20 West End Avenue New York, New York 10023 212/246-7717 • www.heschel.org
Dedication
Editorial Board
We reflect on that which makes us divinely human: The ability to think
Editors in Chief
Nicole Hirschenboim Kayla Joyce Talya Nevins Zerlina Panush Rebecca Zeuner
Editorial Staff
Mariel Freeman-Lifshutz Hannah Osman • Kathryn Prince Charlotte Rauner • Sander Siegel Isabel Tsesarsky
The power to act The strength to look at life From different perspectives
Art Editors in Chief
Noah Offitzer • Zerlina Panush
Art Staff
Jacqueline Eizak • Rebecca Heringer
Faculty Advisor
All make life meaningful.
Sandra Silverman
Special Thanks to
3rd Rail Marketing Strategies, Publimax Printing, Graphic Paper New York, and Barry and Zachary Goodman AJHHS Alumni Class ’08 for contributions to defray costs of Epitome. Gabe Godin and Dena Schutzer
In our fast paced lives we must pause: To understand To reflect To appreciate.
The Abraham Joshua Heschel High School 20 West End Avenue New York, New York 10023 212/246-7717 www.heschel.org
Head of School
Roanna Shorofsky
High School Head Ahuva Halberstam
Memberships & Awards
Member, CSPA, 2006 – present (Columbia Scholastic Press Association)
First Place Magazine Cover – Black and White, 2009
Gold Medalist 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012
Gold Circle Awards 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012
Silver Medalist, 2006
Graphic Design/Production By Design Communications
Production Supervisor
3rd Rail Marketing Strategies, Inc. Printing Publimax Printing Paper Graphic Paper New York
Colophon We dedicate e-pit’-o-me to: The power of the individual The triumph and resilience of the human spirit Powerful enough to rebuild, Bright enough to rebound. Rebecca Zeuner
The pieces in this magazine emerged from both class projects and independent writing. Students submit material and the editors make selections and suggest revisions as part of an extra-curricular activity. Epitome represents a crosssection of the literary and artistic talents of our students and seeks to showcase as many of their works as possible, reflecting Heschel’s commitment to inclusion. This magazine was produced on the Macintosh platform. Body copy font families used: American Typewriter, Optima and Times New Roman. Assorted titling, decorative text, subheads, credits, page numbers and dingbats font families used throughout. 600 copies, printed on a Heidelberg Speedmaster 102SP 6 Color with Inline Coater. Paper stock: 100# Montauk Gloss 30% Recycled Text-FSC Certified and 111# Montauk Gloss 30% Recycled Cover-FSC Certified (promoting sustainable forest management). Front and back cover printed4 colors CMYK plus PMS 877 Silver Metallic ink with double hit of Black plus spot satin and spot gloss aqueous coatings; inside pages printed 4/4 CMYK (all CMYK inks used are vegetable-based).
Table
of
Book Covers/ Opening Pages Dedication...............................................................Rebecca Zeuner Dedication/Table of Contents photograph..... Nicole Hirschenboim Covers/Title Page art....................Zerlina Panush, design/digital art Rebecca Zeuner, photographs
l Poetry The person you see before you.......Arielle Tannin.........................9 When the sun...................................Charlotte Rauner...................13 The Race.........................................Nicole Hirschenboim............14 Teacher............................................Sasha Bronfman....................16 Do I know you?...............................Talya Nevins.........................19 Song of the Future...........................Rebecca Zeuner.....................23 Ode..................................................Kayla Joyce...........................26 Cry..................................................Rebecca Zeuner.....................27 Inside...............................................Nicole Hirschenboim............28 The Cut............................................Mariel Freeman Lifshutz.......29 The Pitfalls of Pastry.......................Mariel Freeman Lifshutz.......32 Love................................................Leah Nussbaum.....................39 Ten Things I Hate............................Nicole Hirschenboim............43 Shoes...............................................Rebecca Zeuner.....................44 The Failed Puppeteers.....................Aaron Tannenbaum...............50 To the Squeaky Noise in Room 226................................Rebecca Sussman..................58 Two Images.....................................Rebecca Sussman..................63 Last Thoughts..................................Ariella Berkowitz..................67 Ode to New Jersey..........................Aaron Tannenbaum...............78 Charade...........................................Nicole Hirschenboim............81 Life Before Heschel........................Louis Shalem........................83 Goodnight Conor............................Evan Chernov........................87 Father..............................................Aaron Tannenbaum...............93 Control............................................Tamar Stein...........................94 Piano Teacher..................................Sydney Lorch........................95 Creation...........................................Mikaela Gerwin..................122 Trust Me..........................................Nicole Hirschenboim..........123 Not Sorry.........................................Sasha Bronfman..................126 Fire..................................................Nicole Hirschenboim..........128 Photographer...................................Mikaela Gerwin..................129 How Was Your Day?.......................Ariella Berkowitz................139 Treading on Broken Glass...............Nicole Hirschenboim..........140 Outlooked Intentions.......................Charlotte Rauner.................145 Overlap............................................Nicole Hirschenboim..........146
contents Things I Didn’t Know I Loved.......Natasha Edelstein, Benjamin Falah, Isabel Mosery, Maia Offitzer, Lucette Panush, Isaac Tannenbaum, Stacy Vaknin, Tamar Arenson, Hayley Berson, Samuel Messenger, Gregory Mintz, David Nachman, Leora Nevins, Arden Poller, Noa Rocco, Maya Shalev, Fanny Wolfowitz..............................................................148 My Grandpa Called Today..............Nicole Hirschenboim..........150
Fiction/Plays Kid Story.........................................Mikaela Gerwin....................10 Best Friends Forever.......................Aviva Malz............................17 U Turn.............................................Joshua Kerdell.......................20 The Note Cards...............................Rebecca Zeuner.....................33 Sacrifice...........................................Aaron Tannenbaum...............40 The House on Maple Street.............Hannah Osman......................45 The Longest Day.............................Yael Fisher............................51 The Third Stone..............................Caroline Guenoun.................59 When Life Becomes An Act...........Rebecca Zeuner.....................68 Frighteningly Beautiful...................Zerlina Panush......................72 To Stop the Rain..............................Jonathan Merrin....................89 Nightmare.......................................Nicole Hirschenboim............96 Memories........................................Kayla Joyce.........................102 A Strange Day in July.....................Kathryn Prince....................107 Chicken Circus................................Jonathan Merrin..................111 Stained.............................................Zachary Stecker..................114 Six Word Stories.............................Sasha Bronfman, Evan Chernov, Yael Fisher, Mikaela Gerwin, Caroline Guenoun, Jordan Katz, Joshua Kerdell, Sydney Lorch, Samuel Raskin, Louis Shalam, Rebecca Sussman, Aaron Tannenbaum, Talia Wiener.....124 Retrograde.......................................Daniel Fisher.......................130 The System......................................Talya Nevins.......................141
Essays/On My Mind No Crystal Ball...............................Mikaela Gerwin....................30 Techno World..................................Samuel Raskin......................49 The True Measure of Man...............Hannah Osman......................56 To Reality........................................Jonathan Merrin....................57 Try Outs..........................................Leora Einleger.......................65 The Catastrophe That We Live Today............................Leah Dorfman.......................79 Alas Babylon...................................Daniel Fisher.........................84 Diversity?........................................Hannah Osman......................88 Never Enough.................................Caroline Guenoun...............110 Gifts................................................Kayla Joyce.........................127
Table Art
of
Pastel...............................................Noah Offitzer.......................... 8 Watercolor.......................................Heila Precel........................... 10 Pencil...............................................Noah Offitzer........................ 12 Tempera...........................................Yael Fisher............................ 18 Tempera...........................................Sydney Lorch........................ 19 Oil ..................................................Rebecca Heringer . ............... 21 Charcoal..........................................Zerlina Panush ..................... 26 Mixed media...................................Noah Offizer.......................... 27 Acrylic.............................................Noah Offitzer........................ 28 Watercolor . ....................................Noa Rocco............................. 29 Charcoal..........................................Noah Offitzer........................ 34 Oil...................................................Zerlina Panush.................34-35 Mixed media...................................Noah Offitzer........................ 38 Oil...................................................Zerlina Panush...................... 43 Pencil...............................................Zerlina Panush...................... 47 Digital art........................................Daniella Forman.................... 49 Acrylic.............................................Noah Offitzer........................ 50 Pencil...............................................Sasha Chanko........................ 52 Watercolor.......................................Hannah Ball.......................... 53 Pencil...............................................Grace Gilbert......................... 56 Digital art........................................Julia Sutton........................... 58 Charcoal..........................................Rachel Wenger...................... 65 Acrylic/collage................................Rebecca Heringer.................. 67 Pencil/collage..................................Tamar Arenson...................... 76 Pencil...............................................Zerlina Panush...................... 77 Oil...................................................Seth Singer............................ 78 Collage............................................Juliet Sage............................. 80 Collage............................................Talia Cohen........................... 80 Oil...................................................Rebecca Heringer.................. 81 Ink...................................................Noah Offitzer........................ 83 Collage/ink......................................Noah Offitzer........................ 87 Pencil...............................................Noah Offitzer........................ 95 Pencil/collage..................................Noah Offitzer...................... 103 Cardboard/found objects.................Kevin Gindi......................... 104 Pencil...............................................Sasha Chanko...................... 109 Oil...................................................Meirav Weintraub............... 110 Oil...................................................Zerlina Panush.................... 113 Collage............................................Zerlina Panush.................... 115 Charcoal/pencil...............................Noah Offitzer...................... 116 Plaster sculpture..............................9th Grade............................. 121 Watercolor.......................................Grace Gilbert....................... 122 Print.................................................Lucette Panush.................... 122 Installation piece.............................Noah Offitzer...................... 123 Watercolors.....................................Evan Chernov, Yael Fisher, Caroline Guenoun, Sydney Lorch, Anna Malisov, Laurie Sarway, Rebecca Sussman.....................124-125 Pastel...............................................Rebecca Heringer................ 126 Watercolor.......................................Anna Malisov...................... 127 Tempera...........................................Caroline Guenoun............... 129 Mixed media...................................Hanajoy Ain, Nehama Kramer, Laurie Sarway, Hannah Teush...... 130
contents Charcoal..........................................James Khaghan...................132 Mixed media...................................Orly Silverstein...................133 Acrylic sculpture.............................Alex Ben Yosef...................134 Tempera...........................................Hanna Ball..........................139 Collage............................................Rebecca Heringer................140 Pencil/charcoal................................Noah Offitzer......................141 Watercolor.......................................Rebecca Heringer................145 Watercolor.......................................Evan Chernov......................146 Watercolor/oil pastel.......................Caroline Guenoun...............148 Mixed media...................................Danielle Carmi, Rebecca Heringer, Noah Offitzer, Zerlina Panush..........................................................151 Oil...................................................Zerlina Panush....................152
Photographs
Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................11 Sigal Palley...................................................................................15 Nicole Hirschenboim....................................................................16 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................23 Rebecca Zeuner . .................................................................... 24-25 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................31 Nicole Hirschenboim....................................................................32 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................39 Sigal Palley............................................................................. 40-42 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................44 Benjamin Sternklar-Davis.............................................................57 Rebecca Zeuner....................................................................... 60-62 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................63 Sander Siegel................................................................................63 Diana Hymowitz...........................................................................64 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................68 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................69 Rebecca Zeuner . ..........................................................................71 Diana Hymowitz .................................................................... 84-86 Nicole Hirschenboim....................................................................88 Nicole Hirschenboim....................................................................89 Sander Siegel.......................................................................... 90-91 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................92 Sigal Palley...................................................................................93 Rebecca Zeuner.............................................................................94 Nicole Hirschenboim....................................................................96 Jonathan Granowitz......................................................................99 Rebecca Zeuner . .......................................................................106 Rebecca Zeuner...........................................................................128 Benjamin Sternklar-Davis................................................... 136-137 Maximilian Eckhardt..................................................................139 Nicole Hirschenboim..................................................................143 Rebecca Zeuner...........................................................................144 William Pollock..........................................................................144 Maximilian Eckhardt..................................................................149
The person you see before you...
The person you see before you
Is a Compilation of her beliefs, loves, and experiences. Not everything is in unison with its counterpart And certain things may contradict. Be warned; not everything is ablaze with contrast There is no clear Right and no visible Wrong. I am simply who I am today, just as you see me. Do not be taken aback By the things I do not share In common with you. I may lack faith in a higher power, Which does not diminish my Appreciation of the World. I am able to gaze upon the earth with a sense of Wonder, With the knowledge that I am insignificant In the grand scope of the Universe. This is not a source of melancholy for me, Rather it fills my life with a sense of Urgency. Everything is ultimately temporary, And so we must live in way that is honest and rewarding. I am constantly seeking to understand, To Validate and to Reason. I am most vulnerable when I am ignorant, And most assured when I am informed. I have also come to realize There are things that cannot be rationalized. Life, death, beauty, war, and emotion each possesses intrinsic qualities That cannot be completely comprehended. Their Abstractness leads some to disregard them as too unfathomable to merit analysis. Nonetheless, we must accept these aspects of life That are unable to be explained. Nothing is innately good or evil, Everything simply Is. It is the task of myself, and the individual Not to dismiss what is Inexplicable. Arielle Tannin Opposite: Noah Offitzer, pastel
Pages 8 – 9
____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________
KiD story
____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________
Grandma cause she’s like a hundred or something. “ Sit up straight, Mary Jane. And stop biting on your hair.” ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ “Grandma! I like slouching and biting my hair.” omma hates when I sing out “ Manners, Mary Jane, manners!” ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ loud. She says only crazy Grandma is very big on manners, but Momma says she’s just an old people speak to themselves. lady and it’s ok to ignore her as long as you’re polite. I know lots of songs though, but Ring “ Oh, leave her alone, Mom.” ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Around the Rosy is best. Ring around That’s Uncle Morrey. He has walrus teeth and smells like mint gum. the rosy, pocket full of posy, ashes, ashes, There’s this wart on his cheek that I always wanna touch but then I remem____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ they all fall down. Down. You always have to ber that it just ain’t polite to do stuff like that. repeat the down, that’s just the way the song Momma brings the cake in. It’s got bubble gum frosting which I really goes. Momma says I’m crazy when I sing it. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ really, really like. She starts singing: “Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthShe’s always calling me wild child. Once she told day to you. Happy Birthday, dear Mom, Happy Birthday to you.” Aunt Linda that I was an impossible girl to Momma has a pretty singing voice and we all join in. I sing softly cause ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ understand. I heard that while eavesdropping; Grandma’s being mean and she doesn’t deserve to hear me sing to her. The that’s when ya listen in without the grownup grownups then sit around and talk while I eat cake. The bubble gum frost____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ knowing. Late at night, when Momma thinks ing isn’t as good as I remember. Uncle Morrey tries to reach for a slice, but I’m sleeping I like to creep down the stairs. I always skip the third one Aunt Linda swats his hand and tells him he has to be able to fit through the ‘cause it creaks. front door. Sometimes Aunt Linda can be pretty stupid. I mean how is one ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Momma talks a lot at night. She talks into the white plastic phone on the slice of cake gonna make Uncle Morrey so fat he can’t fit through the door? wall. Sometimes she laughs, but mostly she cries. Her face gets all blotchy Cousin Zack tries to get me to build a fort with him, but I’m not gonna. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ like a sponge, and her eyes squint up until they look like raisins. I think I can’t touch him cause he’s a boy and my friend Eloise told me boys got Momma’s life is kinda hard, so she needs me watching over her even if it’s bugs. Cooties or somethin like that. And I ain’t gonna take any chances. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ past my bedtime. Momma is all I got, so I needa take good care of her. That Momma always says you gotta way she won’t leave. protect your health. When Momma isn’t crying, people call her a beauty. She has this black It starts getting late and I pull ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ hair that’s so thick it takes an hour to brush out. Her skin is the color of on Momma’s skirt and give her chocolate milk that’s more milky than chocolaty. One of her top teeth is my wanna go home face. “Okay, ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ chipped, but the rest look like the teeth in the toothpaste commercials. Honeybun. We can leave now, They’re all white and shiny. Momma says I gotta brush like she does. Munchkin.” Momma is wearing her favorite red lipstick today. When she puts it ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ I hate when Momma calls me on she always laughs and says it makes her feel like a 1920s flapper girl. I Munchkin, but I let her slip on never get it, but I laugh too. my coat and take me to the car. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ We’re at Grandma’s house now; all of us, Uncle Morrey, Aunt Linda, It’s time to go home. Cousin Zack, and Lulu. Grandma’s sitting on the rocking chair giving us Mikaela Gerwin ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ all her scary face. Momma is in the kitchen fixing up a birthday cake for
M
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph Heila Precel, watercolor ____________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Pages 10 – 11
When the sun
There was a day when the sun forgot to rise, and confusion was creeping. The people didn’t go to their lives, and stayed home instead, watching
the sky. Alarms were shut off the glow of the time creating a mist. The dark was in every room
waited. Neighbors were never seen, their movements hidden and their breaths quick. They knew something
feeling crisp and slightly cool as the people failed to push it away. Coffee was never brewed teeth were never brushed,
went wrong this was all a mistake, the sun was just running late. But I could tell it forgot
hair was never combed, pajamas were never rolled, tightly. The ones scared of the dark cried and prayed to a God and called
when the stars stopped their dance, and began their search. The moon stood and waited, naive and excluded. Seeing
to a mother. Meetings were canceled and lies to keep sane were whispered to someone younger.
none of the faces, of the ones in their rooms staring at the moon. They deemed it the night hero, asking it for light.
When the ears were pressed through the cracks of the doors: anxiety. Delusion entered each corner, while the people
I liked this day
Opposite: Noah Offitzer, pencil
Pages 12 – 13
when the world was unified when the people mourned and all was silent. Charlotte Rauner
e ca R eh T
The Race Raindrops On the car window Dripping, sliding, running Shooting stars Of water droplets Streaming d o w n, d
i
a
g
o
n
a
l
l
Sigal Palley, photograph
y,
Crashing to the ground. Only one will Reach the bottom First; And some Stars of water Will become lost In the clouds of fog On the window; Stopped In their tracks Forever, Never To race
Pages 14 – 15
e ca R eh T
Again.
But the question Still beckons...
e ca R eh T
Which one Will win The race? Nicole Hirschenboim
e ca R eh T
x Best Friends Forever (Setting: Two women sitting at a table in a restaurant in Beverly Hills. The place is luxurious, with white tablecloths and expensive art lining the walls. One woman, Lisa, on the left, has an air of confidence and superiority. On the right, the other woman, Melissa, is mousier, and seems to shrink away from her companion. Both are dressed in expensive clothing and jewelry. A waiter is standing at the table, taking their order.)
Teacher
The top of his bald head
Pages 16 – 17
Was perpetually shiny. Tiny beads of sweat Constantly formed On his upper lip. Always the same Old, smelly handkerchief Tucked away In his breast pocket, Put to use many times each class Never failing to soak up the dabs of moisture On his bland face That you would never pick out of a crowd. I could count on His khakis Being just a bit too short Day after day. His button downs Were always faded shades of pastels, Drab and unimaginative. I remember finding it impossible To differentiate Between his words; One just rolled onto the next Blending together Sinking in as one monotonous blob. He used to call me e.e. cummings As a joke Because I wrote in all lower case. I never thought it was funny. Sasha Bronfman Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
Waiter (turns to Melissa): And for you? Melissa: What do you recommend? Waiter: Our tuna tartar is excellent – Lisa: I think she’ll stick to the salad. Melissa: Oh… okay, yeah, I’ll just have that. (Waiter nods, exits) Lisa (pouring a glass of wine): So tell me, how did your party go? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but I had something far more important to do. Melissa: Oh, it’s fine. It went well, but not too many people showed up. Lisa (takes a long swig from her glass): Mmm, probably because no one was expecting much from you. Melissa: Oh. Kay… Lisa: Besides, you can’t hold an event in your backyard, especially when your house is so small. Melissa: But it’s 25,000 square feet… Lisa: Mine is 50,000 square feet and I’d never think to have any event at my home. Melissa (dejected): Oh. Well, next time I’ll plan differently. (Waiter enters, brings food, exits) (Lisa pours another glass of wine) Melissa: Maybe you’ve had enough…? Lisa (indignantly): Mind your own business. And not too much dressing on that salad, you don’t need the extra calories. (Melissa blinks back at her in shock, puts the dressing down) Lisa (downs the entire glass of wine): So, how is your relationship with Charles going? Melissa (happily): Really well! We went on a date just the other ni– Lisa: Really? Well, I saw him the other day with another woman. She was much prettier. And skinnier. She must have been a supermodel or something. Or maybe she just looked good next to him compared to you. Anyway, I saw him at a café
with this other woman, and they looked very… cozy. Melissa (speechless, mouth agape) Lisa (unfazed by her silence): Maybe you can get him back if you get serious about that diet. And exercise. A nose job wouldn’t hurt either. Melissa (trying to say something, but in too much shock to piece words together) Lisa (now irritated with her silence): Well, say something! God, no wonder Charles is cheating on you, you’re so boring to talk to! Melissa (gets up suddenly, red in the face, throws glass of water in Lisa’s face): SHUT UP! (Lisa sits there in shock, water dripping off her face) There’s no need to be such a witch! I’m just as good as you! I have the money, the clothes, the house – everything you have, and somehow you always one-up me! I’ve had enough! Lisa (begins dabbing the water off her face, back to her previous attitude of dominance): Stop making a scene, sit down. (Melissa sits down reluctantly, glaring at Lisa) (Waiter comes back on) Waiter: Can I interest you in any dessert? Lisa: No, she’s good. (End)
Aviva Malz Yael Fisher, tempera
Sydney Lorch, tempera
Do I know you? Do I know you? Where are you from, and why do you seem so familiar? Is it your voice? Your gait? Your eyes? Am I a wishful thinker, or are you trying to fool me? Could I just be hoping for a friend? Why do I get that feeling in my stomach every time you speak? Do you know the one I mean? Is it squirming? Fluttering? Tingling? I think I know you, but from where? My past? My future? I must know you, but do you know me? Talya Nevins
Pages 18 – 19
U Tu rn T
o describe myself in a few words, I would say I’m somewhere between evil and fun. I’m the kind of woman who sits by a polluted stream with some guy I don’t know to my left and a baby to my right. I’m the kind of woman who gives birth to my second child at the age of nineteen. I’m the kind of person that takes that month old child to the disgusting stream with that boy I don’t know. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t know the father of my children, but would happily birth another two. You probably have no idea exactly what it’s like to do what we’re doing. To get massively drunk and drown a baby. That feeling of freedom is one of the only things I have to live for.
university next year while I have to stay a high school senior for the third year straight. I’m taking another swig of vodka when my stomach shifts. An elephant screeches out of my throat and all over Dungov. “Gaahh! Stupid LUN’TIC LADY!” Right in the face he hits me. Then again. He’s a bit stronger than I thought.
You probably have no idea exactly what it’s like to do what we’re doing. To get massively drunk and drown a baby. That feeling of freedom is one of the only things I have to live for.
“Wha’ you dong, lady?” He might be worse off than I am. He also doesn’t know where he is right now and probably never will thanks to the sweet powers of Rohypnol. Actually, I don’t even know his real name. Back at the party he told me his name was Dungov, or something, then laughed his head off. He refuses to tell me his name and every time I call him Dungov he just laughs more. I’ve been calling him Dungov all night. Why him? I needed a partner and he was already drunk out of his mind from that graduation party. What better partner could you ask for than a guy named Dungov? My only frustration is having to look at this moron that my school’s administration graduated instead of me, knowing that he will go to a fancy
Pages 20 – 21
Rebecca Heringer, oil
“I’m going to DARTMOUTH UNIVERSITY!! I drive an Infiniti and my pants are ruined… Clean me dry!!” What the hell. So I guess he’s a lot stronger than I thought. Either that, or I’m not totally used to being head butted by two hundred pounds of drunken, brute strength. “Take it back! Take it back it’s yours! Take it back stupid cow!”
I’m pinned down here and now the doggone baby’s crying. What a jerk. He’s crying now, too. Crying as he goes to wash off my vomit in the dark green stream. It’s this point where I stop and think, What the hell is wrong with me? What kind of person is still in high school by the age of twenty and what kind of woman drowns her baby in a polluted stream? I puke again. This time on that stupid, crying baby. It cries more. Enough of the babies and enough with Dungov the “Dartmouth University” dolt. I feel like an embarrassment to the freaking world. What does this look like now? Three vomit-covered idiots crying by a polluted stream in the middle of the night. You know what? The baby’s not enough. The Smirnoff bottle will make a great weapon. Maybe his rich as hell family bought him a credit card or something I can lift and use to get out of the country. I wouldn’t be missed by anyone, assuming the baby goes. I’m halfway to the airport in that moron’s car when I’m pulled over about this doggone headlight. All night he’s boasted about his stupid car and he doesn’t even have a working headlight. “Do you know why I stopped you, Ma’am?” Enlighten me. “You were doing some swerving back there. Have you been drinking tonight?” Gosh no, Officer, I’m sober as a child. “Hold on, let me get this for you” He flips the headlights on as his face lights up. “Ma’am can you tell me what exactly is all over your blouse?” Shoot. I speed off. He gets in his car and chases after me. I completely forgot to change my clothes, or even wipe myself off. The car reeks of blood and booze. Shoot, shoot, shoot! What was I thinking? I’m hitting ninety now, bumping cars and whatnot. They start to clear a lane for me. How nice. I hit one fifteen and now there are two sirens. Steady at one thirty five and the freeway is empty aside from me and the three sirens behind me. The bridge looks closed off. I seem to have two options: hold off and face prison, or maybe I can surprise these pigs with a full U-tur—
Song of the Future Fallen, not to rise again,
Stolen, not to be returned, Vanished, never to be seen again. Love to be fallen into, Futures lit by dreams, Children to be born, Young, innocent souls, Stolen, with one shatter, One trigger, One tiny, infinite click. Ah, you boors of people, You cowards of men, When will you learn? When will you understand? How many lives must be taken, How much blood must be shed, Before man will not lift up sword Against man? Every time the sweet melody of the lyre plays, Remember that blood drips to every melody, And pours out upon the earth. Why is one who hurls destruction on this world, Guiltier than the weapon he chooses to use? Do not seek excuses, Nor lie to yourself again. Ah, when the brightest of days turns into darkness, Who is to blame? Yes, the murderer. He who sleeps with lawlessness, Who feasts on little lambs, And gorges on helpless sheep.
Joshua Kerdell Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
Pages 22 – 23
But it is you, Leeches of your nation, Liars to the people, Claiming to be public figures For our best interest, But protecting politics, Rather than your people. You fight for your party, But if you do not fight for me, For the widow and the orphan, For the little lambs or the helpless sheep, Who will fight for you? Tonight you go home, Hug your children, Be thankful for what you have. But you have nothing.
They stood there waiting, Praying, hoping, For their child to return. Now, I demand you imagine yourself, Grasping at nothing, With your heart in your throat, As it stops beating, Because you stand there Screaming, shrieking, shaking, As your lamb is nowhere in sight. Because every day when you take a breath, Or utter a word, Or make a single move, You turn from a shepherd To a masterful hunter.
What can you say to a parent Whose future was taken away, Because you chose to argue, To sit idly by, And place self-preservation over need? You are a bigoted people, Unable to come off your pedestal To protect your nation. I loathe the pride of man, That he allows murder in this world, And I grieve with those who grieve, As my heart is filled not only with rage, But with agony and sorrow.
Can boats float on land? Can camels live with no water? When man turns freedom into corruption, And perfume into poison, The world is in reverse, And you must take action. You must create change. Who will hum the song of the future, To the tune of tranquility? How long before you rise up against evil, Not only the man, but the means? Rebecca Zeu;ner
The brightest of days, You let turn into blackness, So dark, without a glimmer, And because of you, Faces are filled with fear.
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
Pages 24 – 25
ODE
CRY
To the seven-year old girl I lied to,
nush, char Zerlina Pa
coal
I only wanted to make your tears stop. You told me it was a present from your mother: A glass dolphin from Italy. And now it was shattered; Pieces of its blue tail lay scattered on your orange carpet. You yelled at me for breaking it, And I promised it wasn’t me. It was already broken, I told you. But you persisted, And the tears rolled down your flustered cheeks. Don’t lie to me, you said, I won’t be mad if you don’t lie. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t take the guilt; I couldn’t take the hate you might have towards me. I swore it was broken when I found it. I lied. I am not sure if you believed me, But your tears slowly became sniffles. You will never know I lied to you, Yet I will never forget the look in your watery eyes When you begged me to tell the truth. I promised to help clean up the shattered pieces on the rug, And you smiled and thanked me. Kayla Joyce
Pages 26 – 27
Eyes,
Red with pain Wet with sorrow Black with fear.
Hands, Cold with panic Shaking with nerves White with shame. You, And this image, Never to disappear. I feel guilt Regret Love And it consumes me Because I hate That you hate, And I hurt Because you hurt.
If only you knew How much we Love Respect Need You
Noah Offitzer, mixed media
And your happiness.
Open your mouth Scream Cry Share Your secret Shout it out Just to me I will listen. Rebecca Zeuner
Inside
The Cut
Your face,
She sits,
Frozen in time, Frozen in my mind. Your blank expression, Your wide eyes Showed me You understood. For what you said Reminded me of something I need not be reminded of. And your expression — Your blank expression Masked an air of guilt and concern For unintentionally reminding me Of that horrible, horrible… Thing… for which I yearn. Yet, only seconds later, We recovered. And continued talking As though nothing happened.
Looking in the mirror, Scissors in her hand, A look of childish wonder and fear on her face, Like Alice when she reaches Wonderland. She raises her hands to the red halo surrounding Her head, slowly as if she is facing a frightened deer. She opens the scissors, closing her eyes at the same time. Raising them to her face, She exhales, unsure of herself. She gets ready, like a lion going in for the kill. She cuts the first piece, dropping it to the floor, Like a searing piece of metal. She rolls her shoulders back, Relaxed now that the worst is over. Gradually, she cuts down the halo around her head, Piles of red falling around her on the floor. Confident, She grabs for the razor. Hands shaking, She destroys the last of her identity. Mariel Freeman Lifshutz
But I’m pretty sure We both understood What really went on Inside. Nicole Hirschenboim
Noah Offitzer, acrylic
Pages 28 – 29
Noa Rocco, watercolor
No Cr ystal Ball
The sand lay underneath our faded T-shirts like an extra layer of skin. We wore it proudly, a symbol of exhausting days and giggly nights. A thin layer of barbecue sauce coated my bottom lip and a faint echo of shwarma lingered in my mouth. It had been three days of criss-crossing molten red hills and jagged rocks. Desert. Now the artificial smell of the bus’ air freshener tingled our skin, mixing with the odor of our unshowered bodies. Leah dragged my arm and we slipped through the sea of our schoolmates into a pair of faded seats near the back. Leah is the daughter of Russian immigrants. She sometimes ditches school to go mushroom picking with her round-faced father or just to wander around downtown Jerusalem buying polyester tank tops and bright green soda. Leah is the one who stood up on her chair and screamed at Noah, our teacher, when Noah stated that women weren’t equal to men. Leah is spunky and intelligent, no matter how short her stretchy skirts are. Full of screaming girls, the bus slithered through hilly wilderness late into the night. With every speed bump the driver jolted over, we headed further and further away from nature. Leah and I started chatting, words intermingling with the sound of chips crunching down our throats. Deep in my subconscious Leah is defined as my friend who lives in a West Bank settlement surrounded by Arab villages. Leah is one of the girls who said Rabin deserved to die and that most Arabs should be killed. I’m an American Jew from the Upper West Side. I don’t share that opinion. For months we’d been trying to understand each other, but the right words, setting, and mood hadn’t appeared. Maybe it was the way three girls had shared their water with me that afternoon, letting me squirt cool liquid down my dusty throat. Or perhaps it was the violent beauty of the orange sun I watched rise over infinite planes of sand. Whatever the cause, I started the conversation with Leah that would come to define my year in Israel. Leah and I ignored everyone and concentrated. We sat restlessly, our moist bodies tilted towards each other. There was no tension or judgment hanging awkwardly in the over air conditioned space between us. We were close enough to discuss anything without fear of misunderstanding, and we wanted to learn from each other. I soon realized that for Leah, Palestinians aren’t individuals with rights or thoughts. They don’t worry about which boy will plant a rough kiss on their lips or who they’ll sit giggling with over a sushi lunch. To Leah, Palestinians are just the people who crouch behind the bend and wait to throw rocks at her family’s baby blue station wagon. They are the reason her dad carries a pistol with him wherever he goes. We drew closer to Jerusalem, passing villages and rest stops. Teachers came around offering us stale rolls and Nutella. They glanced at Leah and me quizzically, but moved on.
Pages 30 – 31
Our voices rose and blended into the Idan Raichel song the girl behind us was blasting. Our chips and sticky gummy cherries lay on the floor forgotten. My nails were bitten down to the raw cuticles in frustration. I needed my hazel-eyed friend, who was always the first to envelope anyone in a musty hug, to stop hating. I couldn’t comprehend that compassionate Leah who would run through the squeaky halls of our school just to get me a Band-Aid when I fell in gym could abhor an entire people. Now Leah described her fear to me. Arms waving, she made her points. She got so excited that little drops of spit soared out of her mouth along with her words. Her fingers twisted themselves and began knotting her stringy, brown hair. Leah’s voice prickled my insides. It knotted my thoughts, and I let it. I allowed my perception to shift. Sitting in that itchy, upholstered seat, I gradually realized the complexity of the conflict I was trying to resolve. There was no right way, no crystal ball waiting to reveal the truth to me. Suddenly I felt small.
Mikaela Gerwin
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
The Pitfalls of Pastry
To the recipes that call for baking from scratch: I am not an owner of a fancy mixer, unprocessed flour, and the like. I just want to make delicious baked goods. Is that such a problem? I like my cupcakes to be well frosted, not too dry, and sweet. That isn’t much to ask, It really isn’t. I have only attempted piping frosting once, and it got everywhere. I have been relying on boxed cake mix to avoid the disasters that you can cause. I have seen baked goods made from scratch dry and burnt or even disfigured, And the baker in a tizzy! I get neurotic about my cakes coming out perfect, so why must you make everything that much harder? When I see photos of your results online, you look perfect. As if there is no way to mess you up. Then, I try you for myself, and I end up sitting on the floor, head in my hands, and in tears. I know they say not to cry over spilt milk, but a ruined batch of cupcakes is worse than a simple puddle of milk. All of you recipes out there, that call for making your own batter, frosting, and a high-grade Kitchen Aid mixer, I don’t want to deal with your trouble or your work. The deliciousness comes at such a high cost. Enough is enough. I am through trying to create you; I will continue to attempt your frosting. But I shall stick to packaged cake mix from now on. Mariel Freeman Lifschutz
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
Pages 32 – 33
s d r a C e t o N e Th
Chapter 1
‘‘S
amuel, could you please run up to the attic and grab the extra dozen of eggs from the fridge?” asked Bubbe Beyla for the third time. At this point, I have no choice but to respond with a begrudging yes. In a few hours it will be Erev Rosh Hashanah, and my Bubbe’s house is in complete chaos. My mother is at the grocery store buying whatever honey she can muster, Sarah is polishing the overabundance of silverware, and the rest of my family has been cooking all day. I get up from the sofa and stomp up the long staircase to advertise my frustration. The lights in the attic are off and the switch is nowhere in sight. I stumble over some boxes, knocking over whatever junk my grandmother has kept over the years. When I finally find the switch, the dim light shines on the mess I have just created. I figure that the longer I spend cleaning the attic, the less time I will have to stand in the kitchen folding napkins, so I bend down and start picking up the papers around me.
I see what appears to be my name scribbled on the bottom right corner of a note card...
k
After what feels like two hours, I have one box of papers left to clean up. I start picking up about fifty small, off-white note cards, upon which someone has scribbled endlessly in stark, gray pencil, and I carelessly throw them back into the old, gray shoebox. All of a sudden, I see what appears to be my name scribbled on the bottom right corner of a note card, and I am confused by the unfamiliarity of the signature, let alone the note card itself. I assume it is nothing, so I throw the rest of the note cards in the box and
shove it back on some random, dusty shelf. I get to the refrigerator, grab the eggs, and make my way back downstairs. Bubbe thanks me, and before she has the chance to ask me for something else, I make a quick escape to the large red chair, the same one my Zeyde used to sit in when he would read us old stories. And then I realize.
Chapter 2
That signature is not mine, it is Samuel’s, my Zeyde’s younger brother, and that shoebox is the one Zeyde used to sit with late at night. I used to see him sitting alone with it years ago when I would sneak out to take some chocolate from the kitchen. He probably noticed me every time, but he never said anything. Each time I saw him with the box I wondered what was in it, but something about my Zeyde’s expression of focus and longing told me not to ask, so I never did. I had forgotten about the shoebox, and now all that curiosity came flooding back; I need to know what is in that old, gray box. If I go now, my mom soon will be returning from the grocery store and probably will call for my help unloading the car. If I go later, Aaron probably will want to come with me, and I do not want any company. “Better now than never,” I say under my breath, looking around before I make a silent retreat to the attic. I can sense the potential for discovery. This time my footsteps are so light, I sound like a ghost whooshing up the stairs. I shut the door to the attic, thanking myself for leaving the lights on earlier. I carefully maneuver my body around all sorts of junk surrounding the bookcase. I reach up to grab the box, careful not to knock anything else over; I do not have time to waste cleaning up. Once I have the box, I open a large wooden door into a small, pale yellow room with a few chairs, a desk, and a vintage metal bed frame. I sit down at the desk, swinging the one functioning chair Top: Noah Offitzer, charcoal; Bottom: Zerlina Panush, oil
Pages 34 – 35
toward the dusty surface, and open the box. I immediately realize that sitting before me are not just note cards, but torn pages from what must have been a journal, taped onto note cards with dry, yellowing tape. I begin to read, uncovering the mystery that sits before me.
I begin to read, uncovering the mystery that sits before me.
k
Chapter 3 The soft ripples of the water brushing up against the grass are not quite loud enough to hide the grumbling of my stomach. The twig below my left leg is slowly cutting through my pants, but fear tells me not to get up. Just sitting down feels remarkable after the endless march barefoot through the woods. All around me, strangers sit. Unfamiliar faces with one shared need: thirst. The water, so soft and silky, looks like a bar of gold under the setting sun, and all I want is to jump in and stay hidden below the surface forever. But I can’t. So here I sit, facing the endless supply of water, dying for hydration, but not allowed to drink. The sun has set, and a blanket of darkness covers us, but this blanket is even thinner than my rags, and we are all freezing. The last face I saw before nightfall was that of one small, familiar girl beside me. We are both parentless and afraid, and if I were back in Meissen, I would have quickly run beside her, held her tiny hand, and told her we were going to be all right. But I cannot make her that same promise, so I look up at the stars in desperation for something to do.
Suddenly, in the silence of the night, something cold and hard taps my leg. Again it happens. And again. “Dig. Water,” says a soft, high-pitched voice, so quiet I can barely make out what was said. I realize the cold tapping is the small metal tin used for our occasional bite of bread and potato skins. I feel around and begin digging for hope.
I feel around and begin digging for hope.
k
The ground is icy and unyielding, and piercing the surface is much harder than I expected. I imagine my neighbor’s fragile hands nearly breaking every time her dish digs into the ground. She is searching for water, fighting the earth, just like the rest of us. Yet there is something hopeless about her hunt — a fourteen-year-old girl the size of an eight-year-old: small, bony hands with a fragile body, short, dirty blonde hair, and the remnants of a beautiful smile. In the black shield of night, she continues to dig, and while I cannot see her beside me, I assume it is her dish knocking into my leg every time the ground rejects her efforts. Despite tired arms, the prospect of water outweighs pain, so I continue to dig. The deeper I get, the colder the ground, and my dry, brittle hands, now covered in even more dirt than before, feel around for a drop of moisture. Nothing. Nothing. I keep digging; what else do I have to do? Sleeping is not an option because I am afraid of waking up. Water. Water. I push my tin into the ground, allowing drops to flow in over the sides. I bring the dish to my mouth. First, I am greeted with dirt, but then the gold moistens my shattered lips. I continue drinking until my arms are too numb to dig for more, and I have removed every last drop. I reach over to my left, feeling around for my neighbor. I find a hand, gaunt and cold, and I lace my fingers through hers. I know speaking is forbidden, so through the warmth of our touch I send her my gratitude, and her squeeze tells me she understands.
Pages 36 – 37
I do not know how many hours passed, but until the sun rose, our hands remained together, and we lay awake, yet silent. As the sun begins to illuminate the ground, it becomes clear that we each have a secret to keep. However, as I look down at my hole, I realize everyone else has filled his in. I am struck with panic, but my neighbor points toward the guards, still asleep, and quickly helps me fill in the ground. I silently reprimand myself for being so foolish, but there is no time for sorrow or self-hatred, the guards are waking up and I need to be attentive and submissive.
Chapter 4 A shiver runs through my body as I realize the ground has soaked the back of my pants. The skin of my arms and legs resembles that of a goose, and I dread the walk back. Before the guards come too close, I turn toward my neighbor and introduce myself as quietly as possible, looking for a distraction from this nightmare. “Samuel,” I mutter, unable to reach my hand out or make any sudden gestures. “Beyla,” says my angel, smiling softly as her cheeks flush with a rosy color, transforming her ever so slightly from a ghost to a human. That was all we could do, but my heart tells me it will be enough to change our future. We will be together. I do not know for how long, but we will be together. Chapter 5
“Beyla,” I gasp, “Beyla.” My heart beats fast, my face turns red, and my hands begin to tremble. Bubbe Beyla is the angel, Bubbe Beyla!
Bubbe Beyla is the angel, Bubbe Beyla!
k
Those evenings when I would see my Zeyde sitting in that chair suddenly take on new meaning. He must have been taping these note cards to preserve his brother’s journal, his brother’s lost life. Memories of my Bubbe crying every third of April and my Zeyde trying futilely to comfort her come rushing back. As a little boy, I remember being confused why my Bubbe was crying and why my Zeyde could never ease her pain. The third of April must have
some connection to Samuel, and my Bubbe must have been mourning the loss of a loved one. I can only imagine how much it must have hurt Zeyde to deal with the pain of losing a brother, on top of the pain of a grieving wife. Those nights sitting in that chair, Zeyde must have been filled not only with longing, but with pain, as perhaps he felt he could never provide Bubbe with the same love Samuel had. However, I know my Zeyde used to say he owed his life to Bubbe, and Bubbe would often thank him for changing her future. Zeyde once told me he witnessed the death of his own brother by a Nazi guard, but then how did Zeyde meet Bubbe? Did they meet over joint grief, or was Samuel still alive when they met? Did Zeyde know that Samuel had loved Bubbe, or did he find out from these note cards? There are so many questions I failed to ask when I had the chance. One thing I know for certain is the insurmountable love between Samuel, Zeyde and Bubbe, as Zeyde used to speak so highly of his brother, and to this day, Bubbe often refers to both men in her stories. # # # I read through about three note cards out of at least fifty, but I did not have to read more right now to understand the significance of what I had found. I put the note cards back in the shoebox, but left the box on the desk, to await my return. My heart ached for my former carelessness and apathy, and I ran downstairs, straight to the kitchen. I would never know all the answers, but I began with a question: “Bubbe Beyla, what can I do to help?”
Love...
Rebecca Zeuner
has some cupids to spread it around which can be comforting since it’s been a while since I ate there with him In that cupcake store in Stamford when it was remodeling then it got shut down Gone.
Noah Offitzer, mixed media
Leah Nussbaum
Pages 38 – 39
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
SacrYfice T
he cool touch of the marble mosaic on Amy’s bare feet could not be more different from that of her bedroom’s scraggly carpet. The former is the product of months of master artisans’ careful work, while the latter is made cheaply in a Chinese factory. Although her first sensation every morning and her last every night is that of the inexpensive product of mass production, her soles spend long days traipsing over artful creations that comprise the floors of her employer’s house. The gaping disparities between Amy’s own home and the one that she is paid to clean are most clear in the style of flooring, but can be seen easily in all aspects of the houses. She spends hours on stools and ladders dusting Nancy’s paintings, photographs, mirrors, and moldings, but has no time to care for her own small apartment’s bleak, moldy walls. She simultaneously envies and loathes her boss’s carefree lifestyle. Her attempts to distract herself from her coexisting anger and jealousy by vicariously experiencing her boss’s everyday luxuries are futile, as the aches in her back and legs leave her with little capacity for imagination. One particularly long and hot afternoon several months ago, when Nancy was out shopping, Amy’s desperation led her to venture as far as donning a pair of her employer’s high heeled shoes, a daring act that her fellow maids had strongly advised her not even to consider. You know how she gets, they warned her, she’ll humiliate and degrade you until you’re begging to get fired. But Amy’s curiosity took over, and the temporary feeling of height, status, and freedom that the shoes instilled within her caused a
moment of joy and fulfillment, only to be followed by hours of frustration and jealousy. The anger that Amy experienced following her brief step into Nancy’s footwear and mentality never dissipated. It slowly intensified as the seasons turned, and is currently at its peak as Christmas Eve approached. Nancy has invited nearly two hundred guests to her annual Christmas dinner. Every year, she prides herself on being a generous hostess and working hard so that her friends have a nice time. Unlike Nancy’s guests, Amy knows that Nancy’s success is, at best, undeserved. In reality, Nancy pays troops of housekeepers, maids, chefs, and waiters to work tirelessly preparing for the dinner party, and takes personal pride from their hard work. More important to Nancy than this unearned gratification, however, is the satisfaction that she gets when her friends see how wealthy, beautiful, and sociable she is. Nancy’s vanity repulses her industrious help. Amy made an oath to herself, before she entered the workforce as a housekeeper, that she would never work to encourage another woman’s vanity. There is nothing more degrading to her than having someone else take credit for her labor and bask in her friends’ admiration.
I’m not working for her, Amy tells herself. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing as long as I’m providing for Jewel. Nancy is the epitome of what Amy abhors. I’m not working for her, Amy tells herself. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing as long as I’m providing for Jewel. Jewel, Amy’s three-month-old daughter, is the only thing that keeps Amy waking up every morning, working relentlessly all day long, swallowing her pain, and Sigal Palley, photographs, digitally altered
Pages 40 – 41
not giving Nancy a piece of her mind. If she weren’t responsible for this helpless infant, she would deliver a passionate speech to Nancy detailing how corrupt and immoral her selfish lifestyle truly is. She has dreamed of this glorious moment, when she disgraces Nancy and liberates herself from her oppressive grip, nearly every day since her employment began. So far, Amy’s maternal duty to provide for her daughter have sufficed as motivation to ignore her degradation. She tries to ignore her slowly dwindling dignity by distracting herself with daydreams of Jewel’s precious smile, but she can’t help but feel her self-worth plummet when she is reminded, day after day, that she can’t be seen in Nancy’s house without her emotionally shackling uniform. Is this really worth it? Amy can no longer ignore her dire need for escape. Realizing the example that she will set for her daughter and the complete waste she has made of her hard-earned education, her disgust for Nancy evolved into an intense loathing of herself. The battling dichotomy within her soul: one part devoted to Jewel’s wellbeing and the other dedicated to her own pride, consumes all of Amy’s physical and mental
Ten Things I Hate I hate that you don’t realize How you’ve hurt me – That I can’t ever tell you How it hurts me – How I cannot just let you Be without me. I hate that we don’t Know each other anymore. I hate that we won’t Admit we’re each other’s core. I hate what we’ve become. I hate that you can’t see All that you mean to me.
I hate that you’ll never know… Oh, I can’t even begin To tell you so. I hate that you’re there; I hate that I’m here. I hate that we’re apart I wish that we could Go back to the start. I hate that you don’t realize All that leaves my lips are lies When you ask why I’m upset; I cannot let my eyes be wet. Nicole Hirschenboim
Is this really worth it? capacity. She cannot work, tend to her child, or care for herself until she chooses either the path of undignified labor or that of respectable poverty. She prays every night that she will wake up in a large, sumptuous bed and realize that all of her troubles were no more than an unpleasant dream. But each morning, she finds herself spreading fresh linens over the object of her fantasy rather than resting peacefully in its cool layers. Aaron Tannenbaum
Zerlina Panush, oil
Pages 42 – 43
Shoes Don’t look down. Don’t be timid; Be strong, Be confident, Be fearless. They said to me, Or I would never meet The one. But the truth is I can learn a lot About you From your shoes. Dirty, clean, Black, colored, Dull, patent, Complete, torn-Take your pick. But I’ll be the girl Looking down, Judging you, Loving you, Envying you, And getting to know you Just From your Shoes. Rebecca Zeuner
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph Pages 44 – 45
The HOuse On Maple Street T
he blue house that stood on the corner of Maple Street and Edison Road was strange. No one knew who lived there or what they did. Sometimes while walking my dog in the dark of night I would see a light go on in the window, and the shadow of a person. This only happened a few times, but every time I felt as though the people who lived in the house were signaling to me. Or maybe it was the house itself. This house was painted the bluest of blues, always seemed to bask in an eerie, greenishyellow light, and had countless stories told about it. Children said that the people who lived in the house only came out at night because they were afraid of the sun. Adults said that the people living in the house never came out because they were hiding; hiding from what? No one knew. Some said that no one lived there; it was just an old abandoned house. I thought they were all crazy, but all of their stories and ideas were nothing compared to the actual truth. The story I am about to tell you is fantastic and completely unbelievable, but completely true.
He wore a sign on the front of his shirt that was written in strange symbols I had never seen before.
) It all started on Halloween last year, when my nephew, Charlie, begged me to go trick-or-treating with him. He dressed up as an alien. He was completely green from head to toe — even his hair. He wore a sign on the front of his shirt that was written in strange symbols I had never seen before. When I asked Charlie what the sign said he replied, “It’s my new language, I made it up with my friend. Every symbol is a different word. We had to make up a lot of symbols.”
“Well, what does the sign say?” I asked him. “It says, ‘I want candy’ and then under that it says ‘trick-or-treat’. When you say it, it sounds like Puah mey tartar, jumbe-u-pina. Isn’t it cool?” He asked me with a wide smile. “Of course it is, you’ll have to teach it to me later.” So we went to every single house on the block and we loaded up on all sorts of candies. And then we got to the blue house, and Charlie insisted that we knock on the door. When I told him that no one lived there, he took my hand and dragged me to the front door. I knocked three times, and when no one answered, we started to walk away. And then the strangest thing happened: the door opened and a little boy was standing in the dark. He was just an ordinary, little boy, with nothing odd about him. In fact, at the moment he looked more normal than Charlie. He gave us a huge smile and handed Charlie a chocolate bar. He started to close the door, but before he could, Charlie blurted out “Amu te.” The little boy just stared at Charlie and replied “Tuma tena” and then he closed the door. When I looked down at Charlie he looked green, but not from his face paint. “What’s the matter, Charlie?” I asked. In a voice that did not seem as if it could come from a seven-year-old boy he replied, “He knew my language; I’ve never seen him before and he knows it. How does that even make sense? Only me and my friend know it.” How was I to know that such an innocent question would change my life forever.
He knew my language; I’ve never seen him before and he knows it.
! What do you do when something mysterious happens? Do you walk away and not think twice about it? Or, do you wrack your brain with every possible solution? Well, I do the second. For five months after that fateful Halloween night I would not, no I could not stop thinking about what Charlie had asked. How did that boy in the door know his language? Three times I almost went to knock on the door again. But every time I approached the house, I felt as though an invisible barrier were blocking me. It seemed as if the house didn’t want me to come near. Whenever I talked to people about Opposite: Zerlina Panush, pencil Pages 46 – 47
...every time I approached the house, I felt as though an invisible barrier were blocking me. It seemed as if the house didn’t want me to come near.
45
the house, they didn’t know what I was talking about; it was almost as if they forgot that house even existed. It must have been because they had so much on their minds, that they could not bother to even think about the little blue house. Two nights ago as I approached the house while walking my dog, he started going crazy. Barking and jumping and trying to drag me away; I
...as I approached the house while walking my dog, he started going crazy. o thought he was going to wake up all of my neighbors. I turned around to start walking back to my house, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the light in the window go on. As I turned to face the house, I felt as if I were being pulled towards the front door. It must have been gravity or something because before I could even think twice, I was at the door. And I forgot: I forgot that my dog was waking up the entire neighborhood, I forgot about fear and anxiety. I forgot about my life; I even forgot why I was at the door. The sole purpose of my existence was to ring the bell and wait for someone to come to the door. And then it happened; the door creaked open and I walked in. I had never been in the house before, yet I knew exactly where to go. Down the hallway, up the stairs, turn right, pass three doors and then go into the room on my left. It’s like the directions were planted in my head, just waiting to activate. And this was the biggest moment of my life; the moment that would change everything. I just knew it. What do you do when something this big is about to happen to you? Well for me, I run head first into the situation. I opened the door to the room and stepped in. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing. No floor, no walls I found myself staring into the abyss and all I could see was white. The only thing that was in the room was the door I had just entered. But I had no intention of going back. For some reason, the most logical option for me was to just launch myself from the door, and soar into the empty space. It was a perfect lift off.
Techno World
The last twenty-five years have been marked with great advancements in the field of technology. These advancements have improved the way we work, learn and treat illnesses. However, the rise in the use of high tech products will soon lead to the demise of our functional society. In ten to twenty years, when our children are growing up, computers and other devices will take control of their lives. Gone will be the days of writing with a pencil, playing sports and traditional social gatherings. Our children will be engulfed by their gadgets, hunched over their electronic devices and barely able to communicate verbally. Everyone will drive or be driven to school, perform physical activity only by walking to and from classrooms, and will take notes on their computers. Children will become so weak that they barely will be able to carry their own backpacks. Kids will learn to type before they can write or speak. They will be taught to text before they can throw or catch a ball and will video chat before their first playdates. Kids’ technologically absorbed lives will go fine, until they want to sign their names on college applications, catch balls playfully thrown to them by their fathers, or run a mile in gym class. So, beware of that iPhone you are about to check for messages.
Samuel Raskin
Hannah Osman
It was a perfect lift off.
f Daniella Forman, digital art Pages 48 – 49
The Longest Day
The Failed Puppeteers They said, “Listen up.”
I
I sat. They said, “These are your role models.” I admired. They said, “You can succeed as well.” I was inspired. They said, “Practice makes perfect.” I labored. They said, “You’ll be happy.” I doubted. They said, “Accept.” I flouted. They said, “Follow the path.” I deviated. They said, “Our logic is undeniable.” I challenged. They said, “You stand no chance.” I persisted. They said, “You have failed.” I mocked. Aaron Tannenbaum
t was the Fourth of July. Gracie stood in the kitchen, trying her hardest to concoct an edible sandwich. After five tries and two cuts on her left pinky, Gracie settled for what generously could have been called a bag of chicken salad and bread. Dad would have given her an A for effort. Mother would have scolded her for not paying attention during home economics. She glanced out the window – the sun was already rising. Soon, everyone would be awake and her plans would be spoiled. Gracie swiftly stuffed the plastic baggie into her knapsack and strapped on her sandals. She spent a long time shutting the door behind her, trying her hardest to remain unheard. The light of early morning illuminated the crumbling road as the summer heat slowly descended from above. Gracie trudged along, past the single-family homes, apartment complexes, vast open farms and the bay in the distance. When she finally reached the central bus station, she collapsed onto the cement. The July sun had reached its home in the middle of the sky and Gracie knew, even at 7 A.M. that today was the hottest day of the year. She sat there for forty minutes, throwing pebbles across the road and picking at her cuticles. Two more commuters came before the bus finally arrived, the only other two citizens of Far Oaks leaving town for The Fourth. That’s what they called it around here – The Fourth. Father always said that
Father always said that in this part of Maryland, people were on a first name basis with all things American. in this part of Maryland, people were on a first name basis with all things American. This was the center of it all, the place where they filmed movies about perfect small towns, the place Nicholas Sparks’ novels were written about, the place with annual hot-dog-eating and pie-baking contests. No self-respecting member of this community failed to make an appearance
Noah Offitzer, acrylic Pages 50 – 51
at the beach today. Those were Reverend Jack’s exact words, spoken every Sunday morning before The Fourth. Dad had never gone to the town-wide celebrations. While everyone else was whirling around the house, packing food, bathing suits, and sun block, Dad would stay sleeping in bed. Mother had explained to the kids that they shouldn’t take it personally; Dad had a hard time with this day. Gracie knew it was because he missed the house back in Charleston, because this was the day the police officers had kicked them out. This was the day they drove to the nearest motel and spent their first of many nights in a dingy room littered with the pasts of previous tenants – cigarette butts, used contraceptives, the occasional Barbie doll. This was the day that painful month had started, when Dad spent hours trying to convince himself that the bank had made a mistake and forgotten to count one of his paychecks.
Sasha Chanko, pencil
Every year, just like clockwork, he would wake up and run out of his room just as Mother would rev the engine. He would feign disappointment, but Mother would just click her tongue and laugh driving off as he returned
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to his morning paper, relieved. Gracie always questioned him later that night, listing all of the friendly people she had spoken to and just how close she’d swam to the island this year, trying to extract an inch of regret. She never could; he always looked at her and repeated the same phrase – “I guess I don’t respect myself too much, now do I?” The bus chugged along slowly. After nearly an hour, the bus driver’s muffled voice announced that they were pulling into Charleston. Gracie’s hands began to sweat and she quickly gathered her things. She bounced off the threadbare seat, circa 1970, barely pausing to thank the bus driver. The walk to their house was a quick one, and her excitement pushed her to move faster, faster, faster. She was just about sprinting when she was a block away and saw him. A boy, maybe three years older than she, was kicking a soccer ball past the gates of her house and running after it. Her stomach
Hannah Ball, watercolor
dropped – she imagined this was the feeling those girls always get in the movies when they happen to walk past their beau on a date with a prettier girl. But this feeling was worse; she just knew it. A new family was now
eating dinner in their dining room, sleeping in their bedrooms, showering in her claw-legged bathtub. It was all theirs! Gracie paused, reconsidering the stupidity of coming all the way here. But sixty dollars of lemonade stand money would not go to waste. No – she would fix her posture, suck in her stomach and knock on their door. Gracie began pulling her hair into a knot when she remembered her secret route, through a forest of prickly shrubs and tall grass. A smile forced itself onto her face. Knowing full well that her lack of tall socks would result in legs covered in scratches to be explained to her mother, Gracie scurried to the end of the street. She made her way through the brush, coming to a stop at a small clearing. There it stood, their perfect house – red door, white brick, and tall oaks casting even taller shadows across their overgrown lawn. Gracie backed up a little bit and crouched, afraid to be seen by the intruders who now called this place their home. “Ouch!” She cried out in pain, lifting her knee to see what she had carelessly knelt on. A pair of caterpillars squirmed in the dark earth, their fuzzy bodies begging to be picked up. Gracie gingerly lifted each one into her palm, smiling as she remembered her last encounter with these puzzling insects. It was her first day of third grade – Gracie had come home crying that her teacher hated her. All she had done was leave the classroom for a drink! She stood in the middle of the kitchen, refusing to stop sobbing and stamping her foot at the thought of returning to Classroom 3B the following day. Dad
Dad waited for her tears to slow, and as soon as they did, he rushed her to the back yard. waited for her tears to slow, and as soon as they did, he rushed her to the back yard. They walked all the way across their expansive lawn, which Gracie found a little odd. She rarely made it past the swing set. On the rare occasions that she did, it was only to go three feet further to the little hill where she and her brothers went sledding if it snowed. They walked for what seemed like hours until they reached a little clearing with a perfect
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view of the surrounding area. Dad bent down and motioned for Gracie to join him. “You’ve got to see this, Grace. There’s a caterpillar farm here. They’re everywhere!” Gracie shook her head and laughed. “But Dad, you know caterpillars don’t have houses!” She refused to sit down and marvel at the weirdness of it all. She loved being right. “Well, I don’t know about houses, but they sure seem to like this piece of dirt. I came here just last week when I was showing my buddy the land, and there were a few of these little guys squirming around. It looks like they invited all their friends.” Gracie laughed and relented, squatting to play with the caterpillars. Dusk had begun to fall when they finally came back to the house. Gracie happily opened her math binder and sat until she had done every problem twice over, knowing that there were bigger and better and more wondrous things than a teacher who didn’t like her, things like caterpillars and mysterious clearings in their very own backyard. “Ow!” she yelped again. A piece of fuzz from one of the creature’s bodies had made its way into the skin of her hand. She sighed. Though she had planned on spending the day here, reminiscing about happier Independence Days, she couldn’t quite recreate any, even one minute, other than the one that had just played in her head. Gracie glanced at her watch – the next bus was leaving in thirty-three minutes. If she ran, she might be able to make it and be back at the Far Oaks beach before anyone noticed she was gone. Or, she could slink past the crowds and join her father at the kitchen table – he would give her a knowing smile and hand her a section of the morning paper. Either way, this was not where she belonged any more. There were bigger and better places, more wondrous and mysterious things to explore. She knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand, spelling out “goodbye.” Yael Fisher
The True Me asure of Man
It really is amazing, human nature that is. Even the most generous of us always is looking for self-betterment. We always need to be superior to our friends; in high school the competition is grades, as we get older, it becomes money and power.
But if people are less powerful than we, and they have nothing to offer, how do we treat them? Most would say that one’s power over another human being does not affect the way that the powerful treat the powerless. But then again, most people lie. However, there are the select few who treat everybody the same way. A man, who respects everyone around him, is a real man—a real person.
Hannah Osman
Benjamim Sternklar-Davis, photograph
What if the one person we best, is the one person on whom we rely on the most? If self-betterment were possible, who would potentially risk that relationship by gloating?
To Re alit y:
Grace Gilbert, pencil
My curse to you is just as much a curse to myself. I depend on you; you give me
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life, yet you push down on me with the weight of existence. Being is the greatest blessing, but also the most painful sentence ever to be carried out; you are my executioner. The pox I cast upon you, equal to my own, has already been delivered. I infect you with the plague of eternity. You shall forever exist in the aspect of the universe, crushed under your own weight. As intelligent thinkers, we have an escape we call fiction, but you will be trapped here in your eternal reality. Other unrealities will stare at you and laugh, mocking your misfortune, because even the heaviest of their dystopias are lighter than you.
Jonathan Merrin
Julia Sutton, digital art
The Third Stone
To the Squeaky Noise in Room 226 Day after day, Class after class, Period after period You Lurk, Somehow still invisible under the glaring fluorescent lights. No starting or ending bell ceases your cry. You taunt us with your laughter that is at once tinkling and unbearably screechy Remaining somehow capricious, yet always reliably there. How ironic that the four-walled enclosure dedicated to creative thought and prose should be pestered incessantly By you. Imagination-destroyer. Story-ruiner. You are a needle to my eardrums. Like a stationary bicycle with rusty chains, Or a tired hamster wheel at a pet shop, abused by cooped-up rodents. Forever mocking me with your uselessness.
Oh, you horrid sound, an annoyance like no other – Be gone! Rebecca Sussman
Pages 58 – 59
H
e threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. “I can do better!” Elizabeth taunted. She picked up a large flat stone and tossed it over the rippling water. One, two, three, four. It skipped along the water at a brisk pace, stopping near the other side of the wide creek. “No fair! You cheated!” screeched the boy. “Nu-uh!” “I’m gonna tell Billy on you!” the boy whined. “Oh no you won’t! If you go tell Bill, ya know wha’s gonna happen don’ ya? He’s gonn’ beat you!” Elizabeth smirked. She knew that was her brother’s worst fear. “For what? I didn’t do nothin’ and you know it!” “I dunno. But when does he ever have a reason?” “Aw psha, you’re just tryin’ t’ scare me.” And with that the boy sprinted towards the cabin, tripping along the rocks as he went. When he reached the small cabin, the boy stopped and bent over to catch his breath. Huffing and puffing, he leaned against the tall oak tree that stood outside the cabin. When the boy was younger, he always had wanted
When the boy was younger, he always had wanted to build a tree house there, but there was never anyone around to help him do it. to build a tree house there, but there was never anyone around to help him do it. He was sitting against the tree surrounded by dead leaves when Billy emerged from the house.
The boy recognized the look in his stepfather’s eyes and immediately regretted his decision to run back to the house without Elizabeth. They were alone, and Billy looked like he wanted trouble. With Elizabeth’s warning echoing in his head, the boy jumped up, at attention, just as Billy liked him to be.
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
“What you doin’ there, boy?” Billy demanded as he approached the tree. Billy was dragging his feet, holding a bottle of scotch in one hand and a hunting knife in the other. They just had harvested some delicious red apples from the local orchard, and Billy was cutting one when he heard heavy footsteps outside. He hated when the kids made noise.
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“No-nothing, Bill. I ain’t up to nothing,” the boy stammered. He saw the knife in Billy’s left hand and did not like the way Billy jabbed at the air with each word. “Oh really?” Jab. Jab. “I was just down by the creek wit’ Lizzie. We was skippin’ stones.” “Skippin’ stones, eh? What about the firewood I asked you to chop earlier? Did ya do that too?” The boy quickly realized his mistake. He had completely forgotten. They needed that firewood for that night. It was starting to get colder and without a fire they would surely freeze. “I uh… I was uh… I was just about to do that,” the boy attempted to assure Bill. “Oh yeah? You just thought it was a good idea to muck around with your sister first?” Billy sneered. “Well… I figured there would be plenty of time… I can still do it now, right?” Billy laughed. Not a normal laugh, though. A sinister laugh. A laugh that was meant to hide the hatred deep in his heart for these kids. The kids he never wanted. As he stumbled away, he grabbed the ax from the side of the house. “Ya know what, boy? I guess I’ll just have to do it myself. I do everythin’ around here anyway.” “I do it e’ry other day…” the boy muttered to himself. But evidently he was not quiet enough, for Billy quickly spun around glaring at the boy. “Boy, I gotta say, you are one big piece o’ work…” Billy said as he positioned a log on the long chopping table. Billy grimaced and raised his arm. The boy shut his ears in anticipation of the loud thud emanating from the ax hitting the table, but it never came. The blood was still running down the tree trunk when Elizabeth came running back from the creek. Caroline Guenoun
Two Images Carefree and delightful, the small child wears A smile that is Rebecca Zeuner, photograph Arguably even more infectious Than his laughter; A sound that falls on the ear with light footsteps, And tastes as sweet and diaphanous as the cotton candy in his sticky palm. Lowly and dejected, the accountant drags A worn-out briefcase, The weight causing him to stoop slightly; Rendering him even more unnoticeable to passerby on the street, And accurately depicting his hunched, encumbered life. He skips gaily to the merry-go-round Hoping he will meet the height requirement for riding alone; Today is the first time he has been allowed to roam the fair independently, And he plans on relishing every exciting new moment. He trudges to the bus stop, Worrying whether it will come on time; He has been friendless for so long that the bus driver is the only reassuring presence in his existence He is preoccupied and fails to notice the rainbow that has materialized overhead, after the storm. The child revels in the bright lights and grand music, And feels the exciting beat of the drummer pounding through the soles of his feet, Running from attraction to attraction and Relishing the variety and the endless possibilities.
Sander Siegel, photograph
Pages 62 – 63
Rachel Wenger, charcoal
The man closes his eyes against the glare of the vehicle’s fluorescence, And feels his recurring headache creeping up because of the din of the traffic. After disembarking, he plods slowly home, Picturing the frozen TV dinner that is waiting for him in his kitchen. He finally hopscotches his way home, Clutching a large stuffed Tweety Bird that he won in the games, Buzzing with the happy afterglow of a day well spent; He wishes he could stay at the fair all night! He finally retires to his faded couch, Clutching a bottle of sleeping pills that he finagled from his doctor. Tired, embittered, and drowning in his lack of accomplishments; He hopes that tomorrow he will finally feel alive. Rebecca Sussman
Tr y Outs
I knew the building inside and out. I knew that the second bathroom stall from the right doesn’t shut properly. You need to lift the bottom of the blush colored door and tilt it slightly to the right to get the lock to smoothly slide into place without making a creak. I knew that backstage left on the top dusty cabinet behind the fuzzy black sound box there is always an extra roll of microphone tape. I knew that the area up the gray stairs and beyond the giant door reeked of fish and aging women during weekdays. I knew that if you arrived early enough on Thursday evenings you could hear the squeals of the preschoolers and smell the freshly baked challah.
Diana Hymowitz, photograph
Pages 64 – 65
Laurie came out of her small office located in the corner filled with bright posters and fat scripts, and with a warm, glistening smile that said welcome back. Her highlighted, blonde, bouncy hair was usually pinned up to the top of
her head; today it was especially bouncy. She had smeared black eyeliner surrounding her soulful eyes. Her lips were perfectly pink. I saw my friends for the first time since the beginning of summer and heard about the adventures and heartbreaks that occurred over the past three months. I waited for my turn outside the all too familiar beige doors with scratches all over. The doorknob needed to be shined. Even though I knew the Riverdale Y inside out, I was nervous. I was nervous to walk into the same auditorium I have been going to since I was four. It suddenly was my turn, and I struggled to open the giant doors with my shaky, sweaty hands. I slowly walked down the thirty-row theater acknowledging that this would be the thirteenth time I would walk onto the wooden stage covered with thirteen additional years worth of paint. I looked at the stage lights facing all different directions. I hoped none of the lights would reflect my nervousness; I hoped no one would judge me. I pulled my smooth, caramel-colored hair back into a high bun trying to get every strand of hair straight. I massaged my shoulders clockwise. I began. I opened my mouth, swallowed and licked my lips. I pushed sound out from my diaphragm hoping it would sound as I had practiced. It sounded shaky. As if someone were moving the floor slightly under my feet. I finished almost in tears. I forced myself to fake a smile. I pushed my lips against my teeth and forced them to curl upward. I clenched my eyes to keep the tears from streaming out. I stepped off the stage onto the overused carpeting. Each step felt like a mile. I heard my steps pounding in my head. I grabbed the hair tie out of my hair, which also pulled out some hairs around the band. Ordinarily I would have cared, but today it didn’t matter. I had to face my challenge; face friends who would ask how it went, secretly hoping it didn’t go well enough to stop them from getting the parts they wanted. Everyone rushed over as if I were the casting list. I pulled myself together. I took a breath so deep it made my chest hurt. I listened to their mouths constantly moving as if they did not have to pause for breath. I listened to their eyes, greedy for information about how my audition went. I listened to their tan faces from summer. I did not listen to what they said.
Leora Einleger
Pages 66 – 67
Last Thoughts I could not move. I was frozen with fear. When I opened my mouth to scream, No sound came out. The man reached into his pocket. And pulled out a gun. It was then that I realized something: I was trapped. I was captured, Rebecca Heringer, acrylic/collage And I was never going back. As he walked closer to me, My life flashed before my eyes. Bittersweet memories from my childhood were playing in my head. I remembered my summers on Hampton Beach; The sun was always glistening, The crystal clear water was always calm. I remembered my brother and me laughing as we skipped to school every morning. I recalled our family dinners, Our Christmas caroling, Our birthday parties, And our vacations touring Europe. The man pointed his gun at my heart And I jolted back to reality. A tear trickled down my left cheek. What would my family make of my death? I wondered if they could ever recover. I hoped with all my heart That they would not feel the pain That would consume me soon enough. Where was God in this moment? Ariella Berkowitz
When Life Becomes An Act
S
he walks out the red door dressed in a gold sequined gown, with her ears and neck adorned in shiny, white pearls, rare for that time. Her hair, light brown with the slightest hints of grey peeking through, is pulled into a tight bun, with loose curls hanging over the edges of her lean, shiny face. Her brown eyes are glistening in the night; with gold shadow, to match her dress, swooped from her lash-line to just below her eyebrow. A dark brown liner outlines each eye, making her eyes look even larger and more defined. Her lips are glossed with a light pink color, matching the rouged tint on her cheekbones. A man, presumably ten years younger than she, is clad elegantly in a black tuxedo, carrying the woman’s thin wrist
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
in the bend of his elbow, allowing the diamond bracelet to peek through and glisten in the light of the street lamps. Wealth radiates from the two of them; Cecilia glowing with glamour and elegance. Cecilia has just turned forty and to celebrate they have gone to dinner at Château De Vino, an exclusive, five star restaurant in the heart of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Plastered on every billboard in the city is the name Cecilia Donnahee. Cecilia lives in one of the city’s most coveted apartment buildings. To Cecilia, the man on her arm is an accessory, a trophy to show off to jealous New Yorkers. Most other women of Cecilia’s age are already married, with at least one child to carry on the family name. But a relationship is too much work, and sharing her wealth is unappealing to Cecilia. Occasionally Cecilia would date the same man for a while, but to the public, it seems that a different man is always by her side. The men are always interchangeable: handsome, tastefully dressed and groomed to perfection. It is said that despite the silk sheets and goose feather duvet that cover Cecilia’s bed, at night, her neighbors can hear her calling out the name
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Kurt Shoran. Cecilia’s success does not change her past, and ten years later, her long lost lover continues to haunt her. Still, Cecilia awakes in the morning, puts on her makeup, one of her many silk dresses, and readies herself for a day of smiles and fancy waves. With memories come pain, and with pain comes regret, a poisonous combination for a celebrity with an immoral past. A decade later, Cecilia’s life has become one big play – an act to appear happy, when on the inside she is hurting as much as the homeless man on the corner. After walking a few short blocks from the restaurant, Cecilia begins to twirl in circles, celebrating her beauty and fame. Her partner joins in, and the two of them waltz in silence, surrounded by darkness, with ephemeral moonlight shining on them. After a brief interlude, Cecilia stops dancing, announcing that she is ready to go on. The night is young, but Cecilia feels she must get a good night’s sleep before her performance the next day. Cecilia walks into her apartment, goes to her room and sits by the window, looking out at the bright lights of New York City shining against the black sky. Sitting alone, Cecilia runs through her lines again in her head, as she has no one to call, and nothing else to do, and because all of a sudden, she is no longer tired. At forty years old, on her birthday, Cecilia has ended up alone, with the same future that she had ten years before. She has left everyone behind to get to the top, but the top is a vicious place, and only the wicked survive. Cecilia is but one example of fate’s underhanded revenge on those who allow material beauty to outshine the beauty of principled behavior. Though it seems to Cecilia that she has everything, she is living in a dream, and dreams never last as long as they seem. She thinks that she has reached the top floor of the world, but society is building a taller building, and in a matter of days, Cecilia will be invited to climb to the top. She will continue climbing until one day, perhaps, she will wake up and find herself lost. The pursuit forever will be Cecilia’s, and sitting alone at her window, Cecilia dreams of the happiness she will never achieve; her guilt will grow to control her, until she succumbs to the inevitable failure of one who wishes for too much. Rebecca Zeuner
Opposite: Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
Pages 70 – 71
Beautiful
Frighteningly
Lublin Ghetto—Lublin, Poland March 1941
W
alking through the streets of the ghetto, he kept his eyes peeled for that glimmer of white. With each step, the dust gently would rise off the ground with longing sighs and momentarily hover around his worn shoes. In his pocket, his little hand tightly clasped the one remaining treasure he had—a small box of drawing pencils and an eraser— as if his luck directly correlated with the tightness of his grip. Nearing the ghetto wall, his hope turned into determination, for here people often left their garbage for others to rummage through. The past few days had been unsuccessful. However, standing knee deep in the refuse, he noticed a cardboard box. For today, cardboard would do. As he approached the box and peered over the rim into its contents, his sunken eyes widened in disbelief. There lay not just paper or a wrapper or newsprint or the usual findings, but an entire book. Picking up the journal, his hands reveled in the softness of the leather. Oh how strong the binding seemed in comparison to his feeble body! The paper, as delicate as his lashes, were bare with the exception of the few entries written on the first few pages. Even the perpetually putrid smell of the ghetto could not smother the sweetness of the journal. Not wasting another moment, he tucked the precious gem under his shirt and hastily made his way back home. No one took notice of the boy running through the streets of the ghetto with the outline of a notebook protruding from his chest, the upmost corner poking the apex of the yellow star sewn onto the fabric by his loving mother. It was this loving mother who so encouraged him to utilize his talent, to draw, to record every aspect of their life in the ghetto through pictures. It was to her he ran. It was with her he was so eager to share this newfound treasure. Clambering up the stairs to the over-crowded apartment, he burst through the door, making everyone jump upon his entry. The few children
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there giggled, the fathers scowled reproachfully, and the mothers tiskedtisked, shaking their heads and smiling to themselves. Only his mother was beaming. “Avi, my child, what brings you into the room with such force?” Gasping to fill his small lungs with air, all he could manage was a breathless “look” as he held out the journal for his mother to marvel. She took the notebook, and upon opening the cover, her brow furrowed momentarily then relaxed as her slender mouth curved upward. Ripping out the first several pages of writing and stuffing them in her apron pocket, she gave the book back to her son saying, “Avi-leh, this is wonderful!” “Would you be my first subject, Ima?” “I would be honored. And don’t forget to sign and date your work so we know it’s yours.”
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For the next year, the boy drew in the journal, filling the pages with portraits of people loved and despised, young and old, sick and strong. He took pleasure in his work, finding a reason to hold on to life and hope as the miserable days in the ghetto passed. He brought joy to those he knew and drew, and he became known as the “little artist of Lublin.” His work was important, and his talent was great. In between two leather covers, he managed to capture a memory. Until early 1942, when the Germans decided to begin deportations…
New York, New York December 2014
g g g
The bell rang to mark the end of the period, yet it was yesterday’s history lesson that still resonated in her ears. The Holocaust. Europe in the 1930’s and 40’s seemed so distant, and yet it felt eerily present. Trying to push her way through the crowded hallways to get to class in time, she wondered if this was what it felt like to be herded like cattle by the Nazis. Then she felt numb, and a sudden chill of guilt washed over her. What a horrible thought. How could she possibly imagine the horrors of others? How dare she. “19, 20, 21, 22… Okay, good. EVERYONE PLEASE EXIT THE CLASSROOM AND BEGIN LOADING ONTO THE BUS!” Karen, her friend, immediately clamped onto her arm, dragged her to an
empty seat on the nauseatingly yellow vehicle, and began chatting away about some boy. She barely took notice. Once everyone was seated and accounted for, the teacher proceeded to talk about proper museum behavior as if addressing a busload of seven year olds as opposed to seventeen year olds… When we arrive—her thoughts were churning—Museum of Jewish Heritage—she could not suppress the feelings of shame and confusion— spit out your gum—there was an emptiness within her, a gaping void that needed to be filled… And Karen continued to prattle on… Some of her friends from synagogue had grandparents who survived the Holocaust. But not her. No, her family had all immigrated to America by 1911. They had avoided the persecution and the mass murder. They, too, had survived, but not in the sense that Holocaust survivors survived. Because of this, she felt a disconnect—a distinct feeling that she should have some sort of empathy, some sort of connection merely because she was Jewish. She, after all, was a living example that the Nazis’ plan had not succeeded. But, at the same time, she wasn’t—she had no direct familial link to the Holocaust. She had often heard the phrase “never forget.” But how was she supposed not to forget something she had never remembered?
...how was she supposed not to forget
something she had never remembered ? Having been lost in thought for the entirety of the bus ride, she did not change her behavior as she entered the limestone lobby and toured the exhibits of the museum. While looking over the numerous artifacts (but not really taking any of them in), her eyes fell on a door left slightly ajar. Bored by the tour guide’s droning voice and irked by the thoughts and feelings brewing inside her, she allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. Casually falling behind the group, she swiftly glided across the gallery, pried the door open just enough to admit her slender body, and slipped into the shadows of the room.
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The room was small—a workspace of some sort—complete with a desk and chair. The last person that used the room had left a desk lamp on as well as a mess. The conglomeration of tools and glues upon the desk all seemed to want to remain in darkness, for only a small book lay open, bathed in the warm circle of light emitting from the lamp. She took a few steps towards the desk to get a better look at what was written on the pages, only to find that writing did not cover the yellowed paper, but a drawing. Staring back up at her was the portrait of a woman. The creases on the woman’s forehead expressed hidden worry, her eyes, deep with sadness, were surrounded by laugh lines that had gone long unused, and her lips, full and plump, curved softly upwards, betraying the woman’s kind and loving nature. All at once, she noticed two important features of the portrait: the ribs that seemed to jut out from beneath the woman’s delicate skin and the words written in a childlike scrawl adjacent to the image. Moja Mama Marzec 1941 Avi Berkowicz One word in particular stood out to her. The one word that remains the same in all languages: Mama. As she reached out to touch the aged pages, an urgent whisper said, “Please! Don’t touch that!” She immediately retracted her hand and whirled around with a start, nearly knocking over the chair as she spun, only to face a short man with a wise and withered face. “Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry I startled you, young lady. That book, you see, is very old and cannot be touched with your bare hands lest the oils ruin the pages,” he said softly as he shuffled over to the girl and the desk. She remained speechless—struck by the man’s kindness and placidity despite the circumstances of finding someone trespassing in his workspace. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair of white cotton gloves. Holding them out for her to take, he said, “Here. Use these.” Slipping on the gloves, she uttered a shy “thank you,” and took one last glance at the portrait of the woman before gingerly turning the page. The feather light pages were filled with drawing after drawing—the beauty of the artist’s technique neatly juxtaposed the disturbing images. Illustrations of men and women, both young and old, hard at work or passing time
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sewing or reading, soldiers standing watch with guns in hand, shivering children shrouded in blankets, people warming their hands over a fire or lying on the ground sick, starving, or maybe even already dead. Where the light played off the subjects’ features, there was a gentle dusting of pencil, and where the shadows clung to the contours of their bodies, the strokes became heavy and violent. And of course, to the right of each drawing there was a title, date, and the increasingly familiar signature of Avi Berkowicz. Closing the cracked leather Tamar Arenson, pencil/collage cover, she turned to the man, his expression warm. “Frighteningly beautiful, no?” “Yes… Is this from the war? And, who was Avi Berkowicz? The dates only go until Marzec 1942. What happened to him? How did-” “Woah! Slow down there. I can only answer one question at a time…Several weeks ago, someone found Avi’s sketchbook beneath a loose tile in his apartment in Lublin, Poland, that used to be a part of the Lublin Ghetto during World War II, and was generous enough to donate it to the museum. Since then, I have been working hard to restore and preserve this treasure and find the story behind it. I do not know for sure, but from the information given and my knowledge of the Lublin Ghetto, I imagine that Avi Berkowicz was a Jew who lived in the ghetto beginning (at the latest) in March of 1941—for that is when the first entry was drawn. Now, I know that the Germans began deportations from the Lublin Ghetto to the Belzec extermination camp in early March of 1942, and registered all workers who were to be exempt from deportations. I have checked the SS records, and the name Avi Berkowicz is not listed, meaning that Avi was most likely too young to work, was deported, and perished in
Belzec. What I imagine to have happened was that in the rush of a selection for deportation, Avi must have hidden his sketchbook beneath the tile in his kitchen for safekeeping and was never able to return to it again… But that is just an educated guess.” She sat silent, still holding Avi’s sketchbook in her gloved hands. His story and illustrations were so real, so tangible; she finally understood that he was no different than she. His illustrations conveyed so much more than any photograph ever could. For a photograph is just a snapshot of time. Avi’s drawings, however, added something more, something personal, something humanistic, something relatable—emotion. Through his eyes, she could finally catch a glimpse of the hardships and pain; she felt the horror and anxiety, the sorrow and grief; the life and death. In her eyes his tears were shed, and in her hands she held his existence. In her heart his memories became her own.
A
z c i w o k er vi B Zerlina Panush
In her eyes his tears were shed, and in her hands she held his existence.
Zerlina Panush, pencil Pages 76 – 77
Seth Singer, oil
The Catast rophe That We Li ve Today
In an ideal world, the concept of “us” and “them” would not exist. Only the idea of “us” would be prevalent, because we are all people and therefore harmoniously connected. However, in the society in which we live, the concept of “us” is limited to those we to whom we feel personally connected. Distinctions drawn based on social class, religion, gender, age, ethnicity and location of residency impact the way we view one another on a daily basis, even if we are able to coexist peacefully. In a time of potential crisis, when resources are limited and fear takes hold of our better judgment, this underlying flaw in our society manifests itself. As a means to survive the aftermath of an extreme catastrophe the distinction between “us” and “them”, along with the separation of classes, would reveal itself to be a barrier between the survival of our species and the survival of those we consider to be “with us.”
Ode to New Jersey O h faithful home state, why are you so hated? The armpit of America, they mock. They jeer out of ignorance. Yes, it is true, you are far from perfect, but aren’t we all? Every state has its downfalls, though not every state’s flaws are exploited by reality television. You never fail to provide a placid escape from the skyscrapers smog sounds of the city.
Pages 78 – 79
How would I keep my sanity without your dark, quiet nights? You generously surround my home with lush green grass and tall sturdy trees. Rare is the urban dweller who is so fortunate to make that claim. I try to dispel the rumors of your dull, predictable suburbs and their equally bland inhabitants. But why should I? It doesn’t matter what they say. Aaron Tannenbaum
In a hypothetical situation in which our country were isolated from the rest of the world and left to fend for itself due to a disaster, existing only on the finite resources that we have, dormant conflicts would surface. Many have the natural instinct to protect those who are close to them, allowing the division of “us” and “them” to emerge as a source of violence potentially threatening the survival of many. It would begin with people caring for and protecting their loved ones, and would extend to sides being chosen on a greater scale. Those with the ability to obtain the necessary resources (food, shelter, medicine, etc.) would most likely do so for those considered as part of “us.” Would they share their means of survival with outsiders if it meant potentially limiting resources for themselves? Would separate regions of the country close themselves off from one another, or would those of the same religion and race bind together during a time of desperation? Or would it simply be family against family? Whatever the distinctions might be, distinctions would prevail. We would not be one. The question becomes what the goal would be for those trying to survive. Assuming most Americans would want to keep themselves alive for as long as possible, competition would be inevitable. What would be the requirements to be part of an “us”? The melting pot would divide into groups, ruthlessly fighting against one another in order for their group to survive. Societal norms, habits and values would be lost because moral values compromise one’s survival. Two such values that would be forgotten are love thy neighbor and do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Perhaps most would revert back to our past behavior when America was founded, distancing themselves from those who do not follow a certain way of life, exploiting the meager and nurturing the familiar.
Is this the result of selfishness? Is our society constructed to divide us? Are these natural tendencies, simply human instinct? Living in a world where the separation of “us” and “them” is already apparent, it would be interesting to see if that divide would disappear in a catastrophe or be strengthened by it. Sadly, it appears that even before a catastrophe takes place, this division is apparent in our society. “Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned – everywhere is war.” This statement by Bob Marley portrays the catastrophe that we live today. Yet perhaps over time this could subside and we could coexist no matter the circumstances.
Leah Dorfman
Juliet Sage, collage
Charade
Rebecca Heringer, oil
Her smile tells a story, A story that hides the truth; Yet the truth lurks near, Just beyond her almond-shaped eyes. Her eyes betray the lies; Her eyes refuse to smile, Despite her lip’s impulse To twitch, spread, curl upwards.
Talia Cohen, collage
Pages 80 – 81
Her smile will tell you a story; A story, she feels, that is more worthwhile Than that she feels she needs to hide, Hide behind her smile. Just how she hides behind her smile, Shields herself with her smile.
Life Before Heschel
Her smile— That is no longer a smile, But iron armor— Blocks out all pain and revile. A pretense, like all else about her; For the lies she hides behind Have become her, Have confined her To her own mind.
The subject was not my forte-And It was nearly impossible to understand him; He spoke to us with so many fancy words. He would just sit there in his chair with his big, round belly, Never stopping to explain-And never caring to help-Embarrassing a student for coming late. He would make you stand in the back of the room While the whole class would stare at your shamefaced look. Mondays were the worst — Double periods — I’d rather die. Louis Shalam
And there are only so few Who talk with her And ignore the smile— Look deep into her eyes, See past the lies— See down into her soul,
Noah Offitzer, ink
Perhaps they can identify With living behind a lie; A lie that consumes you, A lie that becomes you. And then you don’t even remember… Why you were lying to begin with. But soon… The smile drops, The laughter fades, And you remember What brought on This whole Charade. Nicole Hirschenboim
Pages 82 – 83
Alas, Babylon (homage to Pat Frank)
“T
he unleashed power of the atom has changed everything save our modes of thinking, and thus we drift toward unparalleled catastrophe,” said Albert Einstein, in May of 1946. The Cold War of the 1950s sparked scientific concerns and fictional musings about a nuclear holocaust and other forms of human-caused destruction of society. More recently, world concern has been the effects on the environment of manmade climate change. Though a slightly different scenario than a nuclear calamity, mankind still “drifts toward unparalleled catastrophe” of his own making. In the present era, the economic divide in the United States that stubbornly runs along racial lines has proven to be a major social affliction that surfaces in times of crisis. In the wake of nationwide disaster, the marginalized members of society, impoverished by decades of inequitable economic policy, become even more vulnerable. This past Fall, Hurricane Sandy caused sudden and drastic devastation to the Northeast. Even within the span of the first week, one could see societal disruption across the region despite heavy police presence, be it at gas stations in wealthy areas of Connecticut, or in public housing on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. In spite of individual acts of heroism, such as rescues and help
Pages 84 – 85
with elderly victims, as time wore on, deprivation brought more selfish survival instincts to the surface. Often, one citizen turned against another, when cooperation was necessary for the ultimate health and survival of society. There was looting and theft in impoverished neighborhoods; as expressed in The New York Times, looting and disorder kept police in their cars in the areas of the city where “Fear of the Dark” prevails. In a society built on technology and high rises, “The higher the rises, the more families, the more problems,” especially in already marginalized areas. In addition, hourly day workers, who already struggled, lost wages compared to the more affluent “on salary” as transportation and electricity shut down. In these ways, disaster underscores the great economic divide in the United States today. This is an economic disparity that has been steadily growing, a disparity that covertly follows the racial lines of discrimination that have plagued America since its birth. Nowhere has the racial and economic inequality of an American disaster been more visible than in New
Orleans, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Before the storm, New Orleans was similar to the racially segregated world of the 1950s. During Katrina it was the poor, chiefly AfricanAmerican population that was hardest hit. In contrast to wealthier, white inhabitants of New Orleans, most African-American residents did not have the money to relocate and were trapped in a cycle of poverty and deprivation, unable to leave the site of disaster. They were provided with insufficient temporary housing and supplies during the crisis and remained vulnerable, the least able to recover. Many consider that the slow, inadequate response to human suffering was due to covert racial and economic prejudice, even in governmental organizations, such as FEMA. It is as if the storm ripped the cover off the veil of social inequality that pervades United States society. The regional natural disasters of Hurricane Sandy and Katrina show how society’s underlying inequalities surface and are emphasized. In our present society, the social safety net has wide gaps; in times of need people already living at subsistence levels fall through. But in the case of a possible national catastrophe where all government and civilization would cease to exist or radically change, society would revert and become more primitive, and new rules would apply. All technological advances of the twenty-first century would be inoperable, putting mankind at the mercy of nature. When man is powerless in the face of nature, primitive survival instincts take over. At first, this might cause a self-oriented “survival of the fittest”, but it soon would become apparent that long term survival requires cooperation. As a new society emerged, people would be forced to work together and share resources, ignoring class or racial differences. This is the key to survival. Speculation over the process of recreating civilization raises a question about mankind and society. As this new society evolved, would humans fall prey to the same inequalities and prejudices that have plagued mankind throughout history? Would some human beings fall prey to greed and scramble to amass more resources than others? Would men once again divide themselves into arbitrary classes to justify prejudice or would man recognize the value of each human being? Is bias an affliction of the human condition or is it something mankind can work together to surmount? In the end, would we have to say again:
Alas! Alas! You great city, you mighty city, Babylon! For in a single hour your judgment has come.
Daniel Fischer
Diana Hymowitz, photographs
Pages 86 – 87
Goodnight Conor
Wandering on the path of life Where to turn? Every way he looks Leads to a closed door. He is only a boy Fresh to the world; A young soul Searching for a path. The silent agony, The pangs of despair Hovering in his mind Clouding his thoughts.
The darkness of death Tempts him so Into a world With no more pain. The lull of eternal sleep Pulls him in To its soft embrace. Goodnight, Conor. Evan Chernov
Noah Offitzer, collage/ink
Di versit y?
New York City is the melting pot of the world. A place where all cultures, religions and nationalities come together to for one city, one community. But, all is not as perfect as it could be—as it should be. People from all over the world, with different beliefs and ancestries should be able to come to New York to collaborate and combine their cultures. But they don’t. It seems that as time goes on, prejudices grow, and instead of coming together, we are flung apart. One culture against another, one religion fighting another, people are never together, yet never truly separate. Many would say that we could repair these bonds and create new ones. But these people don’t understand. Bigotry and hate are so deeply rooted in many people’s lives that seminars, campaigns or speeches will not affect them. So, how do we combat intolerance?
Hannah Osman
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
I
To Stop the
hear the crash of thunder miles away as the clouds charge towards me at an unearthly pace. As the first drops of water glance off my skin, I am reminded of my life before the Last Incident. I can see the whole course of events laid out in front of me. It has been years since I’ve felt the rain, and now I have to settle for a tantalizing drizzle. Drops are few and far between. How I wish one would land between my eyes—somewhere that I can feel it. The droplets tease me, grazing my skin so that I know where they are, but can’t have the ultimate catharsis of finally being wet. I had almost forgotten about rain. After the world changed so quickly, it is hard to believe that anything could be as it was before. I want to be bombarded with moisture. Even one drop smashing against my skin would break me free from my internment in the madness of society. Set me free from my fear. I want to look around me, to make contact with other people, see if they feel it too, but find I can’t look at the others. And even if I could, I know they would not look back. We used to watch the news on commercial television. It was only a matter of time before people realized that entertainment was more likely to make money than news, and they invested in fear mongering. It got them ratings, and made boring people’s lives feel interesting. Like watching fiction-shows on television but the thrill was amplified by virtue of the programming being real. It gave them something to fear, and by extension, something to hate. People watched for excitement, but only a fraction of the audience who watched actually believed. Sometimes that fraction was enough to spread panic. Sometimes that fraction grew. It
R a i n
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph Pages 88 – 89
used to rain then, too. Eventually we all succumbed to fear—fear of each other, fear of ourselves, and fear of our own shadows. Even now I am afraid to face them, though I tell myself I am just ashamed. We are afraid of everything now, and why shouldn’t we be? News reporting of all kinds was abolished two years after the Last Incident. The government announced that if no news was good news, there was no point in airing it. It only “perpetuated sadness and inspired copycats.” We’d be happier and safer without it. The storm is coming closer now. I tempt fate and push my gaze upwards just long enough to catch a flash of lightning. I pray silently that we have a hurricane—that a typhoon would rip through the city and leave us in ruin. Then maybe we could build it better. Make it the way it was before. But I know it would only make matters worse. Another incident. Another disaster. We are a cyclical people. There are patterns in everything we do, and if you wait long enough, everything gets repeated. This is how most people feel about disasters too. They are a part of life. The best thing that we can do is offer our candle-lit condolences and will ourselves to wake up every morning until we forget. What we didn’t realize was that our cycle was imperfect. We had been getting faster for years, and when we finally had enough speed to break free, we were moving too quickly to see where we were going. I don’t remember what the Last Incident was. It was a long time ago, and no one can speak of it. All I remember is that people died, and the rest of us were frightened. One day someone asked the most dangerous question one can ask a scared people: What can we do to feel safe again? It seemed to be on everyone’s mind. How do we protect our children? Our loved ones? Everyone was so scared; everyone just wanted it to be over. First they took our sticks and stones. People thought that as long as tools were not available, no one would get hurt. No one would be able to hurt. We fell too quickly into an uneasy security. We wanted to defend ourselves against the fear, so we built barracks made of twigs. When our delusions were shattered and the violence continued, we fell further than ever before. People didn’t want the fear just to go away, they wanted never to feel fear again. Suddenly television, radio, and the old Internet were flooded with ways to identify an “at risk” personality. Awkward people, sad people, anti-social Sander Siegel, photograph Pages 90 – 91
people, people with divorced parents, people who spent too much time online, people who owned weapons, people who knew people who owned weapons, and strange people were all labeled as threats. Like a nation-wide case of hypochondria, we began seeking out the infected areas to have them treated, even if they were only in our imaginations. This was when I first noticed the change. It had been subtle until then, seeping under our skins and nesting deep within us. Now the veil was lifted and I saw the hideous creature that made its way into our hearts. I was barely a man then, and not completely sure of myself, and I realized that I, too, fit some of the “red flags.” Paranoia already dominated every corner of society, and no one else seemed to notice. Maybe they were already too afraid to show it. Either way, it was too late to be helped. I watch the clouds’ mad assault on the sky and the wall of falling deluge inching itself closer, and notice that the sky is beginning to clear. Cloud bursting, I realize and wonder what took them so long. Rain was too dark for us. Too depressing. We couldn’t have it. I tried to warn people, back when I first noticed the change, but it was too late. It was like trying to tell storybook characters that they are not real. They continue being part of the story, and nothing changes. I looked at my parents who were becoming increasingly vocal about the issue. They tried to calm me down, telling me I was being irrational, and I felt sorry for them. Sorry that they couldn’t see what I saw. Sorry that their roles in this storybook were so defined. And I was ashamed. The news constantly was reporting stories about how to identify flags in loved ones. It was only a matter of time before people began seeing flags that weren’t there. Eventually someone decided that it was permissible to force those close to us who were exhibiting red flags to get “treatment” in mass therapy. Now we weren’t just paranoid about having red flags, but paranoid that we would be reported. As the story unfolds inside my mind, a droplet finally touches down on my forehead and shatters silently, sending vibrations through my core. I am suddenly linked to the past, a part of a time long gone. As the weight of the world lifts off my shoulders, I begin to cry, and people around me back away. Crying in public is a red flag. I slowly realize that they still don’t understand, and my sense of closure escapes me. I may have returned to an earlier time, but I am surrounded by the present. In what is perhaps my
bravest moment, I charge into the rain. I will not be denied my freedom. I hear some people screaming, I must look like I’m painted red to them, and I also notice that there are people watching. Actually looking at me. I suddenly feel important. The rain looks unnaturally strong. That must be why it is taking so long for the clouds to burst. Continually evaporating water must have overflowed the floodgates and broken them open. Nevertheless, it is once again being contained and I know I have to make contact before it leaves. I reach the rain, or perhaps it reaches me, with only moments before the last cloud will burst. With every drop I feel my shackles loosening. I find myself laughing. One by one, groups of onlookers make their way closer. They arrive with little time to enjoy the wetness, but the effect on them is clear. They understand. Finally I don’t feel so alone. It’ll take a lot of work to make things go back to the way they were, and we are vastly outnumbered. There is no telling if we’ll succeed, but at least now there is hope. I grab a girl about my age and kiss her. We don’t know each other, and right now I don’t care if we ever do. I just know that this is the most important moment of my life, and I want to share it with someone. Jonathan Merrin
Father No task is impossible When his presence is felt. A calming countenance, Effortlessly ensuring That all will be resolved. Guiding me with wisdom Carefully gathered From forty-four years of experience. Casually discussing the gravity of my choices — Or lack thereof — Over post-venipuncture breakfast. Deeper understanding Through a glimpse Into his peaceful escape. He delights in sharing What has for years been his.
Sigal Palley, photograph
An admirable role model Of honesty Of compassion Of hard work Of generosity. The epitome of my aspirations. Aaron Tannenbaum
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
Pages 92 – 93
Piano Teacher I never liked the subject.
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
Control Do events happen purposely? Does someone on Earth cause every thing that takes place in this world? A Being in Heaven? Or does chance run our lives?
And she made the learning experience considerably worse. Her voice was harsh and severe when she spoke, Like the sting of a bee bite. Her hair was thick and dark, As black as the sky at midnight. She had big, round glasses That rested on the tip of her nose. She always wore her signature scent: It was cat litter and cheap fragranced candles. And every time she spoke I received a whiff of her morning breath-A combination of onions, lox, bagels, And caramel candies. She was dowdy; Dressing in ill-fitting clothes That only accentuated her large hips and chest. Every time I saw her, I cringed inside Everything about her irked me I could not stand her any longer, So I Quit.
Do events happen randomly? Do they happen because of the way science works? Because the Earth happened to produce a chemical reaction at a certain time and place? Or is it religion? Or is it luck? Are peoples’ futures determined before they were born? Do the paths that people take determine their fate? Are we in control of our own lives? Tamar Stein
Pages 94 – 95
Noah Offitzer, pencil
Sydney Lorch
Nightmare Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph Pages 96 – 97
11:21 a.m., December 16th, 2011
I
opened my eyes and looked around me. I was wearing a plain white nightdress; I had slept in a clean, yet unfamiliar bed; the air smelled like hand sanitizer. “She’s waking up,” said a familiar voice. I looked in the direction of the voice that just spoke. “What happened?” I murmured. I tried to sit up, but my head hurt immensely. My dad told me to lie back down and rest. “You fell down two flights of stairs and bumped your head, sweetie. We were so worried…” I dozed off as my mother told me what supposedly happened to me yesterday. Yet, for some odd reason, I found it hard to believe her. “…doctors said you bumped your head and may have lost some of your memory…” So my mother thought that because I had a head injury that I could not remember last night? My dad, however, looked at me as if he already knew that I remembered. He always was open with me about the truth. “…so you should just rest up and everything will be fine. At least you haven’t broken any bones—” “Mom,” I said, slowly, “you can stop this whole charade. I know what happened… I remember.” My mother stared at me wide-eyed, and my father held my hand. It was clear to all three of us that I would be having nightmares for a while.
4:00 p.m., December 15th, 2011 I pushed the glass door open and entered into the first section, hoping to find a free ATM machine. To my luck, only two out of the five machines were working, and there was a long line of people waiting to take out cash. I sighed grumpily and took a spot in line, glancing at my watch. It was exactly eight o’clock. There were about fifteen people in front of me, and they all seemed to be taking their time in withdrawing money from the ATM.
4:05 p.m. I felt a cool, winter breeze as someone opened the glass door, entering the ATM area. He walked oddly, hunching his shoulders and wobbling in his strides. His dark beard was unshaven, and he wore a poufy, black coat that reached the floor. His hands were inside his coat, as if clutching something of great importance. He was wearing dress shoes, but they were not the usual plain black color; they were zebra striped. The man reminded me of a little kid because he seemed oblivious to his surroundings; or, rather, he did not care about his surroundings. He did not make eye contact with anyone and seemed rather timid. The man played with a button on his coat, wandering aimlessly around the ATM area. I noticed that the young woman in front of me shifted her stance a little as he came in, looking in the other direction. She seemed to be in her late twenties and was looking around impatiently, as though she were in a rush to be somewhere else. The woman was wearing a pair of shiny gold high heels and a black suede trench coat that covered her royal blue dress. She seemed to be preoccupied with one strand of her long, curly brown hair that would not stay out of her face, as well as with fixing her lipstick; perhaps she was going out for the evening with her friends.
4:09 p.m. There was another breeze as a second man, tall and light haired, entered through the glass doors. This time, I caught a whiff of a very strong odor from in front of me; it was the woman’s perfume. The smell entered my nostrils and lingered there; I wrinkled my nose in distaste and tried to hold my breath for a while. (This only lasted about a minute, however, and soon I had to endure the displeasing odor of coconut and lime.)
Pages 98 – 99
Jonathan Granowitz, photograph
4:12 p.m. The strange man in the black coat was wandering around the ATM area at this point. Still making no eye contact, he cut through the long line aggressively, in between the woman and me; the woman clutched her purse suspiciously. I was getting the feeling that I was not the only one here who noticed that this man was a little… off. The woman and I glanced at each other as the odd man walked off, as if thinking the same thing: What is he doing here? As I turned my head to observe what he could possibly be doing next, and I noticed that there were oddly shaped lumps protruding under his coat. What could he be carrying with him? I thought. The man was not just wandering around the bank any more; he seemed to be checking the security system, all the while walking with his odd stance and smiling slyly. I looked around the room once more, to see if anyone else noticed this.
4:15 p.m. The light haired man behind me had large, emerald green eyes that seemed to stretch so wide that they reached his eyebrows. He would stare off in the direction of the odd man, look back down at his shoes, and then look up to the front of the line, over and over again. He was tapping his foot anxiously, looking down at what seemed to be a contract in his hand. “Foreclosure: Final Date — December 16, 2011” the top of the document read; that was tomorrow. His knuckles were slowly turning white from clutching the papers—was he really that worried about a foreclosure…? For some odd reason, he looked vaguely familiar. He looked at me, his brow furrowed slightly, and our gaze lingered as if we were both thinking the same thing. How do we know each other?
4:17 p.m. I heard someone closer to the front of the line sigh deeply; but it was not a frustrated sigh, as I would have expected. It was a relaxed sigh. I peeked over the woman in front of me and saw a short man with golden brown dreadlocks and a tie-dyed shirt standing near the front of the line. Even though it was mid-December, he seemed to be comfortable wearing a pair of flip-flops. Nothing seemed to disturb this man; it was as if he were in his own little world. He looked down at his feet, as if counting his toes.
I sighed and noticed that the strange man in the long black coat was nowhere to be found. I sighed and noticed that the strange man in the long black coat was nowhere to be found. The woman in front of me seemed to be more relaxed, yet the man behind me still seemed stressed.
4:21 p.m. “Mommy,” I heard a high-pitched voice yell from the front of the line, “when can we go home?” I looked ahead, noticing a young girl – maybe five or six years old – and her mother. The little girl seemed to be coming from a street fair, as her face
Pages 100 – 101
was painted like a tiger; orange and black stripes, white spots, and whiskers covered her face. The mother opened her mouth to respond, but instead held her daughter close to her, noticing something in the distance. I shifted my gaze to the direction in which she was looking and noticed that the man in the big black coat returned. This time, there were no lumps in his pockets; instead, there was something in his hand, and he seemed more confident than before. At this point, there were about seven people in front of me on line. “Everyone remain calm,” the man in the big, black coat said. His teeth were crooked and yellow, and he was grinning, satisfied with himself. My eyes wandered to the object he was holding in his hand. It was shiny, black, and unwieldy. The people around me – myself included – tried to squirm our way out through the glass doors, but it was useless. The next thing I heard was a loud, petrifying bang that might well have reverberated through the entire city. Everything else went silent. Everyone crowded around one man in particular; it was the foreclosure guy. All the air seemed to have left my lungs. In utter shock and denial, I felt as though I were floating above my own body, watching myself and everyone else in the room from above. The man in the black coat seemed to have disappeared at this point, while the tall, light haired man was lying lifeless, on the floor. Suddenly, I remembered how I knew him; he was my sister’s old high school friend. His name was Jason, and he was no older than twenty-seven. His parents always had trouble paying the rent. I felt nauseated at the sight of it – no, at the thought of it. My knees were buckling, about to give out underneath me. Within seconds I felt the surface of the cold, grey, tiled floor beneath me; then, all I saw was black. “But why?” I asked, confused. I sat up in the hospital bed and looked at my parents. “Why did he do it?” My father looked at me and sighed sadly. “We don’t always know why people do things,” he said, pausing. “But I’m just glad you’re okay.” But what about everybody else? I thought. The tie-dye guy? The woman in her twenties? The mother and child?! As if reading my mind, my father handed me a newspaper article. “Here, this might answer some questions.” The title read, “Jason Smith Murdered.” Nicole Hirschenboim
Memories T
he library was not as quiet as I remembered. Young people were whispering loudly to one another and thrashing their fingertips against their keyboards. The textbooks that once could be found on every desk now were replaced by laptops. It was the fourth row, I recalled. The muscles in my legs were heavy as I slowly managed to carry myself towards the book. As I walked down the fourth row brushing my hand gently on the bookshelves, I became aware of everyone staring at me. A bruise on my arm stung as I pressed my finger against it. A young girl shifted her glance upwards from her book while she managed to keep her head still. She stared at me from underneath her eyelashes, and then met my eyes. She quickly looked back to her book in embarrassment. I could feel a cold sweat covering my forehead, and I noticed my breath was still heavy and thick from climbing the stairs. I dropped my head and tried to follow the path of my footsteps down the carpet to the end of the aisle. I felt my left hand grasp my right as I tried to control the trembling of my fingers. A sharp pain in my head interrupted my thoughts. I balanced on the walker with my left hand and placed my right hand on the temple of my head, trying to press away the pain. I could feel the pulse pushing against the side of my head. It was no use. I leaned against the bookshelf and moved my hand back to the walker. I was almost at the end of the shelf. I had to find it. I slowly moved the walker in front of me and shuffled my feet slowly against the floor. I could hear the pills shaking in their case inside my handbag. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one else heard. I was alone now; I could feel the relief lift off my hunched shoulders. It was there. I could see its brown cover peeking from behind the other books. Its brown cover was still ripped, as I remembered, and looked the same as it had seventy four years ago when I first found it. As my fingers softly flipped through the pages, my breath began to slow. The pages were still filled with the drawings and comments we had left within it. Noah Offitzer, pencil/collage
Pages 102 – 103
I always remember him. The years went by painfully without him, and as I flipped through the book the wetness of tears began to soak my thin eyelashes. I had made it my goal to find the book, so that I could remember him once more; so that I could see him again. And there he was, young and strong, filling the pages of the book.
And there he was, young and strong, filling the pages of the book. We met in the library our third week at the university. He was at the boy’s school, and I was at the sister school. We would laugh at the librarian when he told us to keep quiet, and then we would whisper about how we hated our professors. He didn’t believe in schools or organized education. He hated his teachers’ condescending attitudes; and I hated them for making him hate them. We would scribble about our plans for after college in the brown book. The librarian would warn us to be quiet, so we scribbled jokes to one another in the brown book about the librarian’s awfully crooked nose. The book shook in my hands. I flipped the pages. My finger moved up and down on the rip on the cover of the book. We had gotten into a fight once during our last year at college. He wanted to explore all of the continents. He wanted to move from motel to motel with only small change jingling in our pockets. I wanted permanence. I wanted a home. I wanted to invite friends to our house to eat at our wood dining room table. He lived in fiction, while I lived in reality. I remembered begging him to stay. I threw the brown book at him; I missed and it hit the shelf causing other books to fall. He calmly picked it up, but I wanted him to fight back. I tried to pull the book away from him. He tugged back. I pulled harder until the cover ripped slightly down the middle. Kevin Gindi Pages 104 – 105
I let go of the walker and slowly placed my hands on the bookshelf. I let my hands climb down the shelf as I bent my body lower to sit on the floor, still clinging to my handbag. I sat on the carpeted floor and flipped through the pages. The book continued to shake in my hands. Fifty years had gone by since college and we still lived together. He continued to dream; and I continued to listen. His cane carried him slowly from room to room until it could no longer support him. He lay still in his bed that morning when I yelled at him to bring me the newspaper. The coldness of the room permeated my soul as my eyes stared at his body. He was gone; it was only a corpse that lay in the bed. The book shook uncontrollably. I lifted my hands and the book was still. The trembling of my hands vibrated throughout my body. I carefully placed my hands deep into my handbag and removed the small plastic bottle. He left me with only memories to console my heart. Yet, memories weren’t enough. They soon became vague images of the past. The past soon became the intangible. And the intangible was no longer enough. The book lay in my lap as I stared at the brown cover. Now I remembered the way his laugh filled a room, the strange way he bit his lip when he was irritated, the way he wrote his lower case y’s the same way as his upper case y’s.
The images of him faded, and I was almost unsure if he actually ever existed. I had struggled to live without him. The images of him faded, and I was almost unsure if he actually ever existed. I became concerned that he was only a figment of my imagination. I worried that my aging mind made him up. I counted the seven white pills and lay them on top of the brown book. I slipped each one quickly down my throat. I rested my head on the back of the shelf and let myself sleep. And slowly, very slowly, I let myself drift to join him on a different plane of existence. A plane of unreality. Kayla Joyce
A Strange Day in
July A
child’s mind is a fantastic thing. Children are untainted, naïve. They accept new experiences and gape in wonder and awe at life’s splendor. They relish life and its magic. they are the ones that truly experience living. That morning an adult would have realized that something was off; something was amiss. But Sally saw nothing wrong with the shimmering lights that hung in the air. She didn’t think it strange that a young boy would be alone, skipping rocks at dusk. Sally had escaped the watchful eye of her Nanna, leaving behind the safety of her playroom and headed towards the wild part of their property. She had started for the forest that surrounded their home, giggling as she heard Nanna’s frantic calls. She was on an adventure. Her eyes were wide with wonder and excitement as she skipped along, ignoring the main path through the trees and instead heading towards the unknown. She gazed at the glistening leaves, wet from the recent rainfall, jumped at the butterflies that flitted above her. Sally’s fingers grazed the bright green leaves, wiping the moisture onto her white dress. Nanna would have a fit if she found out. It was a new dress after all; Sally felt like a princess in it. She smiled down at it as she skipped, not paying attention to where she was going. It was only when she looked up that she realized she was someplace completely new. Sally thought it was magical. A warm breeze lapped at the azure water, the current gentle enough so that she could go swimming if she so desired. The bank was made of stone, the water making it glisten so that it seemed to be alive with rippling color in the setting sun. The colors were far too vivid for a mortal world; any adult would realize that immediately. The light was otherworldly, suspended in the air as shimmering threads that undulated with the breeze. Globes of light flittered in the air, bobbing and weaving as though escaping some imaginary foe. The globes seemed to pulse as though alive, the light churning within making it impossible to discern their exact shapes.
Opposite: Rebecca Zeuner, photograph, digitally altered Pages 106 – 107
Sally had never seen this place; she hadn’t even known that there was a lake on their property. And then there was the boy. He looked perfectly ordinary; he was about her age and dressed in a sweater and pants. At first he stood still but after a few moments of her staring he bent down and took three, perfectly smooth rocks from the water. Without pausing he flipped the first stone at the water, standing straight as he watched it skip away. Sally waited for the stone to sink, but it never did. It simply skipped away, disappearing in the distance. Her eyes widened in shock. She scrambled over to him, tripping over a rock as he threw his second stone. This stone acted the same way as the first, Sally jumping up and down and applauding as it disappeared into the distance. She let out a laugh of joy; this was spectacular! She looked at the boy, eagerly awaiting the next throw. He didn’t disappoint her; moments after the second stone disappeared he threw the third. This time, instead of standing straight after throwing the stone, he froze, his arm still poised. Sally didn’t notice this however; her eyes were on the stone as it skipped along. However, just before it was out of sight, time seemed to reverse, the stone coming back towards them. Her eyes widened as the stone leapt back into the boy’s hand, only to be launched back out to the water
...just before it was out of sight,... time seemed to reverse, the stone coming back towards them. again as he threw it again. He moved fluidly, as if there was nothing odd about what he was doing. Everything was perfectly synchronized. This continued happening, almost as if time had looped itself. Sally stared at the scene in front of her. There was something peaceful about him. He had no troubles, no worries. It was just the boy and his rock. She sat next to him, kicking off her shoes and dipping her feet into the cool water, staring at him as he threw the stone out for the fifth time. Sally stayed for a while; time seemed not to move at a normal pace here. The lights bobbed and weaved, slowing and speeding at random intervals,
Pages 108 – 109
while the boy seemed suspended in his private bubble. She reached out to touch him, and then stopped—who was she to interrupt him? Sally came back to the lake over the years, but she never told anyone where she was going. Each time she returned, it was if time had frozen in her absence, and the boy was always
...the boy... was always there, tossing his rock at the water. there, tossing his rock at the water. As the years passed he remained unchanged, never speaking or acknowledging her. The place remained an oasis of quiet in the desert of time. Sasha Chanko, pencil On one occasion Sally became impatient; what made this boy so special that he never had to age? He always looked so happy, so peaceful. Why couldn’t she have that? What made him so special? She had been about to grab his shoulders and shake him when she paused. It was if every part of her being stopped and screamed NO! She left immediately. After that she was never able to find the place again; it was as if the path had been erased. She tried for days, eventually breaking down, sobbing on the forest floor. She felt as if a part of her had been ripped away. She never asked anyone else about the boy or the place. Sometimes she doubted if it had ever happened. She felt it must be real, however. The pain of losing that special place was far too real for any hallucination. She just knew it had, in fact, existed. She knew because she still had that memory, as vivid and bright and alive as the day she first saw it. The memory never left her—the globes of pulsing light, the peaceful boy and his magic stone. Kathryn Prince
Chicken Circus
Never Enough S
ome people have all that they need in the world. They have more than all that they need in the world. Four houses, three cars, one boat, enough shoes to last a lifetime. They never give anything to charity, thinking only of themselves. Everywhere in the world there are orphans walking around barefoot. But it would be too much to ask some people to spare a pair of shoes for anyone else. It would not even occur to them that there are people without shoes in the first place. With that mindset, they live indulgently, possess every luxury available, while others walk around barefoot. Will anything ever be enough for some people?
Caroline Guenoun
Meirav Weintraub, oil
Pages 110 – 111
“I
have lost my appetite!” shouted the man in the disheveled, brown suit. A few people in the crowd perked up from their chicken or fish dinners to look at the source of the uproar. “It’s a good thing you’ve already eaten, then,” said the waiter. The man’s eyes bulged out of his head. He choked on a few vowels before deciding on what to say. “You… You took it from me! Give it back!” The Environmentalist growled. “I merely served you your food. You did the rest,” replied the waiter. “No, not your murderous food!” shouted the Environmentalist. “I’m referring to the disgusting display that you have put on here today. It has sickened me to my stomach and stolen my appetite, and I insist that you return it to me this instant!” “I assure you, I have taken nothing from you,” said the exacerbated waiter. “I will not stand for this!” The man said as he sat. A few members of the crowd giggled at this, but the joke was apparently lost to him. He blinked a few times at their laughter before taking it as mockery. “You have gone too far this time. It is unacceptable! Aside from the angry guest, the reception was filled with merriment. The wedding was a pretty one, and the bride’s parents had spared no expense. The room was magnificent, with white doilies hanging from banisters up above, flower arrangements at every table, a gorgeous glass chandelier, and fountains that performed a unique ballet that took weeks to prepare. Everything was perfect, except for one attendee, whose rage was fueled by the beauty that made up the rest of the celebration. This man was not emotionally scarred, nor did he disdain ostentatious displays of any sort. He was quite simply, a fool. “Look at what you’ve done here! This is cruel to everything! The
animals, the environment, and though you don’t know it yet,” he pointed at the crowd, “it’s even cruel to you!” More laughter. More blinks. At least he was getting attention now. This is not to say that all environmentalists are nut jobs. It can be very fairly stated that they have valid claims and good reason to care about the world they live in. This man is not one of them. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single thing that this man cared for or was actually informed about. However, that did not stop him from voicing his beliefs. For the purpose of this story, we will refer to him ironically as, “The Environmentalist.” “Just see here,” the Environmentalist said as he grabbed a flower from a table. “Look at the cruelty that came as an expense to your celebration! Cut by the throat, in the very prime of life! How could you?” The laughter began to die down as they realized that he was serious, but at no point did it stop. He sniffed the decapitated carnation and tossed it behind him, hitting a party guest. One of the security guards came to settle him down. “Sir, please have a seat.” The Environmentalist looked at the security guard out of the corner of his eye. His eyes suddenly widened and he jumped up on a chair. “You’re trying to silence me! You’re one of them! A tree killer! A gas-guzzler! A carbon… copy!” The Environmentalist went cross-eyed and counted on his fingers. They yielded no answers. His words made as much sense to him as
His words made as much sense to him as they did to the lookers-on. He spat at the guard’s feet and gracefully fell off the chair. they did to the lookers-on. He spat at the guard’s feet and gracefully fell off the chair. The giggling swept into laughter. “Stop laughing!” the Environmentalist shouted, his face still buried in the ground. “Stop it!” He stood up and dusted himself off, despite the floor being immaculate. He couldn’t seem to get the imaginary filth off of him.
Pages 112 – 113
Zerlina Panush, oil
When he was sufficiently dusted, he turned back to the crowd. “Look at yourselves. Look at your plates! You’ve been eating living things! Their circuses lie on your tables!” Laughter. A man approached him with a napkin. “You have some chicken-gravy left on your chin,” he said, and held the napkin in front of the screaming activist. “Why thank you, my good man.” He dabbed his chin with the napkin. “Now, where was I?” “Uh… leftover chicken circuses,” said the man, holding back a smile. Chicken Circuses. The Environmentalist thought about it. No, that didn’t sound right. “Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you.” What was that word… “Yes, the chicken circuses. With the trapeze.” He needed to buy time. “And the elephants…” What was it? “And the…” Carcasses. “Carcasses!” He shouted triumphantly. His face shone with pride. No one knew what to say. When no one responded, he continued. “Their bodies lie on your plate, and you don’t even care! That is why I have lost-“ Just then some of the caterers brought out a trolley with the dessert on it: elaborate, individual, chocolate cakes with frosting flowers on top. “Never mind.” He called out to the waiter, “I think I’ve found it.” Jonathan Merrin
d ne i Sta S
he recognized the smell first. That familiar sour smoky smell. Chimneybreath, she used to call it. When years and years erase sights and sounds and stories, those smells like scars remain. Burning flesh, human flesh, the smell of skin and smoke and ash. But this time she followed it. She found him shirtless, lying prostrate on her living room floor, drowning in pictures and postcards and ripped blond hair. The matches, spilled, lay scattered around his shaking body. She looked straight into his bloodshot blue eyes, those helpless, dangerous eyes. Those Nazi eyes. Max, she pleaded softly. Please, Maxy.
But Max kept burning. f f f
September 4, 1995 My dearest darling Maxy, Watching you walk out to the school bus, with your little knapsack and your new pencils and crayons and notebooks and sneakers, such incredible nachas I felt, let me tell you! My little Maxy, my beautiful grandson, off to his first day of school! And on your face, that look—so brave! so fearless! You looked just like grandfather, beaming, always proud, always bold. Never worried, that grandfather of yours. And oh, if he could see you today, Maxy! His own grandson with new sneakers and new notebooks and going off (so brave!) to learn with all the other kids on the school bus! Remember always that your grandfather watches you. Way up in the stars he sits, smiling down on his little Maxy! If he only could have seen back then that you were his future…maybe he wouldn’t have given up. Remember who you are, little Maxy. Remember always who you come from. You are your past! Love always, Grandma f f f
Opposite: Zerlina Panush, collage Pages 114 – 115
Max, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Jew. His whole life taught him that he was the descendant of victims, that he was a victim. He learned that Hitler killed his grandfather before he learned who Hitler was. He learned never to apologize for being a Jew, never to question it, never to forget it. But those big blue eyes, piercing, haunting, screaming. When all the other kids brought toy trucks and pets and photographs for Show and Tell, Max brought his grandmother. Look, he would say as he rolled back her sleeve and pulled it over her elbow, twisting her tired arm toward the class. Hitler gave Grandma a number so he wouldn’t have to remember her name. And Max would beam as his friends stood up with mouths half open to get a better look at Grandma’s ink-stain and Ms. Pacelli shuffled anxiously in the back before applauding Max for his bravery and his pride and his commitment. But that bright blond hair, short and smooth and achingly yellow. At his bar mitzvah he remembered his grandfather, the one that Hitler got. He lit a candle and shed a tear and thought how proud he would be and the guests starting crying because what a nice boy and what a sad story and do you think she misses him and how does she get up in the morning and why must every simcha be filled with such sorrow? And every year since he turned fourteen he would observe Holocaust Remembrance Day at his synagogue, and every year he would wrap his skinny arm around his grandmother’s and lead her up the stairs to the Bima (altar) and stand with her and the survivors and the ones who got out, and he would steady her hand as she touched match to candle and watched wick become flame become memory become smoke become nothing. Max would feel the flames and the intensity and the mystery of his grandmother’s memory, and his glassy blue eyes would turn to fire and tears and his body would shake and he would squeeze his grandmother’s hand and wish that she could comfort him more. Always he was a Jew, and always he was proud, and never did he apologize for being who he was. But he had questions. He ached for his grandfather, for a picture, for a letter, for anything. He didn’t see anything until he turned twenty, his third year of college. And when he did, it broke him. An old envelope, wrinkled and delicate like grandmother’s ink-stained Opposite: Noah Offitzer, charcoal/pencil Pages 116 – 117
arm. He had found the letter tucked into the inside cover of her favorite old prayer book, and the sides came apart as he lifted the flap. His eyes fixed first on the picture. A field, a fence, a woman, a man. His grandmother, maybe twenty or twenty-five years old, visibly pregnant. A soldier, his arm around grandmother, handsome, terrifying. And the swastika. Everywhere, the swastika. On his sleeve and his hat and his collar and his medal and clouding the air around him. Max’s eyes froze. The photograph was raining swastikas, and there was his grandmother, smiling. Pregnant. Max, the blue-eyed, blond-haired Jew. His mind was burning, his universe exploding. He read enough of the attached letter—you alone must raise my son… obviously we cannot stay together…teach him well…Love always, Heinrich— to know that the son was his father and his father’s father was the soldier and the soldier bathed in swastikas and reeked of burning flesh and lived because he killed. Max was not a victim. Max did not get lucky. Max lived because his grandfather slaughtered and strangled and burned. The guilt was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms to his ears to stop the noise and the spinning and the feeling. And in that moment, the blue-eyed, blondhaired Jew wanted nothing more than death. f f f
Dearest Max, I want you to know what I felt standing up there on the Bima with you, my beautiful grandson, my future, my everything, the reason I survived! How handsome you looked in your fancy new suit! Maxy, when I looked into your eyes and saw the flames dancing, I knew that you understood who you come from. And that’s all I ask of you in this life: know and remember who made you. So thoughtful, so reflective, my brilliant little Maxy! I could see that you saw what I saw, and you felt what I felt. How I loved being up there with you in front of all those people! And Grandfather, may his memory be for a blessing, no doubt stood there with us and helped us hold that candle. Everything is for him. He lives through
Pages 118 – 119
you, Maxy! Your grandfather lives! You must remember, you must always remember, you must carry him, the helpless victim, always must you carry him. Max, thank you. Love always, Grandma f f f
He hated the way his reflection stared back at him. He despised its angry blue eyes and its chiseled jaw and its bright red lips and its perfect blond hair. In the mirror he saw the soldier in the photograph and Love always, Heinrich and the swastikas and the gas chambers and with one rapid swing he smashed his reflection and showered in shards of glass and blood and the wicked music of destruction. When his girlfriend Ellie ran in screaming, Max lied. I slipped and it fell and it broke into a million pieces. But she saw his guilt, she saw his pain, and she cried. Why can you never tell me what’s bothering you? she begged through staggered sobs. As if it were about her. Max spoke slowly, carefully, angrily. What would you do, he asked, breathing heavily through flared nostrils, if one day you realized that everything you thought about everything was a lie? What if you learned that you are the person you’ve been conditioned to hate? What if the one person your entire universe depended on turned out to be a fraud? He was shouting. How do you recover from that? How do you ever look at yourself again? How do you live with that guilt? Is that my whole purpose, to carry the guilt that he couldn’t? Ellie, sobbing, ran out. Max watched blood pour out of his fist. f f f
The next night was the synagogue’s annual memorial service, and Max shook as he sat next to his grandmother. The touch of her arm nauseated him. He didn’t belong there. He hated her and himself and the man in the photograph. The rabbi read the prayer for the dead and Max’s head swirled. He trembled. May the Lord remember The souls of the holy and pure ones Who were killedmurderedslaughtered Drownedandstrangled
And burned to ashes For the sanctification of the Name. Under his breath Max repeated the prayer, shaking, shivering, pale. Burned to ashes, murderedandstrangled, burned to ashes, drownedand slaughteredanddrowned and burned to ashes… Max ran out of the room still whispering. Ellie chased him. In his grandmother’s house he knew where to find what he needed. The matches. The photograph. The letter. Burned to ashes, murderedandstrangled, burned to ashes, drownedandslaughtered and burned to ashes… When Ellie walked in Max was shirtless, arm held out to his side, holding a lit match to his upper arm, focused, careful, concentrating and concentrating and concentrating. He spoke carefully. Do you know what burning flesh smells like? Ellie screamed. Human flesh, like kindling. Like paper. Max, please— Do you know what burningflesh smells like? Max— Fire and skin and smoke and ash— Max, I’m begging you, please— Doyouknowwhatburningfleshsmellslike? MAX— Because I do, because it’s in my blood like every other Nazi, because I can never escape that smell, because the air is always burning flesh— Ellie ran out shouting for help as Max pulled the match in tighter, tighter, closer to his flesh, the flame dancing in his ocean eyes. When grandmother came in, she found him on the ground tearing his hair out. She breathed the chimneybreath, and when she spoke her words were a calm, controlled whisper. Max. Max— Max was cold. I hate you. Maxy, please. I’m a murderer. I’ve murdered and killed and slaughtered and drowned and strangled and burned to ashes. I’m no victim. I’m a murderer. Maxy, I will never try to justify my actions. I will never say I made the
Pages 120 – 121
right choice, that I did what I had to do to survive, that I had no other option. I will never expect you to forgive me. But you need to stop burning. I live because Grandfather killed. I deserve death. I deserve to burn. I am too guilty. I am too guilty. So you sacrifice yourself? As if one more death would avenge all the rest? So what does that make you? A martyr? Max’s tears put out his flame. I do not expect forgiveness. I do not expect love or understanding. I do not expect you to understand why I wrote you all those letters. I expect only that you live, that you live because too many died. Maxy, I know what burning flesh smells like. I know it too well. You are not a murderer. The only flesh you burn is your own. You are not Heinrich. You cannot punish Heinrich by punishing yourself. You are not Heinrich. Maxy, please. Stop burning.
So he did.
But forever the blond-haired, blue-eyed Jew was stained with the scar where flesh once burned. f f f
Zachary Stecker
9th grade, plaster sculpture
Trust Me
“Trust me,” I said, Squeezing her hand. Her concerned expression, Eyebrows furrowed Eyes widening. Her unsaid thoughts Registering in my mind.
Grace Gilbert, watercolor/pen
Creation
I squeezed her hand again. “Trust me,” I repeated. “You have nothing to worry about. I promise.” I lied.
Sunset skipping along the pavement, It winks at the humpty girls sitting on the wall. Choppidey clacks of horseshoes clomp down the street. They bring an old man dressed all in snow. He checks his address bockle. It’s her house.
Nicole Hirschenboim
So he enters the hauntingshack. It is a sizzlingsmack of butter. She limbeles down the stairs, looking for her guest. He hasn’t seen her in twensomething years. She smiles, thin lippers twitching. He sees joy in her violetblue irises. He remembers her as a nightgowncladyellingmachine, coming into his room crying about scary spiritwhispers. She looks at him, so owly and proper. She wants to bearemabrace him, sit on his lab and hear a bedtime jumbleword. But she can’t; they stand too closefar apart for that. Manwhocreatedme. Productofmylove. They are meant for eachother. Lucette Panush, print Pages 122 – 123
Mikaela Gerwin
Noah Offitzer, installation piece
6-w o rd I love puppies. He hates them. Baby for adoption. Six days old. Here’s my number. Call me maybe.
stor i es
Game over, she said, and smiled.
Her hair lay on the floor. Whoops.
Eager children. Active teenagers.
He liked school before 5th grade
Experienced adults.
The door opened. That was it.
He called. Left no message. Sorry.
They want to have a relationship.
Hair messy, shoes untied, late again.
Ocean was wild. Boy drifted away.
He didn’t see the bullet wound.
Losing my phone, best thing ever.
Small bacteria. Large human. Sick family.
Junior Year, no biggie, I promise.
She said hello. They stared back.
I’m worried for him. He’s depressed
Thing about remembering, you never forget..
Organized in September. Messy in June. He tried to save her life. Lower school crush. Pure and innocent. Pages 124 – 125
She left. He just stood there. We could have won the championship.
All hope is lost. Next time. Had fun. Wished night didn’t end. Game was over before it started.
Hey wait a second. Never mind. My textbook smelled like teenage desperation. Speak your mind. Don’t stop protesting.
War fought. Lives lost. Land won. I thought you loved me back.
Stories: Sasha Bronfman, Evan Chernov, Yael Fisher, Mikaela Gerwin, Caroline Guenoun, Jordan Katz, Joshua Kerdell, Sydney Lorch, Samuel Raskin, Louis Shalam, Rebecca Sussman, Aaron Tannenbaum, Talia Wiener. Watercolors: Evan Chernov, Yael Fisher, Caroline Guenoun, Sydney Lorch, Anna Malisov, Laurie Sarway, Rebecca Sussman
Not Sorry
Inspired by: William Carlos Williams and Kenneth Koch
I talked loudly, I laughed heartily In your room that night When you told me to be quiet because your sister would hear; Sorry— But I wanted her to hear. I threw your wooden chair across the room. The one that you loved— And the one that you told me I wasn’t strong enough to pick up; Sorry— But you were wrong. I am strong.
Anna Malisov, watercolor
Gif ts
If we don’t have gifts, can we be valued?
I made you popcorn. It was so buttery, So salty We laughed as the kernels danced and popped around us; Sorry— That it almost caused a fire. But it was fun.
Soon, we begin to worry that our gift isn’t enough. We want more. Another gift. A better gift. Another compliment, another appreciative smile. Obsession takes over. We want that gift. We worry more. We bite our nails in agony. We tap our fingers anxiously. We want a gift—but not a gift that we have to work for. A gift is nothing without the work—but if we have no gift at all, what is the point of working? We are working in vain.
I lied to you When you told me you trusted me; Sorry— But you made me a liar. I told people about us When you told me not to; Over and over Again. Sorry— Not sorry. Rebecca Heringer, pastel
We want to have a gift, to use that gift, and, most importantly, to have people praise that gift. We want a gift to separate ourselves from others—to distinguish ourselves as individuals.
We begin to loathe ourselves for not having a gift. We sulk. Criticism feels heavy, and then our heads begin to ache. We cannot stand to look at others who have gifts. Envy pains us. We promise to work endlessly. Then, we mock ourselves for trying to create a gift we never can have. We glorify the detailed painting of the artist. We applaud the writer’s book. We praise the dancer’s grace. But what is the artist without her painting? What is the writer without his book? What is the dancer without her grace?
Sasha Bronfman
How can we not worry obsessively about our gifts when we define people by their gifts? A person is nothing without a gift. So some of us are nothing.
Kayla Joyce
Pages 126 – 127
Photographer
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
Skinny and Flat.
Caroline Guenoun, tempera
Fire Alone… Empty, Angry, Anxious. My entire body On fire. The heat Spreading from inside, Spreading to every single part Of my body. The flames finally Exploding within me. A volcano eruption Inside my own human body. The red, hot, angry magma Oozing out of my pores.
Pages 128 – 129
Hidden behind the lens, Invisible to speculating eyes. Shy, Fades into the background. People says he’s removed — Almost as if he doesn’t exist. But there he is, Only covered up. He is plain, wears solid colors. Just the first step before everything is altered completely. Green Screen. Mikaela Gerwin
Blazing hot… Fuming… Burning. Until I am fully surrounded By a force field of angry, red, hot steam. Until I am oddly protected By a force field of stinging, blazing pain. Until I am finally blinded By the burning pain Which protects, Which hides, Which buries The real pain. The fume of pain For the fume of anger. Who says you can’t fight fire with fire? Nicole Hirschenboim
Scene i: The narrator stands alone against a dark and starry sky. Narrator: Imagine a world in which the system controls the individual, indeed controls you. Our story starts simply with a harmless means of entertainment that all are invited to play. At first, it seems as innocent as social connectedness, a simple feeling of belonging…and a quick means of shopping without leaving the privacy of your home. Hanajoy Ain, Nehama Kramer, Laurie Sarway, Hannah Teush, mixed media
RETROGRADE homage to The Twilight Zone
But somehow, that veil of privacy becomes sinister. It is an illusion wherein your innermost secrets become the instrument of insidious control in the hands of your own elected government. Middle-aged Dr. David Temor, a quiet, bookworm, professor of Planetary Science, is about to discover the price of living off the grid. There is a cost to not playing the game. A quick look out the window transports our professor to a parallel reality. He finds himself in a society where an atmosphere of fear and mistrust, as lethal as toxic gas, envelops his former friends and neighbors. With a quick flick of the curtain, you and the professor have entered The Twilight Zone. Music: The Twilight Zone Theme Song over a scene shot of revolving planets, the camera zeroing in on Venus with its retrograde orbit. Quick cut to a live set: A professor’s study with books and a telescope, in present day New York City. There is a large window with a curtain and a doorway. Professor David Temor is viewing Venus through his telescope. He muses… while writing his findings in a book. David: Hmmm, Venus looks lovely tonight. The Sun is rising in the west, and shines as it moves towards the east. Who would believe the dazzling electric-blue colors are really lethal gases? Pity… (David puts down his journal, and goes to the window. He pulls back the curtain and peers out the window to the street scene below. Shot of street scene: Police are rounding up David’s neighbor, calling out through a bullhorn) Police officer: Come out! Show your iPalm, we need to see your ID. Neighbor: Officer, I don’t have one. Police: What do you mean? No implant? That’s illegal under Federal Provisional Code 1053! You are under arrest for resisting implantation with a
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government-issued communication device.
James Khaghan, charcoal
Police drag off the neighbor as David watches. David fearfully closes the curtain, and turns around to see the police — in his own doorway! Music crescendo. Cut scene.
Resume scene shot: Police: Professor David Temor! You’ve been named. We’ve been having trouble tracking you down, buddy. But you’ve been named. Move back! We’re going to search the joint! David: What about your warrant? Police: We only issue warrants via e-mail, buddy, and the judge says since you ain’t got one, you’re fair game! David: But that’s illegal search and seizure! What about the Fourth Amendment? What about my rights! Police: Are you kidding? If you’d been playing the game, we wouldn’t need to search or seize, we’d just know! Those are our rights! David (under his breath to the camera audience): Why do you think I’ve lived off the grid…. and told my students to do the same? I’ve lived through the blacklist, but nobody believed me then, and very few believe me now… Narrator: David has been worrying about this his whole life. In a society that’s
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“plugged in”, David has tried to remain a private citizen, far from the control of the government. Is this his imagination or his paranoia? Has the government co-opted civil rights through social media? Does “Big-Brother” already know everything that “may be used against him in a court of law”? Scene ii: Inside a modern police station/court room, a “kangaroo court” is in progress. There is a long bench with prisoners, all of whom are attached to wires and computers facing a large, maleficent computer, above which is written the State motto, “Progress, Trust and Disclosure”. There is the humming sound of machinery in the background. Suddenly, the large computer screen comes alive with the judge’s image. The prisoners include a young man, an elementary school teacher, (accused of corrupting the morals of a minor) a housewife, (accused of the serious crime of “disconnecting her teenagers”) a medical doctor, (charged with performing illegal “abortions” on government issued implants) and Professor David Temor, a professor of Planetary Science (charged with acts of terrorism, subversion, and inciting dissent.) Judge: Mr. Dove, as an elementary teacher in our fair school system, you should know better! We trust our children with you! We give you computers to hook up your students to their iPalm chips, and you dare to cover up the techno-screens in your classroom? You ask them to express their individuality through creative writing? We don’t need thinkers! How can we monitor their thoughts? It is for the safety of our youngsters that we shield them from subversive thought. We mold them into model citizens, who will trust Orly Silverstein, mixed media
Alex Ben Yosef
David: What did I do? What have I have done? I teach…I keep to myself…
that the Government knows best, …and you dared to teach them to resist? You are charged with corrupting the morals of a minor! Now, Mother Jones! We try to make your life easy. We know you’re busy raising your children, so we try to shop for you, and even vote for you. But you have resisted giving us access to your information! Worse, you don’t allow your teenage children to go online. You know that this is the most vulnerable age group, and we, the government, want to protect them, know who their friends are, record their movements, and find out whether they’ve been drinking. For enlightenment’s sake, we do all this for you! We can track their every movement, and their every whim all on their iPalms! Your youngsters were enjoying being “plugged in” until you took them to those scoundrels at the underground clinic to have the chips forcibly gouged out…Scoundrels like the doctor sitting smugly over there (the judge points menacingly at Doctor Lightman at the end of the bench). Your own teenagers turned you in. They are now part of the Enlightenment Youth Brigade. You are being charged with endangering your children, and the federal offense of “disconnecting a teen-ager.” And you, Professor David Temor! You are the most hated of creatures, living off the beneficence of our enlightened society.
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Judge: Your students turned you in. We rounded them up and they said that you had warned them not to participate in our open society network. What lack of enlightenment on your part! You had your students living in the Dark Ages, talking about books and philosophy, and issues like the right to privacy. You are supposed to be a scientist, not a blabbering radical! You are turning back the clock on progress, and you are breaking trust and resisting disclosure – all the values of our society, “The Enlightened States of America”! We have the right to collect information, for our nation’s security. We cannot all be one without this bonding! E Pluribus Unum! (The judge shrieks these words, pounding a gavel.) David: But that means out of many diverse peoples, we are one. Diversity of thought is our creativity and strength! And you are turning us into mindless sheep, monitored and controlled like lab animals through your computer hook-ups. What kind of enlightened state is that? Judge: You dare to counter me? Our sacred motto means we should be of one continuous mind and one opinion, and have no secrets from the benevolent government that seeks only our safety and progress. We, your elected officials, have the right to collect information. It is for our nation’s security, you understand. You, Professor, have been charged with terrorism and inciting dissent. Undesirable dissidents like you should be eliminated, but the law instructs me to give you a choice. Bailiff: Please rise for sentencing! David: (Meekly, clearly frightened) Without a trial? Without a jury? Judge: The court knows the will of the people, and I administer justice. Either you will be implanted, so that we can keep track of you, or you will be banished to the planet Venus.
Doctor Lightman: (gasps) With all the dense poisonous gases? That’s a death sentence!
protect the mind and body; it is my solemn oath. I must heal my patients from the disease of this government. I will not be implanted!
Judge: Oh no, we’ll give you an oxygen tent that lasts for six months. Then let’s see what your lack of technology does for you! You are dissidents, and that planet, like you, spins the “wrong” way… revolving retrograde, in the opposite direction, counter to Earth. It is a fitting sentence.
David: (Crumpled in fear, speaking in a trembling voice) We will die on Venus…our lungs will burst the instant the oxygen runs out. I am a scientist, not a hero. I cannot…I cannot…I’ve always worried… but I don’t want to die –in exile, alone, forgotten. (He holds out his hand to be implanted. He is a defeated man, slumped over and sobbing.)
David: (mumbles and stutters in terror) But, but…Venus’ atmosphere is so dense, the swirls of colored deadly gases are almost opaque! We will never see Earth again…and our families… Oh my God, my wife!…nobody will ever find us, we will never be able to communicate with anyone on Earth again! (He breaks down and weeps.) Judge: (laughs wryly) Well, you wanted a veil of privacy! Mother Jones: I have my children to protect, and all the children to protect by my example. I will not be implanted. Go ahead, send me to Venus! Teacher, Mr. Dove: Education, educare means to lead out, and I will continue to lead my pupils out of your control and darkness! I will not be implanted! Doctor Lightman: It is my duty to Benjamin Sternklar-Davis, photograph Pages 136 – 137
Cut to Final scene in the spaceship (some teenagers and students have joined the “dissident” freedom fighters). Teenager: (taking out a contraband computer) Okay, let’s get to work! Mother Jones: Oh no! Didn’t you see the dangers of technology? We don’t want to start that cycle again! Teenager: Nope! But it’s not technology that’s evil and controlling, it’s the way human beings use it. Without technology, we are doomed. We have to find a way to solve the environmental problems of living on Venus…and fast! Water, temperature control, and making
the vast deserts bloom – our human creativity and advanced technology might be able to solve these issues!
“How Was Your Day?”
Mr. Dove: The kid is right. Technology is our only hope…but if we survive, we have to use it to build a better society. We have to be careful to protect each other’s rights…and we have to control technology, not each other.
Every afternoon at precisely 3:15. Her mother would come to the door to greet her. “How was your day, Sweetie?” The girl would smile softly, And respond gently, “It was great, Mother.” But what her mother would not realize Was the pain behind her forced smile; And the lies In her response; And the sick thoughts That flooded her petite blonde head; And the burden That taunted her relentlessly, Hannah Ball, tempera And weighed heavy on her heart; And most of all The penetrating darkness That had been consuming her Gradually Over the last few months. Ariella Berkowitz
Dr. Lightman: It is too bad Professor Temor could not hold on to his own vision. We really could use his help. Teenager: We will make it. Look, the Sun is rising on Venus! (End scene: the planet Venus at sunrise; music in the background: Bob Dylan and The Band singing Any Day Now, I Shall Be Released) “I see my light come shining, from the West unto the East. Any day now, any day now, I shall be released…” Narrator: And so, Professor David Temor has succumbed to his own fears, his own weakness. Afraid to make a stand, he watches as the other “freedom fighters” blast off towards Venus, never to know their optimistic plans, never to share their hope of creating a better society. Instead, implanted with a government chip, he is watched and controlled by the government, and becomes a poster for “reformed citizens” of the “Enlightened States”. He mistakenly assumed that the Venusian vapors were more lethal than the dangers of a totalitarian government. Here, caught in the Twilight Zone, Dr. Temor’s sun sets, just as the Sun rises – in the west – on Venus. END Daniel Fischer
Pages 138 – 139
The girl came home from school
Maximilian Eckhardt, photograph
The System
Treading on Broken Glass Don’t you know? It’s not about me, It’s not about you. So don’t you dare pretend That I’m always in the wrong And you’re always in the clear. Because of you It’s hard for me to stay true, It’s just hard for me to be strong. Don’t you see What you do to me? Every word that ever Left your mouth Rebecca Heringer, collage
Cut my self-esteem Into a trillion, tiny pieces – Shards, jagged and sharp, Shattered on the floor. And yet – Seeing right through me – You tread on me Once more. Ironically, You’re only hurting yourself… For crying out loud, You’re the one treading on my already-broken glass, here. Nicole Hirschenboim
I
lie in my bed facing the drab beige ceiling of the North Pennsylvania Concentration Center for the Retired. I was Retired six years ago, the day after my seventieth birthday. At the time I was excited. Excited by the reflective stripes that would be added to the back of my clothing, the stripes that were intended to signify that I had led a full life and to protect me from getting lost outside the Center at night. But now I feel the stripe of incandescent materi- Noah Offitzer, pencil/charcoal al under me like a metal rod. Although it barely weighs anything, the reflective stripe has weight. It runs the length of my backbone, constantly making me aware of its presence and the way it holds me in place. The strip runs from my shirt’s hem up to my collar, touching the nape of my neck and practically screaming at my brain: “You are done! You are useless! Spineless!” Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
*The System is fair*
She called out to me. She was scared, and I did nothing. It was for the best, all parents had to do it, I had other things to take care of, and she would be raised by the System. My daughter, raised by my flawless System. I turned and walked back down the street to my office, where I continued overseeing the beginnings of what I thought would turn into the most revolutionary, most successful re-stratification of society in history. I think about my daughter often; she is now thirty years old. I saw her once. Twenty years ago, during my caretaker period, I brought my group of seven-year-olds to a nearby school for networking hour. My students
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behaved, meeting other children and making connections that would help them once they turned eighteen and began to accept leadership positions, but in the corner of the room one ten-year-old was refusing to participate in the activity. She sat sullenly, watching the mingling with narrowed eyes. I recognized her immediately. She looked like me. Those stubborn black curls and steely gray eyes only could belong to my daughter. I did not go over. I did not ask her why she sat on the sidelines while the rest of the children built their futures. Not only because it was forbidden to speak to any child not in your group, not only because any contact between parent and child is subversive to the System, but because I truly believed it would be wrong. My life and her life were not intertwined, and never would be. Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
Z
*The System is good*
Allow me to explain my reasons for creating the System. I was in my twenties. My parents were old and unreliable; they lived in my home feeding off my money and distracting me from my responsibilities with petty details of their lives. Once, both had been intelligent professionals – my father a lawyer and my mother the mayor of our town – but it seemed that when they turned seventy years old, they were no longer going forward, they were only holding me back. With the System, seniors over the age of seventy are concentrated in Centers where they are guaranteed shelter and food, marked with a reflective stripe for protection, and given time to rest after a full and busy life. My System depends on the connections that children make with each other before the age of seventeen. The children live in homes, visit each other, are fed plenty of protein and calcium, and grow up without the interference of parents or family members that could damage their potential and drive to succeed. At the age of eighteen, the children go through a naturalization process where they are entrusted with the responsibility to develop and lead society for the next thirty two years. Relationships built during childhood develop into business partnerships, networks, and even marriages. Statistically, the years between ages eighteen and fifty have always been the prime of a person’s lifespan. I was thirty five years old when I created the System. At age fifty, citizens enter their caretaker years, their service pe-
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riod. After over thirty years of career and building, citizens will accept that they have made the best of their contributions to society. Successors are chosen, a new group of eighteen year olds moves out of their Care Homes, and a new group of fifty year olds begins to use their life-experiences to raise the next generation. After twenty years, we are Retired, moved out of the Care Homes, and into the Concentration Centers. This is the story of my life. This is the story of my daughter’s life. This is not an individual story; it is a collective one for the benefit of society at large, and this is why I lie here staring at a beige ceiling.
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
Outlooked Intentions Level headed mess with outlooked
Hands filled with words temporary tattoos of
intentions. But there was an artistic boy, who had visionless
what to remember. She wouldn’t want
looks directly to the observant
a poem for her, stupid with naiveté. The girl was underappreciated voluntarily trapped
secretly collecting hope. Excluded from the inclusives, the girl had a pressure against ubiquity. A beauty who
Rebecca Zeuner, photograph
William Pollack, photograph
*The System is larger than I am*
They aren’t afraid of me here. They know that I created the System, so I am sometimes given extra access to the gardens and newspapers, but the special treatment ends there. This is bigger than me. I can look back and see that in my thirties I was power hungry and resentful. I thought I was a genius, maximizing my ability to succeed while I was at the height of my potential, and giving my parents a place to be other than my guest bedroom. But soon evolved a new generation of equally power hungry and ambitious thirty-somethings. I lost power over the system, and now I am expected to be an equal player. But I am not equal. My parents’ generation seemed old and obsolete, with no thoughts or contributions to make. But I am different! I still have more to say! I have more to write, I have a story to tell, I have ideas to convey, I have words to speak. But I am only given three sheets of paper a month. “You don’t need them,” I’m told by the twenty-somethings who run the Concentration Center, “you’ve made your contribution. Thank you for that, but leave the innovations to the next generation.”
Talya Nevins
never met attention she was stripped comfort.
but there was an overrated artistic boy, with the shocking desire to be needed. Charlotte Rauner
But there was an artistic boy deep into no one’s reality seeing the crowd fixating on the unattainable. Continual disappointment inside her unknown barrier she was an unsolvable mystery flooding the air. Collecting her heart, returning it nervous, sick with bliss. Rebecca Heringer, watercolor
Pages 144 – 145
OVER
We’re all just people:
We’re all just people: Each with a— Rollercoaster – Up and down, topsy turvy – Unpredictable Incomparable Impactful Worthwhile Opportunistic— Life to live.
Each with a— Unique Inspiring Strong Powerful Emotional Unexpected Hidden— Story to tell. Yet somehow Many of our stories Overlap.
Yet somehow Many of our lives Overlap. Evan Chernov, watercolor
Pages 146 – 147
LAP
And we all carry baggage: Baggage that only those closest to us know; Yet we deceive the world With smiles and laughter, a show; But behind the showcase lies a story Greater than you’ll ever know. And this is the case— And so the story goes— For anyone who’s ever passed you on the street; For anyone who’s ever sat next to you on a bus or subway; For anyone who’s ever shared an elevator ride with you; For anyone who’s ever made eye contact with you; For everyone you’ve ever seen— For those you’ve yet to see— And even those whom You will never see, Never even know Of their existence. Nicole Hirschenboim
Things I never knew I loved the city at night, Mexico City I didn’t know I loved travelling so much, surprises at every corner– I didn’t know I liked vampires, with their red eyes. I saw The Twilight Saga in a dark theater, the love story, the danger–
I never knew how much I loved heat until the power went out– I, for one, found love in blue– Blue churning in an ever-changing cog–
I didn’t know I liked the moon, bright beautiful light, envisioning it in my dreams–
I didn’t realize I liked praying until the day my father left and it was time to face what I didn’t know–
I didn’t know I loved ice cream, the sweet, cold, icy kind that flows in my mouth like creamy ice crystals–
I never knew I liked fire– Caroline Guenoun, watercolor/oil pastel
I didn’t know I l oved I didn’t know I loved thinking as much as I do: traveling through the mind to find new ideas as if I were a shepherd looking for his sheep–
Everything is in my mind– I didn’t know I loved dreams as much as I do– I never knew I liked the stars until I went out of the city– I never knew I loved mountains, clouds and rain until I was in the vast, dry, open soaring mountains in New Mexico–
I never knew I loved light, and the day– I didn’t know I liked electricity– I didn’t know I like water: intense, fierce water– I didn’t know I loved the ocean, being alone, the night, the quiet– I didn’t know I loved the ocean with the moonlight hitting– I never knew I loved the scent of my grandparents’ house in Shelter Island: the smell of the ocean is overwhelming–
I never knew I loved the sound of tap shoes tapping against a stage, Or my brother’s over-protectiveness of me–
I never realized I love looking at old photos: Is the memory the picture?
I never realized how much I depend on mirrors– I didn’t know I loved sleep, a good night’s sleep. Natasha Edelsten, Benjamin Falah, Isabel Mosery, Maia Offitzer, Lucette Panush, Isaac Tannenbaum, Stacy Vaknin, Tamar Arenson, Hayley Berson, Samuel Messenger, Gregory Mintz, David Nachman, Leora Nevins, Arden Poller, Noa Rocco, Maya Shalev, Fanny Wolfowitz Maximilian Eckhardt, photograph, digitally altered
Pages 148 – 149
My Grandpa Called Today
And told me he was disappointed he didn’t see me last night, And told me he was concerned, And told me he heard I was a good student, And knew that, even though I was modest, I would be somebody in this world; And told me I was an important granddaughter And told me that he just wanted Me to be happy. And as he said The last three lines, I held my hand To my mouth To stop the convulsive sobs From coming out. And as we said our I love you’s And goodbyes I hope he didn’t hear The hoarse croak in my voice, The fragile shake in its timbre Over the other side Of the phone. Nicole Hirschenboim
Opposite: Danielle Carni, Rebecca Heringer, Noah Offitzer, Zerlina Panush, mixed media Next page: Zerlina Panush, oil Pages 150 – 151