Yeshivah of Flatbush Joel Braverman High School Pegasus 2025
Dedicated by Laura and Joe Tawil
Yeshivah of Flatbush Joel Braverman High School
Al and Sonny Gindi Campus 1609 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY 11230 www.flatbush.org
These streets will make you feel brand new Barbara Chehebar Canon Rebel
Esther Hidary Associate Principal
Dr. Michael Atlas Associate Principal
Jaclyn Pahuskin
English Faculty / PegasusAdvisor
IV Pegasus 2025 ~ Crime
Rabbi Joseph Beyda Head of School
Rabbi Yigal Sklarin Associate Principal
Rabbi David Galpert Assistant Principal
Mr. Ralph Shamah President
Mica Bloom English Department Chairperson
Carolina Cohen Arts Faculty / Design
Mia Erdos Arts Faculty
T7, Photoshop
Philosophy of Publication/Colophon Jaclyn Pahuskin
Pegasus is a magazine that represents the literary and artistic talent of our students at the Yeshivah of Flatbush. Writers, philosophers, dreamers, painters, photographers, idealists, leaders, sculptors, poets, readers and designers walk through our hallways every single day. This publication celebrates the diversity, beauty and talent that our students possess.
The pubication submission policy is open to all students from 9th through 12th grade. The editors select which writing pieces are published through an analysis of the originality, creativity, purpose, appeal and connection to theme. Additionally, editors also select which art pieces are published based on the composition, contrast, techinque, visual aesthetics, as well as the connection to the theme. Work is accepted all year long and students are highly encouraged to submit to pegasus@flatbush.org weekly. Faculty and community members are encouraged to submit work, but there is a limit on how many pieces we select for the publication. Literary editors are told to edit work for gramatical and punctuation errors and not to alter the content of the piece.
Pegasus 2025 was printed by Minuteman Press on 1844 Coney Island Avenue in Brooklyn, NY. The 168 page, 7.25” x 9” book was printed on 70# laser paper. The cover was printed on 100# gloss coated cover stock. Pegasus 2025 was created using Adobe InDesign 2025. The font family used was Avenir. This is a school funded publication. There were 150 copies printed and distributed to the contributors and their families, the high school Administration, English and Arts departments, the Executive office of the Yeshivah and lay leaders. Additional copies were available in the school library for other faculty and students.
Thank you to all the contributors this year.
To participate in next year’s publication, please email pegasus@flatbush.org or see Ms. Pahuskin in room 202, Ms. Cohen in room 301 or Ms. Mia Erdos in room 305 to get involved.
Can't Grow Colette Chehova Watercolor, colored pencil, acrylic paint on paper
TABLE OF CONTENTS
43 Frenzy / Sarah Soussan / Nikon D5300 45 Time and Again / Judah Beyda / Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
46 See Nothing, Say Nothing / Sarah Kezra / Mask, glass, metal letters, Canon Rebel T7
47 Shine / Jacqueline Tebele / Acrylic on Canvas
51 Out of Words / Daniel Hafif / Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
53 Everyday Shoes / Sally Keda / Watercolor on paper
55 Speed of Life / Rebecca Mehani / Canon Rebel T7
57 Still Life / Sally Keda / Acrylic on canvas
59 Like a Moth / Charlotte Assoulin / Canon rebel T7
61 Heartburn / Sarah Chetrit / Acrylic on canvas
63 Tasteless / Sarah Chetrit / Acrylic on canvas
SUSPECT
66 Corpse for a Corpse / Viviane Baghdadi / Poetry
68 Sandy / Benjamin Zelenko / Short Story
70 The Study / Eden Amram / Poetry
72 The Walk to School / Emma Dahan / Poetry
74 Fools with Tools / Anonymous / Poetry
76 Tracks of Survival / Eliana Ashurov / Prose
80 A Small Girl / Rita Setton / Poetry
82 Powder / Galiette Mita / Poetry
84 Echoes of Forever / Rachael Kopylov / Prose Art
67 Stretching Too Thin / Colette Chehova / Pastels on paper
71 Burnout / David Dweck / Charcoal, pastels and acrylic on paper
73 Micro Support / Eddie Saff / Canon Rebel T7, Phothoshop
75 Who am I? / Daniel Hafif / Canon Rebel T7
77 Wilted Flower / Irene Cohen / Watercolor on paper
Road to Summer / Barbara Sasson / Poetry
Will Have Its Way / Ella Altman / Poetry
Portrait / Eliane Tawil / Collage
Where I'm Going / Ilana Kroub / Resourced Images,
41 In With the New / Sarah Kezra / Canon Rebel T7
78 Life Light / Adele Hamway / iPhone camera, Photoshop
79 Dont'e / Joseph Dweck / Resourced images, Photoshop
147 Landscape / Jacqueline Tebele / Watercolor on paper
Cover art and dividers
Barbara Chehebar, Sarah Kezra / Watercolor, Photoshop
EXPLANATION OF THEME Crime
Life is not always linear. Sometimes, it’s a spiral. A looping, twisting path of half truths and hidden motives. A murder mystery is not just a distant tale of violence; it’s a study in human nature, a game of shadows where everyone has something to hide and nothing is quite what it seems. It’s the search for truth in the scene of lies. While most of us will never stumble upon a literal crime scene, we live through our own versions of mystery every day. Moments of confusion, betrayal, and doubt are feelings we know all too well. The steps that make up a murder mystery? They make up real life too.
In life, crime isn’t always a bloody knife, it’s the moment of shifting. A friendship cracks. A fight with parents. A daunting medical diagnosis arrives unexpectedly. It might not make the headlines, but it splits your life into two: before and after. In a blink, the road that once felt straight and smooth becomes twisted and bumpy. That’s where the mystery begins.
After the initial shock, you instinctively start scanning for clues. Was that comment a joke or something more? Why did they look away so quickly? Why was her lipstick slightly smudged? Although some clues in life are physical, most are emotional and behavioral. They're the gut instincts and red flags we too often ignore. But like in any Agatha Christie novel, the truth is always buried in the details. The question is whether we're ready, and willing, to see what’s been there all along.
In every mystery, the suspect wears some sort of mask. Sometimes it’s the disguise they choose, other times it’s the one they were handed by mother nature. Strangely enough, the most haunting suspects aren’t strangers in dark alleyways, they’re the people we thought we knew. A sibling, a close friend, or maybe even ourselves. The danger of the mask lies in how flawlessly it blurs the line between who someone is and who they appeared to be.
Everyone has a story to explain their actions. “I didn’t mean it that way”. “You misunderstood me”. These polished excuses are our alibis. They’re our way of trying to rewrite the crime, thus protecting our image. Like any good defense, an alibi is crafted; tailored to go hand in hand with details from the truth. But, sometimes, the truth and lies intertwine and it becomes nearly impossible to differentiate between fiction and facts.
Life often has courtroom moments. Arguments, confrontations, and long-overdue conversations suddenly erupt. This eruption is when everything comes to the surface; every misunderstood text, every silent thought and judgment is revealed. Then, in the middle of it all, someone slams the gavel; not a judge in a robe, but a best friend or parent walking out of the room out of anger. The emotional gavel falls, whether you’re ready or not.
Eventually, a verdict must be reached. Do you forgive and forget? Do you forgive, but make it a point to remember? Do you trust again? Hollywood has convinced us that a verdict is synonymous with closure; once the decision is made, the case is closed. However, life isn’t scripted and sometimes we don’t get the ruling and closure we hope for. True closure doesn’t always come from a ruling, though, it comes from picking up the tangled string of everything that’s unraveled, our thoughts, our trust, and our hearts, and slowly begin to weave ourselves back together.
A murder mystery is more than a genre, it’s a metaphor. We live through micro-mysteries that don’t always have clear answers and easy conclusions every day. Life doesn’t hand us neat plotlines. It spirals and twists, and somehow we get dropped off in the unknown. Maybe the goal isn’t to decode it all, but to learn how to move forward anyway, willing to live inside the unknown.
CONTRIBUTORS
EDITORS
Editor in Chief - Galit Alsaygh
Literary Editors - Albert Shamah, Emily Tarrab, Linda Yazdi
Art Editors - Sarah Kezra, Barbara Chehebar
ARTISTS
Jacqueline Abadi
Claudine Alboucai
Galit Alsaygh
Ella Altman
Eden Amram
Eliana Ashurov
Charlotte Assoulin
Viviane Baghdadi
Gracy Benun
Savannah Blake Betesh
Judah Beyda
Barbara Chehebar
Mary Chazanoff
Colette Chehova
Sarah Chetrit
Abraham Cohen
Irene Cohen
Jacqueline Cohen
Emma Dahan
James Dayan
Abraham Dweck
David Dweck
Joseph Dweck
Bracha Ezagui
Kelly Fatiha
Danielle Friedman
Rosy Gadeh
Raquel Gindi
Jed Glaser
Jacob Hanan
Lili Hanan
Sylvia Habert
Daniel Hafif
Adele Hamway
Ben Harari
Rami Harari
Boaz Harel
Shuli Hai
Simone Izsak
Sally Kada
Victor Kbariti
Sarah Kezra
Rachael Kopylov
Clara Kraiem
Ilana Kroub
Charles Levy
Yael Lotwin
Danny Mamane
Emily Matushansky
Rebecca Mehani
Yaffa Mezrahi
Marcus Mezrahi
Galiette Mita
David Piha
Barbara Sasson
Selly Saad
Eddie Saff
Rita Setton
Albert Shamah
Rachel Shamoelain
Olivia Shamayeva
Sarah Soussan
Margie Souid
Ben Sutton
Jacqueline Tebele
Tunie Terzi
Eliane Tawil
Linda Yazdi
Benjamin Zelenko
Crime
Them, and then Me
James Jack Dayan
Let them be as ice— hard, sharp, unyielding.
Stuck in place, trapped in stillness, frozen in time.
I’d rather be a hot, soaring flame leaving my trail of thick black smoke wherever I go climbing above them all, reaching the limit.
To be always growing, never stopping.
The more fuel put in, the more powerful, the bigger I get. Burning through them all, each obstacle burned. One by one.
I’d rather be polluting the environment, destroying everything in my way
than to be waiting, and waiting to be melted, to be free.
If I could have authority, move when I want, to be free.
I’d rather be a destructive, soaring, scary fire.
Too Late Clara Kraeim Nikon
The Weight of Silent Prejudice
Boaz Harel
A person born in a hateful house believes the world is cruel, but a person born in a loving home is too naive to see that the world actually is cruel; only when experiencing the hate of society does that child lose his innocence, his hope, building up resentment against the evil he faces; yet his attempts to fight it bellow in his gut, rumbling like the sound of an arena before a fight, in which the crowd is soaring in excitement, only the boy isn’t excited— he’s afraid; afraid of those who belittle him, who judge him, who dehumanize him in order to deny his equitable right to exist; albeit a right our founding fathers designated to all human beings, we as humans struggle to follow our own idealism, spreading abhorrence as we face those different from ourselves; we are like a two-sided coin— we preach love but practice hate; we advocate diversity but run when it blossoms in our faces; we cry for justice but ignore injustice right before us— claiming to “stand up for what is right” while creating the wrongs we oppose; take racism; take antisemitism; acts we all cringe at, but what do we do when it stares us in the face? what do we do when it silently creeps into our own selves? how do we fight an idea that’s been around for countless lifetimes? we try to do better, to be better, but it’s in our blood to fail; the blood that gives us life whilst also being shed by the being it sustains; more useless murder; more useless hate; a system of oppression that never quite seems to die out, even when we do; nothing prevents this cycle; nevertheless, once that child witnesses hate, he believes that he will be the one to stop it; a goal so treasured but so too filled with empty action; a dream that many have had, like Martin Luther King Jr. and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel; despite the fact that they may have succeeded in their time, do we see that same spirit now, when Jews are being attacked for their ethnicity; when blacks are being killed just because of the color of their skin; we all believe we are better than our past ancestors, finding it appalling that we could ever commit such acts of hatred; we strive to practice equality, but as time goes on, that drive for a better humanity lets out and crumbles beneath the very foundations of what makes us a moral species; and just like the boy raised in a loving home, we become too naive to see the hatred that we display.
Time Passing, Heart Still Irene Cohen Acrylic on Canvas
An Effortless Proposal
For the victims of domestic abuse — an ultimate solution and end to their suffering.
Rachel Shamoelian
Individuals around the world suffer from abuse every day, yet nobody knows. They walk the streets, feed their dog, buy their groceries, and contribute to the same errands any typical person would. But whats happens within the four walls, behind the closed doors, underneath the entire show, is a life filled with endless torture and fear. Domestic abuse is when one exerts inappropriate behavior towards another to gain and maintain control over their intimate partner. This abuse can be physical but can also be emotional, psychological, sexual or financial and tends to escalate over time.
Some may believe that domestic abuse is of no relevance to them as it does not fit their ideal lifestyle or that due to the fact that they never heard of such a situation, it cannot be associated with someone like them. However, this issue has been affecting and is still affecting millions around the world. In the United States alone, over one in three women and one in four men have experienced rape, physical violence, or stalking by an intimate partner (“National Domestic Violence Hotline”). About 10 million men and women are victims of domestic abuse, each year. Furthermore, statistics state that every minute, twenty people are physically abused by their partner (Dolan-Zimmerman).
But yet, we can still say it's not important, right?
Well, they are to blame aren't they. They must have had it coming. Did they not smile enough? Did their dinner not satisfy you enough? Were they spending too much of your money? Or were they simply just complaining all the time? They all justify why one would hit her, beat her, or verbally belittle her. She shouldn't have done such a thing. Was her dress too short? Shirt too low? All valid reasons as to why one would rape her and sexually assault her. It was her fault, how can she commit such a crime?
Why would one permit this act of violence to be coerced upon them? Was she/he not taught self-defense? That could have prevented all of this from occurring, couldn't it? And if one really wanted to fix things, to alter their home into a safe, and secure environment, why didn't they communicate with their partner? The words “I don't like when you punch me across the face, can we talk about it” could have changed everything. We can't blame the perpetrator. Many men who have witnessed abuse growing up are more inclined to abuse their partner as well (Dolan-Zimmerman). So, they are not accountable for this, maybe their parents, but not them.
Not Hungry Sarah Kezra
Watercolor and ink on paper
The Imperfect Crime
Albert Shamah
Imagine the perfect crime. Built on the deepest of hatreds or the desperate need to right an injustice that time has long buried. Mostly they are always committed with red-hot, burning passion, envy so consuming that the only way to go on, is to eliminate the object of jealousy entirely. They are executed flawlessly, where every possible scenario is not only anticipated but expertly manipulated to the perpetrator's advantage. Carried out with such swift precision and brilliance that, in most cases, you would hardly suspect anything had gone wrong at all. And, of course, in the rare chance something did, there would always be the perfect, infallible alibi to glide over any suspicion completely.
Now, let me introduce the imperfect crime. I was twelve years old, surrounded by the unforgiving July heat and the lingering fear of COVID-19. Normally, we would have spent these months at our grandparents’ house in Deal, New Jersey, where the ocean breeze that left a salty taste was always close by. But that summer was different. Instead, we found ourselves in a rental house, much smaller than my grandparents’ home but with its own quiet charm. It was just the six of us, my immediate family, without the usual chaos of cousins , friends and whoever else the house contained.
I don’t remember much about what the house itself looked like, but I remember the yard had plenty of grass that for some reason always seemed to feel wet, when we walked barefoot to get to the swingset standing at its edge. Every crime requires a weapon, a device or means by which the perpetrator carries it out: Above all the thing I remember most from that house, something seemingly trivial yet, in reality, transformative, was the microwave. Some background here, crucial to even the most impromptu of crimes. My dad is the kind of person who, at the mere mention of something potentially harmful in food, water, or any household product, becomes hyperaware. The moment he hears even a trace of concern, he gets nervous and tells you to stop using it immediately. He was raised by my grandparents with the firm belief that microwaves aren’t just bad, they are something to be avoided entirely. Because of this he never owned one, and as far as I know, until that summer, he hadn’t used one in a long, long time.
Our first interactions with the rectangular radiation-heating device were cautious, mostly because we had been taught, and frankly, were forced to stay away from it. But as the summer went on,we slowly became acquainted with it. I distinctly remember one Saturday night when we were heating up leftovers from the previous night's dinner. It felt like one of those bomb squad scenes in the movies. Right before my dad pressed start, he made us evacuate the kitchen and unsurprisingly he
too took steps back when the light went on. It wasn’t until we heard the beep that we were slowly allowed to reenter. It must have been a few weeks after this when I gave in to my impulsive false confidence, which led to consequences I don’t believe I could ever forget.I woke up one Sunday morning, probably between nine and ten, to find that I was completely alone. After some deliberation and browsing through the freezer, I decided to have a bagel, more specifically, half of what I thought would be a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel topped with almond butter and berries. I took half of the horizontally pre-cut frozen bagel and placed it in the microwave. It seemed like a simple enough task. But this was my first time using the microwave independently, and I was completely unfamiliar with its controls, let alone its capabilities. I was under the assumption, it was more or less a toaster. And as anyone who has ever used a microwave knows, that is not the case. I carefully pressed the "1" and "0" buttons, assuming ten minutes would be a safe amount of time , and after all, if it wasn’t done enough, I could always leave it in for longer. Then, feeling confident in my decision, I left the kitchen. Whatever I had been doing for the next five minutes was abruptly interrupted by the piercing screech of the fire alarm. An unstable, acrid smell filled the air. Something was burning. My stomach dropped as I rushed back to the kitchen, where I was met with the sight of gray smoke emanating from the microwave.I began to accept the reality of my disastrous mistake and went into full panic mode. I quickly turned off the microwave and flung open all the windows and the door, desperately trying to clear the smoke.
After things calmed down a bit, I cautiously opened the microwave door, bracing myself for the damage. A thick cloud of smoke aggressively came out, stinging my face and briefly infiltrating my lungs. And there, sitting in the center of the microwave tray, was what had once been my breakfast, was now a rock-hard, completely blackened lump. I realized that if my family found out about the potential destruction I had almost caused, not only would I prove my dad right, but I would also lose their trust and become the butt of jokes for the foreseeable future. From that moment on, I decided never to tell anyone what had happened. After it had cooled enough to touch, I buried the bagel at the very bottom of our garbage bag, hoping to eliminate any trace of that morning’s disaster. But I know that somewhere, buried deep in a garbage dump in the tri-state area, a burnt, ashy half of a bagel is slowly disintegrating. And that is an imperfect crime.
Shutters
Colette Chehova
Pip flings open the crisp white shutters. He walks from his room to join Joe for breakfast. He peers through the shutters and sees a plethora of opportunities. He goes down to the forge, and sees the possibilities alight in the iron and flame.
Pip steps out of the carriage in London. Ready to start his new life as a gentleman. He enters his new lodgings and slams the gray shutters shut. He turns to his new acquaintance, Herbert, and forgets all about his shiny white shutters back in Kent.
Pip gazes out the downcast shutters, heavy with remorse. After returning to Kent, Pip reflects on his life as a gentleman and realizes he liked his crisp white shutters he once had before he acquired his great expectations. He walks to Joe and once again joins him for the morning meal.
Midnight Companion Gracy Benun Canon Rebel T7
Social Media Invading Personal Space Sylvia Habert Charcoal on black paper
Passion Ilana Kroub Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
A Simple World
Victor Kbariti
The current state of law and order in the United States is deeply flawed, with a system that seems more interested in political debate and protecting the powerful than addressing the real needs of the people. Theft and violent crime are on the rise in major cities like San Francisco and Chicago, but policies prioritize incarceration reduction over victim protection. Small businesses are exposed to theft and disproportionate taxes while billion-dollar corporations enjoy legal protections and bailouts. Mass shootings and armed robberies continue unabated despite lawmakers' constant debates over gun control, demonstrating that laws by themselves are insufficient to stop the violence.
Over 30,000 theft incidents were reported in Chicago in 2023, and in a short period of time, San Francisco saw a 50% increase in theft (York). While small businesses frequently face financial ruin due to crime and government overreach, corporations such as Amazon have received billions in government subsidies. Despite over 20,000 different regulations, gun violence remains a significant issue, with over 20,000 gun-related deaths in 2023 (Alfonseca). The powerful and wealthy frequently elude justice; prominent corporate fraudsters and individuals like Jeffrey Epstein avoid serious repercussions. While the system fails to provide safety or accountability for the majority, regular citizens are subject to excessive policing and heavy fines for minor infractions.
Backroom deals and the waste of tax dollars are commonplace in society due to the government's oppressive bureaucracy and corruption. Nancy Pelosi has a networth of over $200 million because of stock market trade (Board). This has occurred because of her knowledge of government policies and her insider trading. Through political deadlock, the government delays essential actions and puts its own interests ahead of actual progress, which leads to inefficiency. True equality is prevented by the government's enforcement of laws that divide people and give preferential treatment to the wealthy elite and political insiders. The public is duped and kept in an inefficient system as a result of politicians making promises to win votes but rarely delivering on them. This creates a vicious cycle of empty promises.
Eliminating the government completely and doing away with all laws and regulations is the answer. Under this system, people would have complete autonomy over their own choices, self-gov-
ernance, and community management. Without government, there would be no bureaucratic institutions, no politicians, and no taxes. Self-organization would be the way society runs, with people dealing with problems as they come up. Without laws, people would behave according to their own preferences, and groups of people would band together to create their own frameworks for accountability and order. A totally decentralized way of life would be possible since the nation would no longer be constrained by structures imposed by the government.
Taxes that finance inefficient programs, excessive government salaries, and wars that many people oppose would no longer be a burden on citizens if there were no government. Greater financial freedom and personal prosperity would be possible since every dollar earned would stay in the hands of the individual. The average person in the US pays nearly 25% of their salary to the government every single year. That is around $20,000 per family (York). More money can be used to directly benefit the US families.
People would be free to live their lives in accordance with their own values and desires if the government didn't get involved. There would be no laws or limitations on personal freedom, enabling people to follow their happiness without hindrance. A type of ultimate freedom is frequently displayed in places like rural communities or ungoverned territories around the world, where people live more freely and are not as bound by laws, enabling them to make decisions that are best for themselves.
People would be able to uphold their own moral standards in the absence of a dysfunctional legal system, guaranteeing prompt and severe penalties for transgressions. Around 10%-15% of all convictions in the US are false. This means that nearly 150 - 350 thousand people have been falsely separated from their families for crimes they didn't commit (“Basic Patterns of Exoneration”). By doing this, people would be able to take justice into their own hands and avoid the delays and irregularities that are frequently present in the legal system. Most crime cases take between 6 months to a year to complete, causing long delays in justice.
Only the most competent and resourceful people would prosper in a society devoid of rules and laws, resulting in a stronger, more resilient community. People would be free to
innovate, compete, and succeed based only on their skills if there were no artificial barriers in place, such as laws that restrict entrepreneurship. Through sheer adaptability and ingenuity, people frequently discover new ways to solve problems, start businesses, and improve their lives in areas where there is less government intervention, such as in some free-market economies or even during historical periods of anarchy.
Without government, some would contend, the powerful would rule over the weak, resulting in anarchy and tyranny. But under the current system, the powerful already have power—businesses take advantage of employees, politicians sway laws for their own benefit, and the elite avoid accountability for their deeds. People could defend themselves in a truly free system without being constrained by rules intended to uphold the privileges of the privileged. People would be able to create their own systems of self-defense and justice without intervention from the government, preventing a small number of people from holding all the power.
Equality and personal freedom are hindered by the ineffectiveness and corruption of the US government. People would be free to live without taxes, make their own decisions, uphold personal justice, and prosper according to their abilities if the government were abolished. Despite the radical nature of this solution, comparable advantages have been observed throughout history. Although this solution does not directly affect me, because I live in Canada, it is an intriguing concept for the US.
Shadows Lili Hanan Charcoal on toned paper
He Stood...
Daniella Friedman
Great Expectations Character Sketch
He stood in Jaggers' office, alongside the grimy windows, profusely experiencing guilt and despair while his square head drooped low, like the burdens of his life pressed heavily upon it. The man, wearing clothes neat, yet stained, twiddled his blackened fingers nervously, words refusing to escape his mouth, frantically attempted to grasp the attention of anyone who could deliver him to Jaggers.
There stood Wemmick, flipping through a ledger, grunting, while he traced his eyes up to this man and paused. “Mr. Hargreaves, is it?” he queried.
The man flinched, stood up revealing his rather tall stature, and trembled while speaking; his lips quivered and his voice faltered. "Isaac-c Hargreaves, or-r Isaac, if you’d prefer, sir.”
"Mr. Hargreaves," exhaled Wemmick, making no attempt to conceal his frustration. You’re here on account of some accusation, I presume?"
Hargreaves paced nervously, like a pesky fly; his crooked eyes wandering about the room as though searching for something-or someone- to rescue him; his curved spine hinting to hours of ever-present tension; his prominent eye bags, attesting to his lack of sleep. "I am just a laborer who’s done wrongdoings in my years, but I’ve not done this dreadful sin in which I am accused of," he declared, with such certainty. "It was put upon me, this charge of theft—I’ve never touched the silver, nor would I have! I-I am just a laborer. I am just a laborer.”
Wemmick squints and shuffles; he gazes at the man in a distrusting manner. “Every laborer who found themselves in Jaggers’ office declared their innocence.” “I swear on m-my life, sir. The truth is what I have said,” Hargreaves implored, his voice reaching a mere whisper, much the same as the creaking of the wooden floor. “A scapegoat, that’s what I am. I am just a scapegoat.”
Come In Charlotte Assoulin iPhone Camera, Photoshop
Secrets Behind the Gates
Mary Chazanoff
I woke to a knock on my front door. The alarm clock read 6:09am, I slipped out of my uncomfortable twin-sized bed, down the uncarpeted stairs to the door. When I peeked outside, the salty summer breeze filled my lungs, sending chills down my tired body. Expecting a person to be at my doorstep, no one was there. Just a letter, signed by the administrator of the county, appeared. I picked up the envelope and anxiously ripped it open, careful to not damage the writing. It read:
Dear Ms. Allison Graham,
We regret to inform you that your relative, Mr. Johnathan Glass, has passed away due to a heart condition. Mr. Glass has left for you a couple of things as written in his official will. Since you are of age today, the tenth of August 1994, you are eligible to sign the contract to inherit the following:
1. The entire Glass household and land
2. All of Mr. Glass’s personal belongings (including cars, air transportation, and stocks)
3. All but a fifth of Mr. Glass’s financial income, for it will belong to James B. Glass. A limousine will pick you up at 12:00pm and we will meet by 58 Stratford Rd to go over more details. Please sign and confirm at the bottom.
I stared for a while. I didn't even know who this man was and he's practically handing me his mansion. This couldn’t be right, maybe it was meant for a different Allison. All my life I grew up with nothing, and whatever I did have, I hustled for. I quickly called Lucy, Ava, and Emily to tell them the disbelieving news.
“You're kidding right?!” I heard Lucy's enthusiasm from the other side of the phone. I glanced again at the paper, “No, I don't even know who this is! I can’t sign it!” “Of course you can!” Ava squealed.
“Allison, if you don’t sign that I will for you!” Emily declared.
“Fine! Come over, we have some planning to do.”
Before the clock struck 8:00, Ava and Lucy were already by my house. Emily texted on the group chat that she wished she could make it, but she had to watch her little sister. “We’ve got some serious things to figure out,” I say worriedly.
“Won’t you appreciate this for just a moment? You’re going to be rich, Allison Graham! Did I mention rich?!” Ava was right. I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore. Ava has been there for me through my entire life, she knew me so well. In elementary school, when my parents were splitting up, I spent
every night by her house so I didn’t have to listen to the fighting. I owed her and her family so much.
“Come on Allie, let's go pack our things,” Ava offered.
* * * * *
When we arrived at the property, my mouth dropped. This whole thing would be mine. As I stepped through the iron gates, I forgot to breathe. It was like something out of a magazine that I used to flip through, only better- real. The white stone walls, with huge extended glass windows, gleamed in the afternoon sun. The garden filled with vibrant flowers made me feel like I was in a fairytale. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what the inside would be like. Everything seemed so perfect, something that I never had. I felt so small.
The man waiting at the front informed us that we could take the opportunity to explore before filing in the legal aspect. Ava, Lucy and I decided the best way to explore the manor was to split it up by floor. I took the first, Lucy the second and Ava the third.
After nearly walking the entire landscape, I stumbled upon a library. Untouched it seemed, not because of its perfection, but because it smelled of new walls. I ran my fingers along the wooden shelves, accidentally knocking one of the shelves over. Great, I thought. I’ve been here for barely an hour and I’ve already found a way to mess it up. I didn’t fit in here, this wasn’t for me. Getting caught up in my thoughts, I hadn’t realized that the shelf hadn’t fallen, just slightly turned, revealing a small chamber.
“Lucy! Ava! You have to come see this!” I screamed, hoping they were able to hear me. Just about 30 seconds had passed before I heard Lucy and Ava scrambling down the stairs attempting to find me.
“Gosh Allie, where are you? This house is huge!” Lucy exclaimed.
“I’m in the library,” I called back. It took about another minute before they reached me. Standing in front of the chamber, I informed them of my discovery. I quickly pulled the handle and surprisingly, there was no lock.
“That's weird,” I said confused. Maybe there was nothing secretive inside. At the same time, all three of us glanced at each other and to our surprise, there was a dusted notebook. A diary maybe?
“Well, what are you waiting for Allie! Open it!” Lucy looked more excited than I did. Typical.
I grabbed it carefully and opened it to reveal pages filled with diary entries. About 100 of them.
“Oh my god,” Ava whispered the words we were all thinking.
“Where do I even start?” I felt so overwhelmed. I knew that there was a reason that it was hidden and we were just about to find out why.
After several hours of reading each page of the ancient notebook, I took a deep breath. Lucy and Ava had given up and decided to go find us some lunch. Alone I sat on the expensively carpeted floor, thinking my entire life over. I flipped back to page 84, the writing was smudged but I didn’t need to make out every word in order to understand that my parents, Kayla and Aaron, had been hiding a twin from me. My entire life. What is this supposed to mean, I thought. I couldn't gather my thoughts in time for Ava to storm in and realize that something was wrong.
“Allie?” She looked at me, with a worried look. “Is everything alright?” I didn’t need to answer that for her to throw her arms around me and give me one of her infamous ‘Ava hugs.’ “Ave,” I reeled. “I-” Just then a loud ring of the doorbell interrupted, filling all corners of the mansion. Quickly, I wiped the single tear trickling down my cheek and we scrambled to the front entrance.
“Hi,” I say, taken aback to find a boy around my age at my doorstep. With a stern look the boy replied,
“Oh, I was told that someone would meet me here… my grandfather passed away earlier this morning.” I stared at him blankly and gasped at the realization that this was my brother- no, not just brother, twin. I felt the lump in my throat return. I looked for something to say, but I'd forgotten how to speak.
“What's the matter with her?” The nameless boy turned his head to Ava.
“Um, why don’t you go show yourself around and give us a minute?” She replied, pulling me to the side.
After finally filling Ava in on what I had revealed about my true family origins, she went to search for James, who we had figured out was the name of the boy and my brother, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I grew up always feeling a part of me missing and never understanding why my parents hid so much from me. Being an only child was hard enough, but having parents who didn’t love each other was even harder when there was no one going through it with you. I just wished that I was able to go back in time and tell myself that I wasn’t alone, and I did have someone.
Ava, who seemed to be crushing over James’s blue eyed blonde hair, dragged him to the foyer where I stood and left us alone.
“So your friend Ava tells me you also got the same letter this morning.”
“Uh, yeah I did.” I didn’t know how to break the news to him.
“Hey, listen whatever it is, you can tell me, you look so worried what is going on? Is there a problem with the mansion? Wait, how are you even related? And how come we’ve never met if we're both related to Grandfather?” James spewed. For a minute I just looked back at him seeing a reflection of my curious self and responded,
“I’m Allison Graham, my mother’s maiden name is Glass. She is the daughter of our grandfather.” One step at a time, I reminded myself. At that, James seemed interested in what I had to say,
“I grew up in the south of LA, my parents divorced when I was 10, and I never had any siblings growing up. I received this letter, not knowing who the man in the letter even was. When my friends and I arrived, I discovered this notebook,” I said, handing him the diary. “I’m pretty sure that it belonged to our grandfather. You can look through it if you want, but what I found through the pages was that when our, I guess, grandfather was younger, he had married our grandmother. Grandmother, Aubrey, was only 18 when she found out she was pregnant with our father Nate,” I took a breath and saw that James had a curious and serious look on his face, “Did you say our father?”
“Yes, later on, your father was born and he dated our mother, Kayla.” James looked at me starting to piece things together in his mind, I decided to speed up my explanation, “So, when our mother was pregnant with us,”
“Wait, are you telling me that we are siblings?”
“I’m telling you that we are twins, James,” I finally said, making it the truth. “Oh,” James broke down. “Wow, I don’t know what to say. Go on,”
“Okay, so when mother was pregnant, father left her. Being from a rich family, he didn’t want to let grandfather down. Our parents decided that it was best to live separated. I grew up with mother and you grew up with our father. My mother and Aaron, who I always thought to be my father, later on got married and divorced. When mother decided to get into contact with grandfather, Aaron didn’t like the idea and that is why they always fought.” I took a pause to let this sink into his head.
“So you’re telling me that we are twins Allison, am I hearing you right?” I’ve never before seen a boy around this age cry before.
“Yes James, I am.”
In that moment, that one missing piece was instantly filled with emotions of love and hate- for James and for our parents who hid a missing part of us.
Full Focus Ilana Kroub Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Coming Down Judah Beyda Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Clues
Love and Hate
David Piha
Some say love will burn you up, Some say hate will freeze your soul. From what I’ve felt of love so deep, I think hate’s got more control. But if love had to go away, I’ve seen enough of hate to say, That for destruction, Love is strong, And it can hurt just as long.
Portrait Eliane Tawil Collage
Where I'm Going Ilana Kroub Resourced Images, Photoshop
In With the New Sarah Kezra Canon Rebel T7
Love
Claudine Alboucai
Hold tight to love
For if love falls
Life is a withered flower
That cannot rise at all.
Hold tight to love
For when love leaves
Life is like someone who gives But never receives.
To My Mother
Rita Setton
If two were ever linked, there is no other. If a daughter was a copy, it was her mother. If a mother ever loved her child, Compare both, find differences, I've tried. I resemble you more than two green dollars, Or two midnight black cats do each other. Our love is more than the stars and back, No other bond can compete neck and neck. You provide for me, unconditionally; I pray that I will one day have that ability. While we are young, let's form a bond, So while we are old we can be fond.
Frenzy Sarah Soussan Nikon D5300
The Stranger
Yael Lotwin
Who is this stranger staring back at me? I stand, haunted by the girl I once knew. How much more can I change? When will it finally be enough? Who am I now? What was I made for?
I used to know, but now I’m lost in doubt. I once shone like the sharpest knife, Now I flicker like a candle, on the verge of going out. I used to float, now I just fall down. The girl I once was has vanished, A missing person’s case, never to be solved
So once again I ask, What was I made for?
Lines borrowed from “What Was I Made For?” by Billie Eilish
Time and Again Judah Beyda Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
See Nothing, Say Nothing Sarah Kezra Mask, glass, metal letters, Canon rebel T7
Shine Jacqueline Tebele Acrylic on Canvas
Calling My Name
Simone Izsak
All year I wait for this day, the day I leave for sleepaway camp. The night before, I can never fall asleep, too excited for the moment when the buses finally pull into the Monmouth Mall parking lot. As we wave goodbye for the next two months, my mom gives me the same reminders she always does:
"Always be safe; call me; do activities; never ever wear a choker to sleep!; and most importantly, have the best time."
The ride feels endless, but then we see the giant marshmallows, 30 minutes left. The roads get bumpier, 10 minutes left. Finally, the Camp Seneca Lake sign comes into view. We rush to call our families for one last goodbye, and as soon as we step off the bus, we know, a summer to remember has arrived.
First comes lice checks and then turning in our phones. Finally, we sprint to our bunk, eager to meet our counselors and see who we’ll be spending this unforgettable summer with. There’s no hesitation, we run into each other’s arms, laughing, hugging, welcoming one another back. That first lunch feels like home, pizza and the best salad bar, surrounded by the people who make camp what it is.
But this summer is different. It’s not just any summer, it’s my last summer at camp. Waitress summer.
Being a waitress means our counselors wake us up every morning. We wash up, throw on our matching pajama sets, then head out to pray before rushing to the dining room to set up for breakfast. We work quickly, arranging tables before sneaking in a few minutes to eat before the rest of camp runs in, starving as if they haven't had a meal in days. We all make our iced coffee together, then line up to serve breakfast to our tables. After cleanup, the real fun begins. Our days are packed with activities, but it’s the little things that make camp feel like magic running up and down those hills, breathing in the crisp, familiar air, soaking in the feeling that this place is our home for the summer.
There’s one memory that stands out to me every summer: Color War. It’s always been my favorite part of camp, but again, this summer was different.
For years, I had dreamed of being a Commission Major, the head captain of my team. It’s a role reserved only for the waitresses, the highlight of our final summer. I remember watching my sisters get it, imagining the day it would be my turn. The chance to lead, to plan, to be at the center of the action. It was everything I had ever wanted. I had been at camp for so long, and deep down, I felt like it was meant to happen.
But as Color War got closer, doubt crept in. A sinking feeling hit me, I had a feeling I didn’t get it. I couldn’t explain why, but my mind kept racing. There were so many girls to choose from, and suddenly, it felt impossible that it would be me. That entire day, I shut everyone out. I ignored my friends, kept to myself, and finally called my sister, crying. She was the only one I told. I knew she would understand me in that moment like no one else could.
Then, the unexpected happened. That night, they called my name. I got it. Relief, and excitement all hit me at once. The whole day, I had convinced myself otherwise, but in that moment, everything felt right. My dream had come true. After all these years, since my very first summer at camp when I was just eight years old, I was finally stepping into the role I had always wanted. That summer, I realized that camp isn’t just a place, it’s a feeling. It’s the friendships and the memories that stay with me. Becoming commision major wasn’t just about leading my team; it was about realizing from all the years I’ve been watching, waiting, and dreaming for this and finally seeing it becoming real. As I packed my trunks up at the end of the summer, I knew this chapter was coming to an end. But no matter how many summers pass, a part of me will always be back at camp running up those hills, breathing in the fresh air, and waiting for color war to happen again.
Crayons
Sarah Chetrit
I would begin with crayons in hand; I crafted my thoughts into whimsical lands Outside the edges, wild and carefree -
A sun scribbled in a bright sky that was pink, And stick figures dancing in an ice rink. I’d sit on the grass, with the sun on my face, Creating my kingdom, a wild, infinite space. But time slipped like sand through my fingers, so fast, And practice took flight. I traded those scribbles for shadows and shades; I learned of perspective, of depth and of grace. The lines grew more intricate, And the three-dimensional visions took their place, But somewhere within, that child resides, Deep in the sketches, where innocence hides. Though my art has evolved, from simple to grand, I cherish the moments when my creativity first ran.
Out of Words Daniel Hafif Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
The Dropped Binder
Jed Glaser
The dropped binder
Crouching on the floor alone
Trying to grab all the loose papers And put them back in the binder
The dropped binder
Everyone watching But no one helping
The dropped binder Finally someone helping And then, Everyone else decides to help
The dropped binder
That one person Was the only one Who really wanted to help
The rest Only helped Because they Wanted to look like they cared About your dropped binder
Everyday Shoes Sally Keda Watercolor on paper
Baker to Apprentice
Esther Cohen
Well, I’ll tell you: Making macarons ain’t no golden recipe. No easy mix,
No perfect fold, No smooth batter waiting in the bowl. The cracked shells,
The thin batter, The peaks that won’t stand. But I kept piping, Kept folding,
Kept watching through the oven glass. And sometimes,
The filling ran like spilled dreams, Or set too stiff, Wouldn’t hold, wouldn’t stay.
It wouldn’t set right.
But I whisked, I stirred,
Added sweetness like the taste of hope, A touch of vanilla, Until it held just right.
So don’t quit now, Don’t hang up your apron. Don’t turn away ‘cause the batter won’t behave. Keep folding, Keep waiting, Keep trying–For even broken shells Can hold something sweet. And baking macarons–Ain’t no golden recipe.
Speed of Life Rebecca Mehani Canon Rebel T7
The Road to Summer
Barbara Sasson
As the weather gets cooler, The leaves get darker, People become distant, Everything begins to change
As the weather colder, The snow starts to fall, People cuddle up for warmth, Everything begins to change
As the weather gets warmer, The flowers start to bloom, People become happier, Everything begins to change
Finally, as the weather gets hotter, The sun starts to shine, People enjoy life, And the summer has just begun.
Still Life Sally Keda Acrylic on canvas
Time Will Have Its Way
Ella Altman
The last day of high school is bittersweet, Her memories held within each room are a treat, Her burden of work left behind with no fears, But only for four years. Then friends separate and go on their own paths. So enemies will forget their wraths, So friendships fade away. Time will have its way.
Like a Moth Charlotte Assoulin Canon Rebel T7
Still I Try
Yael Lotwin
Still I try
When you’re stepping on my lungs, When you say I’m not good enough, Even when I fall in the dust, Still I try.
Still I try
When the cut goes far too deep, When the bad thoughts begin to creep, Even when I can’t get up, Still I try.
For what is life without a bit of strife?
Still I try
When you crumble my thoughts as stupidity, When you make no use of my creativity, Even when I feel completely useless, Still I try.
Heartburn Sarah Chetrit
Acrylic on Canvas
Thoughts
Emily Matushansky
Thoughts
Hold fast to thoughts
For if thoughts disappear
Life is a broken gps system
That cannot find its way.
Hold fast to thoughts
For when thoughts cease
Life is a hollow shell
Adrift upon a boundless sea.
Tasteless Sarah Chetrit Acrylic on Canvas
Suspect
Corpse for a Corpse
Viviane Baghdadi
A corpse for a corpse, Power rules without remorse. Giving the fallen honor,
Flesh for flesh, Going against the decree, no less. Sprinkling sand and dust, Instilling family trust.
Unwept, unwedded, unsolved, The problem now resolved. No laws of heaven broken, Though her name went unspoken.
Unreasonable, so cruel a death, The city now draws a deeper breath. Not allowing the town to forget, She carries no twinges of regret.
To live a life in awe, One must value law.
Hearing the people’s sympathy for this girl, Now considered gold, a shining pearl.
A frenzied heart, Tearing two sisters apart. Hanging with linen round her neck, Her world collapsed into a wreck.
Taking the burden upon her.
Stretching Too Thin Colette Chehova Pastels on paper
Sandy Benjamin Zelenko
The front door opened, admittedly, as normal. But since I was in the zone, drawing friendly monsters at the dining table, it sounded to my three-year-old ears like a dramatic slam. I jumped, my marker slashing a thick yellow line across the paper.
“Wow, sorry I scared you,” my mom chuckled as she locked the door behind her and walked over. “What’s that?”
“It was a monster. You made me ruin it,” I crossed my arms angrily.
“I’m sorry,” she kissed my forehead. “But maybe it’s for the best, since you were drawing monsters…”
“It was a friendly monster. He helps me build train tracks!”
“Oh, wow. Maybe we should keep him as a pet.”
“Yeah, we should!” I smiled, and it grew twice in size when my dad walked up from the basement. His expression, though, couldn’t be more opposite to my own.
“Hi, sweetie,” He looked at my mom.
“Hi… what’s with the storm cloud hovering over you?”
“You haven’t heard?” He then proceeded to say something in English so I wouldn’t understand. My mom replied, her forehead creasing. I got more and more frustrated as the exchange continued in a language I couldn’t speak.
Eventually I couldn’t hold myself back anymore. “What’s going on?!” I shouted. My dad started saying something, but my mom interrupted. “Everything’s fine, munchkin.” I crossed my arms. “I’m not stupid.”
My mom sighed. “Do you know what a hurricane is?”
“No..” I repeated the word to myself, thinking it sounded funny.
“It’s a big storm that lasts a long time and is really powerful.”
“Whoa!! That’s so cool!” I immediately picked up a gray marker and started drawing one.
“They can be very dangerous, actually,” my mom walked back over to me. “And there’s one coming here in a couple of days.”
“Oh,” I mumbled. “Okay. Well, does it look like this?” I showed her the drawing I’d just finished. She smiled. “Exactly like that. How did you know?”
“I’m a super genius!!” I exclaimed happily.
A few days had passed, and I was in the playroom building a train track with my pet yellow mon-
ster. Rain pattered heavily against the windows and roof, making the sound of the doorbell barely audible. I dropped the train I was holding and was at the front door in a second, but my vision of the person was blocked by my mom who stood in front of them. A moment later, though, my aunt came inside, followed by her husband and my cousins. “Rachel!” I shouted excitedly as my mom moved to let them all inside, closing the door before any more rain or wind could get in. “Hi, Ben!” She smiled.
I looked at my mom. “Why are they here?”
“Uh, just to hang out.”
“Oh, awesome!”
“You guys want hot chocolate?” My mom smiled. My cousins nodded. “Please.”
“Alright, I’ll have it ready soon.”
Rachel looked at me, then at the couch, then back at me. “Wanna make a pillow fort?” She asked.
“YES!!” I nodded aggressively.
That night, I entered my room to get ready to sleep and noticed that the couch across from my crib had bedding on it. Before I could ask my mom about it, Rachel twirled into my room wearing pajamas. “Oh, my bed looks awesome!”
“You’re sleeping over?” I asked, bewildered.
“Yeah. We’re here until our house is fixed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our house got flooded! You didn’t know?”
“No.. you’re gonna be with us until it’s fixed?”
She nodded.
“That’s so great!” I jumped into my bed. “We’re gonna have tons of fun.”
“Yeah, we are,” Rachel smiled.
Rain slammed against the window and the cold winds howled relentlessly. But the inside of the house was warm and cozy as we continued talking giddily under the glow of my nightlight for what felt like hours, until we finally fell into a whimsical three-year-old sleep.
The Study
Eden Amram
To be studied by her I need to be honest
She knows all of my intentions When I know nothing of hers
Somehow,I feel as though I can trust her
She makes me feel so safe I know all that I tell her Will be kept secret
When working with her I need to be flexible and adaptable When in her presence I often second guess myself
Her study of me is over It’s been about a year The results are now in–I’m inferior
Burnout David Dweck
Charcoal, pastels and acrylic on paper
The Walk to School
Emma Dahan
The walk to school, On a cold, chilly morning Wind blowing in my eyes, Always makes a rough day. One more step Finally made it, Through the heated doors, There I stand. Finally able to feel my hands.
Micro Support Eddie Saff Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Fools with Tools
Anonymous
They poke, they prod
Hiding behind a facade
Armed with demeaning tools
Oh, what mindless fools
They carve, they cut
Disgracefully digging a rut
Liable to the blame
Oh, the distasteful shame
Who am I? Daniel Hafif Canon Rebel T7
Tracks of Survival
(Excerpt)
Eliana Ashurov
The sun sets as I sink into my leather sofa, sorting through my collection of vinyl. Furiously, I search for the right album, the right artist, the right song for the current mood. I flick through the discs and land my finger on Rubber Soul by The Beatles. I carefully grasp it and place it slowly on my turntable, a birthday present I received from my aunt, which has a newly upgraded Audio-Technica 3600L stylus. I lay back on my sofa and closed my eyes, emotions washing over me.
Two things important to me were released in 1965: the Beatles’ Rubber Soul, and my great-grandfather from a 10-year prison sentence in subarctic Russia for smuggling. After smuggling products for his business, Soviet Russia sent my great-grandfather to the icy town of Ukhta, north of modern day Russia. John Lennon sings as I think about my great-grandmother traveling with two children to bitterly chilling mountains to be near her husband. My great-grandfather was A real nowhere man / Sitting in his nowhere land. The “Nowhere Man” ultimately survived the brutality of Soviet imprisonment and lived to have another child the same year: my maternal grandmother.
Wilted Flower Irene Cohen Watercolor on paper
Life Light Adele Hamway iPhone Camera, Photoshop
Dont'e Joseph Dweck Resourced Images, Photoshop
A Small Girl
Rita Setton
The small girl
With the gray eyes and leather jacket
Walks alone.
She slips so quietly, silently, through the crowded hallways, It’s almost as if
She isn’t really there.
Like she’s
A mirage in the desert, a trick of the light.
The small girl
With the gray eyes and leather jacket
Sits alone.
She works on a laptop, fingers flying furiously over the keys.
Her headphones are on again, because She's come to rely on her melancholic metal music Instead of people
To love her, to care for her,
To give her the comfort she so desperately longs for,
But it isn't enough.
The small girl
With the gray eyes and the leather jacket Is alone. (Again)
She sits in solitude, deep in contemplation, drowning in a sea of emotion.
She begins to prefer the steady quiet of solitude. It's safer, she realizes.
Safer than the cruelty of teenagers thinking life is a game. But although she thrives on her time alone, She begs someone to hear her soul's cryThat just because she likes being alone
Doesn't mean she likes being lonely.
Allergies Sarah Chetrit Acrylic on canvas
Powder
Galiette Mita
We used to wait for the recess bell and bolt for the pavement. running the dye on the asphalt, we watched the colors powder up in our hands. we traded pinks for yellows, breathed the rainbow chalk dust, and high fived each other with ashy hands –chalk powder was the magic that bonded us together.
now, we’ve switched the pavement for our flesh and allowed the powder to crumble us apart. no more sharing cyans and peaches, we now compare blushed cheekbones and rosy lips, our friendship severed by a cosmetic jealousy. we used to be equal –with the same two powdered hands –but now we tear and fight for the podium, in competition for the most powdered face.
The verdant grass is green no longer—Earth is covered with a blanket of white; that’s why rosycheeked Ellie, contrary to her lazy tendencies which implore her to sit in solitude with a cup of hot cocoa and Emily Henry’s Beach Read to remind her of the pure bliss that is a summer day, leaves her comfortably heated bedroom on Fifty-Six Maple Road and embarks on an exhausting journey to the opulent periwinkle that protects the dirt and fallen branches; unblemished, unburdened, and untamed, the frost beckons Ellie to approach him and discover him and impress herself upon is peaceful yet lonely quiet; so she approaches him, with intrigue, with wonder, with the inherently human desire to destroy all that is simple and untethered to human creation and corruption and consumption and coercion; Ellie bends to the ground and breathes in the cold, allowing the ice to penetrate her organs and overwhelm her senses; the beat of her heart syncs with the thrum of the ground and she waits—waits for him to tell her what to do, how to find him, and he does; the heat of her body and the bitterness outside wage a battle over her ungloved hands as she breaks through the uniform carpet that covers the ground and takes the powdery white into her palms, handful by handful, and even though her goal is simple and her vision in clear, she is delicate and careful to not destroy what she is creating and thereby let him down because he trusts her—he trusts her with his heart, his body, and his soul, and she knows that and takes that trust and puts it inside her chest and onto the tips of her fingers; slowly, inch by inch by inch by foot by foot, he comes alive, and Ellie smiles, at first to herself, then to him, and finally to the world at large, unashamed, and even proud of the being she put her blood, sweat, and tears into, and he smiles back at her with gratitude for saving him and admiration for all she is and suddenly, with just the blink of an eye or the shot of an arrow, everything was pure magic—glimmering silver falls the clouds and nothing would ever come nearly close to surpassing the height of the mountain that is this moment and Ellie knew that; so as Ellie sat on the ground, knees wet and aching, she breathed a sigh of relief and a sigh of sympathy, because she knows that no living, breathing, creature will ever experience the elation that she was experiencing right now, but in full transparency, she doesn’t really care about anyone else—the only people at the forefront of her mind were him and her; as the night wore on, the wind became more piercing and the cold became more jagged, but their loneliness subsided and they found
solace in each other’s presence and comfort in each other’s words; he was her best friend; he was her everything; he was her forever, but forever only lasts until the sun goes down; sooner than Ellie would’ve liked, because she would've liked to sit in that moment for all of eternity, until infinity got tired, Ellie had to say, “I’ll come back—I promise—I’ll be back tomorrow when the world is lit again,” and she left, and trudged back to her comfortably heated bedroom on Fifty-Six Maple Road, but this time, she has no urges to relive a sunny day because beauty was in the pain of the frost; I will be back tomorrow, she whispered to herself, and everything will be okay; so begrudgingly, Ellie let her consciousness drift away into the distance while her body remained anchored to her bed, anxiously awaiting tomorrow, and when tomorrow did arrive, Ellie leaped out of her bed and ran with all her might back to the spot where he stood yesterday; the startling sight of green stopped Ellie in her tracks; he was gone without a word, without a trace, without anything except the memories that are now emblazoned in her mind; he was gone; she dropped to her knees, no longer darkening her pants with water but with dirt, and asked God why He would do this to her, why he would do this to her; tears streaming down her face, Ellie returned to Fifty-Six Maple Road, dejected, and never feeling more alone; while he was waiting in the blizzard for another rosy-cheeked girl to love him, just so he could leave.
Technical Support
Eddie Saff Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Pressure Sylvia Habert Acrylic on canvas
Beneath the Hydrangea Tree
Caroline Cohen
I believe in hydrangeas. When I was growing up, my summer home in Deal held many memories. The front lawn had one large tree and a smaller tree, surrounded by purple and white hydrangeas. Each year, when the purple and white began to surface and their sepals began to bloom, it meant summer was approaching. Warmth and happiness were just around the corner. My sister and I used to always play by the hydrangea tree. After camp, we’d rush to eat our dinner just so we could go outside and play tag or hide-and-seek near the majestic hydrangeas that framed the lawn. Afterward, we’d sit by the tree and cool our sweaty bodies off with ices and the fresh air as the sun set, the syrupy sweetness mixing with the scent of fresh blossoms. As we grew older, silly games turned into long talks, our backs resting against the firm trunk, and the petals brushing against our arms as we talked about our days. When we got into fights, the birds chirping above the hydrangeas echoed our voices while we spoke about our problems and made up. There was comfort in those moments, in knowing that my sister would always be there, beside me, just like the hydrangeas each summer. When I experienced constant personal change, whether it was my personality, looks, or my body; the stillness and reliability of the hydrangeas returning every summer when I returned soothed my mind. I loved the hydrangeas so much that I used to pick them from the tree, my fingers brushing against the soft petals when I gathered the fullest blooms and put them in a vase in my bedroom. Their fresh, delicate scent fused with the crisp summer air that filled my sister and my’s room brought me great comfort. I don't live there anymore. The hydrangeas still bloom, and although I am not there to watch them turn from buds to blossoms, they still find their way back to me. Whenever my mom puts flowers in my room, I'm reminded of the hydrangeas I used to put in mine. Every time I see them, I am home again. I am back on the lawn, back in the warmth of the sun, back with the billowy hydrangeas, back to the laughter of my sister beside me. I believe in hydrangeas because they remind me that some bonds never fade— even when summer's over, even when childhood homes become memories. Siblings are the people who outlive every other person in your life and my bond with my sister will always bloom subtly in shades of purple and white.
Movie Heroes Ben Harari
Album Cover reimagined-Photoshop
Mess it Up Shuli Hai
Album Cover reimagined-Photoshop
Identity Eraser
Abraham Dweck
Let them be the eraser, silent, its only purpose is to undo, to erase, to make things seem perfect, as if the flaws were never there. But the more it works, the smaller it becomes,fading, disappearing, until nothing is left. I'd rather be the pencil, Leaving my mark on the world, not afraid to take risks and make mistakes. I don't want to disappear quietly, Slowly fading until there is nothing left. A pencil leaves behind ideas, sketches, memories, An eraser only leaves behind emptiness.
Ghost of Past Irene Cohen Colored pencil and watercolor on paper
Flawless from Birth: Ending Imperfection Before It Begins
Linda Yazdi
It pains me to see the dejected faces of both young men and women alike, trudging through the smooth, leveled ground as if weighed down by the many layers of their fine clothes. It is even more disheartening to see once-bright faces concealed by bandages or darkened by the bruises surrounding their features. These adolescents instead of partaking in school sports or driving their cars, are forced to watch from the sidelines with just vigilance as their companion, so their appearance appeals to the approval of their friends and family. Look two months from now when these same people are uncomfortable with what they had sought for so long, at odds with the difference in size or the unnatural added weight, and are seeking to remove what they had recently just acquired.
The number of individuals unsatisfied with their physique and attributes because of external influence, who turned towards cosmetic surgeries for relief in the United States in the year of 2022, is estimated to be over 1.5 million, increasing by a total of 11% since the year prior. Granted those consumed by poverty or who merely lack the funds sufficient enough to perform these procedures are omitted from the former calculations, but the desire to alter their image to appease those around them is still evident and taken into consideration.
Now I must ask, why go through the trouble of taking out loans to pay for and undergoing a surgery at such a hectic time in our lives? Why wait until after having endured derogatory remarks and relentless pressure to change the way we look from those we trust and love? Why indulge in a new image only to be deterred by the risks and the new foreign feel on our bones?
Alibi
Love Rosy Gadeh Colored pencil and watercolor on paper
The Young Life of Danny Mamane: Morocco to Israel
Jacob Hanan
I was born in Marrakech, Morocco, in 1948, a place where being Jewish meant living inside of a walled village, a ghetto. Life was tough, but it was the only life I knew. The narrow streets bustled with the delicious scents of spices and pastries, the echoes of the merchants haggling, it was home.
My family was very religious growing up. I went to a French school and after school I went to “The Heder”, a place where I would learn Hebrew and religion. I went to synagogue every Shabbat with Aba, my father. Our traditions bonded us together, offering us comfort during the hardships.
My Aba, Haim, was a butcher. He was a tough man, toughened by his hardships in life; he was married once before he married my Ima Lea, but the woman he was married to passed away; he already had three children with that woman.
I remember one time he took me to his butcher shop. I was a very mischievous boy and I didn’t stop bothering him as he worked. Frustrated, he threw a knife at me. By some miracle, he missed. But that was how my Aba was: strong, impatient, and quiet, yet he was always dedicated to our family.
My parents had 6 children together and my father previously had 3 children, all together we were 11 and it was a crazy house but we loved it. The shabbats as a family were chaotic, filled with constant conversation and fun.
We were getting ready for Yom Kippur and Aba was very sick. Ima advised him not to fast but he didn’t listen; he fasted on Yom Kippur, despite the fact that he was sick. It cost him his life.
I was only eight years old when my Aba passed from pneumonia and his death changed everything. My mother was left to raise all nine children.
Before he passed, we were wealthy. My Ima never worked a day in her life. But once my Aba was gone, we lost everything. She had no education because she married my Aba at the age of 13; she had no way to support us. Suddenly all we could afford was soup broth, and on good days a small piece of bread. She had nine children to feed and no one to turn to for help.
Besides our struggles, my childhood was filled with fun, mischief, and curiosity. But in Morocco, being a Jew meant being careful. One day I ran past the walls of the ghetto. Just to see the other side. But before I knew it, an Arab man grabbed me and tied me up in the back of his buggy. My Ima was frantically looking everywhere for me. She eventually found me and we went home. I was just a child but I had learned that Morocco would not be my forever home.
The situation grew to be worse. I was now nine years old. More danger arose for the Jewish community, and my Ima made the difficult decision of leaving everything behind. We left in the dead of night, like criminals in the empty streets. Our biggest fear was my baby sister, Monique, she was only six months old. If she cried she would have to be shot to death and we would also probably be caught as well. I was careful with every step I made; we were all praying that she would stay quiet, and she did. Somehow, we made it out alive.
We escaped.
We arrived in Herzliya, the air smelled different, the streets felt strange, but for the first time I felt safe and free. Freedom came at the cost of my mother still struggling to provide for us.
My mother sent me to live on a Kibbutz because I was a mischievous boy and she could not afford to care for me.
I only saw family members on Jewish holidays and in the summertime. Each of my visits felt foreign but familiar; I was growing up far away from them while at the same time the love between us never faded. My Ima sacrificed so much for us to have a better life, and even as a young boy, I understood what that meant.
Looking back, I see how painful and trying my life was. But I also see the resilience. We survived and we built new lives. Though my childhood was filled with hardship and trauma, it made me who I am today. I am Danny Mamane, born in Morocco, shaped by Israel, a survivor of my own story.
Victory Sarah Soussan Canon Rebel T7
October 7 Response
Alibi
Jacqueline Cohen Acrylic on paper
The Beauty of Art
Selly Saad
I remember the first time I watched my father engrave his artwork, just a boy, standing behind him in our little antique shop, mesmerized by his artwork. My dad could do it all: he painted, engraved, and was the best father any boy could ever have. He started his artwork when he was twelve years old and opened up our antique shop at just sixteen years. He was sent by the Syrian government to the Paris fair, to represent his country to show off his work and won an award there. My dad was always my biggest role model. Growing up I always wanted to be just like him, to create something that would last forever.
As a child, I went to Ben Maimoon School, where I learned both secular and Jewish studies. Later I transferred to a Christian school because it offered more classes, and I wanted to learn as much as I could. But school didn't last; in 1965, my life began to change. My brother and two workers from our family's antique shop were arrested with Eli Cohen. The police had found a receipt from our antique shop in Eli's house, and that was enough for them to go ahead and arrest them. Our shop was shut down and a guard was hired to block our store for 33 days, no one could go in or out, not even me. After the guard left, most of our workers quit, and with my dad becoming too old, I was left to be in charge of the shop. I had to leave school to step up for my family.
The second I stepped in I knew I wanted to change things. I started exporting goods through a Christain since Jews were prohibited from leaving eight miles out of Damascus. Everything was done in his name, and he made a profit. After some time had passed I realized there wasn't a market anymore for selling antiques, so I had to pivot. In 1982 I started designing my own brass pieces. My work was unique. I carefully scaled, calculated and designed artwork. I could make anything: chandeliers, furniture, doorknobs, you name it. My work had a unique element to it that couldn't be replicated.
Soon my designs were in high demand; I started getting recognized from very high profile clients. I spent 32 months designing pieces for the presidential palace in Syria, creating over 70 doors in that palace alone. My work filled palaces in Oman, Saudi Arabia, Morocco, and more. I also designed the awards for the actors in the Middle East, an event similar to the Oscar Awards. Every award had a stamp with my name on it. I was constantly booked and busy, so much that I missed all of my kids' events. I missed all my sons’ baseball games, I just never had the time. Now my kids have moved to Canada and they never have time for me; this is something I still regret.
And yet, being Jewish in Syria was never easy. We had all kinds of restrictions, we couldn't sell property, or cars, and were always treated poorly. When I was first asked to work in palaces I was told to use a non-Jewish name. I refused. “My name is Maurice Nseiri. If you want my work that's the name it will say.” I told them my work was so good they had no choice but to accept my offer.
Despite the harsh restrictions on Jews I still found ways to create for my community. I remember one day I was asked to design pieces for a local synagogue and was delighted by the opportunity to use this as a memorial for my father. Combining the two things my father loved most, Judaism and Art, I felt this was a nice dedication. I designed a Hannukiah in this Synagogue, but had to make the candles the same height so it doesn't look Jewish. The Syrian government did not allow for us to create symbols relating to Judaism or Israel. I was still upset by the fact that I couldn't make anything truly religious for my father. So Rabbi Aryeh allowed me to create a small Jewish star hidden in the entrance door. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt so great to me.
Eventually, I came to America. But once I got here I realized there was no market for me to create art here. The spirit wasn't the same in America as it was in the Middle East. My name didn't mean anything in America. I felt such a shame that I had to retire so young, I wasn't ready, I still had so much more to create.
Year later, after the president's family evacuated the presidential palace, the public was allowed into the palace which was something that wasn't possible beforehand. People were amazed by my work, but once they realized that I was a Jew, and that I was linked to Eli Cohen, they were outraged. In two seconds, a beautiful piece of art became a symbol of betrayal. That was life in Syria; talent could be respected but a Jew could never be fully accepted.
In Brooklyn, they honored my work in an exhibition in a Jewish Museum. Joseph Aronow made it happen, I will never forget a favor. This was a philosophy my father taught me and that's something that stuck with me. If someone helps you, you must never ever forget it.
Even though I am far too old to design, my work is still out there. I was able to create something everlasting, the brass doors, chandeliers, awards, they stand as proof that I was here. That my Jewish identity no matter how much people hate me for it, or try to hide it, it will always be a part of me and my art.
Quality Over Quantity
Savannah Blake Betesh
Let them be as the sea
Always flowing in the same direction choosing quantity over quality, but never willing to explore the depths on their own.
I’d rather be an island, an original thinker, an intrepid outlier in this vast cesspool of adolescence. To have broken through the fragile shell of fakeness and finally come up for air. To be the one people look up to for my ability to stand alone surrounded on all sides by a soul sucking void of meaningless affirmation. To continue to be the one with thoughts expressed that were not swallowed or choked on from others.
I’d rather be a unwavering island than to be drowning into the abyss of my own self pity, continuing to be a part of the self destructive tide, wondering if you will ever have the courage to break your head through the surface and take a breath of freedom.
I'd rather be an independent island than an ignorant sea.
Breaking Free David Dweck Charcoal on toned paper
Stranger
Sarah Kezra
Seven years ago, your best friend of seven years was a stranger to you. For the first few minutes after you were born, your mother was too a stranger, and for some, their mother is still characterized by that term 10 years later. The cashier named Jess scanning your items as you buy milk, eggs, and a Hershey bar is a stranger, but you still act cordially and say “good morning” and “thank you” because she seems safe enough. What is the difference between the first time you said hello to those strangers, and saying hello to a person who is still unfamiliar to you right now? The Oxford Dictionary defines the word “stranger” as “a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar with,” but a stranger is more accurately someone whom one can know.
At just five years old, my preschool teachers and parents taught me about “stranger danger,” a force not to be reckoned with- the unknown. What’s ironic about this is that the same preschool teachers who taught me about “stranger danger” taught me that a noun is a person, place, or a thing. They never seemed to acknowledge the hypocritical nature of taking the word “stranger,” a noun, and only emphasizing the adjective found within: strange.
The problem was never the introduction of the “stranger danger” principle, nor was it the fact that those teachers were required to tell their young impressionable students not to take candy if an unknown man offered it. The issue was that as that wide-eyed five year old grew up and realized that rejecting the candy was common sense, they also thought the “stranger danger” rule applied just as much as it had once upon a kindergarten classroom.
Just as humans are constantly confronted with the unknown, so are plants. At the beginning of a plant's life, it is protected from that unfamiliarity. It starts in an ensemble of shriveled little brown seeds, shielded by the colorful plastic pouch one purchases them in. As we introduce them to strangers, like water and sunlight, things that were so unfamiliar to them as they sat there and waited in the little pouch, they begin to grow. We show them how much more there is to learn beyond the confines of the plastic encasement that once surrounded them. The frustration that comes with this is that the choice still remains their own. Will the seeds allow that unfamiliar sensation of rain penetrate through their veins? Will they allow the light of the sun rays to illuminate the potential hidden deep within? That is where humans and plants find common ground and resonate with one
another. Albeit completely different, plants and humans connect through the shared experiences with what’s alien to them. Each is given the chance to engage with their respective “strangers” every day, but it is their will to do so that defines the value held within those opportunities.
Each and every stranger has eyes and ears; sometimes it's easier to search for the eye contact of those you hadn't known moments before, than to look into eyes you’ve embossed into your own irises so long ago. It had always been more comforting to express myself to people I had barely known. Maybe it’s knowing that there are no strings attached if they judge me; perhaps it’s the fear that the people I had already let in would feel entitled to condescend my actions based on how well they thought they knew me. Regardless of the underlying reasons behind it, I find myself more relaxed introducing myself to a stranger, than revealing to my old friends that I’ve changed since the days when my biggest problem was that the newest Barbie doll sold out. Sometimes starting a new page is easier than attempting to salvage the mess created by white out and pink eraser dust on your current one.
Go back to the plant reference. Think of the lush periwinkle hydrangea bush on your front lawn, or the sweet tomato plant the elderly Italian woman next door helped you plant. The warm feeling you get when passing by that hydrangea bush while walking your dog and the satisfaction of biting into a perfectly ripe tomato would never have been possible had they shut out their strangers. Every little bloom on the hydrangea bush and each new vine to emerge from that tomato plant stands as a testament to the importance of welcoming the unknown. They could never have survived without the sun’s translucent protective film and the rain soaking through their barriers. Had they not allowed the positive qualities of their strangers to penetrate, they would not have experienced such growth. The same way humankind benefit from searching outside their realms, those plants could never have served their purpose as a beacon of beauty or a satiating bite without embracing the unfamiliarity; inviting their strangers.
Tug-of-War Sylvia Habert
Charcoal, acrylic paint, colored pencils, collage, markers on mixed media paper
My Bike, My World Rami Harari Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Nocturnal
Sarah Kezra
I had a conversation with the night owl.
“Nocturnal, nocturnal I’d rather not be.”
“Then you must speak to the skylark,”
“Perhaps they can help thee.”
And so I waited for that familiar hymn,
To make a request,
For a slumber when sun dims.
“Skylark, Skylark can you perhaps assist?”
“What is it you may need?” Offered the winged sun ray.
Thought after thought, I pondered my reply.
“I’d love nothing more than to stay up during the day....”
“Diurnal, diurnal, can you make me?”
And so he closed his eyes and recited a verse:
“He from above, will you please help my friend?”
“Will you break this curse?”
“Please, please, push forth a reverse.”
Elated and refreshed, I flew to the heights.
My wish has been granted,
My sunny days now bright.
Daytime, daytime, what a time of delight!
And as I went on, I started to notice,
Heat! Heat from the sun!
The terribly loud noise of the world,
And suddenly all independence is gone!
If only I had known of the awful ramifications,
The noise and the nuisance that come with the day.
Asleep, asleep is what I wish.
That peace from the silence, when ignorance was bliss.
“I want to go back!”
“Night owl, night owl, you know what I need”
“I’m not cut out for this life”
“Perhaps you can once again help thee?”
Blending Into Society Sylvie Habert Acrylic on canvas
Trial
A Lament from the Underworld Anonymous
She chose to walk with the gods, and now she belongs to me.
Above, the earth was broken by her cry,
“I deny not a thing,” she said, with fire in her eyes,
A defiant soul, unshaken by the king’s law.
Her heart was a flame that would not die,
And now, that flame burns bright within my halls.
No king, no law, could bind her free spirit.
Her love for justice made her whole,
And so she walked unafraid into the shadows.
Her body now rests beneath the earth's cold touch,
But her soul, like a star, will never fall.
“How beautiful to die in such pursuit!”
She said, unbroken by the tyrant’s will,
Her courage a light that pierced the darkest dark.
In my realm, where silence reigns,
Her voice still echoes, strong as any king’s.
“Hades makes no distinction in its rites and honors,”
Her sacrifice stands, a truth none can deny,
A legacy for the gods, and for all the world.
The earth may mourn her, but I shall not forget.
For in her sacrifice, she claimed her place.
No mortal law, no fleeting crown, could bind
A soul so fierce, so full of fire, so pure.
You are mine, and yours is eternal glory.
Sailor Song Yaffa Mezrahi
Album cover reimagined-Photoshop
Astroworld Charles Levy
Album cover reimagined-Photoshop
I Will Survive
Emily Matushansky
I shiver beneath my jacket, Sweat dripping from my trembling hands. The darkness creeps closer, But I will survive.
I’m longing for a companion, And missing human connection. The world pushes me away, But I will survive.
My heart is aching, And this silence is deafening. My thoughts are spiraling, But I will survive.
Regrets
Galit Alsaygh
She sits in silence, All alone with her regrets Why did you do that
Portrait Sally Kada Collage
Better Olivia Shamah
Living in hindsight
The past doesn’t seem such a plight
But I read my old journal last night
And felt it reignite
The spark of anger, the wave of anxiety
The cynical, satirical propriety
Of looking down from above
From all I had ever dreamed of
But there was still more to surmount
An inconceivable mountain of doubt
That seemed paramount
From the ocean floor where I stood
Staring at the bottomless chasm of what I thought I understood
But from the summit I can’t see
The water that used to bend reality
The truth is the mountain wasn’t really that lofty
I Decide Racquel Gindi Canon Rebel T7
Paper
Bracha Ezagui
Let them be as paper always being written on but never uttering a word of their own.
I’d rather be a simple pen, scripting my future like an author of my own tale Who possesses the power to shape each word.
To have the ability to craft my own destiny and not in the expectations of others.
To have the privilege of being unconcerned with how others perceive me.
I’d rather be beaten, abused, and battered, and if then, left astray, but with the feeling of personal resilience.
Then to be a gentle piece of paper, easily torn apart by the slightest touch, where They long for the day when they will gain the approval of others, by permitting them to formulate their fate.
I’d rather bleed of ink than be shredded into pieces.
If I could be free and unchained to the admiration of others, I’d rather be a simple pen.
Personalities
Mask of Multiple
Sylvia Habert
Graphite pencil, colored pencil, clay on paper
The Fall That Saved Us Both
Jacqueline Abadi
It was a typical family gathering at my grandma's house, the backyard decorated in a way that made everything feel warm and festive for a special occasion. The old wooden fence strung with fairy lights, balloons in soft pastels floated around the yard. Some were placed on the steep steps that led inside the house into the kitchen. A long table stretched across the yard, set with gorgeous vintage plates. There was a noticeable sense of joy in the air- laughter and chatter filled the space.
My cousin Linda was the star of the day, of course, because she was turning double digits! She and I were always very close, we grew up like sisters who were practically inseparable. Since we were so close, it felt only right that I would make her special cake for this important occasion.
After a couple hours in the kitchen, I made a tasty vanilla cake, with a layer of light blue frosting because it was her favorite color. She never really liked sprinkles, so I decided to try something new, and speckled it with hazelnuts. The vanilla scent started in the oven, drifted into the kitchen, and spilled out to the backyard. My entire family all gathered in the backyard, and had already smelt the cake, leaving them all eager to see and try it. I placed it on a pastel platter to match with the balloons on the perpetuated steps and around the yard. I remember feeling so proud of how it turned out and after all that hard work, I was excited to bring it out to her. Now that I was done decorating it, all I had to do was hold it while walking down those steps. I had to make it down the stairs to the backyard without tripping, which, knowing me, will be a challenge.
Those stairs had always been tricky. The wooden steps were steep and uneven, and if you weren’t paying attention, you’d end up stumbling. Sill, I was focused, with my hands wrapped carefully around the cake, determined not to ruin it.
I took my first step and surprising enough, I was still standing. Everyone was watching me now, while beginning to sing. “Happy birthday to Linda. Happy birthday to Linda”, and as they continued to sing the song in unison, I tripped. I caught myself for a split second, but the cake slipped off the platter and fell flat onto the grass. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as I watched it tumble, the blue frosting splattering and the hazelnuts flying in all different directions. The silence that followed was suffocating, it was as if you could hear a pin drop. I froze, my heart pounding out of my chest. I wanted to disappear. My hard work into making this cake perfect for Linda was all gone. I just stood there, holding an empty platter, feeling disappointed in my clumsiness and the weight of everyone’s eyes on me.
Then, from the corner of the yard, I heard a voice break the silence. “Well it looks like the cake wanted a dramatic entrance!” Samuel, my older cousin, cracked a joke speaking sarcastically. And just like that, the tension was gone. My whole family bursted out into laughter, and after getting over my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but join in. At the end of the day, it was a ridiculous situation that I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.
Little did we know, years later, we found out that my cousin Samuel had a life threatening allergy to tree nuts, including the hazelnuts that were sprinkled on the top of the birthday cake. Samuel saved me from the embarrassing silence, and I had saved him from a potentially dangerous allergic reaction.
I realized I had saved him, and if I hadn’t tripped, who knows what would’ve happened. My embarrassing yet hilarious accident had actually kept him from eating something that would have triggered a serious allergic reaction.
Absorbed Gracy Benun Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Pressure of Being Ilana Kroub Canon Rebel T7
A Silent Goodbye
Yaffa Mezrahi
Beep! Beep! Beep! I woke up to the blaring sound of my alarm clock, I glared at the time, 7:00am, hit snooze and drifted back to sleep not wanting to go to school.
An hour later I began to wake from the sound of my mothers soft voice,”Yaffa, get up please it's very late.” I mumbled something in agreement and while half asleep I started getting myself ready for school.
When I was finally ready, I went to the car and waited patiently for my father like usual, so when my mother got in instead, I was confused. I glanced at my mother, and I saw her eyes, red and puffy, ”Are you ok? What happened?” I asked, feeling a mix of concern and confusion. “I'm fine. Nothing happened,why?” she replied quickly.
“Oh…ok, never mind.” I replied not wanting to push her, but I still knew something was going on. “Where's abba?” I added.
“He had to go to work early,” she answered, her voice hesitant. Immediately after hearing that I knew something had happened with my paternal grandparents, I just wasn’t sure which one. My grandfather had Parkinsons, and my grandmother had ALS. My mind swayed toward my grandfather because out of the two of them he was older, weaker, and more at risk so I just assumed it was him.
The car ride felt longer than usual, my mind raced with questions, but I didn't dare ask. I could tell that my mother was holding something back, and I didn't want to push her further. When we arrived at my school I walked up the stairs slowly, my thoughts clouded with worry and confusion.
As the day passed my mind was on the same thought, I didn't have enough time with him, I just wanted one more minute. I felt like I hadn’t truly savored every moment. I was so distracted with my thoughts that I hadn’t even heard the phone ring.
“Yaffa”, my teacher said trying to get my attention,“Your grandmother is here to pick you up.”
I got up, packed up my things and made my way downstairs to my maternal grandmother’s car.
The car ride was silent, but as we approached my house I finally asked what I had been thinking about the whole time.
”Why did you come pick me up early?”
“Your mother and father asked me to,” she replied, “You’ll see why when they come home.”
When my parents arrived home my grandmother went straight upstairs with my sister, who was three at the time. My mother took her place next to my father on the couch, and started to say,”Moshe and Yaffa please sit down, we have to tell you something.”
My father slowly spoke, “Last night I went to the nursing home where Saba and Safta were placed,” he continued, slightly tearing up,”I got a call saying that Saftas heart stopped, and I went right away. I got there just in time to say goodbye to her.” My thoughts started flying and I couldn't grasp on to a single one, I stood still, tears pouring out of me, not wanting to come back to reality.
My brother jumped up and started to scream,”It’s all the doctor's fault, he didn't try saving her. He didn’t even try!”
“Moshe,” my father said slowly, ”Her heart stopped twice, the first time they were able to start it again, but the second time they were trying everything to get it to start again but it just didn’t.”
“They didn’t try hard enough, I would have made them try everything!” my brother shouted through his tears.
“Moshe, they did, I promise you.”
At that point I was drowning in my tears, I lost a part of myself, a piece I can never get back. My heart may heal, but there will always be scars reminding me of the person I lost. The person I looked up to and loved. She may be gone, but in my memories she still lingers, her laugh, smile, and kind heart. And though the pain remains, I've learned to carry her with me in ways I never expected. Her presence still surrounds me, reminding me everyday of the person I want to become.
Power of Words Daniel Hafif
Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Innocence Margie Souid Canon Rebel T7
Verdict
In The Ocean
Ben Sutton
In the ocean
I saw a light, bright, majestic, Who, lying upon the sand, Clenched the key in his finger, and profited from it.
I asked “are you happy, shiny chest?” It is “heavy---heavy,” he exhaled; “But I like it
Because it is heavy, “And because it is my pride.”
The Rest Is Still Unwritten Rami Harari Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
A Final With No End
Kelly Fatiha
I have this cream colored packet. It has my name, Kelly Fatiha, and class, 2-HN, on it and says “Talmud Final - 1/2 - HN/HS/HR” on the cover in black bold print. In messy red writing, it says 99. Once I open the first page, the rest of the pages turn out to be white, unlike the cover. The eight and a half pages are filled from top to bottom with endless questions on the gemara I learnt that semester. On the second page, however, there is a side note I had written during the test: “Why did you put so many lines?” That note is crossed out messily with a red pen and besides it writes “Sh!” with that same pen. After three pages, there is a -1 besides a long answer question and the word “Ok” written, once again, in messy red ink. Three pages after that, the last page, appears another note I wrote during the test. This note is messier than my first because of the lack of time I had to write it. “Dear Rabbi, I just wanted to thank you for these past two years. Not only did I learn gemara with you, but I learned so much more and I appreciate all you have done for me. I will take what I have learnt from you into the rest of my life - לחר.” Right under it, the messy red ink appears again. It writes, “Kelly, I have no doubt that you will succeed in everything you put your mind to. Keep working hard.” Under that, my full name is once again written in this packet, however, this time, it’s in messy red ink. This packet is stood up on the third gray shelf on my closet wall, so that everytime I walk into my closet, my face meets the cover.
This packet was a final given to me by my Talmud teacher, Rabbi Raymond Harari A”H. Rabbi, however, was not only my teacher. He was my mentor. He was able to read students’ strengths and weaknesses and analyze them so that he was able to correctly teach every individual student. If I had to describe what a true educator and teacher meant, I would, simply, just describe Rabbi. He looked past the fact that I was acing his class and was able to predict the next few words of the gemara, rather, he saw how I behaved. Rabbi, and only Rabbi, was able to notice and tend to issues within my behavior instead of kicking me out of class when I disrupted him like most other teachers. I spent two hours, everyday with him for my first two years of high school. In only two years or less I was able to proudly call him my favorite teacher ever. October 30th, 2024, I woke up for school only to read the news on my phone. He passed away. I eventually found out why the red ink was so messy. He was in the hospital when he used the ink. There was no desk or table he could sit on. While that week was, indefinitely, one of the tougher weeks of my life, I was able to realize later on that I am so lucky to have been able to know him. There’s not a day that has passed by that I haven’t thought about his kindness towards me, and I thank G-d everyday that I am able to call myself Rabbi’s student.
Grow Colette Chehova Acrylic on canvas
Because It's Right
Victor Kbariti
Our entire world changed when a member of my family was in dire need of a kidney donation. We were worried that time was running out as the search for a match felt overwhelming. Then, a Jewish individual from across the nation—someone we had never met, from an entirely different branch of Judaism—stepped forward in a moment that reshaped my idea of what was possible. They endured the pain and risks of donation for an unknown individual, traveling miles to undergo surgery. There was no obligation, no personal benefit—only a deep conviction to assist someone in need. Their sacrifice changed my family's perspective on the world, demonstrating that community ties extend far beyond the people we interact with daily.
Months later, we learned that another Jewish family was struggling financially due to unforeseen medical bills. Though we had never met them and likely never would, we knew we had to take action. We provided support just as we had once received it, not because we expected anything in return, but because that is what a community does. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know their names or faces. What mattered was the unspoken understanding that when one member of the community is in need, others step up—just as the kidney donor had done for us.
A group of people who live in the same area or share a similar background is often referred to as a community. However, that definition is far too limited. True community is built on connection, responsibility, and a willingness to help others simply because it is the right thing to do. It is not restricted by geography, race, or even personal relationships. This is especially evident in the Jewish community, which is spread across cities, nations, and continents yet always ready to support one another. These acts of kindness—whether through kidney donation, financial aid, or emotional support—form a powerful yet invisible network that binds people together. Community is not about physical proximity; it is about the constant presence of those who care, no matter how far away they may be. It is through shared values and selfless actions, rather than location, that the strongest bonds are formed.
SBH is a community organization that helps people in need, and I make an effort to contribute every week. This all began during my freshman year when I gathered a group of friends to assist with food packing at SBH. We weren’t just assembling small meal bags—we were packing entire boxes of essential groceries, carefully arranging them for families who needed them most. At first, I saw it as just another volunteer opportunity, but as the weeks passed, I began to understand the significance of this work. Every time I lifted a box into a car or onto a doorstep, I knew it was going to someone who truly
relied on it, even if I never knew their name or their story. I still pack and deliver food regularly, hardly ever knowing who lives in the homes I visit or why they need help. But that’s not what matters. I do it because I understand that being part of a community means showing up for others, even when you don’t fully understand their situation.
The idea of a borderless community is not exclusive to Judaism; it is a concept shared by many cultures and religious communities worldwide. Despite being spread across continents, diaspora communities—whether Chinese, Indian, or Armenian—maintain close ties to their people. Through mutual aid, business networks, and cultural preservation, they ensure the well-being of their members wherever they may be. Like the Jewish community, they redefine what it means to belong, demonstrating that community is built on shared values and collective support rather than proximity. Similarly, the Jewish community in America grew from a few isolated settlements into thriving populations across all 50 states. They built businesses, schools, and organizations that strengthened their bonds, ensuring that future generations would have a strong foundation of support. A community is not a fixed entity—it is dynamic, always evolving and adapting to meet the needs of its members.
Beyond support and growth, Jewish communities also emphasize mutual success, even in competitive environments. In many industries, Jewish businesses and individuals actively work to uplift one another, even when it requires paying more or putting in extra effort. Whether it’s choosing to buy from a fellow Jewish-owned business or offering mentorship to help someone succeed, these actions reflect an understanding that community thrives when its members invest in each other’s success. The generosity and commitment within these communities reinforce the idea that community is not just about location or background—it is about an ongoing choice to stand by one another, even at a personal cost.
Community is not defined by geography, background, or familiarity—it is created through shared values, selfless actions, and a commitment to helping one another. True community flourishes wherever people choose to support others, whether through financial assistance, life-saving donations, or simple acts of kindness. This concept extends beyond the Jewish community; in an increasingly interconnected world, we all have the opportunity to build and strengthen communities that transcend borders, proving that the strongest connections are formed not by where we live, but by how we care for one another.
Self Portrait Jacqueline Tebele Charcoal on paper
Music Heals David Dweck Color pencil and watercolor on paper
The Stranger
Yael Lotwin
Who is this stranger staring back at me? I stand, haunted by the girl I once knew. How much more can I change? When will it finally be enough? Who am I now? What was I made for?
I used to know, but now I’m lost in doubt. I once shone like the sharpest knife, Now I flicker like a candle, on the verge of going out. I used to float, now I just fall down. The girl I once was has vanished, A missing person’s case, never to be solved So once again I ask, What was I made for?
Running Out Tunie Terzi Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
The Season Within
Marcus Mezrahi
Winter is the season of desolation and stagnance. Trees stand like skeletons, leafless, and barkless. Rivers freeze over, locked in ice. The wind and chill bites at the bare skin forcing people to wrap themselves in bundles in order to even go outside. The wildlife disappears for the entire duration. But then comes spring, the trees that once seemed lifeless bloom, the once frozen rivers flow free, bright green grass grows through the melting snow. The wildlife finally ventures out of their winter home for the first time since autumn.
Spring has many definitions, however in its traditionally understood definition being the season, it’s defined by the Meridian Dictionary as, “growth or development, specifically : the season between winter and summer comprising in the northern hemisphere usually the months of March, April, and May or as reckoned astronomically extending from the March equinox to the June solstice.” Yet, spring is more than just a shift in weather and nature, it represents the idea of gradual renewal, both through personal growth out of a difficult “winter” of stagnation, or as seen in history with groups of people rising up against a traditional mindset or a regime.
The idea of spring embodies personal growth especially after a tough period in time. Both in nature and life, a winter feels like a tough time period with no little to no progress made, as if everything is frozen in time, like the rivers during winter which freeze over. Yet, winter is not a permanent force. Eventually after a long hard winter the days start to grow, the weather heats up, and the birds come out again.
The idea of spring representing personal growth can be connected to students struggling on a specific topic in one of their classes, and not being able to understand anything. Perhaps due to poor mindset, not enough effort put in, or maybe the student really can’t grasp the ideas. However if the student puts in the work either by changing their mindset or putting more effort, they will start to slowly grasp the ideas of that topic and experience their own spring, similar to how winter seems like an unmovable force of cold and stagnation, but slowly and surely turns into the most beautiful season.
Moreover, when someone imagines spring, they think about bright flowers, sunshine, maybe some butterflies, but they often fail to understand that these beautiful sights didn't just happen overnight. The saying, “A perfect flower is only the visualization of well tended roots,” is exactly the same with flowers as is with people. Being that “perfect flower” can't just happen in one day, it requires planting that seed, watering it, taking care of it, and requires the right conditions which the spring gradually brings.
Spring is more than just a season. It is a universal symbol of renewal, resilience, and hope. Whether in nature, personal growth, or societal growth. Spring reminds us that growth is possible even through the harshest winters. Yet, spring is never instantaneous. It is a slow, gradual process that requires patience, persistence, and hope.
Portrait Jacqueline Tebele Acrylic on canvas
Overlapping Echoes Barbara Chehebar Canon Rebel T7, Photoshop
Jerome Robbins was a Flatbush alumnus (1936). He was a classmate and childhood sweetheart of Deborah Eiferman. They were engaged to be married following his return Stateside.
Prior to his enlistment in the American army, Jerry attended Yeshivah University.
Jerry Robbins was a gifted essayist and poet. Despite his exemption from the draft, Jerry could not bear avoiding the fight against Nazi Germany. He gave up his exemption and enlisted in the US Army.
Pvt. Jerome Robbins was on the SS Leopoldville when it was torpedoed by a German U-boat on December 24, 1944, while crossing the English Channel. Of the 2,235 Americans on board, approximately 762 died, 493 of whom were never found. Jerome Robbins is buried in Mt. Lebanon Cemetery in Queens, New York.
Here is a copy of the poem “Wait for Me World” by Jerry Robbins. Jerry wrote this the night before he relinquished his draft exemption.
Wait for Me World
Jerry Robbins A"H
Wait for me world. I have a rendezvous Far, far, away. It won’t be play; Rather, shall we say Business. Where I know not, Nor do I know Whom I shall meet. Yet this I know, I must go. I don't want to leave, No one ever does. Not what one wants, But what one must. So I must leave.
Before I go I exact a promise From you; The hope for its fulfillment Is all that sends me away now.
Promise to remain the same ‘til my return. No not in all ways, change is part of life In fact, I might say I leave now because I desire some changes and want to help bring them about.
Yet these are the things which I hope will ever be the same ‘til my return and Forever more…
Promise me there will always be the sun and moon and stars As signs of the Infinite; Exalting Man even as they Humble him
Promise there will always be Love;
The love of family, Whom I hurt momentarily
In order to bring them eventual security
The love of friends
Whose warm smiles mean so much More than can be put on paper, And last, because the closest at heart,
A pure love, given freely Completely, steadfastly,
An intangible, like air, Which alone makes all tangibles meaningful. Promise me there will be Music and laughter, The free unforced laughter of untroubled minds
Who fear not the horrible visage of the idiot Mars,
Promise me there will be Freedom,
Not the freedom to starve Without restraint, Not the freedom to crush
Another under the false guise of “Business” or “politics”, But freedom from want and from fear.
Freedom to say and do as One wishes, without hurting another, Freedom for every man, White and black, Jew and Gentile, To say “I am free”
And know that what he says is true, Not just words, I am tired of hearing “just words”
These are the things for which I will yearn
Have them ready for my return.
Remember, World, it is for Those I fight You must not fail me.
Once again - lest you forgetWait for me world, I will be back…
