my father had the honor of officiating at her funeral. In addition to several of Mrs. Z’s cousins, my father asked me if I would speak at the funeral, since I was so close to Mrs. Z. I decided that it was a way to honor my dear friend, it would also provide a therapeutic opportunity for me to deal with my loss.

Holding back tears, I mustered up the courage to share a poem that I wrote about my friend. Though only ten or so others were present at the graveside service, reciting my poem was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

Four years after Mrs. Z’s passing, I still continue to visit the same nursing home. Though I have made friendships between residents, I never felt the same comfort and easy going nature I did when I was with Mrs. Z. Despite being saddened by not seeing her presence at the nursing home, I have come to view her involvement in my life as a true present. I have learned how important it is to appreciate life. My visits with Mrs. Z also has made me into a better listener, more compassionate, and sensitive. The opportunity I have visiting the nursing home is an opportunity that I encourage others to do so too. Realizing how valuable my experiences with Mrs. Z (and other nursing home residents) have been in my maturation, I help recruit other students from my high school to participate at my father’s program that trains teens to visit healthcare patients.

I never realized how much my experiences at the nursing home would change my life.

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8 The American, and Therefore, Unbiased Approach to Operation Protective Edge {Emma Bellows} As the heat of this summer begins to cool down, it has become necessary for the world to declare the honest “winner” of the Middle East’s most recent conflict, Israel’s Operation Protective Edge, in order reach a fair solution. However, as usual, people are overwhelmingly hesitant to take sides regarding the matter without carefully Googling the claims of both sides. So I, as a dutiful American reporter did my research, (I even shared a selfie of myself on my Facebook wall with a caption that reads #BringBackOurBoys and #HammasNotHummus to show my non-biased approach as well my overall investment in the issue to my 2,897 best friends) and have come to some fresh conclusions as well as tips to America’s “best friend” and the UN’s “little sister.”

First, as everyone is aware, the goal of Operation Protective Edge was to destroy Hamas’s underground tunnels into Israel. To be honest, though, that seems pretty unfair. How else are Gazans supposed to get into Israel?

While I have read IDF-sourced rumors on Twitter that these tunnels are “security threats” and “put civilians’ lives at risk” I do not think that these rumors are anything serious. I mean, as army generals they probably suffering from a little PTSD or maybe even ADHD, so it makes sense that they would be a slightly anxious and willing to jump to silly conclusions. There is also the language barrier. Moreover, since Israel is in the Middle East, and thus stuck in Biblical times, Israelis probably do not know how to use Google translate or Twitter that well. Or maybe, they are

being sarcastic; I read somewhere that Israelis love sarcasm. Regardless, Israel is clearly being too harsh here. Prime Minister Netanyahu should be thankful for Hamas’s selfless act of charity: Instead of using the millions of shekel that Israel left for Gaza to build an infrastructure, Hamas decided to create a bridge between the two countries. It probably symbolizes their clear desire for a connection with Israel. Netanyahu should have sent flowers, not rockets in response to learning about this attempt at peace.

It makes sense that Gaza would be feeling a little insecure after their peace attempt was so viciously rejected. It is “the new kid on the block” and Israel has been around since 1948, and they had no problem climbing up the social ladder— the United States of America is their best friend! While Gaza did snag some of the American youth via Boycotts, Divestment, and Sanctions, the entirely nonviolent method of denting Israel’s economy, it is totally warranted.

Who needs to use Intel computers or eat McDonalds anyways? The movement’s deeper intent is clearly to save people from becoming overweight and technology- obsessed. BDS is one of the most progressive things to happen to the United States since Earth Day. No wonder the Obamas have been a little more lax than usual with their support, they are probably just thrilled to see this initiative of saving the world from becoming fat, lazy robots blossom. Besides, even the class president of University of California- Berkeley is doing it, and he must be smart, right?

In order for peace to be effective and everlasting, both sides must put in the effort

and give up something that is sacred to each

9 respective side, which is why the only real long-lasting solution to the conflict must be centered around religion.

Both sides use their own Holy Books as textual support and justification for their actions, but that is obviously pointless. Why would the Jews care what the Quran says? Why would the Muslims care what the Torah says? The only way to bypass this scapegoat is to get rid of it all together.

However, just because Islam and Judaism are outlawed, one would be a fool to think that people will just stop being religious. Thus, the only solution is to bring back the Spanish Inquisition mentality and the auto-de-fe way of life.

Though this may seem kind of harsh and totally slanderous to my Western ideals, it would really just be a ploy.

Both Muslims and Jews have a major regard for human life: Jews with their warning texts before they fire and Muslims by making UN hospitals their safehouses (how thoughtful to the sick who can not flee to a real shelter!), so they would ultimately end up disregarding religion for peace the sake of their own lives, #YOLO.

10 If

{Ariella Zwelling} If you find yourself spiritually confused, think back to your Jewish roots.

If your beliefs are being questioned by others, trust that you will soon meet Triumph, not Disaster.

If you encounter a feeling of disconnection, remember that G-d built you and you will always be connected.

Although you may be hesitant to pursue your dreams, follow your heart because G-d is always watching and helping.

Although you may feel tempted to disobey the Jewish laws, remember how truly important they are to you and how you would not want to risk losing them.

Although you may feel punished or lied to, wait because there is always a reason for everything G-d does.

If you can keep your priorities in line, If you can allow yourself to see the big picture, If you can incorporate your religious beliefs into your daily lives, you, my friend, can thrive spiritually as a Jew.

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The Meaning of Feminism {Batsheva Stadlan} I received a letter from the Yeshiva University Kollel the other day asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Feminism.” It is in my best interest, and would be validationg to answer this request. I would think that the Kollel understands what feminism is. It is the two parallel lines forming equality. It is the reflection of rights; whether a man’s or a woman’s. It is the expression of sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat. Feminism is the radical notion that women are human beings. Feminism is not waiting for power, it is just taking it. It is the idea that men are from earth.

And women are from earth. The idea of abolishing the notion that women are the inferior creation of the world, the sight of hell. Feminism is not to learn, but to unlearn.

It is remembering the most important rule of beauty, which is: who cares? Feminism is: “Oh, you are a feminist?” Feminism is not the F word.

“French

Lady” -

Chana G

oldbloo

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“Lan

- Ren terns”

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God-Fearer {Emma Bellows} Wash your hands before eating bread to rid them of impurities; wash your hands before you do anything in the morning to relieve yourself of the remnants of a tainted spirit left by the ghosts of your slumber; bless your food before you eat it, and recognize that it is only yours because He gave it to you; speak,dress, and act with placidity; be awe-stricken that you are always in the presence of one Entity that embraces the virtues of a king, a judge, and a parent; capitalize His name like you capitalize your own; never lose faith, or doubt His plan; do not use His sacred name colloquially; on the Day of Atonement emulate an angel and suppress your regular demons through prayer; tragedies are allocated out of admiration, not spite; but how can I have faith if He is making me struggle?; stand up— this is how to respect Him during prayer; shift your weight forward and lift your heels from the ground three times— this is how you recognize the harmony between the sanctified heavens and our Earth; this is how you read from the Bible so that you can understand how our enthralling past makes us deserving of a code of law designed to reward its followers to live as crown heads in a utopia; this is how you immerse yourself into a secular community without being dazed by temptation; this is how you learn, work, and be charitable; because our universe is centered with three axes to maintain balance: Torah, service, and benevolence; when you are outside, make sure you appreciate nature, because we were all crafted from the dust of the Earth; this is how you pray for the sick; this is how you pray for the days of Messiah; this is how you pray for the prosperity of your brothers and sisters; treat your neighbors as you would want to be treated; treat yourself as though you were created in His image; and treasure every description and ritual that alludes to the sacredness of His image; this is how you fear that the doomed eras chronicled will resurface; this is how you fear out of awe and not consequence; this is how you fear that one day the golden tradition that you polish will be left to tarnish; this is the way you behave in front of non-believers, and this way they will not recognize that you have flaws too, and you will have marred the pristine reputation we need to attain to honorably represent Him on Earth; be sure to give to others everyday, especially if your condition is dire; don’t ever persecute another faith, He will defend you in ways that are not beneath you; do not judge another person, they may judge you; don’t curse others, they are reflections of Him, as well; this is how to act so that your predestined lover is revealed to you; this is how you build a reputation; this is hoyou raise a family; this is how to atone for sins before you evil inclination has even provoked you; But what if my sin is too great, and He never forgives me? But how could you ever fear Him if you do not believe that He fears you

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“Safe Haven” Ariella Zwelling

Cliffhanger” - Yoni Asher

”Vatikin” -Rebecca Shiner

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If

{Raina Kutliroff}

If you can keep your Jewish identity, When faced with the outside world.

If you can trust your instincts, Know what is right and what is wrong; If you can allow yourself to think, Before you speak and before act, Or allow yourself to learn Torah and daven everyday: If you can wait and learn to be patient, Take your time to do the right thing; If you are careful, to never tell a lie, To be cautious of the consequences; If you dream big then you will go far, Never stop dreaming.

Or be able to risk your life for someone else’s, And know in your heart what is right and what is wrong: If you can sympathize for your friend through triumph and disaster, And love them no matter what.

And always tell the truth, And be kind, regardless the circumstances; If you can watch the good influences, To disregard the bad ones, And to keep calm even in the toughest of times To always listen when your gut says “You can do it!”

If you can always look on the bright side, Or learn from the bad times, If you grow and keep building your relationship with friends, family, and G-d, If you are careful not to lose your identity; To always know you are Jewish, The Earth and everything that is in it will be yours.

“Eye Spy” You will be a loving, caring, Jew and friend, my sister!

Sophie Gordon

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Perspective {Sarah Russman} I have only seen pictures, descriptions, and tales About this far off place that I pretend to know something about Where balancing Judaism and modernity is not even a threat And spiritual connection comes in great abundance And then I was there for my very first time Standing in front of the Kotel, my eyes closed Thinking, praying, feeling, and wanting Never, in my fifteen years have I felt so connected to my heritage And I can tell that those around me are feeling it too I am aware of the whispers behind me and my sister by my side As the tears start falling from my face I feel the wind blowing through my skirt As my mind starts to wonder I think about my life up until this point And how thankful I am for who I am becoming I think about things that have never crossed my mind Like the challenge of wanting to live in Israel Without leaving a comfortable life in America I start wondering about my parents And the challenges that they face My mom back home in America missing me And my Dad across from me at the Kotel Then I open my eyes and let out a sigh Wishing that this moment could last forever I silently kiss the golden brown stones of the Kotel And start taking my steps backwards As I come to a realization: A picture is worth a thousand words But seeing something from your own eyes is worth a million times more. ”Tide 2 Go” - O. Faratci

“Tranquility” - Eliana Arnet

16 16 Names Not Numbers Names Not Numbers {Emma Bellows} {Emma Bellows}

Before me was a shiny black video camera studded with every size me wasimaginable. a shiny black video camera every size of silver Before zoom nozzle Through my lensstudded I barelywith saw an eightyof silver zoom nozzle imaginable.

Through my lens because I barely saw anway eightyyear-old woman: her face seemed to be glimmering of the the year-old woman: her face seemed to be glimmering because of the way the spotlight reflected the pool of tears that were quickly dripping and spreading spotlight reflected the pool of heavily tears that were quickly drippingface. and spreading throughout the surface of her wrinkled heart-shaped throughout the surface of her heavily wrinkled heart-shaped face.

I don’t have a loud voice, and my artistic ability is limited to doodles I don’t haveso,a loud voice, andtomyreporting artistic ability is limited to doodles and bubble letters; I always resort to make my impact on the and bubble letters; so, I always resort to reporting to make my impact on the world. I used to think that journalism was confined to tape recorders and world.notebooks, I used to think journalism wasclass confined to tape in recorders and spiral but inthat Eighth grade my participated a program spiral notebooks, but in Eighth grade my class participated in a program called “Names, Not Numbers” which tells the stories of Holocaust survivors called “Names, Not Numbers” tellsarchived the stories survivors through recorded interviews thatwhich are then in of theHolocaust Israel Museum for through recorded interviews that are then archived in the Israel Museum for posterity. posterity.I felt privileged to be chosen to take part in such a project, but in I felt Iprivileged to be chosen take part in suchofa responsibility; project, but in I that moment felt my shoulders breaktounder the weight that moment I felt my shoulders break under the weight of responsibility; am part of the last generation of students whose lifetime will overlap withI am of the survivors. last generation whose lifetime will As overlap with any part Holocaust I am of thestudents generation of messengers. a messenger any Holocaust survivors. amresponsibility the generationtoofpass messengers. a messenger I knew that I would have Ithe on a legacyAsthat would I knew that I would have the responsibility to pass onsoon a legacy wouldand ceasethat to exist, soon cease to exist, I understood thatand Ithe understood challenge that would the challenge would be to try and make be try andso make wisetochoices that choices so that Iwise could preserve my Isurvivor’s could preserve my essence. survivor’s essence.

My survivor’s name My survivor’s name was Magda Brown. was was Magda She justBrown. a teenShe was just a teenager when she was ager when she was forced to a death forced to asomehow, death camp; yet, camp; yet, somehow, she remained alive. she Asremained I extendedalive.

Asgaze I extended my beyond the my gaze beyond the confines of my lens, confines of my lens,

”Sketch” - Zalman Brimm ”Sketch” - Zalman Brimm

17 17 I grasped the surreal magnitude of my role and the pressure of my situation. I needed to preserve this exact moment for eternity; so that posterity could

feel the same vibrations in their vertebrae I felt after each horrificI I grasped the surreal magnitude of my role andthat the pressure of my situation. detail teenage wereforrevealed. needed to gauge could how I neededoftoMagda’s preserve this exactyears moment eternity;I so that posterity would portray each detail as the details were imparted to me, and that feel the same vibrations in their vertebrae that I felt after each horrific was the hardest needed to trustI needed myself. to gauge how I detailnot ofeven Magda’s teenage part: yearsIwere revealed.

I explored options. could zoom in and trytotome, crystalize would portray eachmy detail as theI details were imparted and thatthe raw Magda experiences sixty years later.myself.

Though that would be was pain not even thestill hardest part: I needed to trust slightly dramatic, could emphasize thezoom everlasting in Magda’s I exploredI my options.

I could in and stinging try to crystalize the scars— and show that humans never become immune to sorrow. raw pain Magda still experiences sixty years later. Though that would be I could pause the emphasize camera andthe leteverlasting Magda takestinging a sip ofinwater.

She slightly dramatic, I could Magda’s could her that humans never become immune to sorrow. scars—regain and show composure and pause continue the waytake sheachose.

I could thetelling cameraher andstory let Magda sip of water. She Or, I could keep the tape rolling.

I could include her crying as could regain her an essential and partcontinue of the story, showing future emotions can composure telling her story the viewers way she that chose. be a window unfiltered Magdaher seemed superOr, I into couldraw, keep the tapehonesty. rolling. IThough could include crying as human to me, we both cry therefore we both are.

I could teach that all an essential part of the story, showing future viewers that emotions can people are theinto same, what could be better revenge for seemed Magda?superbe a window raw,and unfiltered honesty.

Though Magda As I look back through that lens four human to me, we both cry therefore we both are. I could teach that all years I seesame, a much image.beI better see revenge for Magda? peoplelater, are the andclearer what could more than a gleaming videolens camera: As tears I lookand back through that four Iyears see stories.

Though in that moment I was later, I see a much clearer image. I see in the midsttears of documenting Magda’s more than and a gleaming video story, camera: II was also beginning own.moment Perspective see stories.

Though my in that I was and power TheMagda’s notion that in the midstare of entwined. documenting story, one person can determine what is worthy I was also beginning my own. Perspectiveof being thought or debated is enthralling. and power are about entwined.

The notion that Although letting the tape continue to roll of one person can determine what is worthy seemed passive,about it wasormy decision.

Somebeing thought debated is enthralling. times passivity the tape boldest way totoact.

Although lettingis the continue rollSo, with sweaty palms andmy fluttering fingertips, seemed passive, it was decision.

Some- I moved my hand away from the zoom nozzle times passivity is the boldest way to act.

So, and mypalms immature self-doubt:fingertips, I com- I withfrom sweaty and fluttering pleted legacy letnozzle its conmoveddocumenting my hand awayher from the and zoom fident andmy honest essenceself-doubt: be my beginning. and from immature I completed documenting her legacy and let its confident and honest essence be my beginning. “ Vintage”- Chana Baitner “ Vintage”- Chana Baitner

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Passover Story {Ben Weinger} Over Passover, my grandparents Evelyn and Milton looked over an old scrapbook of Milton’s memorabilia with war photos, tickets, and holiday cards. My grandparents didn’t say much about each photo, but one that really stuck out to me was a photo of Evelyn’s brother, Jack. I have never seen my grandmother cry or even get upset, but when she saw the photo of her brother, a rush of emotions hit her.

Evelyn was surprised, sad, and also proud of her brother. She told me with a sad voice, “This is my brother Jack. He was in the army.” My grandmother repeated this a few times, tapping her trembling hands on the picture while grasping it tightly. She didn’t tell me anything else about her brother, but from the look of the picture, the two siblings must have been very close.

The photo of Jack is in black and white and it is a portrait of him in his army uniform. Handwritten on the photo are the words, “Love and best wishes from your boy. God bless my faith. Jack.”

I could see the resemblance between Evelyn and Jack, particularly in their handwriting, their eyes, and their stature. Jack is not looking straight into the camera, just like my grandmother does, yet his smile catches my eyes. In the midst of fighting in World War II, Jack was still smiling; yet, his smile is lacking something, or maybe someone. I suppose he was missing his sister.

My grandmother isn’t the kind of person who likes to share personal stories, but what she said about her brother Jack left me wondering and imagining what life was like in the 1940s and how family relationships were affected by the war. ”Impression”- R. Auerbach

“Candlelight” Sophie Gordon

Never Forget {Sophie Gordon} In one breath, a secret can be revealed In one movement, a history can be destroyed In one moment, a story can be changed forever As a granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, I see it as my duty to never forget Never forget that my grandmother refused to succumb to pressures of eating non-kosher food in the concentration camps Never forget to always wear my religion on my sleeve Never forget to be proud to be what my brothers and sisters could have only dreamt of being-different from the rest Never forget my grandparents strong wills to live Never forget appreciation and ha’karat ha’tov Never forget humility and kindness towards others Never forget to stand up, even if it means the crowd is sitting For if my own grandparents had forgotten, I would not be here today sharing their stories.

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20 The Remainder {Machol Benmelech} It was winter all year And the snow never thawed Or maybe it did, but when it melted It melted with so much blood No one could tell the difference.

But the spring did come On the backs of tanks and flags I did not know, And though I looked I never found a flower.

When the earth is scorched It takes years to recover.

And so I Like the first stubborn ferns, Tried to rebuild leaf by leaf The orchards I danced in.

I have heard that after thousands of years Coal turns to diamonds.

So I guess that is what I have done, Held so tightly onto hate In expectation of diamonds Yet of all I know, this best I have learned: There is no sound quite as horrible as Your enemy laughing.

But, The best sound May not be his crying.

And all I knew was love I believe that the sound of a child’s cry Is not tinted by: Religion Race

Belief Hate Love Only sorrow.

Seventy years is almost A long life For the child that died On her mother’s lap Not knowing she was: A yellow star A barcode of numbers Or of the wrong flesh.

All she knew was innocence For a sister who is now lost and gone.

So I shall know pain.

Seventy years is almost Enough for all her prophesized smiles Seventy years might have Bought her time to taste of life’s Joy To touch life’s surprises To smell life’s hardships Please, That they would be small Only enough to bring out the sweetness Like the salt in sugar.

For a sister who is now lost and gone.

Seventy years have taught me What history books have not That carrying hate for so long Is hitting a glass window And you are surprised To find glass shards in your palm.

21 I do not know to forgive I have seen too many passed for that: Fathers whose hands were not big enough, Mothers whose aprons could not hold so many tears, Brothers whose dimpled smiles were stolen, Neighbors and friends, Teachers and grandparents, Uncles and the bookshop owner, Cousins and schoolyard rivals, Sisters who are now lost and gone.

But I have learned to ease my Grip on hate.

I found her in a flower.

Most of all, what we have learned And what I myself learn And learn again each day Is to listen: For the soft cry of pain.

And not to ask whose voice it is.

Perhaps it is the child Of the man, who on a Cold December evening Had no mercy on A sister who is now lost and gone.

Ask not of hate, The babe knows it not.

So I remain a remember of things A black and white photograph colored by time.

And every day I plant.

I am trying to build a forest.

For a sister who is now found.

22 Change

{Sophie Gordon}

I am the future I am bright I am the ideas So long as we need light I am the brain I am the thoughts I am the words Let’s listen to what I have to say

utliroff ”Hashgacha”-R. K

I am the eyes I am the ears I am observing Let’s listen to what you have to say I am the chance I am the improvement I am the opportunity Life will be better I can’t be quiet You will hear me I am the future I am change

“Puzzle Piece” - Anat Be

rday Sacks

Bystander {Zoey Shulman} One gathering One large room One man filled with gloom The guest list was large People everywhere Yet, no one seemed to care They did not notice they continued to walk Not one person stopped to talk As the night went on he did not wish to stay he wanted nothing more than to run away He went out on the balcony At the end of the night when he felt the timing was right He took one breath Got up on the railing Plumitted to the ground with his arms flailing

The people saw the man To no attention they gave How easy it would have been to save These people were selfish Their ways incorrect They people were guilty of the bystander effect

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24

Orange Ball {Sara Otis}

Fifteen students stream into a classroom, eager to learn and to share their ideas about the human condition. They sit in a semicircle around the teacher, wondering what author’s or playwright’s piece of literature they will analyze.

But instead of presenting a masterpiece of poetry or prose, the teacher places a ball—orange and simple—in the center of the room.

“What does this ball represent?” he asks.

The students spring into debate.

“The ball represents play,” says the athlete.

“Its color, and hence its expression, is orange,” says the class philosopher. “‘Orange’ rhymes with no other English word. The ball is alone. It represents isolation.”

The teacher raises her eyebrows with interest.

“No,” insists a boy fiddling with a note from his girlfriend. “The surface of the ball is equidistant from its center. It represents the importance of being constant in love.” He has fidgeted with the note so much that the writing is smudged.

“The interior of the ball is unknown. The ball represents the limits of human knowledge and the necessity to accept some mystery in the world,” maintains a girl wearing a leather cuff on her wrist.

“Quite the opposite,” counters the would-be physicist. “The ball represents our ability to infer knowledge. We know that the air pressure inside the ball equals the air pressure outside.”

“Wrong,” the girl with the leather cuff retorts. “We do not know whether the ball contains any air.”

25 Looking up from her Ti Nspire, one girl suggests, “The ball reflects orange light - radiation with a frequency of 500 terahertz. It symbolizes rapid change.”

“The ball is a single unit of information,” says the computer programmer. “It can represent any arbitrarily long message. For example, the ball could represent all the words in War and Peace, or it could represent See Spot Run!— depending on the coding dictionary.”

Silence.

“I love See Spot Run!” a distracted student squeals as she returns from daydreaming.

“Can we please stay on topic?” asks the teacher.

A thoughtful student refuels the discussion: “Suppose a toddler found this ball and tried to throw it, but could not. He might quit in frustration. Or he might continue to thrust the ball forward, over and over, until he succeeds.”

“Then he must work in isolation if he is to succeed!” the philosopher declares triumphantly.

“He could practice alone. But he could also choose to learn from others, with others,” asserts the athlete.

“So, what does the ball represent?” asks the teacher.

The thoughtful student responds, “The ball represents free will and opportunity.”

”Awkward -Chana Goldbloom

26 Memory {Natan Oliff} The walls close in on me. In front: barbed wire. I am just 13 years old.

The hallway is dark and somber. Silence prevails throughout. Only a few people whisper, as if talking is inappropriate. I look back, but the only way out is forward. “This won’t be so bad,” I tell myself.

My father and I enter the first room. “Pre-war Europe.” Grainy images of Jewish families, not so different from mine, play on screens.

The second room contains two television screens. On one, a mustached man gives an impassioned speech. His emphatic hand-motions send the crowd into a frenzy. A chill runs down my spine. The other shows desolated Jewish synagogues, glass in the streets, and Torah scrolls aflame. I try to imagine my synagogue looted and burned. I cannot.

My discomfort grows in the next room. Lining the wall are pictures and videos of Jews living in cramped quarters: cities, cattle cars, camps. Jews so skinny they become living skeletons. How could someone be so malnourished? How could anyone be so cruel?

The final room pushes me to the edge. Videos depict armed men holding frail Jews at gunpoint over a ditch . . . Jews tumbling listlessly backwards . . . Jews covering the pit. I turn around to my father.

“It’s called the Final Solution . . .” he begins to explain, but his voice fades into the background. My consciousness is engulfed by the smell of gunpowder, the sound of cries, the sight of dead bodies, and the taste of salty tears.

“Music Man”Elana Berger

27

As I exit Yad Vashem, my head fills with questions. How could this happen? Why did this happen?

Fast-forward a few months. A middle-aged woman addresses my class: “Your grade will be participating in Names, Not Numbers. You will film an interview of a Holocaust survivor as part of a documentary” . . . Mrs. Brown explains life in 1942 Hungary. The camera records our conversation – but she is the star. I am merely a witness to history.

My father stands before me on a podium. Beside me sit family and friends. Next to the podium lays a closed coffin. There is a picture of my grandfather, five tattooed numbers on his forearm. The mood is somber and silence fills the room until my father speaks: “As most of you know, my father -- Eli Oliff -- was a Holocaust survivor, here is his story. . .”

“Remember the Past, Transform the Future,” reads the sign outside the Illinois Holocaust Museum. I am driving home from my orthodontist appointment this past summer. Although I have passed this sign many times, I never fully understood it.

This time, the meaning is clear.

Holocaust education is crucial to understanding my lineage and Jewish heritage. As an adult, I will educate future generations about the Holocaust and the baseless hatred at its root. I will not merely be a witness to history. I will transform

the future.

”Big, New World” -Penina Lis

28 The Ugly Doll {Dena Lebowitz} The doll was small; pale skinned and dark haired, her red dress falling about her knees. Her shoes were black as coal, white tights as light as clouds. Her snow white cap made her seem like a survivor, carrying guilt, sadness, anger, and God only knows what else. Her eyes and lips were set in a determined scowl. Her nose was small and round. The doll showed up on my dresser one morning, and from the moment I saw her I hated her. I had long outgrown my doll phase, but I had wanted a doll from my grandmother’s collection, since she was gone and her house was in the process of being sold. But aI didn’t want this doll. She looked ugly in my eyes, and I ignored her for days. I felt betrayed. But my grandmother’s sudden death had left me feeling empty, and so, one day I started talking to it. “I hate you” were the first words I ever spoke to that doll. And I meant it. But hate is tiring, and eventually I grew to see the doll in a different light. I took the white hat off her head and her features seemed to soften. I began to compare her features with mine, her dark hair and pale skin with my own. Instead of being harsh and coarse, she seemed tough and strong, able to endure everything.

I gave her a name and a story. I continued to talk to her for some time, but I slowly talked to her less and less, until today, where she currently resides on my shelf. In a way, the doll represented healing and acceptance at first, but became a symbol of strength and endurance. My doll was my grandmother, the physical part of her I

29

still had. I have forgotten nothing: the sorrow, anger, hate, and finally, the acceptance. I remember the hours spilling out my heart and soul to this doll, taking care of her, fearing what might happen to her should she fall; glad she didn’t draw breath or speak, so my feelings could remain personal. Today my doll sits on top of my shelf, the highest place, where I glance at it to find strength and calm. The doll is my rock, my beacon of strength, and my past.

“Face to Face” - Roni Kahan

30 Hunter Turned Prey {Elana Berger} The crisp air was cool as it blew through the tangled golden tresses of the beast. With each step I took, my bare feet hit the muddy ground with a hard thump. My fur pelt hugs my already warm body and I feel the sweat building up beneath it. The string of teeth around my neck clacks noisily against my chest and scratches my smooth skin. My feet ache but they do not stop, they continue after him. He turns sharp corners and runs at the speed of light ducking under tree branches and leaping over logs. We run deeper and deeper into the jungle. I can see the creature slowing down. I can smell his fear. The beast completely stops in his tracks and I almost run straight into his massive body. He looks at me with sad eyes and begins to roar. I turn my head to see his paw tangled in vines. He is stuck. He knows that I have won.

The men of the tribe tell stories of how they cleverly trick the beast into thinking they are dead, or how they confront it and walk away with battle scars. One day earlier I told my older brother that I wanted to go hunting with him. At first he laughed at the idea; amused by the humor of me holding anything other than a book, but I wanted to be like the hunters. I wanted to earn my pelts, teeth, and glory from my own kills and not have to live in my brother’s shadow. My brother promised to take me hunting with him today to teach me the basics, but became ill. As my brother slept almost lifelessly in his bed I went into his closet and borrowed his most beloved possessions.

As I am contemplating my victory I look down to see my spear dragging through the mud. I spot a small pond nearby. I begin to walk towards it. I give the beast a side-glance but nothing has changed. He remains on the ground lying down as if to take a peaceful nap. I shrug my shoulders. I must have gotten a lion who wanted to die; a lion who wanted to help bring glory to my name to the men, women, and children of my African tribe. I pick a stray leave from the rocky ground and lift it to the unrecognizable spear caked in mud. I scrub my weapon vigorously for the next few minutes. I want the blood of the beast to remain visible to the people of the tribe. I lift myself off the ground, ready to make a step toward victory towards glory. I jerk my head from side to side; the lion is

31 nowhere to be seen. I feel my hands clamming up. Sweat glistens on my face and neck and it now appears to be too hot to be wearing fur. I throw the spear straight into the ground and jump out of my lion furs. I return to the edge of the pond and stick my feet in the cool water. I dip my hands inside the murky water and splash some on my face. I immediately feel rejuvenated and decide to continue on and search for the beast. I turn in the opposite direction I came from, deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle.

I see a golden tail not too far ahead. I leap in between trees and sprint through branches. I close my eyes tight and fall to my knees on the forest ground in order to catch my breath. It is strangely quiet. I slowly stand up, brush the dead leaves from my knees, and rotate three hundred and sixty degrees in order to locate the beast once more. My jaw drops.

Where the lion I had been hunting once stood now lies a statue of a lion.

I quickly squeeze my eyes shut. I turn around and attempt to walk back to the safety of the camp, until I heard her voice. The voice is smooth and sweet. It tells me not to go, but rather to stay and enjoy her company, to realize how miserable my life had previously been and to think about a life where hunting lions wasn’t the only way to earn a reputation of honor and glory. My feet freeze. My body turns in search of the heavenly voice. My eyes land upon a dark figure standing beside a large tree, and array of leaves covering her head. She turns around and welcomes me. Tells me that she is happy we met before my life got any more complicated. I asked her how she knew so much about me, but she did not reply. She reached for my hand and I allowed her to hold it. “Keep your eyes open”, she said “keep them focused on me.” I did as she told me to do and watched her closely as she reached for the leaves on top of her head. I begin to hear the slithering sound of snakes and I begin to panic. She reaches for my hand and tells me not to worry. I instantly calm down. She returns to removing the leaves from her head but turns her back to me. The leaves fall to the ground, as do I. On her head lie many little snakes that pop out of her head like hair. She turns towards me at the exact moment I turn away. She begins to speak. She sounds hurt that I reacted so harshly towards her looks and that I should just look one time and leave if I felt I needed to. Her voice was so pure and so sweet that I could not resist. I slowly turn my head to her. Our eyes meet. Medusa has two more sculptures to add to her collection.

32 Letters About Literature {Tamara Soleymani} Dear Randy Pausch:

When I first started reading The Last Lecture for my English Seminar class I was under the—false—assumption that it would be a person with a terminal illness venting his emotions while attempting to leave a mark on the world. In the past, I have read books where the author rants his feelings about his disease to the audience. I was not excited to read another book like those I have read in the past, but I was mistaken about your book. The Last Lecture showed me that there can be a silver lining to every travesty—including cancer.

Prior to reading your book, I learned that my uncle was diagnosed with glioblastoma a type of brain cancer. I have always been close to my mother’s family since all of her siblings and her parents live within a mile of us and each other, and my uncle is no exception; I have grown up in his house and I consider his children to be my older brothers and sisters. I cannot put into words what it felt like to hear about my uncle’s diagnosis.

As I started to read your book, it hit me…my uncle has cancer.

Tears began to stream down my face. I pushed myself to finish the book; I had seminar the next day and had to finish the book in time for class.

By the time I finished the book, my view of my uncle’s situation changed.

I saw the positive impact you made using your illness, and knowing my uncle I realized he could do the same. He has.

After I finished your book, I attended a prayer session for my uncle. The session was put together at the last minute as soon as the diagnosis was announced. Although the prayer session was organized on such short notice, a large portion of the community was there. Seeing people standing in the doorways because the room was full warmed my heart. It “blew my mind” that all of these people came out in support of my uncle.

My uncle spoke at this prayer session. Instead of dwelling on the negative, he urged everyone to do a good deed in his honor. He wanted everyone to focus on the positive instead of the negative. My uncle is a great man

33 who has done so much for his community and his request reflects that quality in him. He has helped his community by donating to organizations and by imparting wisdom.

I see my uncle’s impact wherever I go. During prayer at school, a boy in my class who has never met my uncle led the group in psalms for the healing of my uncle. Women all over baked Challah, bread that is blessed and eaten on the Jewish Sabbath, in my uncle’s merit. People all over prayed for him and made meals for his family. To this day people still ask me about how my uncle is doing. Everyone in our community truly banded together to help him in every way possible.

Dealing with the constant reminders of my uncle’s sickness was hard at first. Every time someone asked me about my uncle it hurt as the memories resurfaced. I reread your book and realized that being reminded of his’s cancer should not hurt. All of those people care about my uncle because of the good he has done in the community. I now know that I should have also been focusing on the good my uncle has done with his life. The Last Lecture has taught me many important life lessons like never let “brick walls” get in your way and criticism is a sign people care.

But most importantly, the book has shown me not to dwell on the negative. I have learned to see the silver lining of every situation—no matter how bad.

“Imagination” Sophie Gordon

34 “The Raven” Alternate Ending {Josh Polster} As Poe turned to return to his seat, visage awash with confusion, he glimpsed in the wan light of the streetlamp a dark shadow. A shadow, hidden in the trees, discerning eyes watching the poet. “I am deluding myself,” said the poet aloud, “Shadow do not spy on people.” Poe returned to his desk with a wary demeanor, thinking this was some trick of the light, brought on by the lack of sleep clearly showing in the poet’s mien. As he sat, Edgar Allen found himself glancing out the window, almost hoping to catch a glimpse of the inscrutable shadow watching him. Poe tried to relax, but the ascetic wooden chair he was sitting in did not lend itself to comfort. Another knock sounded, causing the already nervous poet to jump in his seat. The door then burst in upon itself, as a giant black bird glided into the room, reaching the zenith of its arc just before the ceiling.

The venerable bird then settled itself near Poe’s desk, ruffling its pristine feathers before speaking. “Sir, I hope you find your current position to be amenable, as you may be there for a while.”

“Now I know I have been deluded by my senses,” remarked Poe, “For it is know to all that ravens cannot speak. Is my own mind your progenitor, Your Eminence?”

“No, no, chuckled the perched bird, palliating the mood, “I am quite real. My benevolent poet, it has been augured that an auspicious moment approaches for the human race. There is an insidious plot to bring down the British Empire, along with the rest of civilization. Now come, there is much to discuss.”

The bird finished by shooting Poe a peremptory glance, commanding the poet to remain as he was, attentive in his chair, half-terrified and half-intrigued as the the marvel before him.

“Very well,” replied Poe, “What must I know?”

35 “Raven Cliff Falls” {Sarah Otis} On a summer day when I was four, I climbed to the top of my mother’s silver minivan and jumped off for fun. I could have broken a leg or my skull – but I landed firmly on my feet. I kept the adventure secret because I wanted not to scare my mother. I was an active child at the time, who frequently tiptoed on the backs of couches and did not know fear. As a result, I loved hiking obscure and difficult paths in Georgia with family. When I was seven, we visited Raven Cliff Falls.

We arrived at the waterfall after a long drive. Mommy and Daddy slathered sunscreen on me, helped quickly tie my shoes, and gave me a hat. Daddy, Grandpa, and Uncle John sped ahead to start hiking. I ran to catch up. Along the three mile hike, I heard the waterfall crashing, my feet splashing into the muddy path, and the distant calls of my worried mother, telling me to be careful. I occasionally peered at the waterfall in amazement.

At the end of the path, Grandpa motioned to about 100 feet of inclined pebble stream followed by twenty feet of roots going directly upward. “We’re going there next.”

We reached the top of the stream and I saw the roots in detail: large. Rugged.

Somewhat loose. I felt exhilarated. However, I was seven—a big girl—so I also knew the danger these roots presented. I carefully raised myself from root to root with Daddy underneath me until I reached the top. I climbed onto a huge slab of mountain that Daddy called “the cliff,” and I felt like the Lion King.

When I was a child, fear was a stranger; today, I am still unafraid. Ralph Waldo Emerson writes, “Always do what you are afraid to do.” The difference between then and now is my knowledge of fear: I have felt it, been afraid.

True fearlessness breeds stupidity—but being unafraid and yet approaching new situations with proper caution yields accomplishment. ”Backtrack”Alyssa Mogil

36 Agora

{Joey Weinger} (Inspired by the Agora Statues in Downtown Chicago)

December 12, 2005. It is raining outside and the sky is dark gray. A tall man walks into a convenience store after his long run across the river trail. He buys a bottle of water, washes his face, and walks out. The store clerk enters the bathroom an hour later and slips on the water that was pouring out from the faucet that the runner neglected to shut off. The clerk crushes his head on the hard linoleum and bleeds out with no one to save him. The man dies.

October 5, 2006. Kira reviews the alphabet in her small hospital bed.

“ABCDEFG” she sings to the effervescent melody. She eats some pudding, giggles at the television, and touches her bald head. She suddenly becomes cold and puts on a sweater with Minnie Mouse’s face. Kira falls asleep to the cartoons playing on repeat on that silver TV, not knowing that she would not wake up in the morning. Kira dies.

January 1, 2000. Michelle wakes up. She brushes her teeth, eats her cereal, and drives to work. She sits in her cubicle and enters data into the computer. She speaks to no one and works in silence. Michelle finishes her work and walks home. She drives back to her lackluster cul-de-sack home and eats dinner. She cleans her dish and goes to bed. And then she wakes up in the morning and repeats her cycle. Michelle lives on for fourteen more years. Then she dies.

June 11, 1998. Alex orders a greasy burger and fries. He chats with his friends and laughs at their jokes. He slurps down his chilled Mountain Dew and burps so loud that everyone in the room glares at him. Alex rides off on his skateboard down the long, winding road. He feels his hair being blown in the wind and smells the sweet grass that grows to the left. Being the great skateboarder with knowledge of the sport, Alex tries a new move where jumps onto the side of the park bench. He falls over and hits his head, remembering too late how his father told him to wear a helmet just that same morning. Alex dies.

March 25, 2012. The fire blares and the heat rushes through the building. The sounds of yelling fire fighters are audible on Jim’s walkie talky. “Fire department, call out. Is anybody in here” Jim screams in his deep voice. No one responds and Jim keeps climbing the stairs. No one ends up being trapped in the building by the time Jim makes his way to the top. He must begin his trek down to get back to the squad and to safety. But the stairs are blocked and the fire rages on. The building collapses and flares up until all is ash. Jim dies.

November 27, 2013. The nameless man sits on the sidewalk on the yellow crate he found in an alley. He digs through the trash and finds a half-eaten

37 bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. He scarfs down the chips and returns to his crate. He shakes the paper cup and smiles at no one. He talks to no one.

He says thank you to no one. He receives coins from few and snarls from many.

He dies alone.

Welcome to Agora, home of the bodies. No one has a head here, no one has a voice here. The citizens of Agora see nothing, here nothing, and sense absolutely nothing. They come here after their souls move on to heaven. They come here to live in the endless cycle of nothing. They stand, and stand, and stand. They have no goal, no purpose. They gather here to simply remain.

Everyone here is the same. Everyone is rusted and 9ft tall. Dull does not even begin to explain this unceasing world of remains. Hollow is what these creatures are, both physically and mentally they live so far. Yet, the world surrounds them with dark green grass. Sky scrapers shadow the square in which they are set. But they walk on concrete, on dismal flatness. They are bodies without souls, people without insides. They are blind to the sun that rises above them and to the sun that sets on the lake across from them. They are deaf to bird chirps, to the city traffic, and to the airplanes that fly high in the sky.

Somehow, these beings continue to exist. They will not be pushed down by the wind and the rain will not wash them way. Their presence is marked by the hue of their bodies. They do not stop standing. They do not die.

“Agora”- Joey Joey Weinger Weinger “Agora”-

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Young Girl Eating a Bird {Tamara Soleymani} Based on the piece by Magritte of the same name

There once was a girl who was obsessed with fairy tales. She read them day in and day out. She dreamed of being swept off her feet by her true love. Her family thought she was just going through a phase like any young child, but as she got older they realized it was no passing period in her life. Her family was not the only group of people to notice.

Her peers at school noticed too.

As the years went by the girl became more of an outcast. In school she had fewer and fewer friends until she was completely alone. Because of the her loneliness, she became even more involved in her fairy tales. The fictional characters in the stories became her only friends. She started to believe that the fairy tales were not stories but were reality. The girl believed that the characters are real people who existed and that it was possible to find true love in the mystical way the characters do in their stories. The girl waited and waited for a frog or a beast to turn into a prince of her own. But that day never came.

Her parents grew tired of having such an odd-ball daughter who could not seem to grow up. They took her to the best psychologists, but none of them could make a break through in bringing the girl back to reality. Finally, the girl grew tired of all the poking and prodding from the many visits to doctors.

The girl asked her parents for money to travel around the world and find someone who could help her find her true love and promised to stay out of their lives. Her parents did not know what to do. They hesitated to allow their daughter go out on her own to fulfill what they thought was a delusional dream. After much deliberation they came to the conclusion that their daughter would not be happy unless she went on this journey.

Thus, after high school she began her adventure to have her own fairy tale. She traveled near and far over mountains and oceans to every corner of the Earth. She saw the most renowned gypsies, psychics, and mediums to help her find her true love. She believed they were all scammers when they each told her that she would meet the love of her life — a very regular man — in a very regular fashion. Finally, she found a gypsy in a small village in Romania that told her what she had been waiting to hear.

The gypsy told the girl “There is one act you can do to find your true love. If you do this act every day, ”Duplicity- Zalman Brimm

I guarantee you will find your true love. But this act is not for the weak of heart. It will require

you to test yourself and cross lines you never thought you would even see.”

“Tell me! Tell me!” the girl begged, “I will do anything, I mean anything to find my true love.” “Fine, but I warned you” said the gypsy with a gleam in her eyes. “This act will not be easy and it must be done every day.”

“Just tell me!” said the girl who was now exasperated.

“Very well child, if you insist then I shall tell you,” said the gypsy. “Your true love resides in the Forest of the Great Oak. But he resides in a form that is not human.” At this point the girl looked both excited and scared. The gypsy saw the girl’s expression and asked, “Shall I continue?” The girl nodded. And so the gypsy continued “Your true love is trapped in the body of a bird. The only way to life his curse is to take a bite out of him to release his trapped spirit.”

“How will I know which bird is my true love?” questioned the girl who now looked very ------“Well my dear,” replied the gypsy, “that is part of your challenge. You see, you must keep biting birds until you find your one true love. If you truly want to find your true love, you must keep biting the birds no matter how long it takes whether it is days or years.”

The girl thanked the gypsy and bade her farewell as she ventured to the Forest of the Great Oak, which luckily was not too far away. She built herself a little house and began a small garden from which to eat. She then hunted down the first bird that caught her eye and took a bite. She let go of the bird which then collapsed onto the ground and slowly died. The girl waited for the bird to turn into a man, but it remained a dead bird.

This continued on a daily basis for many years, but to no avail.

What the girl did not know was that the gypsy was as big a scam-artist as the other spiritualists she had gone to. The gypsy had seen that the girl was obsessed with finding her one true love as if her life were a fairy tale and the gypsy used that to her advantage.

The gypsy lived near the Forest of the Great Oak and was constantly pestered by birds from the forest who ate from her garden and used her house to relieve themselves. When the girl showed up asking for help finding her true love, the gypsy saw an opportunity to “kill two birds with one stone.” When she told the girl to bit the birds, she both appeased the girl and eliminated her bird problem at the same time.

To this day, the girl — who is not quite a girl anymore — still lives in the cottage she had built many year ago and bites into birds, hoping that one day one of the birds will become her true love.

“Branches” Kayla Bulgatz

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40 Trapped {Zoey Shulman} I am trapped There’s no way out One large being Running about I hear the screams My rapid breaths My heart is beating Right out of my chest

Zalman

rtrait” “Self-Po

Brimm

I cannot move Paralyzed by fear The monster is Coming very near He starts to growl He starts to roar His large steps Shake the floor He stands before me Stares into my eyes My heart stops I begin to cry I can’t take this anymore I open my eyes sit up in bed It was a dream It was all in my head

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”Illusion”

-Elisheva

Krinsky

“Sting” -R ena Auerb

ach

her

i As ”- Yon

d “Tangle

“Get a C

lue”-Ren

a Auerba

ch

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Obfuscation {Emma Bellows}

“New Soles” Sophie Gordon

Less is more. Be yourself. Do not listen to what other people think.

Follow your dreams. Be happy. Everybody has heard those sayings multiple times in their lives, whether it be from a teacher, a parent, or a friend. However, as I grow up I find it arduous to actually take that advice. It seems as though no matter how hard I try, I can never live a simple life and do things purely because I want to. It just would not work. Humanity cannot exist unless we act with others in mind. This is the very concept by which Darwin devised his theory of evolution. Humans compete to evolve, and without evolution we will eventually fail to survive as a race in our niche— Earth. Even though we always tell ourselves otherwise, I believe that this theory has semblance outside of the biological realm: I believe this is theory is the very struggle of every teenager.

Teenagers are generally described as “conflicted,” “hormonal,” or “misunderstood.” It is said that we are under too much pressure; or we do not get enough sleep; or that we are just in a difficult stage in life because we are not yet adults, yet we are not quite children.

While all of those things are true, I think they are tangential. The teenage years are predominately about analyzing the adult world with a critical lens. We have the mental capacity to understand life beyond high school, and we can criticize it because it is not our reality yet, and most of us would like to think that it never would be. The reason why teenagers are conflicted, act hormonal, and are misunderstood is because we recognize the obfuscations in the world but, unlike adults, we are not yet jaded of them so much so that we stop realizing they are even obfuscations. For instance, consider social media. Teenagers

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across the United States do everything they can to be “hipster” because

that is what is trendy; the ultimate hipster does things like goes to mu-

sic festivals, wears loose pants from the flea market, and writes poetry criticizing “society’s idea of beauty.”

Following suit, the average teenager buys themself a pair of not exactly cheap loose pants from a department store, takes a “selfie,” uploads it to Instagram with some cliché caption like “don’t let anybody say your not beautiful,” or “be the change you want to see in the world,” anxiously awaits an influx of “likes,” even though the persona they are mimicking would not even have an Instagram account, let alone a smartphone.

Obviously, this is a rather specific example; however, it highlights the overarching contradiction between supposed societal norms and reality.

Humanity is hypocritical. Parents tell their children to follow their dreams, yet how many adults would say that they are working their dream job?

How many adults always tell the truth? How many adults would say that they do not value anybody’s opinion? I would guess that there are not many parents who follow their own advice, but it is not because they failed and cannot or because they are inherently self-absorbed, rather perhaps because those are not the mantras we should be living our life by. They are good on paper, but not in practice. So then why do we tell ourselves these things? People are not stupid.

There has to be a reason other than the fact that it is scary to accept a reality where we may not live the lives we have envisioned persistently, or where we have to lie to ourselves persistently, or where we have to consider people other than ourselves persistently.

Obfuscation is not a distraction from the evils of society— it is the evil.

Obfuscation is not a distorted image of reality; it is a distorted expectation of reality. We obfuscate not so that we have an umbrella to brave a tsunami, but so that we can at least break in our new sandals before the waves crash.

”Converse”Gabi Amrami

”Fu

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“The Raven” Alternate Ending {Batsheva Stadlan} I heard creaking footsteps, whose wan visage was barely discerning. I feigned bravery, hoping the scratching footsteps would abate. The creature seemed to be vying for my attention. I felt its odious presence, and my fear left and acrid taste in my mouth. The being’s every movement shook the entire edifice. I hoped its visit would be a sojourn, and it would be amenable to leaving quickly. Perhaps this ghost was capricious, and would not be reasonable. Its presence hit me with gibes, and filled me with ignominy. But I was not one to gripe. For this uncouth ghost would usurp my power. As it reached its zenith of its journey, I felt me terror subsided. This auspicious realization augured well for the rest of the night.

“Knock, Knock, Knock.” I opened the door, “Mommy, can you tuck me into bed”?

”Full Moon”-Yakira Kolom

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46 Fourteen

{Eliana Dachman}

Sitting on the living room stool, my teacher sits down initiating our lesson.

She scoots me over, her hands hovering over the black and white keys of the piano.

She begins playing Prelude and Fugue in D Flat Major. I was fourteen.

I admire the beautiful combination of the broken chords, Watching the pedal being pushed gently every half of a measure.

I stare at the keys, tuning into the beautiful music. I was fourteen.

I yearn to be in my teacher’s place, playing Prelude At the center of Town Hall, performing on live TV. The keys would be my best friend, As I hit them precisely one by one. I was fourteen.

My teacher finishes the last two measures, Ending with a high chord with a perfect pitch.

Mouth agape, my teacher asks, “Would you like to learn this piece?”

I nodded quickly, envisioning myself at Town Hall.

I stood eagerly, fourteen.

“DJ” -Daniel Jacobson

“JBA” -Jessica Blumberg

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”ZWC”-Zoe Wolmark

“JD”-Josh Daniels

g

“BWA” - Ben Weinger

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My Brother and Me

{Gidon Neuman}

In the picture I am sixteen years old. In the picture I am in Jerusalem, Israel at the Western Wall. In the picture I am wearing a black v-neck nike shirt with, a nike swoosh in the upper left corner. I am wearing sunglasses, and the sun is shining bright in my eyes, as well as, on my face. I am standing next to my oldest brother. Both of us have our arms wrapped around each others back while we pose for the picture. My brother is wearing a light blue shirt with a pair of glasses hanging from his shirt. He is wearing sunglasses with a skullcap just like me. The background of the picture is the Western Wall. You can see the cracks in each brick showing that the bricks are old. There are hundreds of notes in each crack of the bricks. Each note is a hand written request of God. In the picture I am happy and smiling. My face reflects the fun time I have been having on an amazing vacation, and how I love being with my older brother. I am thinking, “It is not everyday that I get to see the Western Wall“, and “How beautiful the Western Wall really is when you see it in person“. Leading up to the picture, I woke up in Chashmonaim and went to the bus stop right outside the village. I waited for the Superbus heading to Jerusalem to come to my stop so I could get on. When the bus arrived, I got right on and paid the driver. I found an open seat on the bus and sat. About twenty-five minutes went by until the bus came to its final stop. I stepped off the bus and met up with my older brother. He and I headed for the Western Wall. We arrived at the Western Wall after a bit of a walk with the sun beating down on us. I then asked an older looking Sephardi man in Hebrew, if he would take a picture of my brother and me. The nice man replied in Hebrew saying “Yes”. I handed him my phone.

After he took the picture of my brother and me, I thanked him. He handed me my phone back. My brother then took me to the school that he had been studying in for the past two years.

He gave me a tour of the school. He showed me his old dorm, the kitchen, and learning center.

We then left the school and walked around the streets of Jerusalem looking for stuff for me to buy to bring back to America.

Today I am seventeen years old and I am in Chicago. Chicago is a great place, but I still remember the amazing times I had in Israel. I chose this picture because this is the picture my mom had printed out after I sent it to her. I figured if this is the only picture my mom printed out of my brother and me, it must be a good, meaningful picture.

”Bus Stop”-Revital Chavel

“Great Lakes”- Rena Auerbach

Common App {Machol Benmelech} I happen to like books best when they are a bit creased and frayed. There is something inherently appealing about their yellowed papers and coffee stains. Of course, there is much to be said for the exhilarating crack of a new book’s spine, but I always find that books that have undergone a little too much love tell more stories than those that still wear their price tags.

When we moved to America my parents could only bring along a few suitcases. They had to choose which parts of their lives to pack into a few square feet, because there are only so many moments you can fly with, only so much past that fits in the cargo area. When my parents had to select their kilos they chose to fill their bags with books, so when we arrived in a different world we could always read of home.

Our mobile library became a traveling Tabernacle of sorts, accompanying my family as we moved over the years. It was to be a cornerstone of any residence. At times it was only books piled on other volumes for shelves, unlike the floor to ceiling room it is now, but to us it has always been the library— always filled with stories, written and otherwise.

Mine is a world that has always been library-centric. My life’s orbit centers around books and stories within a biblio-cosmos, and in the very heart of it all stands my library, quiet and patient. I have spent much of my childhood there reading of other galaxies and times, and have come to understand that though reading is often regarded as an individual activity, it is very much the opposite. I have but one life that I may live, but through the written word, through what may be seen as only a few splotches of ink on paper, I transgress into existences that otherwise would remain utterly foreign to me.

I have always hated no trespassing signs, always found them cold and dismissive. I think that very often, perhaps without intent, we each put metaphorical trespassing signs up around the edges of our lives, too afraid of letting anyone into our homes. Reading bulldozes these barriers to the ground. Destroys our whitewashed fences. Through literature comes the realization that the human experience is very much a collective one.

So I love my library not for being a room, but for being a passport, a plane ticket, and a key. I grew up hundreds and thousands of miles away from my extended family, but I find them often in the words I read. I see my grandparents less often than I do my dentist, but reading books they themselves read as children has a way of drying up the seas between us. More than this, in words I meet people whose lives I would otherwise be ignorant of, fully unaware of beating hearts who share the same pains and joys as I. Some of those lives have been imagined by their authors, but I attest that they are all very much real to me.

It is no surprise that the invention of the printing press revolutionized history.

In that moment an entire world of possibility was opened; people discovered humanity’s potential, a godliness of sorts— the power to emphasize through literature. Perhaps Johannes Gutenberg did not realize at the time the flame he had ignited, but I do, and realize it again every time I open a book in my library.

My parents taught me early the power of literature, always believing like Cicero that a room without books is like a body without a soul. So when it comes time for me to pack my own little suitcase I will fill it up with words and imagination. The beginings of my own library.

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How to Play the Piano {Nechama Goldstein}

When you are ready to play, take a deep breath. Relax.

Sit back with your feet flat on the floor and your back straight.

Open the book to the piece you want to play. Study it.

Place your fingers on the keyboard so you can reach most of the keys you will need to play.

Examine the piece for changes in sound and tempo.

Check for keys that would require you to move your fingers.

When your parents come home, ignore the noise of your garage door opening and closing.

Filter out the sound of their footsteps and calling “We’re home!”

Focus on how proud they’ll be to see you playing.

Think about how much they enjoy hearing you play.

When they applaud, appreciate how caring they are.

Be thankful that they have invested so much money for your lessons.

Be grateful that your mother’s piano was shipped from New York so you could play the same one she played when she was your age.

When you make a mistake, stay calm. Review the music and consider why you made that mistake. Perhaps circle the notes that you played incorrectly. Resume playing. Feel relieved you made a mistake while practicing at home and not during the recital.

When the time comes for you to play in a recital, remember the standing ovation you received last time. Remember how proud you were.

Hear your instructor call your name and announce the name of the piece you will play.

Thank her when she whispers “good luck.”

Realize how big this piano is. It could never fit in your living room.

Glance into the audience.

Spot your parents and grandparents somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

Find your father behind the video camera he rarely uses.

When you begin playing, imagine yourself playing at home, only for your parents and grandparents. Remember how many hours you spent practicing this piece.

Ignore the audience. Contemplating how large the crowd is will intimidate you.

Know that your parents will be proud no matter what, but hope for the bonus of pleasing the whole audience.

When you finish playing, take your book off the stand and take a bow. Listen to the applause.

Watch everyone clap. Watch your father smile as he puts the video camera back into its case, until next time.

When you find your family waiting for you at the front door, listen to their praise.

Hear your mother repeatedly exclaim, “I’m so proud of you!”

Listen to your parents compare you to the other children and discuss each person’s performance. Be proud of your accomplishment.

A Broken Man {Matan Bauman} The wheels of his car roll down the street as my feet cross over into his bedroom. My eyes automatically stop at his Acoustic guitar lying on the floor. The strings of the beautiful, soft-sounding Acoustic guitar would create sound all day and all night, though other times it was the loud and rough-sounding noise of the electric one, now hanging on the wall, that filled our big house. In the blackness of the night my eyes would jolt open as the noise of the guitar shook through my brain though my body stayed in my bed as the noise continued on, but then the noise would stop as his eyes closed and his brain shut off while his body lay on the floor, fast asleep, the guitar moving up and down on his chest according to his breathing. His many clothes surrounded his Acoustic guitar, clothes filed into his bedroom without a care for how hard the work was to gather the money used to buy the clothes. I throw my fists down at my sides, only spending the money I earned and giving nothing back in return and the clothes bought by the hard earned money were tossed and turned all throughout the bedroom. No care, just spending.

Smoke streams out of my ears as different outfits and different styles flash through my mind, he just need this and need this and everyone was wearing that!

My heart pounds in my chest as my feet shuffle farther into his room and hit the soft material of the deflated, round, orange ball that was used in the game that gave his school another trophy. Why did he choose basketball? It didn’t make any sense, all the sweaty players running up and down the court, throwing around an orange ball, striped with black lines, there was no point to shooting a basket, or making a pass, why couldn’t he have chosen something more productive? Like chess--a warm feeling spreads through my body thinking of the exhilarating game-chess is logical and fun and a lot more productive than basketball. No need for sweat or running or baskets or passes just two opponents and pawns and knights and bishops, the black and white squares blurring your vision. I stop walking. I looked around the now unoccupied room.

My body freezes. And I realize that he is never coming back. Tears stream down my eyes. I realize that it is all my fault.

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The Raven Continued {Sarah Quintas}

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more.

So I promptly then concluded that I must have been deluded By my mind, which still was thinking of the death of sweet Lenore.

With my thoughts still dark and bloody, I returned back to my study.

When it came again—the knock—now so much louder than before.

Yes, it came again and pounded this time louder than before.

Far too loudly to ignore.

Then I feigned a calm demeanor, as the tapping grew yet keener, With my head still full of lurid thoughts, transgressing into gore.

And that knocking sound, once vexing, soon became outright perplexing For I knew that there was no one who was knocking at my door.

Yes, the empty hall showed clearly there was no one at my door.

So then why were my ears sore?

With my mind aching and paining and my bright face quickly waning Every miniscule, small movement suddenly became a chore.

As the mien seemed to grow eerie, I began to plot a theory: That some madness took me over after losing my Lenore.

Could I not handle the morbid truth of losing dear Lenore?

Oh, I should have guessed before!

With the knocking never ending and my sanity descending I began to fear that nothing would be as it was before.

My poor head was hot and burning and my stomach kept on churning.

But still none of it was real and of this fact I was quite sure.

My caprice imagination took me over, I was sure.

I was raving at my core!

And the sound grew only louder, turning my brain into chowder.

I was at the mercy of a beast my burdened conscious bore.

And this loud, odious quaver made it so I had to aver That indeed I’d lost my mind just as I’d lost my love Lenore.

For that day it seems that I not only lost my love Lenore.

Oh, that noise, I did abhor!

As things got more unbecoming, I soon feared I was succumbing To the madness that each second only seemed to strengthen more.

I found trouble now discerning what was real—which was concerning.

As the insidious atmosphere chilled me right to the core.

I trembled in trepidation, terrified right at my core.

I could not take any more.

My antipathy was rising—yes, that sound I was despising.

But with paranoia growing, I just had to check the door.

To myself, I griped and grumbled as I walked—or rather stumbled To the hall, but it was just as empty as it was before.

No one there, it stayed just as lonely as it was before.

I cried, but knew not what for.

Suddenly as it once started, the strange knocking sound departed.

So I quaffed a shot of whiskey hoping to settle the score.

But the whiskey I prescribed did not quite wish to be imbibed And I vomited, thus soiling my lovely, hardwood floor.

In a fit of shaky terror, I collapsed onto the floor (Though the tapping was no more.)

Now my carpet, once pristine, rendered ruined and unclean As I clenched my wooden pillory lest I fall down once more.

As I choked on my own bile, I exclaimed full of revile: “Why won’t you just leave me be—I never meant to kill Lenore!

Some foul demon took control that night—not me. I loved Lenore.

Leave me, leave me, I implore!”

So ever since that midnight dreary, I have grown more than just weary.

I’ve since pushed aside all of my books of old, forgotten lore.

For I fear a page might rustle, so I daren’t move a muscle.

Lest I cause again the tapping that once haunted my front door.

Now I sit alone in silence staring at that wretched door.

Not to stir for evermore.

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54 Every Story Is a Love Story {Machol Benmelech} Every story is a love story.

Between a man and his country, between a man and his money, between a man and power, between man and himself. And yes, between a man and someone who makes him believe that all these other love stories mean nothing when compared to the hope-shaped idea that man need not exist alone. Mine is a love story between ink-splattered pages and a girl whose imagination sometimes got into her eyes.

�Rumour has it

�-Elisheva K

rinsky

55 The Meaning of Potential {Shoham Benmelech} We received an assignment from Ms. Goldstein the other day asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Potential.” It presumably is my duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly my pleasure.

Surely Ms. Goldstein knows what potential is. It is the recurring nightmare consistently ignored. Potential is a race with no finish line and a full tank of gas with lost keys. It is the moment your feet leave the diving board. It is the stagnant question mark that looms in the distance, too heavy to fall without repercussion. Potential is Pandora’s box disguised as a cookie jar. It is found in abandoned school benches before the first bell, in creaseless book spines, and in unopened mail. It a skein of yarn bought for Schrödinger’s cat. Potential is the inconsistency between theory and reality, the alluded and the truth. It is a shelf that is too high to reach, even with a ladder.

Potential is a lit match. Potential is an open-ended prompt for a paper, suggested in the midst of junior year, wanting to know what potential is.

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Stereotypes {Zoey Shulman} We’re not all the same In fact, we are mostly different But you view us all the same Which we are far from We have eyes of blues and greens and browns We are sized from 7 feet tall all the way down to 3 we feel the same experience as sad or happy We see the same scenery as “Take it or leave it” or amazing If we were all the same you’d be right If we were all the same we’d be bored If we all make the same mistakes how do we survive?

Uniformity kills You paint us in one solid color However, we are many shades Each of us with a different personality We aren’t all the same What you say is wrong You speak out of ignorance Your words bring much pain Why can’t stereotypes just go away?

”DUFF”- Basia Abel

”Beautiful Fool” -Zoe Wolmark

57 ”Cover-up” -Zalman Brimm

“Red Lips”-Yakira Kolom

“Call for Help” -Shoham BenMelech

58 I Am

{Zoey Shulman}

I am eyes I see your pain I see your struggle more importantly I can see the light at the end of the tunnel I am ears I hear your cries I hear your panic more importantly I can hear your luck turning around I am lips I tell your fears away I tell your tragedy to end More importantly I can tell you it’ll all be better I am human I make mistakes I let you down But most importantly I am your friend

How to Work Hard, Persevere, and Never Stop {Ilana Peritt}

If you can have your own opinions and not allow other peoples opinions to triumph your own If you can wait for the right moment to persue your dreams And risk it all maybe to lose your hope for some time If you can be lied to and struggle with not behaving the same way And trust yourself enough to only follow your heart and nothing else If you can help others in disaster when the truth is that your situation is worse And build others up before thinking about helping your self If you can watch something happen and not be bystander And lose your own dignity just to gain the trust of someone else If you can be kind enough to yourself to put your needs before others And still remain loyal to everyone around you You’ll become more content and happy with how you’ve become And will inspire others to care about themselves

”Muse” Zoey Shulman

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60 How to be a Caring Sister {Raylie Aberman} When you see his face immediately notice the redness in his eyes, and the streaks of moisture where tears must have recently trickled down.

Ask him how his appointment went, even though it obviously couldn’t have been good.

Listen to him explain how the procedure will happen. Try to comfort him.

Ask if you can help; know you can’t.

Watch your mother frantically call doctors for a second, third, or fourth opinion. See the immediate change in her expression when there is no one left to call- the surgery will happen.

Feel your heart drop when he tells you he is afraid.

Picture him on the wrestling mat wearing his vibrant smile as he pins someone to the ground. Imagine how he must feel to know he can never again participate in the activity he loves most.

Know that no matter how bad you feel for him there is nothing you can do to fix this situation.

Watch the disgust and disappointment in his face as he finds out- if the doctor had remembered to check the year before this could have been prevented.

Wonder why this had to happen to him, and try to think it’s for the good.

Helplessly watch as he winces, heavily sedated in his bed.

Dread the moment he awakens full of pain, and realize what he has just undergone.

Examine his face as he begs you for a pillow; run to be able to assist him, even in a minor way.

Remember the face he wore the day he told you the dreadful news.

Realize that he now bares the same face; appearing more pained than the time before.

Understand that the emotional trauma that awaits him will be significantly more difficult than the physical trauma he faces now.

Listen to him as he says he has nothing left, and try to convince him he is wrong.

Try to focus on your schoolwork as thoughts of his pain flood your thoughts.

Attempt to clear this of your mind for now. But know which commitment is most important in your life.

And his. ”Bars” - Yoni Asher

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The Meaning of Time

”Time is of the Essence”-Rena Auerbach

{Ben Weinger}

Surely you should know the meaning of time. It’s light and it’s dark, and it’s ticking and tocking. It’s five past six, and it’s nine o’clock. It’s morning, it’s afternoon, it’s evening, and it’s night. But how can it be all of those moments and more? Time must have another meaning. It must be something larger than we can imagine. Time is like infinity; it is something we cannot measure. Time is eternal; it is a never ending moment. Time is like the universe, which never ends. And time is like currency, but has a much greater value.

But on a more personal level, time can be measured. Time is the 39 minutes I sit in English. Time is the measurement of how many hours until I will graduate high school.

Time is the factor in every business meeting.

Time is the seconds counting down on a timer.

Time is my internal clock that tells me when to wake up. And time is the factor that quantifies my life and my death.

“Eternity”-Yishai Campbell

62 Spinal Fusion {Noah Aberman} he future is my destination and the year is 2024. I am spending this year trying to perfect a new, less invasive, and more mobility-granting scoliosis surgery technique, because I had spinal fusion surgery with the current method of treatment a little over a year and a half ago, and it drastically changed the way I will be able to live my life. Even though it is too late for me to change the way I can live, I want to change the way future generations of people with scoliosis will be able to live their lives. Throughout this year I would work with all of the top scoliosis and spinal surgeons in the world and together we would experiment with the equipment and materials for scoliosis treatment, test the new surgery on study participants, and perfect our new method. This surgery would be able to give patients a better quality of life because it will allow them a larger range of motion afterwards, as well as resulting in a shorter recovery process and less pain.

Prior to my surgery I had a deformity in my personality similar to the one in my spine. I was operating under the belief that my identity revolved solely around my success in sports and my strong connection to Judaism. The diagnosis of having surgical scoliosis as well as learning of the extent of the surgery shocked me into a state of confusion, so I began to question G-d. I wondered why I was being punished for following his rules in the correct way and what I did to deserve this punishment. I strayed so far from G-d that even though I believed that he existed, out of spite I refused to follow anything out of love, but rather chose to follow out of fear. Learning that I would have to spend six days in the hospital, two months out of school, and nine months prohibited from physical activities led me to believe that I would also lose my athletics, and combined with my lost relationship with G-d, I felt as if I no longer had my identity.

The recovery process was one of hardest periods in my life, but it gave me a lot of time to reflect on everything that had happened to me so quickly over the year preceding my surgery. This long period of bed rest enabled me to find my deeper self and learn things about my personality that I never knew before. I was able to focus on things that I had previous interest in but did not have the time to explore, such as Bnei Akiva and other school activities. I realized that my friends and teachers viewed me as more than an athlete and a good Jew, and I was successful in reaffirming and strengthening my relation-

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ship with G-d.

After reading this essay, the reader would assume that I would have elected to spend a year of my time in the past, a few years before I found that I had scoliosis in order to be able to prevent the need for surgery. Going back, I would have been able to prevent the need for surgery by being diagnosed earlier and using non-surgical treatment methods, such as bracing, that can only be used on mild cases of scoliosis. This is where the reader would be mistaken, because I would not change my experience from the time that I was diagnosed to the time that I had the surgery until now.

Knowing that it would be my last, I had the best season of my wrestling career. I also pushed myself to do things I never thought I would have been able to do. I found courage, confidence, and happiness but the most important thing I was able to find was a sense of what was missing from my life. If I went back in time and prevented this from happening, I would have missed out on one of the most important experiences of my life. Even though my experience changed my life for the better, this surgery did take away some important physical abilities. I am no longer as flexible as I was, I can’t wrestle competitively, I cannot get any taller, and there is occasional pain. Therefore, it was an easy decision for me to travel into the future to create a better method for this surgery allowing future recipients a better quality of life for them and their families, while still enabling them to transform their lives if they want to rather than because they have no other choice.

Sis-Boom-Bah�Revital Chavel

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How to Win a Game {Ilana Peritt} If you can let your will to succeed triumph through the pain and the loss, And not give up even if every single bone and muscle in your body is begging you to.

If you can trust your teammates to do what is best for the team, And watch others succeed without giving up on yourself.

If you can continue to dream big while those around you are narrow minded, And never give up on those dreams no matter how difficult the journey may be.

If you can think about your future and continue to build yourself up, And risk it all maybe for everything to end in disaster.

If you can allow yourself to work to your full potential, And not lie or brag about how good you’ve become.

If you can have destinations and goals to reach in your head, And not wait to the end of the game to show people your strength.

If you can believe in your heart that you can win and achieve at anything, And tell yourself that this is the truth, and it will happen.

If you can take those few seconds in the game, And make them your own.

If you can use all your rage on the court to win the game, And still be respectful and courteous to your opponents.

If you can keep your cool when your team is down by twenty points, And motivate others when you yourself are down in the dumps.

Then the court is ready for you, and the smell of victory is sweet.

So go out there and play like it’s your last time.

“Fountain of Youth”-Frannie Miller

“Converging Planes” - Frannie Miller

How To Let a Brother Go

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{Raphi Chernoff}

When he tells you he is going to Israel for the year, try to act happy for him even though you dread the day he will leave.

Tell him how excited you are for him and how great a time he will have. Try not to show the fear you have of losing him.

Listen to him go on and on about the yeshiva he will be at and how much he will learn and experience.

Help him pack up his stuff from the room you have shared for the past fifteen years.

Remember the excitement you had on the day your parents showed you the room you would be sharing with him.

Realize that when you were younger and fought with him and then hated sharing a room with him, you were wrong then. Forgive him for the things he said and did to you and hope he forgives you too.

Remember the late nights you spent talking to him and reading with him on his bed; the times that you weren’t feeling well and he helped you get through it; the conversations and jokes you had that cheered you up or just brought a smile to your face. Remember that anticipation you had for the time that you would be alone together even if you did not talk.

Hold on to these memories and cherish them for when you are old.

Tell him now that you love him, and wonder how you were ever mad at him.

Drive with him to the airport where he will be getting on a plane and leaving. Fallow him through the check in line, and for the first time in your life hope the lines are long and the plane is delayed.

Hug him for the last time. Feel his warmth and breathe in deeply in order to try to keep his smell with you. Hear him say his last words to you, “Bye, I love you,” and say the same thing back to him because that is all you can muster to get out.

Watch him turn around and walk to his plane and then disappear from sight.

Look around and see the look in your parents’ eyes and know they feel the same way you do.

Stand there waiting for his plane to take off. Pray he will be fine and the plane ride will be successful.

Drive back home and run to your room. Feel that there is something missing. Feel the emptiness.

Do not sleep that whole first night because of the loneliness you feel. Do not sleep because for your whole life you have felt as if he has been protecting you when you went to sleep, and now he no longer can.

Think to yourself and know that it is his life and you cannot keep him next to you forever. Know that sometimes you have to let things and brothers go.

But keep loving him more and more and never lose touch.

Because you’re brothers forever. ”Chimp”-Shoham Benmelech

66 I Repeat {Revital Chavel} I stretch my neck, shoulders, back, then legs, as instructed. I work out my arms, legs, then core. I rise to releve and kick my leg when the music calls for it.

I stop because my teacher tells us to focus.

My teacher models the first steps. One, and two, and a-three, and four.

In, out, up, down, pull, slide, pop, pop. She models and I imitate. Five, and a-six, seven, and eight. Cross, cross, blades, hit, hit, pull. She dances the eight-count to the music. I watch her weight shifting and her toes pointing. I dance the eightcount. I repeat it. I repeat it again. I am entranced. I repeat it until I don’t need to think because the steps melt into one statement. I watch my teacher and I imitate and I repeat; I am strong and focused. Class is suddenly over.

My face is red, my hair is wet, and the muscles in my thighs are tight, but I am determined. At home I close two doors and turn the volume up. I stretch and I work out and I free-style because my teacher isn’t there to tell me not to. I stop because I know I should focus anyway.

I run through the dance using small motions in order to regulate my body to the order of steps. I repeat. I add oomph to each step by slamming the ins and outs and puncturing the ups and stabbing the downs. I expand the pull, push the slide, savor the pops. I am passionate. Crosses barricading my chest act as armor.

Outstretched blades at my sides represent invincibility. I hit because I fight. I run my hands up the sides of my body to pull my spirit out through my dance.

I repeat.

Victory {Eliana Arnett} Balancing my fifteen year old feet on the sand below, my right foot in front of the left.

Wondering where the ball would fall, and aware of the runners ahead of me.

The green grass surrounding the diamond, is still wet from yesterday’s rain.

It is a safe place here on the softball field.

Wearing my knee length pants and number fourteen jersey, I am anxious and impatient, waiting for the pitcher to throw the ball.

As soon as the ball hits the bat, I challenge myself to run as fast as I can toward the next base.

Thoughts of victory come to mind as I slide into home plate.

My parents and teammates cheer enthusiastically, celebrating my game-winning run.

I look over at the stands to see my mom smiling and cheering me on, as my dad joins me on the field.

“You did a great job,” he would say.

I smile back happily and respond, “Thanks, Coach.”

”Ripple Effect”-Oshrat Faratci

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Believe to Succeed

{Eliana Dachman}

If you feel pressured to lie and act like others, Take a risk and throw the lie away.

If you throw the lie out, and keep your heart next to your dreams Friends might ruin them until there are no more dreams to destroy.

If you begin watching the moment instead of living in the moment You will regret forever for being selfish.

If you don’t live in the moment, and instead you wait for chances, Those chances of happiness will slip away.

If you trust friends too much and take no control, The trust of others will deceive you and will launch you back to square one.

If you end up at square one, and allow yourself to rebuild From your mistakes you will grow and gain from triumph.

If you can keep smiling when all others frown, The smiles will help others distance themselves from disaster.

If you Believe in yourself when all others are in doubt, You will lose your troubles and gain your

confidence.

”Heaven’s Gate”-Oshrat Faratci;

“Buoy”-Sophie Gor

don

Seven

{Jennifer Sorscher}

Standing on the sidelines at the JCC, I watched as my sister dribbled the ball down the court.

Suddenly the basketball rolled slowly off the court, stopping right next to me. I was seven.

I stared in awe as the ball spun perfectly, a ballerina.

I held the basketball in my arms, as if I was holding a newborn baby.

I imagined the ball being my new best friend-- fun and exciting. I was seven.

We can score the winning point of a basketball game, we can make it to the high school basketball team, then to the college team, and finally together we can make it to the WNBA. I was seven.

I opened my eyes.

Everyone is watching as I hold the basketball in my hands.

I must return the basketball to the referee.

I smiled, seven.

Zack Cooper & Yoni Asher

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Obfuscation {Haia Bchiri} Ten minutes to places Checking my small personal props, bobby-pinning my partially-dyed hair, smoothing my multi-layered costume, re-applying my blood-red lipstick, I make my final rounds as Haia the Nervous Actress.

Five minutes to place “Haia, my makeup smudged!”

“She’s crying!”

“Ohgoshohgoshohgosh, I’m going to mess up so badly!”

“Haia! Haia! Haia!” (“Yes?”) “Break a leg!”

Hugging over excited-yet-terrified teens, comforting panicking children, fixing 11th hour makeup disasters, I perform one last time (until intermission) as Haia the Counselor/Makeup Designer/Camp Therapist.

Places “Break a leg.”

Squeezing my best friends’ sweaty hands and walking toward the double doors to the theater side-by-side with my cast mates, I allow Haia the Friend to surface, but only for a moment.

Lights up I leave all of the Haias behind in the dressings room as Madame Thenardier takes over my costumed body and mind and takes the stage in Les Miserables.

Audiences voluntarily submit themselves to the strange mix of obfuscation and the eschewing of obfuscation that is theater.Theater immortalizes moments in history while embodying timeless elements of the human condition. Theater asks audience members to suspend their disbelief and live in world where optimistic animals dance, vengeful barbers sing to their victims, arguments can be solved with a duet, death is choreographed beautifully, and life lasts around two and a half hours. Theater feeds the now-open minds of the audience truths about themselves and the society in which they lived. Leaving the room of costumed performers, the theatergoers can see behind the curtain of the real world. The costumed performers, on the other hand, are not always so fortunate.

Act One I, no, Madame Thenardier cusses out her beloved husband and partner in crime. She steals, she swindles, she sleeps around. She coddles her precious Eponine, watches her little Gavroche from afar, and gives that little brat Cosette what she deserves. Haia has no say in the matter. Haia is a method actress.

How can I describe method acting? Method acting is what makes Mrs. Daniel

Day Lewis live with a different man every time her husband is in a movie. Method acting is the reason the journal that Heath Ledger left behind was written in Heath’s hand but not with his mind. Method acting is what makes my friends tell me that I look as if “someone else [is] talking and moving through” me. Method acting is what makes me wonder if they are not wrong.

Intermission Haia the Effects Master is on duty for the next 15 minutes, but her mind is corrupted. She must share her psyche with the woman who has occupied it for the past hour and will take complete control of it again as soon as places is called. In the meantime, I rig packets of fake blood onto the chests of the soon-to-be martyrs while making unrepeatable comments to Madame Thenardier’s lover.

I do not have a dirty mind or a foul mouth: I am simply a trained method actress. I was trained to see and feel and talk and think and eat and sleep and walk and breathe like the character I am playing. The result is a more believable performance and a more confused teenager.

Act Two Bang. Bang. Bang. The gunshots pierce my son’s body and my heart. I whisper his name over and over, along with that of his sister, my little girl who died on that barricade for that bloody student Marius. My body convulses with the sobs of a mother twice bereft and I clutch my castmate’s jacket just to stay on my feet. I am not on stage.

Whose feeling are whose? At times, I have no idea. I am left wondering if I am actually in love, actually in pain, actually enraged, or actually enraptured. Ultimately, I can take apart my thoughts and emotions and recognize which belong to Haia and which belong to Madame Thenardier or Laurey Williams or Mary Mcleod or the Artful Dodger. The trouble is, I have to put in effort to do that. When I am simply letting my mind wander, I am plagued by the same ailment that ravages the method acting community: obfuscation. We consciously don new costumes and personalities, and then we have to struggle to wrench those costumes from our bodies and those personalities from our minds. We are not always successful.

Eight Months After Closing Night Haia the Daughter clears the table while singing “Beggars at the Feast” under her breath. She looks in the mirror, and Madame Thenardier’s eyes glimmer wickedly back at her. A few days later, Haia the Counselor catches up with her ten-year-old camper, and Madame Thenardier grows jealous of her husband’s new love interest.

Then, Haia the Student sits down to write a paper about method acting, and Madame Thenardier doubles over and whispers “No, no, no, no!” as the teenager who shares her body summarizes the deaths of the Thenardier children. The lines between Haia and Madame Thenardier remain blurred.

Audiences can walk away from the obfuscation inspired and eschewed by theater. Actors, however, do not have that luxury.

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Ode to the Elevator Button {Joey Weinger} Oh elevator button, with your sleek shine and perfectly round shape. How would I get to the fifth floor without you? Your dazzling orange color combined with your smooth feeling; what a wonderful experience! Without you, elevator button, I couldn’t get to where I want to go, to the appointment which will take place or to where I will spend more money. The joy that comes to me when I hear that ring, how delightful! You are stationed in the perfect place right next to your colleagues, on the panel that looks like gold. With the font of your number and the size that I can read, you are simply amazing! You let strangers be kind to each other, “Which floor sir?” You stay in place, just letting people touch and touch. You don’t even complain when I press too hard, because that’s just who you are. I know elevator button. You don’t get the credit you deserve. Please accept my poem of praise and I will be sure toremember you when I ride that box-like invention you sit in, day after day.

“Blank Space”-Revital Chavel

“How do you like Me-ow”- Frannie Miller

Fingers {Tamar Grey}

Take a close look at your fingers. Not your thumb—that high-profile opposable appendage gets too much attention. Look at the three bones on each of the four remaining fingers on your hand. They are your phalanges. “Phalange” comes from the word phalanx, a Greek military formation. Just like the Greek phalanxes moved together as one unit, so do the three phalanges. One phalange can’t move without the other two because joints and tendons tie them together. On its own, a single phalange may seem useless; together, three phalanges give the fingers the dexterity needed to create the iron-clad grip which mankind has mastered for holding, pulling, and carrying—a paradigm of form begetting function.

That grip has moved beyond its pure mechanical uses and has become central to nonverbal forms of communication. Sign language, instrumental music, visual art, and even the impassioned fist are all forms of expression that require the participation of phalanges. To properly grip the neck of my guitar, I need my phalanges’ full availability. After jamming my fingers playing basketball, I have to tape them together as a splint. Then, I can’t form any chord (barring barre chords), because my splint denies my phalanges their full range of motion. That physical limitation extends to taking notes in class, using the phone, and even driving, because our world is shaped around our manual dexterity. Fingers are key middlemen between our aspirations and accomplishments.

To avoid losing that grip on reality when the phalanges are disabled, we find ways to keep our fingers—the physical FireWires between our brains and the world— in action. By attaching paintbrushes to his hand with strips of cloth, the French Impressionist painter Renoir continued creating his masterpieces well into old age while suffering from severe rheumatoid arthritis. In the end, though, what’s so special about our three phalanges? Isn’t it the brain that’s accountable for human creativity? Stephen Hawking proves that, at least in modern times, full motor use of the hands is not necessary in order to be recognized as one of the greatest minds of our generation.

Still, we give the brain enough credit; we underrate our phalanges, which often act as tethers for our scattered thoughts. In second grade, I tried doing long division in my head. My teacher scolded me. How was I supposed to find my mistakes? How could I expect to successfully work out the hardest problem sets of the second grade without putting my thoughts on paper? I needed to use my hands, my fingers, my phalanges.

We can solve difficult problems by being hands on. This idiom recognizes that, from Rubik’s Cubes to differential equations, we often use our hands—but really our fingers—to arrive at solutions. In the end, the three phalanges routinely play a critical role in working out whatever problem is at hand, so let’s give a hand to the phalanges for being so awesome.

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Balancing {Ben Weinger} “Life is what happens to you when you’re planning your future.�--Unknown I am a planner. I am an organizer. And my life happens when I plan for my future. I know what I want to do in life, what I want to be in life, and where I want to live, and, although I known these dreams are likely to change, I work my hardest to plan for my future and to be prepared for anything life has to throw at me. I know that having a perfect attendance record, good grades, and many accomplishments is not necessary for my future because I will look back on my high school days and wonder why I worked so hard. But, I know that in order to create good habits for my future, I must start these habits at a young age. Thus, every action I make, every assignment I complete, and every achievement I obtain are helping me plan for my future. Every conversation I have prepares me and teaches me lessons for my future, and every mistake I make will be a reminder for the rest of my life of what not to do. And, as I plan for my future, my life is going by in a flash. I am missing out on fun experiences and childhood events now when I am young, but, as an adult, I will be smarter and more serious than if I were to spend my young adulthood fooling around. As each day passes, I am realizing that life is what is happening as I plan my future.

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The End of Forever {Brocha Shanes} The end of forever is coming Soon They don’t know when Only that boundless is an Illusion And forever is a lie Used by lovers And mothers To buy time where it doesn’t Exist The end of forever is coming It always was

76 Balancing {Amanda Sugar} I am sitting at my desk on a beautiful Sunday morning next to a pile of books.

Still tired and in my pajamas, I press play on my Ipod and start my long day of work.

My father appears to ask if I need anything from the store since I will be stuck at my desk for hours on end.

My mother then asks me when I will be finished.

She wants to spend the day with me, but being a 15 year old who attends a Jewish school, we don’t always get that pleasure.

She tells me not to worry and goes on with her day.

My fingers keep typing, the words keep appearing on the page, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

I am frustrated.

Homework , which is supposed to help me, is now making my relationship with my parents a challenge.

It is breaking my balance between school and family.

Family time is transforming into school time.

School gets to have me for 10 hours a day, five days a week and now, it won’t let my parents have me for just a few hours.

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Young Woman {Haia Bchiri} The first time The little girl Opens her eyes She grabs the hand Of the young woman And looks up.

The mother picks her up When she shatters the nighttime And sings to her little girl With weary brown eyes As she cries and waves her little hand Until she’s lulled to sleep by the young woman.

In rushes the young woman To school to pick her up After they’re truly apart for the first time Then out runs her little girl With smiles in her dark eyes And a scribbled gift in her hand.

“Could you give me a hand?”

She asks the young woman And from piles of homework looks up And bleakly notes the time So the mother sits with her little girl And they work ‘til they both must close their eyes.

The highway rushes past her eyes As she grips the wheel in her hand And quickly glances at the young woman Who worriedly watches her little girl While dutifully recording the time.

But far too quickly flows time And she gazes at her little girl Who is now on level with her own brown eyes And long-fingers, growing hands That can lift themselves without the young woman Who was once needed to pull them up.

But the daughter knows she need only reach out her hand And her mother will catch the young woman Who once was her little girl.

”Stare”-

Shoham

Benmele

ch

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The Meaning of Relief

{Didi Karp}

Relief is the neat column of boxes all checked off. It is Houston — we have lift-off, a familiar face in a crowd. Relief is the “I’m ok” text from the loved one in a war zone, the first breathe of fresh air after crawling out of the bomb shelter. It is the final catch that ensures the playoffs, the beeper announcing the test is over. It’s the unclenching of fists and lowering of arms. The second step back from the ledge, the exhale of a bated breathe, and the uncrossing of fingers. Relief is the big red seal reading approval loudly stamping the visas, the final printing of the term paper. It’s the release of the armrest, smooth sailing, and perfect conditions. It is a couple pages after the cliffhanger when the hero’s cunning plan succeeds. Relief is knowing what, along with when, where, how and why just for good measure. It’s catching the bus and it’s standing still. It is the announcement that everything is going to plan, right on time, right on schedule. Relief is the cheers of encore, the final bows, and the after-party. It is the elevator ride down from the first interview, the pile of RSVPs returned promptly. Relief is the weight of the world being lifted from your shoulders, the pressure of an all-encompassing embrace. It’s sleeping peacefully through the night, and it’s waking up right before the nightmare can reach the climax. It is a firm grip, and feet planted steadily on the ground. Relief is recognizing that what you thought was real was only just a game. And you’ve won. ”Freedom”-Rina Jacobs

“Free Willie” -Akiva Garfinkel

79 Ten

{Raphi Chernoff} In the woods behind my country house I found beneath a tree on a cool summer afternoon a berry bush with big juicy berries as it sat there waiting to be picked from. I was ten.

I admired the color of the berries, the deep black tint, the bright green leaves, they were calling out to me asking me to pick them; I reached my hand down and grabbed a whole bunch. I was ten.

In my hands I could picture me squashing them making a jam, or baking a pie for my whole family, biting into it and having the juice dribble down my chin onto my shirt, but still loving every bite. I was ten.

Thinking I didn’t recognize these berries, they weren’t any type I’ve ever eaten or seen before realizing I couldn’t eat them they might be poisonous and for sure inedible, I immediately let them fall slowly spilling them out of my hands, giving them back I stood there, ten.

Zack Cooper & Yoni Asher

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Pillar of Fire

{Didi Karp}

inspired by the sculpture titled “Pillar of Fire” which was designed by Egon Weiner in commemoration of the Great Chicago Fire

I used to be respected. I used to be powerful, the bringer of fear and danger, the most powerful advantage in war, and the most common betrayer.

I destroyed entire nations in one night, I decided who would live and who would die, and I was never merciful. I took parents from children, sisters from brothers, and newborns from families. Yet I was always brought back and accepted, even welcomed with open arms. For I was also loved, admired, and sought after. I allowed them to use me to their benefit. I was friendly, a comfort in the dark. I created civilization, healed the sick, gave peaceful rest to the dead, eliminated for them black-magic and sorcery, and guided them through the unknown. I was not just a destructive and punishing force, I was also one of creativity and cleansing.

It is unclear how I became, for legends mention many gods and mortals alike, as my source. Maybe it was the Titan Prometheus, or the Great Bear of the Plains, or Olofat the Trickster, or perhaps the great goddess Mahuika and her descendant Maui. Though my origin might have been unknown, my power was not. I was worshipped. Jacob’s children followed me through the Wilderness, the Vestal Virgins kept me alive in Rome, Huehueteotl’s priests would renew me in Mexico, and I was remembered on Ivan Kupala Day by the Vikings. I was the validator of sacrifices, the bringer of light, and the messenger of truth. I exposed every lie and liar for what they were. But those times are long gone, so far in the past that there is nobody around to remember them. I had survived throughout the centuries as the symbol of home, only to be driven out of my hearth. Hestia was deserted, Lo Hsüan was mocked, and Agni was abandoned. I was shunned by my past lovers, forgotten by my once devoted congregants, and dismissed by the new generation as old-fashioned. They no longer danced around me, instead they ran away from me. After hundreds of thousands of years of my unchallenged rule, they declared me to be the ultimate savage. They ignored the wounds I had cauterized, the food I had made safe, and the monsters I had driven from the shadows. They yelled about rifles, flintlocks, and rockets. I was their scapegoat and was given the blame for any misfortune. I was pushed all the way out until I was alone. Hell was no longer called a dark place, but instead a place of burning. I was hell.

My definition was changed to conflagration, with any mention of creation eradicated forever.

They sought to control me. To make me a appear and disappear on their every whim for their every need and fancy. But they had forgotten it was I who had let the harness me in the past. The control was an illusion to placate them but now I revoked that right. But they would not learn, they refused to. They began to think new thoughts, create new creations, to built new buildings, and manufacture new machines- all with the single goal and purpose.

To enslave me. I seethed with rage, vowing to fulfill their expectations of me.

I never would answer to a master. Instead I was erratic, wild, and spontaneous.

I became the epitome of the uncivilized, the undomesticated, the untouchable.

And then I burned down Chicago. My greatest victory was my downfall.

It stated in a barn and ended in a cage. I had planned to start in the city by the lake and then spread throughout the state to the rest of the country and then the entire plant. To consume them completely, to extinguish all of them. I razed the great city to the ground, I even brought the lake it to its knees. I made the whole world witness the ugly and undeniable truth of my power. There was no longer defense for the mischievous as everything became exposed. But as I turned to march on, a voice rose among the shouts addressing me, I turned. Now one had spoken to me in a long long time. The voice was that of a young child. Pure and sweet it rang out: “We will rebuild.” With those words the great lake rose up and encircled me. It fed off the child’s unwavering belief, pure and clear just like the water. It mimicked the child’s soul as it gushed as strong as the power of trust in the good that is only capable by a child. I was dowsed again and again by the child’s hope for the future until only an ember remained. The little boy captured me and when the city was rebuilt I was rebuilt into it.

Once I was free. But now my spark is trapped. But nothing can be forever as fire.

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“Towers” -Kayla Bulgatz

”Birds-Eye View”-Rebecca Shiner

82 Ah! That’s Better

{Didi Karp}

It is nearly impossible for the average teenage girl to walk down the street without her vision being thoroughly assaulted by the “New and Improved!” being boasted on countless glossy ads plastered on the front of every shop, the shiny balloons paired with bright lights confirming that the latest make and model is just inside the car dealership, and the obnoxiously large billboards that announce the location of new condominiums. And the girl does not see the filthy black smog pouring out of the factories that produce the latest and greatest, she does not hear the screech as metal crashes into metal and the distant wail of an ambulance, and she cannot feel the loose topsoil being flung haphazardly into the air to make way for new pipelines. No, instead she pats herself on the back and talks animatedly about Snuggies, and Siri; her million-miles-a-minute mouth only stopping to gape in awe of the wonders she can find at her local Walmart.

But as she hops on her Segway to whizz around her new favorite mall she slowly forgets how much she enjoyed riding her bike through her once beloved forest preserve, just as the prominent transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson noted: “Society acquires new arts, and loses old instincts…

The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of his feet” (Self-Reliance). An instinct is the purest form of survival, and she has decided to try and rid herself of that, trying to create more and more space between herself and the past. She of course knows she is better than anyone who has ever come before her. Yet she fails to grasp the point made by the naturalist,

”Geometric Shapes”Frannie Miller

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essayist, and early environmentalist, Henry David Thoreau that all her shiny gadget

in the end do not matter and will serve no purpose. “For the improvements of ages have had but little influence on the essential laws of man’s existence; as our skeletons, probably, are not to be distinguished from those of our ancestors” (Economy, 7). What this girl does not see is the beauty of what nature had already provided her with, the same beauty those who came before her had the ability to appreciate and respect.

“How high does the sycamore grow/If you cut it down then you’ll never know” sang Disney’s Pocahontas to her, but she was too enthralled by the hypnotic spinning of the chainsaw to listen.

Has she gotten to a point where she can no longer fathom how the very “improvement” she adores so much actually means nothing? Perhaps there is truly no way to make her understand Thoreau’s message of “Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity” (What I Lived For, 59). Maybe she cannot fathom purposefully choosing to spend the day relaxing in nature, watching the animals and the plants and just being.

Yet, despite all this one day in the car she wonders what the wonders what the world would be like without houses and factories, cities and streets, cars and planes, noise and smog. Right then as she closes her eyes to imagine the place uncluttered she eternalizes the beauty of the messages of Emerson and Walden. She smiles pleased with the image she is able to conjure of a time before all the “improvement” and with a sad little chuckle she remarks to herself “Civilization is like a messy room.”

“Flower’s Bloom”Shterni Strauss

84 On the Misconstruction of Philosophy {Sara Okner}

Even to one who lives simply, the indiscriminate renouncement of technology is a rejection of modern progress. If one refuses to succumb to the allure of a keyboard, and stubbornly insists on using the ancient typewriter, results will be slow, and precious time will have been wasted. Nevertheless, one should be skeptical of these “modern improvements,” because although they are genuine advancements, these “toys” may have unintended side effects. As Henry David Thoreau says: “…So with a hundred ‘modern improvements’ there is an illusion about them; there is not always a positive advance” (33).

Appropriately, the non-electronic comic strip by Jerry Scott and Jim Borgman allows one to examine transcendentalism ideals through a modern “tribute” to the video game. The video game—or a mind-distorting abuse of time—would perhaps have been the bane of Thoreau’s existence. Plugged into to his or her machine, a child loses all desire to go outside. The transcendentalist ideal to embrace the whole world, and the pragmatic philosophy’s premise of self-transcending tendency, remains completely at odds with the toy’s modern appeal. As transcenden-

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talist Henry David Thoreau stated: “We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep” (59).

To depict a teenage boy listening to a podcast of Henry David Thoreau while simultaneously engaged in a modern “mechanical aid” is therefore to depict the misconstruction of the entire philosophy.

Technology and distraction practically come hand in hand, and consequently, the ability to multi-task becomes necessary. The dual operation of playing a video game while listening to Thoreau’s rich, philosophical archive defeats Walden’s purpose.

This is because Thoreau aspired to live thoroughly: “I wanted to live deep and suck the marrow out of life” (59). His philosophy is exemplary and dictates the comic’s irony; however, the appalling means in which humans navigate the labyrinth of their overscheduled lives cannot be reconciled with Thoreau’s philosophy. This is because the philosophy disregards the screeching demands of modern living.

86 ”Golden Gate”-Eliana Dachman

“Fog”-Moshe Herst

“Elevated”- Revital Chavel

87 ”Speak”-Zoe Wolmark

“Don’t be Such a Flake”Roni Bell

“Lights” -Frannie Miller

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“On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again” An Analysis by the Attached Poem by John Keats {Haia Bchiri} In “On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again,” Keats’s narrator sees reading King Lear as a process both helpful and harmful, an activity which yields powerful, ever-changing results. This task is a necessity, in the eyes of the narrator. Keats uses imagery, meter, and rhyme scheme to showcase his narrator’s reverence for King Lear.

Throughout the poem, the image of flame repeats itself in various forms, all building up to the last line. The narrator will “burn through” the play and be “consumed in the fire” (lines 7 and 13). Even “damnation” suggests the presence of the flames that are present in traditional representations of Hell (line 6). Fire is a powerful force, capable both of warming a freezing person or cooking food and of burning down a village or even killing a person. Keats’s narrator views reading King Lear as a matter of great potential for good and evil as well. It could be a painful process (as reading a work that reflects one’s own flaws is), but it is also constructive, as he conveys in the final words of the poem: “Give my new Phoenix wing to fly at my desire” (line 14). Phoenixes may die in flame, but they are reborn in it as well; when the narrator rereads King Lear he is pained, but he is also transformed into a better person for it, inspired by its message and power.

The narrator’s dual view of King Lear is shown in the very rhyme scheme of the poem. The first eight lines end in one of two sounds as the narrator bids a fond farewell to the lighter fare that he is leaving in favor of reading the more difficult Shakespearian tragedy. In line nine, the rhyming sounds change, and so does the narrator’s approach to King Lear: His words are positive, conveying only his wish to truly reap the benefits of reading the play.

The rhyme scheme showcases more than just the dichotomy of the narrator’s views, though. The simplicity of the rhyme and its fairly consistent rhythm highlight the narrator’s idea that rereading King Lear is a basic tenant of life. Most of the rhymes are masculine, making the end of each line a straightforward statement with a familiar sound, like an old adage that one hears repeated throughout one’s life.

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Background Art Credits Front & Back Cover – Rena Auerbach Dedication – Frannie Miller 6-7 “Good Morning” - Raina Kutliroff 9 “Necktie” - Shoham Benmelech 10 “Eyes of T.J. Eckelberg” - Oshrat Faratci 19 “Momento” - Rena Auerbach 20 “Shadow“ - Raina Kutliroff 21 ”A Rose by any Other Name” - Sophie Gordon 23 “ Up in the Air” - O. Faratci 24 ”One Brick at a Time” - Ilana Goldmeir 30 ”Palm Trees” - Yoni Asher 32 “Daisy Buchanan” - Yoni Asher 36 ”The Fallen” - Ilana Peritt 44 ”Arms” - Rena Auerbach 49 ”School of Fish” - Yoni Asher 55 ”Lego” - Rena Auerbach 58-59 ”Identity” - Ilana Peritt 63 ”Steps” - Kayla Bulgatz 66 ”The Spirit of Adventure” - Ilana Peritt 37 ”Sun on the Horizon” - Shmuel Bergman 69 ”Sunset” - Yoni Asher 73 ”All in” - Yakira Kolom 74-75 ”Canopy” - Yoni Asher 80 ”Boatride on the Lake” - Yardena Ben-Simon 79 Purple - Yoni Asher