Epitome 2018 by Heschel School

A Literary & Arts Publication of the Abraham Joshua Heschel High School Volume 14 • 2018 / 5778

20 West End Avenue New York, New York 10023 212/246-7717 • www.heschel.org

Dedication

The Abraham Joshua Heschel High School

An open letter to Perspective, We’re sorry for forgetting you sometimes. We hope these stories and poems will help us see the world through each other’s eyes and grow to appreciate different points of view. We hope our work proves that you are alive, even though we lose sight of you too often. We hope that through the art and writing collected in this book our readers will be inspired to seek you out. Expressing ourselves and learning about others through the shared language of creativity will help us grow. We hope this edition of Epitome reminds us that with perspective comes empathy. With an open heart, open eyes, and open mind, Clara, Sophia, Abigail, Sophie

20 West End Avenue New York, New York 10023 212/246-7717 www.heschel.org

Editors in Chief

Head of School

Clara Citron, Sophia Daniels Sophie Shapiro, Abigail Fisher

Ariela Dubler

High School Head

Editorial Staff

Lily Applbaum, Lydia Schmelzer Callie Smith, Dassie Spivack

Noam Silverman

Art/Photography Editor Mariel Priven

Awards

Faculty Advisor

CSPA Gold Medalist Gold Circle

Sandra Silverman

Graphic Design/Production By Design Communications

Special Thanks to

Dena Schutzer, John Gatti and Gabe Godin

Colophon

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 cross-section 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. printed on recycled paper

Book Covers/Opening Pages

Dedication.................................... Clara Citron, Sophia Daniels, Abigail Fisher, Sophie Shapiro Covers/Title Page/Dedication/ Table of Contents photographs.........................Mariel Priven

Poetry

Table of

Slivers of Night.....................Emma Sokolow........................ 9 I Am Who They Are...............Sara Serfaty............................ 10 Timing....................................Lydia Schmelzer......................20 Love.......................................Noah Dickman........................ 21 Sunday Morning...................Rivke Goodman...................... 21 Humanity...............................Simone Stern..........................22 Diet Cherry Coke...................Aylet Kaminer........................ 24 Lukewarm.............................Lily Applbaum.........................26 It’s Safer to Smile..................Callie Smith.............................28 i do not know........................Sophia Daniels........................29 Technology............................Sophia Daniels........................30 They.......................................Zeke Bronfman....................... 31 Thank You..............................Leila Small...............................34 Ballad of a Wanderer............Ayelet Kaminer.......................35 Crumpled Paper Smiles........Yael Beer.................................38 Mornings...............................Leila Small...............................39 Waiting..................................Dassie Spivack....................... 40 Mystical Being.......................Itamar Oron............................ 41 Justice....................................Julia Proshan...........................53 Sensory Deprivation............Julia Proshan...........................56 Clocks.....................................Clara Citron, Callie Smith, Sam Nevins, Tamar Cohen, Zeke Bronfman....58 Hosha Na...............................Abigail Fisher......................... 60 Hero.......................................Lydia Schmelzer......................62 Soft Eyes................................Lily Applbaum.........................63 Sounds Bite...........................Yael Beer................................ 64 Puddle of Red........................Lily Applbaum.........................73 you never want an email entitled ‘bad news’...........Sophie Shapiro.......................77 They told me in a letter........Tamar Cohen.......................... 80 The Song of My Sea..............Callie Smith............................ 86 Man Up..................................Leila Small.............................. 88 Untitled..................................Rivke Goodman..................... 94 Perception.............................Sophie Shapiro.......................95 Come Buy My Jubly Wares....Tamar Cohen.......................... 96 Back Wings............................Lily Applbaum.........................97

Poetry (continued)

The Justice System...............Callie Smith............................101 To ThE Goose, WHO SCARED a mere girl of two.............Tamar Cohen......................... 103 Pink........................................Clara Citron........................... 105 I Sing a Song of Myself.........Tamar Cohen.........................106 Useless Information.............Tamar Cohen..........................116 Strength................................Samuel Nevins.......................118 Thank You For Being Very Purple: A Sestina......Abigail Fisher.........................123 An Intrusion on Time............Ayelet Kaminer......................125 Night......................................Simone Stern........................ 129 Obligation.............................Emma Sokolow..................... 130 Pity Whispers........................Sophie Shapiro...................... 131 She Said.................................Emma Sokolow......................132 Hiding in Public.....................Callie Smith........................... 134 Grounded..............................Dassie Spivack.......................135 My Own Starry Night...........Sophia Daniels...................... 136

Fiction

Winter....................................Simone Stern.......................... 12 Eastern Standard Time.........Tamar Cohen...........................32 Love Story.............................Lydia Schmelzer......................45 Eavesdropping......................Sophie Shapiro.......................50 The Boy..................................Sophia Daniels........................54 Sylvia......................................Sophia Daniels....................... 66 Luke.......................................Sophia Daniels........................74 Train Ride..............................Lydia Schmelzer......................62 The Pearl Necklace...............Sophie Shapiro....................... 91 3:32PM IN 10TH PERIOD WRITING CLASS................Sam Levy...............................104 Friendship.............................Lydia Schmelzer....................108 Healing..................................Samuel Nevins....................... 115 To Her....................................Lily Applbaum........................119 The Phone Call......................Tamar Cohen......................... 120 Seen Through a different Lens Lily Applbaum, Emma Sokolow, Simone Stern.... 126 Associations..........................Emma Sokolow..................... 138

On My Mind

A CURSE TO MY ANXIETY....Anonymous.............................42 FEBRUARY 13, 2017................Clara Citron............................ 88 Why........................................Zeke Bronfman...................... 98

C o n t e n t s

Art

Table of

Pastel................................ Maddie Cosgrove........................ 21 Pastel................................ Sarah Binday............................... 21 Oil...................................... Lydia Schmelzer..........................29 Computer Art................... Micah Grozalsky-Wernick...........30 Charcoal............................ 10th Grade Art Class....................34 Mixed media.................... Jessie Cohen................................38 Charcoal............................ Hilary Goldman-Lori.................. 40 Acrylic............................... Sarah Binday............................... 41 Multimedia....................... Ally Lax........................................42 Tissue paper and craypas.Josh Epstein............................... 44 Tissue paper and craypas.Rochelle Dweck...........................53 Tissue paper and craypas.Micah Grozalsky-Wernick...........57 Oil paint and turpentine. Noa Mellul.................................. 60 Tempera........................... Gabriela Trubowitz..................... 61 Oil paint and turpentine. Ella Joffe......................................63 Watercolor....................... Eden Chanko...............................65 Pencil................................ Julia Tomases..............................72 Pencil................................ Liz Ortner....................................77 Tempera........................... Sophie Rose.................................79 Acrylic............................... Julia Tomases............................. 80 Charcoal............................ Abigail Rose................................ 88 Oil Paint and turpentine. Ella Joffe..................................... 89 Mixed media.................... Marley Kronenberg....................95 Oil...................................... Eitan Goldberg..........................106 Watercolor....................... Haddar Kaplun.......................... 107 Craypas............................. Darren Cleeman........................ 107 Collage.............................. Eliana Solomon...........................111 Pastel................................ Maya Singer................................ 112 Sculpture.......................... 10th Grade Art Class...................118 Pencil................................ Hilary Goldman-Lori..................119 Oil...................................... Anonymous................................123 Acrylic............................... Maddie Cosgrove...................... 124 Oil...................................... Noa Mellul................................. 126 Mixed media......................... Eliana Solomon, Isabel Ehrlich, Julia Tomases, Maya Singer, Jessie Cohen, Sarah Binday, Maddie Cosgrove.................................................................. 131 Charcoal............................ Eden Chanko..............................132 Tempera........................... Abigail Rose............................... 134 Collage.............................. Maya Singer............................... 134

Photography

Mariel Priven........................................................................... 8 Lindsey Winter........................................................................11 Lindsey Winter....................................................................... 16

Photography (continued)

Rachelle Levitin......................................................................20 Isabelle Harrison-Bregman...................................................22 Sarah Binday..........................................................................23 Lara Caligor........................................................................... 24 Lara Caligor............................................................................26 Lindsey Winter.......................................................................28 Raphi Simonson..................................................................... 31 Rachelle Levitin......................................................................33 Maya Singer...........................................................................35 Michael Eizak.........................................................................39 Eduardo Szajman...................................................................45 Mariel Priven.......................................................................... 51 Ethan Ceresney......................................................................54 Mariel Priven..........................................................................56 Maya Singer..................................................................... 58-59 Lindsey Winter.......................................................................62 Isabelle Harrison-Bregman.................................................. 64 Lara Caligor....................................................................... 66-71 Sarah Binday..........................................................................75 Maya Singer..................................................................... 82,83 Ethan Ceresney......................................................................85 Mariel Priven.................................................................... 86-87 Gabi Epstein.......................................................................... 88 Maya Singer........................................................................... 91 Molly Katz............................................................................. 94 Maya Singer...........................................................................95 Lara Caligor........................................................................... 96 Lara Caligor............................................................................97 Lara Caligor......................................................................98-99 Perla Zolt..............................................................................100 Maya Singer..........................................................................101 Mariel Priven..................................................................102-103 Mariel Priven........................................................................104 Lara Caligor.......................................................................... 105 Sarah Binday.........................................................................114 Lara Caligor..................................................................... 116-117 Ethan Ceresney.................................................................... 120 Lara Caligor.......................................................................... 129 Mariel Priven........................................................................ 130 Mariel Priven.........................................................................133 Raphi Simonson....................................................................135 Raphi Simonson............................................................. 136-137 Maya Singer......................................................................... 139 Shahar Ben Dor.................................................................... 140

C o n t e n t s

Slivers of Night

The night felt like lukewarm velvet in soft air like September when streetlamps glow in detached orbs, windows smolder in light pollution slivers splayed across exposed faces, with multitudes of reading lamps and chandeliers, a myriad of clouded panes, and humming light bulbs keep company with night owls. The night sounded like radio static between two songs, of time briefly knotted, when one awaits next note’s dawn, like spilled music across the barren mind, gnawed upon slowly by the empty night’s gaping celestial chasm, its cool breath trickling down suspended ears. The night smelled electric, like the gritty emissions of a distant generator— muted— prickly, too, like snatches of raw air against skin, redolent of rigid, frosty clouds. The night looked like the pounding glare of a vacant space, of silhouettes emblazoned behind flitting eyes, like afterthoughts of bright light, but creamy too, edgeless and boundless, rippling pools of liquid dusk, serene.

Emma Sokolow

Mariel Priven, photograph

I Am Who They Are (homage to Walt Whitman)

Advisors and impressions surround me, The effect of my parents, my childhood friends, my education, my neighborhood, The most updated technology, the most groundbreaking discoveries, the most controversial theories, My status, outfits, friends, makeup, The feelings or lack thereof for a teacher I’m obsessed with, The lack of direction of family members or myself, or illness or unhappiness, Conflicts among us, the horrible tension emerging between family members, These interact with me throughout my days, but do not define me. Because of them I am who I am, Standing up tall, listening, judging, empathizing, moving around, Staring at my feet, staring at the sky, or resting my head on my hands, Squinting forward, eager to see what awaits me, Simultaneously a part of the grand tapestry of social connections and an outsider to that world, Behind me I see the naïve decisions of my younger self, with friends who were not the best for me, I do not regret those decisions, I reflect on them. I believe in you, my soul, but you must not degrade others to elevate yourself, And you must not belittle aspects of yourself. Let us relax in the company of nature, set our minds free, I do not want to hear your words, or music, or knowledge, or what you are most proud of, I seek only your thoughts. I remember how we lay on a spring afternoon, How our minds connected, How you dug deep and uncovered the depths of my soul, How you enlightened me to the possibility of being truly calm and content, And I know that God’s help comes from my own initiative, And I know that God lives among us all, And that all people are my siblings, some of them are love interests, And that the cornerstone of creation is happiness, And innumerable are the pieces of gum that are blackened by the streets,

And black ants forming their colonies around them, And dirty adhesive keeping them all on the ground.

Sara Serfaty Lindsey Winter, photograph

Winter T

he night of September 1st was cold. Thirty or thirty-five degrees in Bethlehem, New Hampshire. But that didn’t stop the seniors of Bethlehem High from celebrating the last night before their final year began. Slews of teenagers staggered merrily around a campfire dressed in parkas and scarves, cheeks flushed by the cold and the seemingly infinite cheap beer. The trees of White Mountain Forest were just beginning to color and cast long shadows in the firelight. “Hey, Cassidy! What are you doing over there? Come on over here; we’re playing Never Have I Ever! You’ll be good at this!” Jacob Cassidy got up from the log where he had been sitting watching the fire, and walked over to the huddle of people by the giant fire, shadows criss-crossing his face, making it look longer and untouchably strange. “And you’re gonna be terrible! You can’t hold your beer and you drink enough that you’ve done everything imaginable.” “Heyyyyyy, Rude,” slurred from the darkness where Eloise must be sitting. “Well, hurry up and play and maybe you can catch up with me.” “Why can’t we play truth or dare!” A voice Jacob didn’t recognize, male and obviously drunk. “It’s always more fun!” “Well, fine, but everybody has to promise to drink. That’s what’s gonna make it fun. You too, Cassidy. I’m not letting you get away with that sass.” Eloise slurred as she punched Jacob on his puffy coated arm as he sat down next to her in the dark. “Let’s goooooo, I’m boooored.” A new male voice, to his left, sounded kind of like Gary from his homeroom last year. “Yeah, whatever we do let’s do it now. I’m so bored. This party sucks. And it’s coooolld.” Sounds like Matt, the guy from the lacrosse team. Suddenly, the group heard yelling from the campfire. Somebody was running around in a white parka looking like a marshmallow while holding a branch on fire, brandishing it like a sword.

“Yeaaaaah, WOOT, WOOT! Party’s starting over there! That’s something interesting!” Gary’s voice awkwardly loud suddenly. Then he went streaming off towards the flame with Matt just behind him, chanting “Fire! Fire!” Eloise sighed and went stumbling after them and more bulbous coated forms followed her, leaving Jacob in silence. He knew Eloise would want him to follow too, so he sighed and trailed behind the bored march. Somebody else had lit another stick on fire and both kids were waving them around, creating arcs of fire that left after-images on Jacob’s retinas. Now it looked like the entire class was gathered around. Eyes followed the flames. The cheers grew louder. More had picked up sticks and lit them; people began shedding coats as the fire grew. It looked like a hellscape, fire blaring and voices burning. It was like pushing back the winter. They had

It looked like a hellscape, fire blaring and voices burning. It was like pushing back the winter. power over Earth. The sounds and light were coming to a crescendo. They were one force, one flame, one voice. They were tapped into the vein of the universe and its golden blood was flowing through them. And suddenly someone dropped a branch and they were all just scared high schoolers again. The branch landed on dry leaves and it ignited in seconds. Someone cursed and then chaos broke out. People panicked, dropping their flaming branches too, grabbing coats and running off in every direction. The firemen managed to extinguish the blaze but not before five acres of forest burnt to the ground. Trees cannot mourn, but it seemed that a deep fog of grief permeated that smoky, blackened wasteland. “Well, we have to find out who! These things don’t happen by themselves in the middle of winter!” The Bethlehem Town Hall was held in the small wooden church in the center of town. The entire town huddled inside the unheated building, bundled in scarves and hats and coats. Every time someone spoke, a cloud of fog blew out like a little puff of smoke. Sally Ferguson, a rounding, blonde, middle-aged woman, wrapped in a disturbing number

of scarves, had just burst up from her place in the pews, interrupting Officer Reagan as he was trying to explain the events of the previous night. “We understand your anger, Mrs. Ferguson, and we are trying to find the culprit, but we don’t have any leads at this moment—” “You can’t just let this stand! An arsonist is still out there!” Mrs. Blackwell, similarly shrouded in wool, burst out, joining her friend. Blackwell and Ferguson were a notorious team, running a church gossip mill productive enough to fill a tabloid. “For all we know, it could be any of us here in this room right now!” Many of the shivering teens tried not to shift uncomfortably in their seats. Some stared ahead blankly or looked intensely at their shoes; some with more of a talent for acting even nodded along, looking as outraged as their parents. A small, sturdy, old woman wearing a sensible, brown overcoat stood up slowly and cleared her throat. It was Grace Little, the spinster who lived in a cottage far from town, beside the forest. In a strong voice she said, “I heard a ruckus in the forest last night. I don’t know what was causing it, but a bunch of kids came driving by my house all at once not long before the fire.”

“I heard a ruckus in the forest last night… a bunch of kids came driving by my house all at once not long before the fire.” Murmurs broke out over the crowd. “Well, it certainly couldn’t have been my Timmy,” and “Jessica would never be involved in something like that.” Teenagers tried to look convincingly surprised. Mrs. Blackwell pierced the rush of noise, “Are you accusing us of not knowing where our kids were? I’m sure all the parents here could tell you their children were at home or something of the like.” “And all our children would agree!” Mrs. Ferguson added, dragging her son, Ethan, to his feet. “Isn’t that right, Ethan?” Ethan, a small boy with large glasses, had been one of the first to pick up fire. Now, in an embarrassingly round camouflage parka that did not suit him, he joined the fray. “Yes! Of course! I was in my room reading all night! Do you want to ask me about what I read? I can prove it!”

Officer Reagan, now feeling out of control, tried to calm the scene. “There’s no need for that, Ethan. This isn’t a court, this is just a town hall.” “AAANDD I think it’s pretty suspicious you are trying to pin this on us, Miss Grace!” Matt, the kid from the circle last night, forced himself into the conversation as well. “Maybe you’re trying to take the suspicion away from you! After all, you’re the one who lives right by the forest, alone, with no one around; it could totally be you and no one would know!”

“You’re the one who lives right by the forest, alone, with no one around; it could totally be you and no one would know!” A chaos of murmurs broke out again. “Yeah, she is always messing around in those woods!” “It is pretty suspicious.” “We don’t know anything about what she gets up to.” “She’s an old woman and she’s never been married; we have no idea if she’s even sane.” Grace just stood there, not moving, poised, as everyone around her stared frighteningly at her. She gently furrowed her brow and kept her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “Please! Everybody! Matt! We’re not making any accusations!” Officer Reagan pleaded. “It makes perfect sense; this would be the perfect way of hiding her crime. ” Mrs. Ferguson’s voice struggled to rise over the roar. “She must have done it!” “PLEASE EVERYONE BE QUIET!” Everyone turned at the unusual sound of Officer Reagan raising his voice. “We cannot go about making unfounded accusations. There will be an official police investigation and I will head it. I really appreciate how much you all care and we would love to have your official testimonies, including yours, Ms. Little, but for now there simply is no proof. We cannot make a statement for or against Ms. Little.” He added quickly, “Or the children for that matter!” All was quiet for a moment. The crowd was stunned into silence.

Lindsey Winter, photograph

Jacob Cassidy knew Grace Little very well. He knew her better than anybody in the town. Often on weekends he would go to her house and they would explore the woods together. For ninety-three she was still remarkably strong, sometimes still outpacing Jacob. It was some kind of miracle. Last week, she showed him a field filled completely with wild flowers and he showed her where two trees had wound around each other. This had been going on for a long time, since they met when Jacob was about nine and on a hike with his boy scouting troop. He had fallen behind because he kept stopping to look at the scenery. He ended up completely lost, wandering around the forest. She had come to collect wood when she stumbled upon the little boy sitting on a fallen tree and looking terrified. She comforted him, brought him to her house and gave him a cup of tea and some cookies before showing him the way out of the woods. That was almost ten years ago, now. Ever since then, he had become sort of a grandson to her. She was getting older, though. She needed help

bringing back the wood for the stove that had been the reason they met. Jacob gladly hauled as much as he could when he came to visit her. But he visited less and less recently because he began to focus more on school. He wanted to keep his grades up for college. Just last week, he told her he wouldn’t be able to come over as often because senior year was starting. He had to focus on school now. He had to be the first one in his family to go to college. He had brought as much wood as he could before the winter set in completely, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. She would have to manage on her own, a little old lady in the snow. Now this fire was threatening his future. If the police ever found out, he would be a criminal. No school would ever take him. There’s no way the investigation would come out in their favor. There had to be some evidence left behind, cans or footprints, or the mileage on someone’s car, or whoever bought the beer, or if even one kid confessed. Maybe their only chance at getting out of this was avoiding an investigation. He needed the town to feel as if they already know who did it. “I think I have some proof.” Jacob’s voice seemed so small in the silence. “I’ve seen some weird things at Grace’s house. Like little dolls that looked like people. But...” He paused for a moment and looked down at his snowbooted feet. And then he started spewing words a mile a minute. “They had pins. Like in their bodies. I think it’s like witchcraft.” Chaos exploded; everybody in the room was talking. “I think she might be a Satan worshipper or something like that and the fire could maybe be part of one of those weird rituals.” Nods and shouts. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I never said earlier. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“I think she might be a Satan worshipper or something like that and the fire could maybe be part of one of those weird rituals.” Mrs. Blackwell’s woolen form was suddenly at his side. “It’s okay, Jake. Now that you’ve told us, we can take care of it.” She looked around for agreement and saw enthusiastic nods. “Right, people!?! We’ll take care of this!??” An eruption of cheers. “SHE’S A SATANIC ARSONIST! WE CANNOT LET THIS STAND! RIGHT!?”

Mrs. Blackwell was now spewing a giant cloud of fog with every word, like a fire was burning somewhere inside of her. “SHE’S A WITCH!” The cheers were deafening and Officer Reagan stood no chance of being heard as he shouted something about proof and court process and being reasonable. It just fueled the fire. Mrs. Ferguson joined Mrs. Blackwell standing on a pew and began her own tirade. “WHAT, OFFICER REAGAN? DO YOU NOT THINK WE’RE BEING JUST? ARE WE NOT DOING GOD’S WORK?! DO YOU BELIEVE THE WITCH! MORE THAN OUR LOYAL JACOB!??!!?” Boos and angry yells suddenly converged on the police officer. And throughout this Grace Little stood her ground, hands clasped in front of her, knuckles slightly white from strain, looking down at her feet. The duo went on, alternating sentences as if they were reading from a script. “IF OUR LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS SIDE WITH WITCHES, I DON’T KNOW IF WE CAN TRUST THEM ANY MORE!” “MAYBE WE SHOULD TAKE THINGS INTO OUR OWN HANDS!” “SOMEONE COME AND RESTRAIN THIS WOMAN!” Two burly middle-aged men with giant woolen hats rose from the audience and stalked ominously towards Grace. “GRAB HER!” “TAKE HER OUT OF HERE!” “LOCK HER UP!”

And Grace Little, the 93 year old woman, was seized by the arms and shoved out the door into the grey September afternoon. And Grace Little, the 93 year old woman, was seized by the arms and shoved out the door into the grey September afternoon. The crowd, braced against the cold and looking like a monstrous mass of cloth and padding, poured out the door, their sharp cheers piercing the still air. Jacob stood and watched the riot surge down the street. A fresh wind bored through every layer of warmth and straight into his bones. As he stood silent, the first flakes of snow began to fall. Winter had come to Bethlehem.

Simone Stern

Timing

5:42 AM. Empty and quiet on the street Dark blue cloth is thrown over the chairs A peachy light peers through the holes

6:01 A.M. Wooden chairs squeak and scratch the concrete as they are placed adjacent to wooden tables Positioned at tables under trees Under a misty cloudy not yet blue sky

8:30 A.M. Wooden chair squeak scratches Is moved to another table Joining two other chairs holding coffees and tired smiles At another table, a lone newspaper propped without attention Because his eyes concentrate on the people close by Walking underground into the station for their too late morning commute The paper left alone as the man throws his disposable paper cup into the trash and joins the rest of them walking underground

10:30 A.M. Empty again Piercing blue sky and no cups on tables Men in suits and uniforms walk by on phones with their briefcases Loafers gliding on the concrete Avoiding the tables and chairs

10:31 A.M. A cane placed on the ground rests next the fence near the grass A wrinkled hand smacks down a crumpled paper bag Three white crumbs spill out onto the ground The chair sighs as she settles into the corner seat

Love

12.45 P.M. Bam! An ice cream cone attacks the floor Drips escalate before his eyes and the melting strawberry blob Seeps into the ridges of the hexagonal concrete tiles Four wheels two legs dangling parked next to skinny ankles Cuffed jeans and Converse with dirt smudges

3:15 P.M.

Rachelle Levitin, photograph

Broom brushes potato chip wrappers into a charcoal dusty dust pan The lady with the cane Opens her book with the ruined spine And looks across seeing Four backpacks of the same brand Three pairs of headphones in their ears Bagels and hears laughter and raised voices She looks on quietly

5:24 P.M. The sun is still strong and she is still here Warm breezes brush her wispy gray hair across her wrinkled forehead And rustles the pebbles on the ground and the leaves on the trees Here with the chairs and tables and trees and she is still

7:07 P.M. She picks up her brown pleather bag and shoves in her book and tabloid charcoal magazine Reaching for her cane Her chair creaks and feet shuffle against the concrete

11:33 P.M. Empty and the trees are still Except for a man on a bike who doesn’t look back as he rides past The chairs stacked on the table and the trees and the concrete on the ground And he leaves it be

Lydia Schmelzer

Love: Holding hands, sitting close. Leaning close, heart pounding. Emotional connection, I’m comforted by you. My favorite person, my closest companion. My first and last thought. You complete me; without you I’m but a fragment. You give my life purpose.

Maddie Cosgrove, pastel

Noah Dickman

Sunday Morning

The smell of coffee lingers Clinging to piano keys and Newspaper clippings To the ashes of the fireplace Where the fire’s long gone out And leaves the house cold. The smell of coffee clings Lingering on old sweaters Once loved by someone Who wishes they would leave The smell of coffee clings Lingering on old sweaters Loved by a boy Who once loved another

Rivke Goodman

Sarah Binday, pastel

--------------------------------------------------------------------------.Small bodies and large feelings. A LITTLE BALL OF SELF-RIGHTEOUS ANGER flowing into -charcoal boredomthat ignites with

luminescent joy decaying into rud-dy--ann-oy-ance--at--the--end-less--traf-fic --------------------------------------------------------------------------Pure sunlight hits DNA: A protein curls: A cell multiplies beyond control: A person dies The machine stops working.

Simone Stern Sarah Binday, photograph Isabelle Harrison-Bregman, photograph

Humanity

A Chemical Cacophony:

Adrenaline, Dopamine, Oxytocin, Atrial-natriuretic and pituitary adenylate cyclase-activating peptides,

Cold. Machine. Performing. A. Function: Conquering: These bodies, This watery rock, Crawling, Corrupting,

Aching: Lusting: Loving:

?????

Diet Cherry Coke

Doped up on your Diet Cherry Coke lips Supernovas from your Silver-laced fingertips Administer your epinephrine into my bloodstream Get me drunk off cold summer sweats Introduce your endorphins with mine, Zinc lashes blossom from your eyes when you cry Drop me on asphalt, ‘Cause the sidewalks hold diamonds And your hands sweat when you hold mine, your copper-silver morphine fills my veins, Can’t speak without saying your name Words fall out of my drink, fall into the sink I am sinking into you. Bags of lead tied to my shoes You weigh me down, Your mazes lose me, Call me crazy I don’t want to be found. Aluminum knuckles caught in magnesium hair We were magnetic once, We’ve dulled, Destroyed those villages we lived in with meteors No coming back, Not anymore. Cause now our future’s lit by neon bar signs, Adrenaline in my back pocket Let’s pack the world away in manila folders, Plant your flowers underneath my gravel skin Laminate me in linoleum Burn our fingertips off with acid And replace them with vinyl I see your spine, my love, Through skin, thinly stretched, The well of my pen has run dry, my love I’ve taken to drinking the ink In the hopes of salvation.

Ayelet Kaminer Lara Caligor, photograph 24

Lukewarm

I feel very shaky and I don’t know if it’s from that small orange pill that I was told to swallow every morning, Or if it’s because my skin can’t detect a change in temperature When I move from my home to school to back home again. Maybe it’s because ofw all the new people I know I will have to meet very soon. I know it’s from the change that I always say I want in my life, But can never adapt to when given the opportunity. Because we all want change And intrigue And movement

So we don’t have to think, That the unhappiness we live in is just a character flaw. That the unhappiness is permanent That the longing for a new situation cannot fix anything at all. But, for today I am happy. I am happy now because my skin can’t detect a change in temperature When I move from my home to school to back home again. So there is light in this classroom and I like it and it makes me happy for now.

Lily Applbaum Lara Caligor, photograph

It’s safer to smile

i do not know (homage to e.e. cummings)

I wish that people heard it

i tell them what they want to hear

It is so loud, I know they can hear Why do they ignore me?

but the Truth which i hesitate to admit is that i do not know what who i want to be or am

I don’t know how much longer I can take this Yet there is no way I am the only one drowning How do they not see? I have grey and green and black stained glass windows to my soul They are broken at the end of every day when the rain taps on them ever so gently Why am I broken so easily? The school bell mutes my frown I see them all pass by, bright yellow smiles splashed across their faces They suffocate me They look to each other for a response - A moment of awkward silence He moves on, the smile plastered on his face He leads them to their betrayal A classic case-Follow the leader Doesn’t he know it?

so when they ask what my plan is i do not lie, but i do not tell the Truth because the Truth is i do not know

Lydia Schmelzer, oil

If he stands up for my frown, they will make his smile fade away They don’t want to hear my frown He hears my frown and fears it, Happy it no longer belongs to him. HOW DARE YOU SILENCE MY FROWN?

Callie Smith

i am still young i am not ready

not even the fortuneteller who stares through binoculars at the future, with a vision clear as noon sun can predict so who am i to say such things? who are we to insure our lives?

Sophia Daniels

He knows a smile shouldn’t be louder than a frown, so why Does he muffle the sound of mine?

Top: Lindsey Winter, photograph

what do you want to be when you grow up? they ask and i do not Know but they ask and i must Know

to decide the rest of my life for myself i do not know myself in ten, twenty years

They

They drive the cars, They emit greenhouse gases, They put carbon into our atmosphere, They melt our glaciers, They make our oceans rise,

Technology

We will suffer the consequences.

Intelligent minds Overflow of Information Virtual Distraction Education on a screen True Addiction Artificial intelligence Unaware of dangers Makes you Present Absents you Filled with Discovery Empty of reality

Zeke Bronfman

Sophia Daniels

Top: Micah Grozalsky-Wernick, computer art

Raphi Simonson, photograph

Eastern Standard Time 11:00:00 AM Eastern Standard Time The room is bland. The food is bland. Their mortal lives all bland, bland, bland. I’m bored. My mark’s Time of Death is not until 11:30:36 AM Eastern Standard Time, and I have been floating around for the past twenty minutes with nothing to do. This celebration is pathetic. Streamer - tan, message “Mazel Tov For Starting Junior Year! May You Survive It!” Oh the irony.

11:01:02 AM Eastern Standard Time She is sitting in her walker, clapping as the student cuts a slice of sad cake. Icing - pink, dough - chocolate. A few crumbs tumble to the floor. Wood hard, carpet - red flowers. She smiles. I wonder if the cake is as terrible as it appears to be.

11:08:56 AM Eastern Standard Time The clock is ticking. Shape - Round, Hands - three of differing size. She turns up her hearing aid to listen to the music. Style - Pop, Period - early Twenty First Century Gregorian Calendar standard year. I am surprised she has not gone mad after ninety three years of dullness.

institution? I do this every day, and she has never missed a dose before!’ The music is still playing too loudly.

11:25:40 AM Eastern Standard Time The man feels the old woman’s head. Temperature - cold, mind jumbled. Finally, it is almost time.

11:26:00 AM Eastern Standard Time ‘Someone call an ambulance! She’s not breathing well!’ The room freezes. Guests - alarmed, volume silence. Someone (youngest grandson) dials on a telephonic device. Tone - Urgent, words - hurried. ‘My grandma needs help. Send someone quickly!’

11:27:03 AM Eastern Standard Time

She stands up. Legs - shaky, eyes - alert. Bopping to the music, she goes to dance with the student (fifth grandson).

The woman notices me. Her eyes meet mine and she is confused that she did not see me before. She thinks she needs new glasses.

11:22:09 AM Eastern Standard Time

11:27:56 AM Eastern Standard Time

She sits down. Breath - shallow, pulse - unfortunately steady. A man (favorite nephew) sits down next to her. Chair - ugly, expression - tender. ‘Aunty, did you remember to take your medication?’

The ambulance is not here yet.

11:15:42 AM Eastern Standard Time

11:23:17 AM Eastern Standard Time Another man (not as likeable nephew) sits down beside him. Hair - blonde, mouth - frowning. ‘You were supposed to make sure she took her medication this morning. How could you forget? For God’s sake Mike, you had one job. One God-damn job to do.’

11:24:30 AM Eastern Standard Time

11:28:13 AM Eastern Standard Time The woman stops breathing.

11:30:00 AM Eastern Standard Time I hold out my hand.

11:30:36 AM Eastern Standard Time She takes it.

Tamar Cohen

‘I told her to take out the pills and put them on a placemat. Did you want me to watch her take the medicine like those creepy doctors in a mental

Rachelle Levitin, photograph 32

Thank You ________

Ten minutes in New job Nervous She rushes into class Fumbling with the wires, Smartboard please turn on. Thirty minutes in She joyfully smiles When the lightbulb goes on. When the eyes open wide When the answer clicks It is

Christmas morning Every day. More time passes She wipes away a thousand tears And gets students from an F To an A Amazing teacher, But more importantly She is our Friend.

Leila Small

Maya Singer, photograph

Ballad of a Wanderer

You’re standing on a street corner-

10th Grade Art Class, charcoal

backtrack You’re standing in a river, A river that flows between bones, Your journeys are traced on the valleys and hills of the steel of your spine Convex, concave, can’t help butbacktracktry to forget where it started, This whimper of faith That’s made its home in the small of your back, convinced you that you’re a collection of illegible roadway maps And once upon there was a time

when time was asleep and you were me. You are me. Iam nothing if not a weary traveler, Crawled into every cavern I created, spent my life standing in doorways Pleading to those Gods I was promised as a child: Let me in. BacktrackYou’re standing on a street corner Lace up your shoes, It’s cold outside. the cracks on the sidewalk Will lead you home Listen to that ancient drum of your heart, Volcanoes are erupting within you, within me, within all of us There is an emptiness, weare a puzzle, lost all our piecesBacktrack-

We’re standing on a street corner Praying, you are preying on me I’m Praying to polythene, Breathing through holes in my chest, There are stains in my soul marked so deep All the detergent in the world wouldn’t touch themI want to go home. Dorothy lied to you, Home’s not a place, Home is putting the weight of the world on the ground for a moment to rest in the shade So I have succumbed to the waters raging over my head In the hopes that in the depths, a door willBacktrackOpen all your windows and doors Let the sunlight in Let me in Strangle me with saffron Drown me in lilac I’m gasping for air, Can’t you see thatBacktrackYour halfway homes, Your paper card shelters, Falter and fade at a kettle’s whisper this simple town Can not contain you anymore Can’t entertain you like before Freedom on our footsteps Bless this land that you walked before me Before me lies so much desolation This dissolution of the past Regret ingrained in the steel of my spine Open your homes, enlighten your eyes, Open your homes, and your hearts, and your mind.

Ayelet Kaminer

Mornings

School

Now No You must I can’t Why not Too sick You’re fine I’m tired So what I’m dying Don’t joke No friends Not true It isn’t fun It’s school Do I have to Yes Fine Have a nice day Love you Love you more

Jessie Cohen, mixed media

Leila Small

Crumpled Paper Smiles

Everyone wears

These crumpled paper smiles Their teeth are white From the bleach pouring Pouring from the corners of their lips I can’t hear what they say Over the sounds of paper Folding and crunching Crunching and folding From the force of these smiles

Yael Beer Michael Eizak, photograph 38

Waiting

I spent ten months sitting in your classroom. Ten months sitting at my desk. Ten months raising my hand. Ten months asking the right questions.

Mystical Being

Oh God

Every day I walked into the classroom with a small smile and a wave. Every day I looked at the same colorful four walls. Every day I read the board with happiness as I saw the day’s agenda. Every day I noticed your colorful outfit and wished I could be like you. I listened intently to your instructions. I memorized all the notes. I learned all the lines. I practiced all the steps. I had many friends in your class. You nurtured them all. You taught them all. You promised them they could do everything. You shaped them all. You believed in them all. But you never taught me. You never gave me a chance. You never worked with me. You never paid attention to me. You never believed in me, and so I never believed in myself. Instead, you took me for granted. You assumed I would always be there waiting, eagerly taking whatever scraps of praise or help you bothered to throw my way. I noticed you, but you never noticed me. I was in your class for ten long months.

Dassie Spivak Hilary Goldman-Lori, charcoal 40

complete stranger, you mysterious creature And the Best teacher You unite us all Inspire, observe, help, power Standing above us proud and Tall Infinite number Uniting the Most divided motivating the best, inspiring death You power us with your Sorcery Eternal entity; timeless source of energy Never gray, Thick head of brown Wavy hair. Guide me through this. At this point you’re sick of all our garbage You sit on the Top floor watching tragedy Maybe ’cause some of the crime is Godly. The only long distance relationship to beat the odds

Itamar Oron

Sarah Binday, acrylic

A curse to my anxiety To my nearest foe; How much you have hurt me, shaken me, and trembled my spirit. You asked me to dance, made yourself ever so appealing, only to go on to betray my admiration and trust. Routines, patterns, habits - these were the bonds that bound us tighter and tighter until we were too close to touch. The more I got to know you, the more addicted I became. I needed you to control me. You needed me to control. I loved you. I was mesmerized and hypnotized by the soft words you hummed in my head. You would tell me to do something – sleep, don’t sleep, do this, don’t do that, eat, don’t eat, wash, run, scream, cry, do well, fail - and then you would tell me again. Again. Again. I was drugged by your power, addicted to your comfort. You would torment me all day and then hug me at night, wrap your long arms around my body as though you wanted to be me. I wanted to be you. We wanted to be one, together. At least that’s what I thought.

I woke up early one morning to find that you stole out during the night. Where had you gone? I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t function without you. My heart pounded and my hands shook – oh! The impact you made on me. I cried and cried, I wept and shook. Hours later, you gently slipped into my room, and crept your way under the sheets to lie with me. You thought I was sleeping. I smelled the others on you. You were not mine, you never were. You were cheating on me! I loved you; gave up everything to keep you. I hit and cried and screamed and shivered. Years of my life given up; all spent on you. I thought you had chosen me. I was utterly captured by your false warmth and wholly taken by your captivating façade of happiness. You gave me breath, yet I was doing all the work. I hurt myself and you gave up nothing for me. You were too busy with others. So here is my curse to you: I hope a seemingly loving (yet secretly malicious) hand comes down from above and pierces your mind with its sharp fingernails. You will become paralyzed by the venom shot into your body and brain by those sharp hands. But do not fear; you know the outcome. After all, you are the one who invented it. I hope evil taunts plague your brain; you tremble and become stiff. You will take your loved ones by their necks and shake them until their aching hearts smash onto the floor and break into tiny bits and pieces because they want to help you. But they cannot. I hope you watch your father cry and hear your mother, who was once warm and soft, harden with the threat of losing her child. I hope your siblings write you goodbye letters because they are kissing away the person they knew; they are giving up your body for ransom because they don’t know the evil that possesses the sister they once knew. You shall sit on your floor, curled into a fetal position with a blanket laid over your body – the body that loses blood at a rapid pace. You will try to hold onto your sanity; try to parse together all the logic you once held that now lies in front of you in shambles. But these pieces of sharp glass that you try to grasp in your hand will penetrate your skin and cut the soft pink palms that used to hold your mother’s hand.

ia multimed Ally Lax,

You will live by the terms under which you held me captive, and apparently many

Love Story

lizabeth sat down on the bench. It was a little warm from the last person who sat there, and she squirmed. She hated sitting on warm seats. Owen sat down and looked up at the clock, not making eye contact with her. Slowly, he inched his hand toward hers and grabbed it. Elizabeth looked away but didn’t move. It was four fifteen in the afternoon and the courthouse was warm and steamy from the city’s July humidity. She could feel her legs sticking to the wooden bench and as she turned her head she saw another woman walk away without any expression on her face…

Eduardo Szajman, photograph

Josh Epstein, craypas and tissue paper others as well. You will think to the point of explosion – to the point where your face burns a deep red and your eyes appear bloodshot. You will rip out each piece of hair – strand by strand – until you are left bald and exposed, vulnerable and powerless. You will know what it means to be a prisoner of your own body; to be a slave to a ruler. So I curse you my dear friend. I curse you so truly and honestly. I curse the very essence of your being; the very breath that you breathe. I curse you for all you have cursed me with, each and every one of those torments. I curse you for putting me through what I can now say was, and forever will be, the worst part of my life. I am done with you. I hope you never have the chance to ruin someone else’s life. That is the worst curse of all.

Anonymous

Elizabeth met Owen at a club fair in their freshman year of college. They lived in dorms across from each other overlooking the main campus quad. Their cramped dorm rooms faced each other and from her room, Elizabeth could see into Owen’s with the singular blue wall and the bright lamp on his window desk. She was on line to sign up for the newspaper, when he cut her in line. She gave him a nasty look, and being caught red-handed, he sheepishly grinned, but did not step behind her. Since they could see into each other’s rooms from their dorms, at night when they were both staying up studying, Elizabeth would make eye contact with Owen and wave to him. Owen was hesitant to wave back and for the first few weeks of college they did not talk at all. Elizabeth knew that Owen knew she was interested in him, but was completely shocked when he asked her out in the beginning of October. She had no idea that he was interested in her in the slightest. Within three weeks, they were considered a serious couple by all of her friends. Dating Owen was a whirlwind. If Elizabeth even hinted that she was sick of college food, Owen would take her to surprise diners and fabulous

Everyone who met Owen told her how lucky she was to be with a guy like him. A good guy who actually cared for her wellbeing. All her college friends moved from guy to guy, never finding someone they liked enough, or who treated them well enough, but Owen and Elizabeth were together all through college. They were a golden couple; always together but they still spent time with their separate friends. When thinking back, Elizabeth saw those years as one long montage. She and Owen sitting on the lawn, the two of them at parties or at museums, she was wearing a floppy hat and a sundress, or sitting in her dorm room with her roommate dressed in big sweatshirts eating bags of potato chips and drinking coffee while attempting to study at 3 A.M. It was the kind of romantic comedy montage made to demonstrate a couple’s love for each other and to make others jealous that they were not in similar relationships. After graduating, Elizabeth got into law school and they moved to New York City. Owen worked while she studied, but never seemed to mind that she was only bringing in a quarter of the money from her part-time waitressing

Dating Owen was a whirlwind… Owen would take her to surprise diners and fabulous restaurants…to his favorite museums and parks and sights…

Elizabeth was so grateful that he could save her with a bowl of pasta when she was drowning under papers and tests and research.

restaurants. He would take her to his favorite museums and parks and sights in the city. When Elizabeth got too drunk to walk back to her dorm, Owen would pick her up and carry her back. Owen was chivalrous and protective, even when she didn’t ask. Throughout college, this endeared him to Elizabeth; she loved that someone out there loved her enough to ensure that she was never harmed. He always knew the right thing to say if she failed a test or didn’t get the internship she had fought so hard for. After Elizabeth had introduced him to her parents, her mom said to her, “Wow! He is so charming. I didn’t know there were people like that in your generation.” Elizabeth grinned, embarrassed; she thought so too. Owen reminded her a little bit of Clark Kent, a little bit of any Disney prince ever, and of Gilbert Blythe.

job. He cooked dinner every evening so that there was food when she came home late. Elizabeth was so grateful that he could save her with a bowl of pasta when she was drowning under papers and tests and research. Every month, Owen would go with Elizabeth to her cousin’s house in New Jersey for dinner. Elizabeth’s cousin, Eve, was twenty-seven years old, three years older than Elizabeth, and married. She had married at twenty, while still in college, and then moved to the suburbs. Eve and her husband bought a white house with a red door and a white picket fence. There were two apple trees in their garden, and in the Fall Elizabeth would always bring a barrel back to their cramped, stuffy Manhattan apartment. During their visits, over dinner, Eve continuously gushed about how lucky Elizabeth and Owen were to have found each other, and to be in a relationship in which they were both

so madly in love. This was true, and Elizabeth thought about that often. She and Owen were perfect. That’s what everyone had always said. Even when her mom tried to convince her to move out to the suburbs with Owen so that they would settle down, Owen knew how important law school was to her, and they stayed in their tiny apartment which was freezing in the winter and sticky and steamy in the summer. Owen and Elizabeth got engaged when they were twenty-three, earlier than the rest of their college friends. But it didn’t come as a surprise because everyone who had met them in college knew that Owen was going to marry Elizabeth. It was just a matter of time. They were struggling a little to make

Owen and Elizabeth got engaged when they were twenty-three, earlier than the rest of their college friends. But it didn’t come as a surprise because everyone who had met them in college knew that Owen was going to marry Elizabeth. ends meet. Elizabeth was in classes throughout the day, and waitressed at a diner after, and Owen was working as a low-ranked employee in a top tier finance firm. Yet, they continued to plan their wedding even when it seemed as though they would not be able to invite more than ten people. Elizabeth married Owen in May, a month before she turned twenty four, and immediately her mother tried, again, to convince them to move out to New Jersey, near Eve. However, they had chosen to stay in their crappy apartment and work until they had enough money to buy a brownstone to raise their kids in. They were determined to make it in New York. The first seven years of their marriage were blissful. But by twenty eight, Elizabeth’s life had taken a turn. Owen had received numerous promotions in his business firm, and they moved to the brownstone that Elizabeth had dreamed of forever. She graduated from law school, but was not able to find work and continued waitressing. Owen told her that it was okay, that she didn’t need to work because he could support the two of them comfortably

and that he would be happy to do so. And she let that happen. After five years passed, though, she was tired. Elizabeth wanted to make her own money and to provide for herself the way that Owen provided for both of them. The more she thought about it, the more she began to reassess everything she originally thought about Owen. From the beginning, Owen was holding doors for her, paying for her food, taking her on surprise vacations and excursions to his favorite spots. And now, he was paying for her life. He was paying for her food, house, clothing, trips, visits to her cousins. Elizabeth realized that she was not able to bear it. She began to see that she couldn’t be married to Owen and still live for herself, because as long as he was around, he was going to care for her. Not because he didn’t think she was capable, but because he felt obligated to do so; he felt as though it were his purpose. Though in his mind he was doing her a service, Elizabeth felt that Owen treated her as if she weren’t capable of being self-sufficient. When she first started feeling this way, Elizabeth kept it to herself. There was no way that she would tell Owen that he needed to back off. She knew he thought he was doing the right thing, so how could she confront him without being insulting? Elizabeth tried to keep this to herself, and would go on long walks just to get out of his house, filled with everything he created; being there made her feel like an imposter. On her walks, Elizabeth thought about her new lifestyle. How she felt like a damsel in distress, rescued by her prince. Owen was the quintessential prince in contemporary life; it was his chivalry and charm that had first attracted her to him. Chivalry: that was something that Elizabeth began to question. Sure, it’s exhilarating to be swept off your feet, and to have someone willing to sacrifice himself to save you when there is an evil queen who put you to sleep for one hundred years. But what good is chivalry if you don’t need saving?

But what good is chivalry if you don’t need saving? They were still holding hands when the lawyers came to bring them into the courtroom.

Lydia Schmelzer

Eavesdrop pin g F ine,” she whispered into the telephone. Mommy was on the phone with Daddy when I entered the room. I could tell because she only sat in that spot when she was on the phone with him. She was shaking, as she usually does when he talks to her. She was sitting on the floor in a corner where the walls collided. The chipped beige paint cracked above her head. He answered with something that made her quiver. Perhaps he said what he always said that made her shake uncontrollably for the next hour. I don’t know the exact wording, but something about how long she would be exactly where she was. “Ok.” She said with as much strength as possible. The skin building around the previously-opened cut on her cheek split ever so slightly. She winced; maybe he heard her. He comforted her in every way she didn’t want to be comforted. He asked if she was okay, not really caring of course, to which she responded, “Yes.” Her eyes were shut. She took a deep breath. He must have asked her if she knew how much he loved her. She replied with a “thank you” and whispered “you too.” He asked her what she needed from the store that week.

“Forget it, you know… what I said. Of course it’s too expensive. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.” “Oh… um, we need eggs, milk, yogurt, honey and some protein for Tommy. And this week, um, Tommy and I would like to play a game; you know… maybe something with balloons or crayons. Of course only if that wouldn’t be too much of a problem. No, no, never mind. Forget it, you know… what I said. Of course it’s too expensive. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

I suppose he said something like, “That’s a lot to ask for… let me find the cheapest rag and a pair of scissors. Maybe that can entertain you two while Tommy’s home on the weekends.” She reached up to her cheek. She felt the blood starting to ooze from the opening wound. “A rag would be nice, thank you.” She blotted – no – she dabbed her cheek with her long-sleeve shirt. The lavender cotton turned a deep red. She rolled her eyes and the tears were pushed back down into her throat. She moved the phone away from her ear, distanced the line from her mouth. She squeezed her mouth, puckering her lips. A quiet sob broke loose, as though it were finally being let out of a cage. She took another deep breath and wiped her shirtsleeve against her face. She had forgotten that it was soaked with blood. “Of course,” she said to herself bitterly. He had been talking to her. He seemed to have said something important, maybe something about scheduling or about the school nurse calling home again.

Mariel Priven, photograph

Justice

Justice She snapped back to attention. She knew without listening what he was saying. “Oh, um… just – I guess you can just tell them again what you always tell them. Tell the school to tell the nurse that I am sick again and that he is under a lot of pressure. That’s why his clothes haven’t been washed in a few days. And, um, say that he and another kid got into a fight, again. That’s why he has the marks.” I did - he answered. I swear…

This made her nervous – when he got angry, he made the house tense, he made her hands bleed. I saw her lean her head against the wall. She exhaled in small intervals.

Human rights Equality under the law Societal Organization Eliminate the categories Stand together Discrimination is not an opinion “Normal” people Spend all their lives Striving to fit perfectly into those categories “Normality is safety” “Difference is dangerous” Come in peace, not violence What is normality? Stop believing blindly

Challenge authority with questions Freedom of speech Respect and dignity The power of collaboration Explore Learn Joining hands How was the system invented? Why this construction? The answers do not live on the Internet Take action Utilize your anger and frustration Raise your voice Simply words Loving mentality

Julia Proshan This made her nervous – when he got angry, he made the house tense, he made her hands bleed. I saw her lean her head against the wall. She exhaled in small intervals. Her mouth quivered and her eyes glistened. She was absent from herself, from the world. “Tell them that I haven’t been picking him up from school because I’m not well. I – um – say I’m taking care of him, you know, so that they know.” All that she wanted to say rested on her lips. She bit her lips because she felt she would burn inside if it didn’t come out, but she knew that it could not. “I’ll try to cover up the bruises… I’m sorry.” He shouted loudly enough that I heard his voice. “They asked why his lunches are small. I told you to pack better lunches! You know, like, something more substantial. I can’t be called again. It is too much of a bother to always hear the school nag about how I run my family.” And he hung up. I heard the beeps indicating the end of the call.

Sophie Shapiro

Rochelle Dweck, craypas and tissue paper

The Boy

I noticed one frail boy slowing, advancing towards the fountain from the trees that enclosed the garden. As he moved closer, I could see the streaks of dirt across his pale face. His clothes were torn at the seams. His eyes drooped and his lips were splitting, and slightly bloody. His dark hair was long and dirty. He must have been around eight, yet his face showed the expression of an old man who had seen both the treasures and the horrors of this world. As he approached the other children splashing in the fountain, one girl

He must have been around eight, yet his face showed the expression of an old man who had seen both the treasures and the horrors of this world.

ate afternoon sun sent a blanket of blue hues over the garden. I sat alone on a bench not too far from the fountain. It was the beginning of Spring; the first roses bloomed into glowing red petals and the surrounding trees were covered in young, deep green leaves. A woman walked by in a pale pink dress, her dainty hand resting on her husbandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm. I caught a faint whiff of strawberries as she passed before me, and her diamond earrings sent glaring light into my eyes. Children ran in circles around the fountain. The excitement of this being the first warm day since September lured them to take off their jackets. I sat next to a pile of heavy clothing, which would soon be useless in the long summer ahead.

Children ran in circles around the fountain. The excitement of this being the first warm day since September lured them to take off their jackets. 54

noticed him. She tapped her friend and whispered something in her ear that made her turn towards the boy. Soon, all the children were staring at him. They probably had never seen a boy looking so tattered in this garden. The moment he reached them, they got up slowly with their heads averted and dispersed, looking for their parents. The boy stood alone. He looked around to see who was watching him. I turned my head to study a pot of flowers next to me, so he would not see my curiosity. Once his gaze passed over me, I looked back up. He bent down hesitantly at the edge of the fountain. He was on his knees. Like a dog, he put his mouth to the water and started slurping the water ferociously. People were staring now. The women quickly turned their heads away once they realized what the boy was doing. The menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brows furrowed as they walked further and further away from the fountain. Unaware of the peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reactions, the boy kept scooping the water into his mouth. I am sure that even if he had seen the looks of disgust and shame on the faces of women in dresses and the men in suits, he would have continued to drink.

Sophia Daniels Opposite: Ethan Ceresney, photograph

Sensory Deprivation

White streaks flew past my closed

eyes Sprinkles of calm baby blue fell around me It felt blurry As if white, fluffy clouds encompassed me Light shades of pink and green from tip to toe Each color was quiet All I could hear were my thoughts The white streaks made me lose control Lost in the shades of green and pink I felt disadvantaged. The baby blue turned to fog Nestled between the white clouds It came closer and closer As I lost control Of my fingertips as they hit the keyboard

Julia Proshan

Micah Grozalsky-Wernick, tissue paper and craypas

Mariel Privens, photograph 56

III

Clocks

London Tall buildings Cloudy sky Grey Sweatpants Spilled paint White walls Asylum Forever

Tick Noises Loud Anxiety Shake Move Constant The Earth.

Sam Nevins

Tick Tock Sleep Still Staring Slowly Slipping Screaming Stop

Clara Citron

Tamar Cohen

Tick-Tock Time Schedule Consistent Different Existing Non-existent Rabbit hole Magical Human Error Fairy tales

Callie Smith

Classroom School Bored Daydreaming Creeping Forty-five minutes one class Done yet?

Zeke Bronfman Opposite and right: Maya Singer, photographs

Hosha Na

In the beginning, there was water. God separated water from water so that He could add blood. Some of us have been thirsty ever since, the salt in our veins and tear ducts contaminating our limited supply. Sometimes I feel like the whole entire world isn’t the very narrow bridge, but the water flowing underneath it and why would I beg for rain if I’m already drowning? Because I read in the Times yesterday that God sent another flood only He forgot to tell Noah and this time there was blood…

No, “praying” for Houston, for Puerto Rico, for Las Vegas Isn’t enough. Praying for rain in the dry season Isn’t enough but I only have a machzor. I guess maybe I do need saving -Save me Turn my empty prayers into action.

Abigail Fisher

and why can’t I just say thank you? For my house because a hurricane didn’t knock it over, For my family because a gunman didn’t shoot them dead, For my sukkah because for eight days of the year I only pretend to be homeless. Save me? I’m not the one who needs saving. On the eve of Yom Kippur, I guzzle gallons of water so that I’m only as uncomfortable as Jewish tradition needs me to be. When it rains in my sukkah, I can bring my food inside. My home isn’t temporary. My discomfort is. The thing about drowning is you can’t help the people who are thirsty and the thing about privilege is guilt isn’t enough. Neither are prayers. I can’t pray someone’s house back up from the flood, I can’t pray someone’s family back up from the blood.

Noa Mellul, oil and turpentine 60

Gabriela Trubowitz, tempera

Hero

Runs in on his high horse to rescue the girl locked in a tower Fixes the destroyed but believes he is indestructible Narcissist fighting for justice Everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s problems weigh on his shoulders Believes himself to be the only possible Superman Not always necessary and just a little overrated Not always who you expect When told to stop trying still perseveres Fights even when scared Determined to see goodness along with its flaws Knows that the world is worth saving

Lydia Schmelzer Lindsey Winter, photograph

Ella Joffe, oil and turpentine

Soft Eyes

Exerting creativity -the constant opportunity to transcend those who exert negativity. Hush your voice to a whisper release the contraction of every muscle in your body A loud voice and busy mind are not beautiful. Strive for beauty and grace. You move through space with consciousness you throw down blues, greens, yellows soul bursts with every color you expend. Desperate movements to conceal the black, the brown, the grey that collect over time -as a loud voice and busy mind can only do so much to crush the dark and dreary fist that punches deep and lingers for much too long at the base of your stomach. A beautiful touch, beautiful hands, beautiful feet and soft eyes are the only control given to us and the only way to surface Victorious.

Lily Applbaum

Sounds Bite

Among the many sounds I’ve heard in my life There is one that stands out among them It’s a very unique sound One that I’m quite sure most people consider Just normal So normal So bland That it doesn’t even register in their heads And just slips right through their minds Sticking to no memory Adhering to no thought Yet this sound never leaves my head It’s an iron ball and chain that Drags me back Into the thoughts I’d rather leave Far far away from me It’s grown into a bush of thistles An undergrowth within my thoughts Injecting poison and contempt into my fondest Memories. It’s such a normal sound though Why must I hate it so much? After all, All they did was call me She

Yael Beer

Top: Isabelle Harrison-Bregman, photograph Opposite: Eden Chanko, watercolor

ne spring Sunday afternoon in Long Grove, Illinois, after a long morning at church, two months after Sylvia learned she was pregnant, the Kings sat around their dining room table. The tension was only tangible to Sylvia, for she was carrying it in her stomach. The windows were open and the spring breeze drifted in and out of the house, lifting the shades in a steady motion. The sun illuminated the long table adorned with glittering china plates and bowls, and overflowing with ripe fruits and seasoned meats. Sylvie’s father sat at the head of the table and the rest of her family lined the sides, Tucker and his family scattered in between them. A few other church members, who Sylvie’s mother had spontaneously invited after services, were sprinkled around the room. Mr. King stood and towered over the table. He lifted his glass and unnecessarily tapped his spoon against it to get attention in. Everyone was silent from the moment he stood, for his presence was enough to hush everyone. His deep voice broke the quiet, “I would like to thank my beautiful wife for cooking this bountiful meal before us.” A murmur of agreement flowed through the room, “We are so fortunate to be here together, enjoying this food, enjoying this sunny day, and enjoying each other’s company,” He smiled and gazed over the faces in the room. When his eyes reached Sylvia’s, he stopped for a second and noticed that her eyes were whispering something

a i v l y S 66

to him. The people of Long Grove always had been infatuated by this eighteen year old’s beautiful, young face, by her golden hair that flowed down past her shoulders, and of course, by her soft crystal blue eyes that read, “I am Sylvie King and I am going places.” And people knew this was true, for her eyes always exposed the truth. Sylvia quickly looked away, hiding her biting blue eyes and protecting her secret. Her secret that she so desperately wanted to hide, to bury deep inside of her, so deep that no one would ever have to know. Sylvie wanted to keep the baby; how could she not? She had created a being and she was not prepared to take away its chance at life because of her own fears. “Let us say Grace,” he finished, his voice slow and hesitant. The group held hands, said their prayers, and filled their plates. Bowls and forks and cups clinked. Conversations exploded and fizzled. Laughter broke out between mouthfuls of food. And suddenly Sylvie’s father spoke abruptly, silencing the other voices. “Well, how about you two,” he said nodding towards Sylvia and Tucker, “How are things going at school?” Sylvie looked up from her plate, which was still full of food, and put down her fork, which she had been using to further mash her mashed potatoes. She smiled absently, “Fine, Father, it’s all fine.” Sylvie could never keep a secret, especially from her parents. They taught her how to say please and thank you, how to sing her alphabet by the age of four, and how to count to one hundred by the age of five. For her parents, sweet Sylvie’s needs came before those of her younger brother Lewis, before their three acres of trimmed grass, before their pleasant white colonial house, or their dog, Chip. “Well,” Tucker corrected her, “I wouldn’t say it’s fine.” His chest caved as he let out a laugh and continued, “School is tough, and there is a lot of work.” He stretched his arm around Sylvie’s back, rested his hand on her bare shoulder and finished his thought, “but we have each other, and that makes it a whole lot easier.” Tucker’s parents cooed, and swoons ran around the table like a current. He looked at Sylvie with deep longing. “Right, Sylv?” he asked for her approval. The ends of her lips lengthened to form a soft smile as she nodded, keeping her eyes glued to her plate.

Tucker was the father. A kind boy. A friend since their years in grade school, and her boyfriend since freshman year of high school, Tucker was the star of the school football team. His brown shaggy hair hung above his shady eyes, and strands would occasionally fall to block his vision and Sylvie would push them out of his face. “How’s the team going, Tucker?” Mr. King asked, “Sorry I haven’t made it to many games lately.” “A few weeks ago we beat Elk Valley High and Highland Park, so you tell me, Mr. King.” The room laughed and Sylvie’s father nodded, impressed. Those were the best high school football teams in Illinois and this made Tucker’s team the number one seed.

She would cheer when he caught the ball, chew on her nails when he let it slip, cry when a big player tackled him to the ground, and run onto the field when he won the game. Sylvie smiled lovingly. She sat in the first row of the bleachers at every one of those games. She would cheer when he caught the ball, chew on her nails when he let it slip, cry when a big player tackled him to the ground, and run onto the field when he won the game. Rain or shine, home or away, she was there for Tucker. After victories they would go to Cindy’s Diner with the team and Tucker would order Sylvie’s strawberry milkshake for her. They would celebrate with their friends for a few hours, then go for a drive. Tucker was a good driver; Sylvie always felt comfortable with him behind the wheel. Sometimes they would drive to the playground on Hazel Grove Road and laugh about nothing while Tucker pushed her on the swings, sometimes they would drive to Lookout Cliff where they would play The Beatles on the car radio and make out, and sometimes they would just drive straight down Alpine Street, towards the edge of the earth, and talk about the future. At 11:30, they would turn back from wherever they had driven and he would make sure to get Sylvie home in time for her curfew.

A church member broke out, “You know, I hate to gossip, but I heard that Cassidy Allen dropped out of school, and I thought maybe one of you would know something about that?” She nodded towards Tucker and Sylvie as she took a sip from her glass. “Oh yes,” Tucker’s mother added, “I heard that too” “Yeah, she hasn’t been in school lately, now that I think about it,” Tucker answered, “but I’m not sure why.” Another church member spoke, “Kids these days, they don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong for ‘em. We got to help lead them in the right direction sometimes; maybe you two should invite her to church next week? A little singin’ and such can help her get back on track in her life.” Sylvia twisted her head to where the voices were coming from, but she kept her eyes down. Her throat felt dry. She reached for the water pitcher and when Tucker saw that it was too far from her, he reached too and filled her glass. He was always looking out for her, but Tucker’s support was never enough for Sylvie. She needed to know that her parents would still love her with a baby inside of her, that they wouldn’t abandon her, that they wouldn’t be utterly disappointed and wonder what they did wrong. “Yes, good idea,” Sylvie’s mother chimed in with a sliver of a smile, but it slipped off her face when she noticed that something was not right with Sylvia. Her father noticed it too. That was when they realized Sylvia was hiding something. Her eyes were screaming, and her parents were now desperate to know what they were saying.

Her eyes were screaming, and her parents were now desperate to know what they were saying. “Sylvia, darling,” her mother whispered from across the table, a concerned expression drawn on her face, “would you help me in the kitchen…” Sylvia’s head was somewhere else; her response delayed. She sat staring at her now overly-mashed potatoes. “Sylvia…” her mother repeated slowly. “Yes?” She looked up.

“Kitchen?” “Oh yes, of course.” She rose from her chair and followed her mother into the kitchen. Sylvia felt her father’s eyes on her back. No one else seemed suspicious, the chatters continued in swells. There was nothing left to do in the kitchen; all the dirty dishes were cleaned and put away. Sylvia realized they were not in there to work when she noticed her mother was just leaning against the counter, with her arms crossed, staring at Sylvia. “What is going on with you?” she asked, “I can tell something is bothering you.” “No, nothing at all!” Sylvia got defensive. When she looked up at her mother, her eyes glistened and the crystals on her cheeks told her mother the opposite of her words. “Sylvia, I know you are lying to me.” “Mother… I’m n-,” her breath was heavy and quickening, “I’m really... Mother I - I -...” Sylvia dashed across the kitchen and out the back door,

“Mother… I’m n-,” her breath was heavy and quickening, “I’m really... Mother I - I -...” heading towards the woods, her white dress flowing behind her, and her golden waves bouncing on her back. The door swung, silencing the dining room chatter as it smacked closed. All at the table turned their heads towards the kitchen as Sylvia’s mother rushed back into the room, then craned their necks to look at Sylvia’s father at the head of the table. Sylvia was running, faster and faster, panting, leaping, until she stopped suddenly at the edge of the stream. This creek, always dark with dirt, ran through the backyard of the King property. It was the dividing line between their groomed field and the wild, uncultivated forest behind their house. As a curious three year old, Sylvie was taught to never cross this little river, for if she did the forest creatures will get you, and you may never be able to return home. Sylvia caught herself before flying into the murky water and spoiling her white dress. But at that same moment, she realized she didn’t care any

more. She thought maybe she should let herself catapult into the stream and allow it to carry her away, to float on the constantly sweeping water, to drift off into a new life... her chest and shoulders collapsed as she gasped at a sudden pain in her stomach.

She thought maybe she should let herself catapult into the stream and allow it to carry her away, to float on the constantly sweeping water, to drift off into a new life... She started crying, and fell to the ground, clasping her stomach, hugging herself. She lay in a ball on the grass by the inky water, rocking back and forth with silent tears rolling down her cheeks. A hand touched her back, she shuddered, then slowly looked up to see who it was. Her father looked down at her with a furrowed brow and stern lips. “What’s wrong, my sweet Sylvia?” his deep voice reverberated through her body. “I am just overwhelmed at school, so much work to be done, and I --” “Sylvia, I am asking you what is wrong. Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice deep and steady, as he peered into her eyes. Sylvie heard the back door creek, then slam and saw her mother approaching her and her father from the house. She walked with haste and purpose. Sylvia stood slowly as her mother reached them. The three of them stood in the grass, one step away from the roily stream and the barbaric forest. Sylvia looked into their eyes, and they listened to the truth. Another pang in her stomach caused her to wince and clutch herself. Her mother read the truth on her youthful face. At that moment, Sylvia’s mother’s eyes widened, and she let out a quick breath. “I’m sorry,” Sylvia King whispered. She turned her face away from her parents and stared at the murky water that continued to sweep past her.

Sophia Daniels Pages 66 –71: Lara Caligor, photograph

Puddle Of Red

I hated that I felt red pushing against my skin Even though when I reached out my arms there was only empty air. But my closed eyes told me that the red was there so I stood terrified in place, Because I knew the red would hurt me soon. The soft blue came after And it made me shudder As I longed for the brief moment of contact the blue made with my skin, To remain a little while longer. Because my eyes were not touching anything except for that red, Which pooled around my feet planting me in a puddle of danger. Maybe the red behind my eyes and on my skin was better than the nothingness of the black that I knew would come, Once I finally escaped the threat of those giggles, shouts and almost shoves That were all bright red.

Lily Applbaum

Opposite: Julia Tomases, pencil 72

he silence was suffocating. I sat on the couch, and Willow sat on the chair at the dining room table. The adjacent rooms were separated only by two plush floral chairs on a dark blue rug. The room was cold; the tension was heavy and kept me sitting on the couch. I could not move against it. I stared out the window across from me. The snow drifted slowly to the fields of white crystals. I caught a flake with my eyes and allowed my gaze to follow it to the snow laden ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I focused on Willow. She sat steadily at the head of the long, oak table. Her face was white, almost transparent. Her dark hair lay still over her ears and outlined her narrow face. Her bright green eyes burned as she stared at the phone resting on the table in front of her. She’d been sitting like this for days. Every day I came to her house and sat with her, waiting for that phone to start dancing and spinning its blaring ring. I hadn’t seen Willow since high school. We used to do everything together. We split up for the first time in our lives when we went to college. I went to the California coast and she went deeper into Michigan. Now we were back in Detroit, her home for the last ten years. Our reunion was not what I thought it would be. The last time we saw each other was the time I visited home right after I graduated. Years later and we’re meeting again, on more somber terms. I felt awkward. I felt unwanted. I felt out of place. I know it’s not that I am unwanted; it’s that her son, Luke, is more wanted. It had been two weeks since he disappeared. A week of torment and anger. Then, a week of desperation and resignation. I flew here the second I heard that he was missing. Willow was appreciative, but not relieved. Because it wasn’t me she was waiting for anymore. After the first few days of my arrival, the police told Willow that they found Luke. He was with Kennedy, her ex husband. She felt as though her son had reached his hand into her chest, ripped out her heart, stomped all

over it, then brought the desecrated scraps to her ex, the person who hurt her almost as much as this did. Willow cared for Luke more than anyone. She devoted her life to him and his happiness. But as Luke grew older, he began to see his mother as restrictive in her protectiveness and believed his father to be full of adventure. As a thirteen-year-old, Luke was not able to understand that adventures were not enough. He needed love, he needed attention, he needed care, and Kennedy only knew motorcycle rides and ditching school days. Luke thought he needed this, and that tore Willow’s soul apart; the fact that she was not enough for her son and that he wanted to live with the man who had wounded her mentally and physically was the worst pain she had ever experienced. So she waited at this table, in the bitter cold dining room, next to the window with frosted corners, with the phone sitting in front of her. I did not know what to say. There was nothing more I could do. Yet I could not sit next to her at the table. There was no room for me. Willow’s anger and wretchedness emanated from her body leaving no room for comfort and pity. No words or actions of mine would soothe her; the only thing that could help her was Luke. A call, a knock on the door, a letter, anything. She needed him and only him. Suddenly, a blaring ring came from the phone as it spun on the table. Willow shot up and stiffened. Her green eyes, milky with sorrow, widened. The phone screeched for the longest thirty seconds I ever endured; the sound was deafening. Her hand shook and her fingers chattered as she reached for the phone, but the rest of her body was frozen. Perhaps it was the winter chill that stiffened her body, or perhaps it was her cold heart that froze her. I stood up against the tension in

Sarah Binday, photograph 74

the room and stepped hesitantly towards the phone. She didn’t want to pick it up because if it were not Luke, she would be devastated. The promise that this ringing raised in her would finish her if her hopes were shattered. Finally, Willow lifted the phone to her ear. Tears swelled in her eyes; the green light that usually radiated from them was blurred. “Luke?” slipped out of her trembling lips.

I gently put my hand on her shoulder. I felt her hope transform into fear as her body tightened. I stood next her, and in an attempt to comfort her, I gently put my hand on her shoulder. I felt her hope transform into fear as her body tightened. What if it wasn’t Luke? What if it was Kennedy? What if it was Luke and he was calling to say that he was staying with his father? What would she do then? She sat there, staring forward, back steady, but mouth and hands quivering. Now the tears were streaming down her pasty cheeks. I could hear buzzing coming in through the phone, but Willow held the phone so tightly against the side of her head that I was not able to make out the words. “Yes…yes! Yes!” She cried, “Luke, my baby, come home!” Her shoulders collapsed, the phone slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. I lifted her up and she hugged me. She continued to weep as I sat her back down in her chair. Her face was regaining its color and her cheeks began to glow. The inky light of the moon lit her eyes and gave her black hair a blue tint. She breathed with life again. I picked up the phone and raised it to my ear, “Luke? It’s me, Charlotte --” Willow grabbed the phone from me and held it to her mouth with both hands. She spoke softly into the speaker now, almost crazed with relief, “Come home, Lukey, come home...”

Sophia Daniels

you never want an email entitled ‘bad news’

You never want an email entitled bad news. A lost job, a death, a developing terrorist story, A sick child, a cancelled wedding, a college rejection. You never want an email entitled bad news. The subject line strikes you Elicits a pang of shock, The energy your body produces To cushion your emotional reaction Streams through your veins; rays of lightning through Thin slivers of icy blood-filled tubes. Endurance shoots through the pool of your cells, A flutter of the soon-to-be broken heart. You never want an email entitled bad news. Your thumb hovers over the top of the screen, Underneath it lies the destruction of your dreams, You will give up after this. Tap – the weight of your finger pulls you Down onto the message. The split fraction of a second flashes before your vision From the time your thumb gently pushes the key To the moment you open your eyes that you realized are closed. You never want an email entitled bad news. What comes next is usually a blur, A swirl of meltdowns and tears, Flowing like rivers from your eyes, Dampening your perfectly dry shirt.

Lia Ortner, pencil

Or a tornado of emotion, Flashing red as it passes before you. Anger, relief, grief, sadness, devastation, disappointment Draw you in, suffocate you. Encompassed by a whirlwind Sporadic bursts of pain tingle down your back. You never want an email entitled bad news. It is not hesitation that stops you from reading the first line. It is disbelief, fear; And when that fist of emotions wraps around your Lungs that have already started to feel the lack of oxygen, You know this encompassing fist of pain, will not, Can not, ever let you go. You never want an email titled bad news news that will stay bad. news that will haunt your dreams. news that will torture you news you cannot even begin to understand, Or comprehend, or hear, or breathe. You never want an email titled â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;bad newsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Sophie Shapiro

Opposite: Sophie Rose, tempera

the slight Furrow of his thick eyebrows because he Can’t hear

Julia Tomases, acrylic

They told me in a letter

they told me in a letter I was at camp sitting cross legged on my bunk

“you know, Zayda kept asking about you at the dinner table. he kept asking ‘where’s the little one?’ ‘why isn’t she here?’’ they said he asked over and over “Where’s my Tamareleh?” I could see him in the dining room in his blue plaid sweater slightly messy hair perpetual smile

the conversation highlighting his almost comically large Nicked ear his Confusion every time he Re-forgets where I am the suppressed sense of Urgency and Fear each time he asks the question “Where is the meydl? Why isn’t she here?” and I wonder now was he asking because his memory is Fading or was he asking because he was Scared Scared that like his mother I wouldn’t come back?

Tamar Cohen

e d i R Train 4:45.

Her train was leaving in ten minutes. But with a bad back from sitting at her desk all day, Irene knew that the platform, seven hundred feet away, would take her at least four minutes to cross. She should have left more time. It had been different, coming back after fifteen years. It had also been different coming back alone, and seeing her childhood home as someone who knew how her story would unfold. Irene had revisited every part of her city, from the block where her nursery school was, to the convenience store where she would go to buy packs of gum and chocolate bars that later would be stashed inside her desk drawer for the nights when sleep was out of the question. Irene had decided to stay in a hotel rather than her childhood home; the memories of her younger brother were too strong there. As she walked on towards the platform, she thought of the last time that she had been here. That time had been completely different. There was still the same icy, blustering wind, and the same briskness and dryness to the weather as if Irene had just stepped out of a warm shower and walked into a snow storm. The smoke from the train still clouded her vision as it did the last time she was there. Irene thought of the times that she would come here with her younger brother when they had to escape the commotion of their parents’ messy fights. The two of them would walk down the gray stone path, often laden with snow and ice, and then sit at the edge of the dock, perpendicular to the platform. Often they would sit in silence. That was the great thing about being with her brother, Irene thought to herself—they didn’t have to talk or complain at all; they could just sit and concentrate on their own thoughts.

Above and opposite: Maya Singer, photographs 82

Being back here was a shock stronger than she could have imagined. Irene had tried her best not to come to the park for her whole month-long visit, but when no other train tickets to the airport were available, she wound up here, again. She knew that once her train left the station she would not look back, and that being here, now, would immediately become a distant memory, as travelling always became for her. But she paused for a second, letting the sharp wind bring tears to her eyes, pushing hair in front of her face and obscuring her vision, and the vivid memories of this place became all-consuming. The memory that she could not shake from her mind was, in fact, not one with her brother in it. She was a junior in high school when she told her best friend that she would be going away for college. Though her friend said she had never been happier and acted excited, Irene knew that she was really thinking. Is this town really not good enough for you? Do you think that you are better than me? The truth was, in a way, Irene did think that she was better and that her hometown simply wasn’t good enough. From the beginning of high school, Irene was convinced that for her to be successful, she needed to leave. And get out as soon as possible. That day, her friend’s anger was so clear to Irene that she could not stand to be around her. Irene remembered hurriedly telling her friend that she had an appointment, and coming to the park and sitting on the rock looking over at the railway tracks, at a train pulling into the station. Though that day was in February, like today, it had been one of the warmer days, and the sky was foggy and the air damp. Irene had worn too many layers, and once she got to the park, she had to take off her coat and sit there in her multitude of sweaters and scarves. She had looked out on the train station and thought about how naive it was for her friend not to be able to understand: of course, she could not stay here and make something of herself. In Irene’s seventeen year old mind, it was the mark of a simpleton to not understand that the world outside was more exciting and glamorous than the one she was living in. She had watched the passengers unload their luggage from the station and then the conductor prepare for

the next departure. Though realistically Irene knew that when she finally left town it would not be on this train, as a teenager, she had always romanticized getting on the train on a gray windy day and escaping to start on the path to becoming more successful than anyone living in her hometown. How ironic that she was going home on a day just like the one in her seventeen year old self’s fantasy, but today the prospect of leaving felt more like a door shutting, rather than opening. With only five minutes until her train, Irene turned and looked back at the green hill of the entrance to the train station, and she was transported years back. Unlike the altercation she had with her friend, this was a blurry slew of memories from her summers as a childhood. One poignant image was of her and her brother playing catch on that hill. It was a cool evening in July, after a really hot day, and Irene was wearing a denim jumper and her brother was in shorts and though they were both shiny from sweat, Irene remembered her brother’s broad smile. The setting sun cast a vibrant fiery orange hue over the grass and the trees, and sharpened the blue sky littered with elongated wispy clouds. The fading sunlight shone on the dark metals of the train stationed in this stop. Irene couldn’t remember how she felt, only the scene itself. But she had a feeling it was one of her happiest times as a child. When she was five, the train didn’t mean a thing to her. Irene was filled with contentment when she played catch with her brother near the train station. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that there were other places where she could feel as secure as here. But, it didn’t take her long to realize that, once you left the station, the world contained many places more exciting. Irene didn’t feel any excitement or security in leaving the hill today. She walked slowly to the train, trying to slow the inevitable. 4:52. Irene stepped from the platform into the train. With a grunt and all her might, she pulled her suitcase up alongside her. She set it down with a clunk, then dragged her bag down the aisle and tried to find her seat. After she sat down near a window, facing backwards, next to a old man who smelled of rotten eggs, the conductor came around. “Have you been on this train before, Ma’am?” He asked politely, as he checked her ticket. “No,” she answered.

Lydia Schmelzer Opposite: Ethan Ceresney, photograph

The Song of My Sea

I dive in to explore myself, yet it is not truly me that I explore. Who am I to claim that this magic is only mine? I could not possibly be alone. I assume that this feeling is not my own as to others it is just as tempting; No one person can lay claim to this magic. I turn left and am confronted by a strong current It vibrates through me, synchronizes me with the ocean. There is no beginning nor end, it runs and never stops-Every nerve in my body is uplifted, uptaken by the sea. I am consumed with delight as bubbles envelop me They float upward effortlessly, dancing on the rays of light streaming from the surface. The coral and rocks are vibrant with color-Fuschia, Purple, Pink, Red, White, Black, Orange. There is no order in the ocean, The school of fish all loud colors and varied sizes As you would compare a mouse to a lion - the differences great.

In the eyes of the fish I see their confusion, What is this giant doing in my world? A friendly giant, unlike so many I am sure they have come to know But who are you? Are you the friendly giant? Or the perilous one? I know nothing of you other than you have access too. The atmosphere is a drug I take in The pure oxygen pumping through my veins is dispensed through my mouth piece - a gateway to my soul If it falls out, the salt water will engross me completely and then I would be gone. Some of my senses are gone as I cannot smell, nor hear. I have learned so much about it, but here, now, I feel I know nothing at all The deep dark unknown, I cannot go deeper I am speechless - it is a mystery to me I let it take me awayâ&#x20AC;Ś

Callie Smith

Mariel Priven, photograph

Man up

Tears streaming down your face Keep them in It has to get better Right?

Man up. Be the tree that someone can lean on Don’t show weakness Pile a lot on your plate If you don’t, who will? Don’t fear, don’t scream. How bad can life really get? Don’t let it bother you Find a solution What other way is there? A hundred more instances like these will come and go. You will be fine. Don’t show weakness

Man up. It has to get better Right? Be strong Be accepting Deal with it. Don’t expect others to do it Don’t show weakness Don’t hide Prove them wrong Fight until the end Do it Come on What are you waiting for Wimp Man up.

Ella Joffe, oil and turpentine

February 13, 2017

It has to get better. ... Right?

“No, don’t eat that. Or that. Or that.” Leila Small

“But I’m so hungry.” “Doesn’t matter, you don’t need the extra calories. You don’t need the extra fat, sugar, or carbs.” “Okay, maybe this one; smaller and more healthful. Let me think… it is currently 3:30pm and I’ve eaten two scrambled eggs for breakfast with a glass of orange juice and half of a salad without dressing for lunch. And a generous amount of water. This apple would mean somewhere between 95-100 calories and lots of sugar.”

Top: Abigail Rose, charcoal Right: Gabi Epstein, photograph 88

“Yes, but they’re natural sugars so they’re harmless. Well, maybe not harmless- just not harmful; in fact, these sugars are rather healthful.” “Okay, let me ask myself the following one more time: do I need this snack? Am I actually hungry? How will I feel afterward?”

“Well, I can answer the last one, that’s easiest. I’ll feel the way I always feel after eating-- guilty, ashamed, defeated, weak. Am I actually hungry and do I really need this snack? Yes, I am hungry. I’m always hungry.” “No, I’m not. I can’t let myself say that, it doesn’t help.” “So if I’m not hungry why would I need this apple? I already ate two meals today and snacking counts as cheating. I have to remember the rules: three meals a day, each one smaller than the previous. If I’m exercising, I can have either a pre- or post-workout snack, depending on when I exercise. Eating this apple would be cheating because I am not exercising today. Too much schoolwork.” “But maybe the apple will give me the energy boost that I need in order to do my work and do it well. Sugar = energy. And don’t forget that they are natural sugars! When you do a lot of homework and work really hard you get hungry because the brain is exerting a lot of energy. It’s kind of like a workout for the brain… right? And if I don’t refuel it in the proper way then my brain cannot properly restore its strength and reach its intellectual capacity, right? I really have a lot of homework to do and cannot afford to do it with low energy…” “It’s okay—this apple won’t make me gain weight and it won’t destroy what I’ve worked so hard on accomplishing. Just think about all of the days where my energy levels were dismal and I was falling asleep on the couch at 8 PM, unable to get up. It’s okay to break the rules sometimes, as long as I get back on track. Everyone does it.”

P Necklace

The earl

he had become numb to his drunken outrages. In fact, she came so drearily close to expecting them, yet something – she didn’t know what exactly – stopped her every night from succumbing to the scenario; she would not let herself believe that which she so desperately wanted to deem silly and nothing more than a result of a newlywed’s anxiety. Maybe it was the diamond ring on her fourth finger that stopped her from believing, the one that the fluorescent lights of her bedroom bounced off every time she lifted the back of her hand to wipe a tear that she let escape. Or maybe it was the shiny, pearl necklace that hung around her neck, the gift he had given her the morning after he had slapped her for the first time. Perhaps he felt guilty for hitting her, though she believed he simply wanted to detract from the dark purple shape that he must have watched develop as she slept that night. All she had asked him was where he had been—even though she knew. She approached him in a way she thought would lessen the impact of his anger; little did she know the triggers that could erupt a drunken mind. She was repulsed by the prospect of this man sleeping next to her; she wanted to bury her nose in her mother’s sweet-smelling apron so the

Maya Singer, photograph “But I don’t have to break the rules. I can stay on track now. Want energy? Drink green tea. The caffeine will give me a good buzz and a temporary energy satiation. Be better than everyone. Be better than the average person.” “ARGH! I can’t take this battle anymore- I’m eating the stupid fruit. I’ll be diligent tomorrow. Wow, that bite tastes so good.” “Oh gosh. Here it comes. Throw it out throw it out. That one bite barely counts; you can still make it up. Instant regret. Knew it.

Clara Citron

That night, she dreamt eyes were penetrating her… pungent stench of alcohol would not reach her nostrils. That night, she dreamt eyes were penetrating her; her very being was being slowly pierced by the laser that shot from them. The laser held its grip over her and she felt weakened; she felt herself being lowered into a blackened and inescapable abyss… The scattered pattern of the marks along the right side of her face marked this, the most frequently seen sign of abuse. Of course, he had been reckless that night; his anger had escaped him as it used to when he would break new crayons belonging to his third grade classmates. It’s fine, he thought, she knows better than to challenge me again. He sat up all night, staring at her eerily sunken face. Each shift of her body, every movement of her legs, upset him. He grew more appalled by the fact that she had challenged him. He was the man; no one would take that away from him – especially not a size two woman over whom he legally held power. His heart pounded with rage and his ears beat with the pulse of anger. He went to the window that night and stared out at the landscape of despair, which only four months back he had thought paradise. He remembered the shine of her teeth and her broad smile as he watched her view their tiny kitchen. The kitchen, to him, had seemed small enough to be sold as another playset on the shelves of his family-owned toy store. But her smile, that’s what got him. He did not care about the layer of dirt, the shoebox size, the lack of room for his radio; he only could see her smile. All he cared about was being with her, about loving her and living with her forever. He dialed the agent immediately and the house was theirs. He loved her so passionately, so aggressively and with such intense longing. He had searched for stability all his life; from the time his father left his mother after a movie-like fight, he had ached for love. His father had punched his mother’s face, slowly pivoted, took a deep breath, avoided all eye contact and walked out the door, leaving it unlocked and slightly ajar due to the broken hinge he had planned to fix for months. Everything that happened to the “family” after that was a blur. Fighting, screaming, blood, girls behind locked doors, his mother banging on the door to be let in, drinking, smoking, alleyways, heartache and loss. As he looked at his new wife admiring the filthy kitchen, he saw the family for which he had been searching. He saw a locked front door, dinner

every night, love; he saw concern for him, someone who loved him and cared for him for the first time. He needed this so desperately that he didn’t think about money, a job, paying rent, children, being responsible for another person. He was blinded by his heart. Though, of course, he would never allow himself to admit this, even in the deepest corner of his brain or mind or soul, he knew it. And now he was forced to pay the consequences – he didn’t love her. He never loved her, but he had loved the idea of her. She couldn’t possibly live up to his expectations, and she failed, as he set her up to do. He was angry with himself, with his father, with his stupidity and naivety. He was so angry that even now, looking out that window and remembering her smile, he wanted to punch her again, hit her face until little purple speckles appeared as freckles on her face. He turned towards the bedroom where he imagined wrapping his hands around her neck and leaving them there until the deep purple of the spots became the hue of her entire face. A terrifying thought stopped him; he halted so abruptly that his torso swung him off balance and he had to contract his abdominal muscles in order to stay upright. She was all he had left. She was it; his life depended on her. Curling his legs in front of his stomach, he lay bundled in a fetal position for three hours. At about 4 AM, he sat up slowly, got to his feet, grabbed his wallet, and walked out of the room, down the hall and out into the still dark streets. The lights were just going on in the mall when he arrived. He made his way to the nearest vendor, whose under-eyes were still puffy with sleep and asked for the cheapest necklace—the five dollar pearls displayed on the gaudy sign designed to entice buyers. He bought it, took the small brown bag in his hand, and returned home. Unlike his father, he would not leave the door unlocked, the hinge unfixed; he would not leave her. She awoke as he crept into the house; she was not fearful any more, she knew the alcohol had worn off. She focused on painting chalky makeup over her bruises. He came into the room, turning the knob softly. She quickly rubbed the makeup in, tied her robe and turned from the mirror to see him standing there, fully dressed, with a brown bag in his hand. He handed her the pearl necklace, the one that cost $5.98 with tax. She put it on and dressed quickly in her black jacket and thin pencil skirt. He watched quietly. She took his hand, and led him out of the house for an early morning walk through the empty streets. They walked quietly, his arm slung loosely around her shoulders.

Sophie Shapiro

Untitled

A school bus is the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most common gilded cage. It is golden Welcomed, Whisking children away and taking them to Places they never want to go. A school bus is a trap, loved by parents Who watch their children slowly collapse from the sidelines As the bus sinks beneath the water, filling, suffocating, silent, angry And the child within the child dies.

Rivke Goodman

Perception

The drooping eyes of a baby. Happiness is not your initial reaction, But grows from her smile when she is burped, Her giggle when you help her discover her toes, The depth of her eyes, The curl of her hair, Her very being.

Sophie Shapiro

Top and bottom: Maya Singer, photographs Center: Marley Kronenberg, mixed media Opposite: Molly Katz, photograph 94

Come Buy My Jubly Wares

Back Wings

“Come buy my jubly wares! Only six pennies for the lot!” The lad was selling a lie His wares were not jubly - they were trinble at best. Some snow softly started to lamper

Because I could not stand so tall.

Her stance made my heart hurt inside

Froilling through the lounty streets, the yarphish boy called

Scranting his voice slightly, he called once more “Come buy my jubly wares! Only six pennies for the lot!” His breath looked like a white cloud, frosting in the kinstle air And shivered as he looked crolishly at the ploric people passing by Drumbled his coat around him tightly to quinck the cold “Come buy my jubly wares! Only six pennies for the lot!” Yarnsing for somewhere warm Yet he klompered forward Timply he cried: “Come buy my jubly wares! Only six pennies for the lot!” The scarthing snow swirled around him “Come buy my jubly wares! Only six pennies for the lot!” He windled on

Lara Caligor, photograph

Tamar Cohen

But it was said that once she left she had trouble Interacting with confidence Like I had seen her do so well When we were both on the inside together. So she moved across the room That room where I stood Less strong and much less tall Than she.

Lara Caligor, photograph

I had never noticed that you could breathe from your back Or that your lungs could look like wings that could pulse so softly Like hers did.

So she could control these wings and could breathe from her mouth and from her nose and now also from her back, But I could not catch even one desperate gasp of air for my chest was tight and she was too beautiful. She prompted me to move So I trembled and shook still, Because she stopped my back from breathing, Like hers did too well. She commanded the space inside of that room and inside of my body and inside of my head, While I could only find myself outside of that room. In the place where I did not tremble, and did not have to breathe from my back, And did not have to be in that room, Where I sank.

Lily Applbaum

WHY

We work like robots. Trained not for the world we will enter but for the world of one hundred years ago. We mindlessly repeat math problems over and over but are

surrounded by computers that can do it for us. We don’t learn good judgment, or character, and so we let computers dictate them by asking Siri what to do or by Googling “how to pay taxes?” We have it backwards. Why are we forced to go to years of school?

Zeke Bronfman

Lara Caligor, photograph 98

The Justice System

A shady grey system strategically placed to conceal black and white things They’ll tell you it’s transparent There to insure, not just promote peace for the Persecuted Don’t invest; this insurance is Fraudulent A classification system that is supposed to be fair Turned into a scheme of unethical obstructions, disguised by pretty language but worthless words Something you are told believe in, but may discover it as a treachery of beautiful things It cheers on the loud voices, but silences the quiet It mutes whole languages

Callie Smith

Above: Maya Singer, photograph Opposite: Perla Zolt, photograph 100

To ThE Goose. WHO SCARED a mere girl of two.

May your feet Lose their webbing May you Drown in the lake May your life start Ebbing And you be Cooked as a steak

May you be Cut by brambles May you call the doctor in Need May your eggs come out Scrambled And be Eaten by me

May your soul be Defeated May you Scream in great pain May your Fears be completed And your offspring Suffer the same

Tamar Cohen

Mariel Priven, photograph 102

3:32Pm In 10Th Period Writing Cl ass There I sat, staring at the class and distracting the more productive students. They pounded away on their keyboards, meticulously choosing every word. One was distracted like me, but was playing an internet game. She controlled a slithering snake, trying to consume as many dots as possible as she attempted to kill the snakes of other players. Though, unlike me, she had finished her work. Another tried writing an essay but kept on looking at me. It was as if she wanted to work but my absentmindedness overflowed into her. Occasionally, some students would break out into a quiet chatter. They talked in their lowest voices, not wanting to be heard, but of course, everyone in the room heard them. “Do you need help editing?” a student asked, rather loudly, breaking my trance. Her intonation implied that she was only asking for the sake of stopping my disruptive staring, rather than actually wanting to help me. I refused her offer and continued to look around the room. A student yawned with exhaustion and I felt slumber come over me. Another breathed heavily, like little snores, and my eyes started to close. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. I did not want to be a writer. I had no faith I would ever write something productive. So why was I here? Sam Levy

Lara Caligor, photograph

Pink

Pink Feelings. Butterflies in your stomach that result from excitement and nerves; The early stages of a crush, still in its infancy, you roam the halls in search of him; using other people as a filler in your conversation to make yourself look preoccupied as he slowly walks by you, while you pretend not to notice. Pink Feelings. Sipping a cool beverage on a hot, sunny New York day; Wandering Central Park for hours without a care in the world—no work, no watch, nowhere to be. Pink Feelings. An untouched palette of carnation pink blush; The smell of clean linens; Fresh, sweet smelling perfume,imitates the cherry blossoms in the park; Perfectly swirled vanilla soft-serve ice cream, reflects the light of the sun. Pink Feelings. His hand reaching for yours, sweating with anticipation; His dark eyes look into yours as if no one else in the world matters; you exchanged only a single starry-eyed gaze, yet you had an entire conversation; The ethereal glow of the late night moon, shining on you; The whole world is watching, yet you have the world to yourselves.

Clara Citron Mariel Priven, photograph 104

I Sing a Song of Myself

I sing a song of myself

By singing under songs of those Whose sounds deafen the clouds As if they need the sun to know Though their songs are screamed Yet only I am heard I sent out my words on wings I dreamed Then she learned my words With one high note - in sunlight spun The wind wisps the words, From me to her - in blissful silence My words are sung She sends me an aria back And if they would be silent They would learn the song is for them too But they never stop their shouting

Eitan Goldberg, oil

The birds drop my song in the stream Who sends the words down in the ground Where they will sleep - until, Those who listen are found Listen to me Mother hear my cry I sing to you in silence But am captured by the noise passing by If by some happy twist of fate Their minds will open If I am not too late Then- one day- they will be ready to hear my song

Tamar Cohen

Top: Haddar Kaplun, watercolor Bottom: Darren Cleeman, craypas

106

Friendship W

e stumble out of the cab, and make our way down the block. It’s a warm night, and the street is lit with lamps and signs and people. If I squint, I can see the street lamps blur into golden orbs of light against the darker navy sky. There are a few cars gliding up and down Main Street, and young families walk with babies in strollers and four year olds eating ice cream cones. My dress bounces around my knees and I half walk, half run to catch up with Parker. I should never have worn heels, I thought. But, when planning what I would wear tonight, as I had been for many months, it never crossed my mind that I would somehow end up leaving the graduation party early to get dinner. Parker did though, and she made a reservation at her favorite restaurant three weeks ago, but never told me. It’s funny how I let that happen. She thought that it would be a fun way for the two of us to spend graduation night together, alone, before we left for college. I pull my jean jacket on over one shoulder, and attempt to keep up with her stride. It’s a humid night in June, so I tried everything in my power to keep my hair from frizzing, but of course, my hair never cuts me a break. Even on graduation day. In my hurry to catch up with her I consider taking off my shoes and walking barefoot. When I look down, though, I feel a crash as I bump into someone. I gruffly apologize and rush on. But when I look back, I see that it wasn’t the aggressive middle-aged man I imagined, rather someone my age. But, instead of holding a diploma like the one I carried in my left hand, his hand held a paper cup with a few pennies and nickels in it. I feel pity, but brush it off. This is my night, I tell myself. Don’t get too stressed about other people. So you can’t give him anything, that’s okay. I cling tighter to my purse, just in case, and I walk until I reach Parker. “There you are! What took you so long getting out of the cab?” She inquired. “Sorry. I thought I lost my phone. I found it though, yay!” I say back. We get to the street corner together, and Parker pulls open a brown door with a bronze handle. I haven’t been to this restaurant before, but it seems

108

as if Parker has. She walks up to the maitre d’ and asks for our table. He obliges, of course, and we are seated in a booth one table away from the window. Outside, I see a few freshmen walking by with ice creams and laughing. They look into the window and we make awkward eye contact. Parker rolls her eyes and says, “God, I’m glad we aren’t freshmen anymore. They annoy me.” I laugh, “Actually though. But at least they have three more years and we’re done.” There is a pause. “So, what’s good here? I’ve never been.” “Oh yeah. I forgot you never come here. I used to come here a lot with my family for birthdays and I thought today was the perfect occasion. Everything is good. I usually get mac and cheese.” I pick up the menu hoping to find something that I can eat. Parker often forgets that I’m allergic to dairy products, so I hope that I can find some-

I pick up the menu hoping to find something that I can eat. Parker often forgets that I’m allergic to dairy products… thing. This proves to be a challenge as most of the menu has cheese or cream or milk, but I think I will manage. Parker laughs and starts to talk. “Oh my God! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you the funniest thing that happened this morning! I checked my email this morning and for some messed up reason I got accepted into our summer program! I mean, how crazy is that!? My application was awful. I wrote it the morning it was due. Seriously, like how did that happen? Did you get accepted too?” I clench my teeth. Of course she got into that program, why would she not. I’ve only been waitlisted. “Haha, that’s great! Yeah, it was the same for me I didn’t really try, but I haven’t checked my email yet. Just trying to enjoy tonight, you know.” I had actually spent about ten hours on that three hundred word essay. I look up at Parker. She looks really good tonight, and happy. I don’t want to make her upset tonight.

* * * Ow! A girl in a fancy dress brushes past me, failing to look me in the eyes. When she turns around to figure out who she bumped into, I turn my head to avoid further eye contact. As she flounces down the street I see a diploma in

her hand. Was she at the graduation tonight? It’s only seven o’clock. There is usually a reception for high school graduates. If I were in her place I probably would have stayed there, but since high school is not really part of the equation, I guess I’ll never know. I glance at my paper cup; I am going to need a new one soon. This one is kind of gross. So, what have we got today? Two whole pennies, and one

So, what have we got today? Two whole pennies, and one dollar!? What a time to be alive!! dollar!? What a time to be alive!! With this amount of money, I can do anything! I laugh bitterly to myself and continue to stroll down the street. I stop at the corner restaurant. I like to sleep in the alley off this restaurant so that I can spy on the customers. There is the man with the gray hair and a suit to match, who comes here weekly with a briefcase and another interchangeable man with gray hair and briefcase. He is always here Wednesdays at one fifteen, and stays for an hour and a half before shaking hands with his new acquaintance and heading off on his blue bike. On Wednesday nights at six, three old ladies come in and they always sit at the booth in the center of the restaurant, not too far from the bathroom, because at least one of them gets up every twenty minutes. They definitely all play bridge together before they go for dinner. They all dye their hair, wear pastel suit jackets with mid length tweed skirts and always order club sandwiches. They are avid gossipers. One is always laughing, showing her yellowing teeth. I wonder how their teeth could be so yellow when they could pay for the whitest teeth on earth. It’s probably because they spend all their money at this fancy restaurant on turkey sandwiches. But this is a ritual; they have been spending thirty dollars on mediocre sandwiches since they were in grad school, and now that their husbands are dead, these sandwiches keep them sane. On some Sundays, at eleven in the morning, after I have already been awake for hours rummaging in the trash cans for wasted food thrown out by wasted teenagers, five moms come in and sit at the round table in the corner window. They meet here monthly, for book club, but sometimes one or two of them will come for dinner on a weeknight to discuss and judge the other

members and their life choices. They always order salmon salads but their laughter is not as lively as the old women’s chuckles. They read novels about social justice and the fight for equality, and discuss these along with conversations about their most recent luxurious vacations to Rome and Tuscany. They end each meal with light individual hugs, and then slide into cabs to go back to their homes. But I have never seen these girls before. They are younger than most of the clientele. They are sitting at a table with their profiles facing the window I am looking through. One, with short reddish brownish hair and a pointed nose, is chewing on the straw of her milkshake, and the other sits fidgeting with her bracelet while her cascading brown hair obscures most of her face. I realize that she was the rude girl I bumped into earlier. They are both pretty, but uninteresting overall. Wearing the classic white graduation dresses, they don’t stand out in a crowd. I wouldn’t choose them for friends. They are both silent, then Bracelet Girl starts to talk without making eye contact. She

Top: Eliana Solomon, collage 110

is the one I bumped into who rushed past me without giving me a second look, so clearly she has trouble making eye contact. Milkshake Girl, however, does not break her gaze. She stares intently at her friend. She nods, and then opens her mouth to say something, cutting Bracelet Girl off, who then pulls her jean jacket more tightly around her shoulders. As Bracelet Girl keeps talking, her shoulders begin to relax with each word she utters and her jacket begins to slide off her shoulders, as if bricks are being lifted off her shoulders. Judging by the length of her monologue, there are a lot of bricks. Milkshake Girl has yet to say anything. One eyebrow raised, another eyebrow furrowed. The food on the table remains untouched. Finally, Milkshake Girl cuts her off and begins talking animatedly, arms flying. I can tell that she is struggling to keep her voice down. That’s the problem with being inside: you have to watch yourself. I can talk as loudly as I want. Bracelet Girl looks down and drags her fork through her plate, and I press my face against the windowpane to see what she is eating. It looks

To be frank, I have never eaten vegetables; they just aren’t an option. I’m much more of a half-eaten granola bar from a trashcan for dinner kind of guy. like some sort of vegetable dish. To be frank, I have never eaten vegetables; they just aren’t an option. I’m much more of a half-eaten granola bar from a trashcan for dinner kind of guy. You know, it’s just more classy. I decide that these girls are boring and walk away to lurk somewhere else.

* * * Top: Maya Singer, pastel 112

I’m not really sure what made me so angry this time. Maybe it was because I was already kind of pissed at her for organizing this whole dinner thing without even asking me because when I organize something she never shows up, or because I was angry that she forgot about my dairy allergy, or because I felt kind of desperate and I thought that it would be a good idea. I didn’t actually do anything about it; that is what made it worse. It was all in my head. I played scenarios over where I would yell at her for not paying attention. Or I would roll my eyes and think of a passive-aggressive comment that would never actually spill out of my mouth. Or I would imagine finally telling someone else about how angry I was but never did because no one else ever has anything to say about Parker. But I didn’t do anything and we both sat there silently for a while. And we tried avoiding each other, which, given that we were sitting across from each other, was tough. We sat quietly until dessert came; I got a scoop of mango sorbet as usual but she went rogue and got a slice of carrot cake. After a few bites, a few moments of silence, and attempted light conversation, she said, “Ew. This is disgusting. I hate carrot cake.” Not knowing whether or not to laugh at this pathetic situation, I attempted a smile but, obviously, I failed. Parker proceeded to smush her cake into the frosting and gave me sideways glances as I shoved the sorbet down my throat. Thanks to my rash decisions, when the check came, I ended up with the worst brain freeze I ever had.

* * * By the time I made my way back to check on the two girls, they were leaving the restaurant with destroyed dessert plates left behind. I hear Bracelet Girl say, “So, I will see you tomorrow at the party?” “Yeah, yeah,” responds Milkshake Girl, in a surprisingly raspy voice. “Text me what you are wearing?” “Sure.” “Love you.” “Love you. See you tomorrow.” After awkward hugs, one of them walks towards me, blinking non-stop. The street is dark so I am having trouble distinguishing between them.

Lydia Schmelzer

Sarah Binday, photograph

t’s seven months later and his knee is only now shifting from dark bumpy red to the smooth tan of the rest of his body. The cut on his jaw has healed, and there is only a trace of a scar. He spent three weeks in the hospital. Your stomach should have twisted but it didn’t. Your grandma forced you to visit him, but when you entered his room he was sleeping, so you just straightened the vase next to his bed and walked away. As you looked at his crumpled body you told yourself that he deserved it. Now summer has come and gone and you are sitting in your Intro to Biology class with three hundred other kids. “...How the skin heals after being cut or bruised.” Bruised and cut up skin and you remember, remembering in your gut. Everyone in high school knows that you beat up Jacob. Everyone in high school thinks they know why you beat him up. No one knows why you beat him up. You beat him up and you remember why. But you aren’t in high school any more. It was seven months ago and you were walking with your grandma through the park near your house. She was wearing her blue dress and you were still wearing your fire-red robe from the ceremony. The wind tickled the bottom of the robe against your ankles, so you pulled your socks up. Then you could see another dot of that bright fire three hundred feet away, getting larger as it came towards you and you walked towards him. The dot came closer and closer and your grandma recognized that red. She said, “Congratulations! Time flies.” You said nothing. Jacob’s dad said, “Thank you, congratulations!” Nice enough, you thought. That night you were back in the park, but your grandma wasn’t there, and you weren’t wearing the robe that tickled your ankles, and you didn’t say nothing. You said something. You said it, and then he was on the floor. Then his kneecap broke, then his cheek was cut by a knife, then one of his floating ribs broke and a piece of the shattered bone got stuck in his muscle and a sound was hurled out like a cry. You had a good reason; he deserved it. You should tell your grandma why.

Samuel Nevins

114

Useless Information Useless information a phrase originating from those who lack Imagination Common Sense and Humanity all knowledge is important important unless widely known the Useless teachings tucked under towers of history have toppled territories the Useless griffonage of an Eleventh Century monk generated the guild of genetics the Useless proficiency in particles paved the path to Penicillin those in the know are never Useless, they are the Rulers of Reform the Sultans of Science the Emperors of Excitement the more Useless the fact the Better for mankind the Worthier of wonder the Culmination of Creativity Who knows? maybe the next big discovery will come from a definition of so called â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Useless informationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Tamar Cohen Lara Caligor, photograph

116

Strength

To Her

Shaping brains from clay The Sun produces 38,460 Septillion watts per Second Tempestuous nations crashing Jet engines roar louder than lions UV rays can kill you Knives cut red and words cut deep blue My Biceps are Boulders Coffee I forgot in the French press My grandma punched a robber

It looked exactly the same apple every week. The same size, the same color and the same way you bit it-- slowly and carefully as you lowered your head while raising your large eyes to the board as if you didn’t want to miss a moment of material. I eat my food fast because I am not you. Every Wednesday at 12:20 I wonder why you eat that apple. It is right before lunch and you never seem hungry, so why can’t you wait just one more period to eat along with everyone else? You were the kind of girl that didn’t have any hair on your body because you worked hard to get it removed. But I didn’t know that when I looked at your skin and I wished it were mine. When I learned that you had worked hard to remove it, I wished I had known earlier. Before I hated myself and went home and looked at my arm hair with disgust. You were the kind of girl that spoke with a genuine tone but had a deceitful smile. You were also the kind of girl I felt like I could trust but then always regretted doing so when I revealed too much. Because you never shared information, but I always ended up vulnerable and empty in front of your composed look of artificial sympathy. To you -- did you ever truly wrong me? I can’t seem to identify your crimes. Yet, when you walk past me I can’t help but shudder and feel weak looking at your all-knowing, half smile.

Strength:

You were the kind of girl that ate an apple in class every Wednesday at 12:20.

Samuel Nevins

Lily Applbaum

10th Grade Sculpture Class 118

Hilary Goldman-Lori, pencil

The Phone Call

The Archangel Michael, the best angel in all of creation, was sitting down in The Earth Planning Department drawing the Fjords when the phone rang. Archangel Lucifer, who had been busy bouncing up and down a rubber band ball, swiveled around and picked up the office phone, “Hello?” I saw his face fall and immediately knew G-D was on the other end of the line. The Holy Father was probably softly playing His soundtrack in the background as he inquired who answered, even though He could easily see through the walls and check. Lucifer rolled his eyes and wings, taking a deep breath before responding “Yes, this is he.” The Lord loved the telephone, because He was trying out new majestic voices and wanted to see which one inspired the most awe in His subjects. It was His new favorite toy, which I guessed was better than His disco

phase. A choir of angels singing disco is a nightmare we all tried to forget. He later insisted we include this monstrosity in human music. Jolly. Another eye roll from Lucifer as he responded to what was unfortunately shaping up to be yet another conversation about terrible music. “Well Lord, before we start on human history we need to finish about four billion years of evolution.” Lord save us from the Lord, I prayed as I envisioned His next request. A groan. “Yes, that includes disco.” I braced myself for G-D’s imminent wrath. A flash of lightning obliterated my preliminary fjord designs. Lucifer stomped his foot in a most un-angel-like fashion. “Now that is just unfair! Michael has done nothing wrong!” What had I done? Shoot. Maybe He found out about the duck-billed platypus. Or that one purple stegosaurus. Or was it that I orchestrated a flood to destroy the world? I know G-D liked everything just so, but I was going through a bit of a rebellious phase at the time and decided the benefits outweighed the risks. Lucifer glanced up at me from the telephone before responding, “Well, mostly nothing!” I mused that it was probably that time when I blew up a galaxy. Yep, that was it. Or maybe it was that I completely forgot to make Earth. Nope, fixed that too quickly for G-D to notice. I hoped. “G-D, I understand he painted the whole world neon yellow, but it is still wrong to destroy the fjords!”

“G-D, I understand he painted the whole world neon yellow, but it is still wrong to destroy the fjords!” Oh no. G-D had some control issues, and the first thing angels learned is that the worst thing they can do is say He is wrong. Venus was still smoldering from the last time it happened. Uranus looked like it would never recover. Groveling is great. Insults are unheard of. An eerie calm settled over heaven. A hurricane formed over Greenland. “Father, I’m sorry! I lost my head for a moment. Please accept my humble supplications. I promise I will put disco in ASAP.”

Ethan Ceresney, photograph 120

I knew that Lucifer was in some serious trouble when the choir started to crescendo. They only did that when Heavenly Father was in a rage. An ‘I shall destroy a world like I did to that puny planet between Mars and Earth because I’m angry and I can’ rage. Lucifer crumbled to the ground, dragging the phone to the floor with him. Knowing Lucifer, it was most likely in mock despair to appease G-D. The Lord liked crumbling. It showcased knee joints, His favorite part of the angel’s body. “Oh my Father, Creator of All, You know that all my heart is Yours. Please do not forsake me!” This might have worked on G-D, because He liked being reminded about how awesome He is for creating the universe. Not to mention Lucifer was His favorite child. Not that I was jealous or anything.

He liked being reminded about how awesome He is for creating the universe. Not to mention Lucifer was His favorite child. Not that I was jealous or anything.

Thank You For Being Very Purple: A Sestina

My nails and my room and sometimes my mind are all painted purple But I am not crazy I just dance to the tick of the clock -And the slap of my feet on the sidewalk has its own sort of rhythm My thoughts are a mess and I’m sorry. If they’re distracting you can sweep them under my bed, Thank You. A paranoid man complimented me at Starbucks and I didn’t say Thank You. You noticed that I’m very purple. You asked me to call the police so I didn’t, I’m sorry. You’re not and I thought you were...crazy? Traffic lights and cold wind -- the city’s unblinking rhythm. I couldn’t meet your eyes, mine shifted all staccato like the hands of a clock.

I realized the prayer did not work a few moments later when wind screamed through the office. The clouds began to shake and cracks splintered through the floor. The blood drained from Lucifer’s face, and for the first time, I saw him look afraid. No, not afraid. Completely terrified. Lucifer howled to Him, “Please, I’m sorry!” The phone went dead. The stars stopped moving. The lights went out. A bloodcurdling scream rang through the office. When light returned, Lucifer was gone. The only thing left of him was a bloody feather, softly floating in the air next to the telephone. The phone rang, a heavenly choir beckoning on the other end. I was faced with the terrible realization that I was now in charge of the phone. And G-D was on the other end of the line, smiling.

Tamar Cohen

Anonymous, oil 122

You asked me to keep my eyes on the clock And you didn’t ask me for the time, Thank You. Pen on paper, windshield wiper hands wipe sweat -- our awkward rhythm. Today my sweatshirt was purple… Sometimes I call you crazy Because my walls are now painted yellow and I’m sorry. I didn’t do it. Red and blue did. I’m sorry For taking credit. I had as much to do with it as time does with the sound of a clock. I won’t forget that crazy Night in the street where I forgot to say thank you. I blushed not pink but lollipop purple: Sweet and sticky like a child happy not to know the rhythm Of minutes crushing each other to become hours, days -- that awful rhythm. You hear it louder than anyone and I’m sorry… That I didn’t call the police and that you bled purple Just stared down the face of the clock And you didn’t blame me, you just said thank you. I know you aren’t crazy. And I am crazy And it’s not that the world tried to kill your rhythm It’s that the world didn’t try not to. Stop saying thank you For things I failed to do and I’m sorry That I couldn’t tell you the time even though my eyes were glued to the clock But you’re welcome for being very purple.

An Intrusion on Time

Those waves roll in on their train tracks, Hearts thumping, lungs pumping that liquid gratification, Cacophony stacked and folded at the edges, Sing me that song of the ocean at the corner of my capillaries, Sing me those soothing stanzas that pour over my hands, blessThe person I used to be, she isForgetful, regretful, but she never wronged herself twice. She will find her own divine intervention, dig her sandpaper heels in the dirt ‘till they crack, Quarantine her, List her existence as a pre-existing condition, rebrand her anger as hysteria, Cure her with flowers, And diamond rings that grip her fingers like handcuffs, Bound by marriage, bound by law, bound to be the girl her mother taught to rise, Rise up and fight, The world is pressing down on her, Weighing down her organs with bags of lead. Those game show theme songs repeating in her peripheral memories Are only illusions of echoes, only confusions and intrusions on time, ‘Cause time fell asleep to the trickling of water And didn’t wake up, Not even to see the waves roll out one last time.

Ayelet Kaminer

You’d never know it, but I’m crazy about purple And I still dance to the rhythm of clocks Thank you for letting me tell this story -- I can only tell the truth, so I’m sorry.

Abigail Fisher

Maddie Cosgrove, acrylic 124

t n e r e f f Seen Through A d i Lens

A girl tapped her foot in class. — OR —

It circled at various speeds to reflect the anxiety bubbling inside her. First to the left and then to the right and then it circled back to the left but this time faster. It would move up and down as if it were tapping the floor to the time of a beautiful song, but her legs were crossed so her foot never actually touched the ground. It was propelled in the air, tapping, to a non-existent tempo that played in the girl’s head. She tapped because she didn’t want to be stuck in class and she made circles because her medication had not worked that morning and she could not settle down. When the ringing overhead finally broke the somber energy in that stuffy box, the girl’s foot would temporarily cease its circles and taps until next period began.

Lily Applbaum

There are so many chairs in this room Her glasses had scratched lenses and the girl had to squint in order to see the board.

— OR —

These chairs Congregate in lonely circles,

— OR —

The lenses had been clawed with the clank of her house keys and

Free of occupation. A series of exposed legs and bare backs

suffocated with the deep press of her fingertips. It was a mystery

Creased across with ethereal light

how she saw out of those destroyed windows. Her eyes squinted

These chairs’ filthy feet embrace the carpet

in time with the tick of the clock, the rhythmic pulsing of a girl

Against the floor and

that could not see because she had destroyed her windows, those

the sloping base of their legs jut downward

panels that allowed her to relieve the mountains and valleys compressed between her brows. With every new mark drawn on

There’s a soft depravity of sound

the large board before her, the girl ticked like a clock. The frames

Where the walls search for anything to deflect

of her prison tucked behind her ears, throbbing to compensate for

And dissatisfied,

the lashes and that obstructed her view as she ticked. .

Entrap the light beneath their looming breadths

Lily Applbaum Pages 126 –128: Noa Mellul, oil 126

Emma Sokolow

An angry sunset

Night

— OR —

The heavens were aflame, Spewing slow gusts of silvery ash A fuming dragon. The heavens were aflame And layers of molten, Technicolor skies Glow in ascending altitudes

Emma Sokolow

Writing a One Night Essay — OR —

I wrote my entire essay last night. A thin streetlight beam penetrates an inky half darkness meeting the bleached

glow of a screen.

The computer whirs quietly into the humid night, like a strange animal humming. The weary determined clicking of keys. Coming in bursts and lurches.

Strung out. Trapped here in an anxious infinity.

Pupils blown wide, lids dip Drying sweat on the wrists, neck, stomach

pregnant darkness something impatient in the pit of your stomach in the violet black entwined headlights for a moment, then desolate the two anonymous shafts of light, adrift like the shredded yellow lines and the undulation of the highway the haggard branches on all sides, piercings of soft lights through the trees, Homes, Happy Families, Warmth, Fire Light Again Homes, Happy Families, Warmth, Fire Light Again

Simone Stern Simone Stern

Riding The Train

Lara Caligor, photograph

— OR —

The crush and pull of humanity trapped in a tiny metal tube rocketing through the ground The sticky press of disparate bodies never to touch again in the belly of a beast that feeds on electricity and metrocard swipes

Simone Stern

128

a drowsy hum, a gash in the silence inky tarmac, deep velvet sky bleary copper glow of sputtering lamps overhead, glares of neon signs like phosperentant creatures with bared teeth.

The sickly glow of a slivered moon

Binding sheets freshly unwound Sleep deserved.

blurs of truck stop after truck stop, motel after motel

Eliana Solomon, Isabel Ehrlich, Julia Tomases, Maya Singer, Jessie Cohen, Sara Binday, Maddie Cosgrove, mixed media

Obligation

Call Grandma. ask her about the weather, even if you already went outside, about her bench in the park, near the Nanking cherry bush how long she waited at the bus stop this morning, where the bus driver was born, And where her doorman went for Christmas, And whether her Werther's Original Caramel Candies are on sale. Anything else is a matter of motivation.

Emma Sokolow Mariel Priven, photograph

Pity Whispers

Which is louder, a smile or a frown? Frowns – the cry of the privileged. Your problems are nothing; But your frown tells me something else -All I see here, looking at that grumpy scowl on your freshly waxed, makeup brushed, Botox injected face is a desperate yelp, That sounds like your teacup sized, freshly groomed dog’s petty bark, when you leave her. “Oh, poor Penelope! “ you think as you shut the door and walk away. I see your frown and I know what you want, You want pity.

Smiles – the cry of the poor. There is nothing to do but continue. “Fake it ‘til you make it” repeats in your head, behind your eyes. Take a deep breath, and let it out. You want them to think that you’ve got it. You’re good; you know you are. “My problems are not your problems,” you think as you pass that man on your subway ride. I see your smile and I don’t know what you want, And that speaks so much louder Than the desperate frown on her face.

Sophie Shapiro

130

She Said

She said: There used to be a girl in that closet by the door. She was ever so shyYes! she’d only peek her flitting cerulean eyes an inch or so out of that door but this assignment that I gave her one day, the I Am Loving And Capable Essay forced her to embrace her potential

She said: And this one time I befriended a ladybug It was a sunny Sunday morning, and from my cherry red leather couch, You’d never guess what I saw! She said: A ladybug! Traipsing just there across my wall. It stayed, of course, for a few hours and we conversed kindly Quite a garrulous fellow. But when I stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water, Alas, my sweet friend had fled. If you see my ladybug friend, you must send my loving regards! She said: And You KnowI was on Jeopardy. On The Television! I knew every answer- every one of them. So you must be asking yourselfWhy didn’t she win that darned thing It was that button! I don’t waste my time on those computer games And so you see, I simply could not master the pressing of that darned button.

Top: Eden Chanko, charcoal Opposite: Mariel Priven, photograph 132

She said: And I brought in a bright ripe pumpkin, We must name it. And I thought of this story idea about the journey of a pickle We must write it. And Tell me how to kidnap an alligator in a distant marsh with your bare hands We must ponder it. She said: And I have been a teacher for twenty-five years, here, So look At this garden of snow globes on my desk and Think of buying me one on your vacations As other good students have done And get me that red convertible I wanted while you’re at it!

Emma Sokolow

Hiding in Public

His one hand makes a fist, while the other holds her hand gently But that gentleness will turn hard if anyone sees them He controls her, she is powerless She sits, head hanging like a puppet Concern and Fear are painted on her face they cannot see it She is not alive His foot extends to block her even though she is motionless There is no sign of a struggle Maybe she’s drugged they’ll say -- She’s not She feels powerless She is unmoved by anything around her -- hopeless They will not find her, they will not save her

Grounded

When I was a child I knew how to fly And I soared across the seven seas But then the world was cruel to me And Down And Down And Down I fell Tumbling through the weeds And now that I’m grown I’d like to fly But I’m grounded

Dassie Spivack

He dresses her in shiny clothes and jewels Other women envy her Oh how she envies them How is it that the train station is empty? It never is that way She heard as a child it was always crowded and bustling It was a lie

Callie Smith

Top: Abigail Rose, tempera Bottom: Maya Singer, collage 134

Raphi Simonson, photograph

My Own Starry Night

You’re tripping;

Tripping on midnight skies and crystal clouds Falling into ways that aren’t only milky, but dry you’re thirsty and so am I So I join your alternate universe, But I am not ready to lose balance on mine When gravity unhooks because I’m slipping too deep into silver linings and losing sight in Mercury’s shadow, That’s when I crack and lose signal. My radio is beeping, warning me I’ve floated too high, But the only way out of this black hole seems to be your light. Stirring and bubbling like the drinks that got us here You’re upside down, but now I am too So in my cloudy eyes, you’re right side up

And what feels like beauty and looks like content Can only be an illusion this high up Now my brain is juggling facts with feelings, dipping them in the copper light of the planets around us And everything is blurred And under my feet the clouds are gum stuck to my shoes, The strawberry kind that you smack against your Pepsi-coated teeth When I finally smell the burnt leaves in your breath, I wake up And now I’m falling back down to earth A meteor bound to hit the ground, And the thoughts are blaring in my mind, why did I ever follow you up into space? No matter how pretty the stars look from down here, Up close they are scorching flames. And the closer I get, The more they burn And the quicker I melt

Sophia Daniels Raphi Simonson, photograph

136

Associations T

here is a certain sense of magic to old things. Especially familiar old things. Not the old things that you find in the back of a shabby store on Grand Street with a dilapidated tin roof and a musty smell, two blocks down from the station next to the tailor’s shop. Not the glass cases in a museum either. Those carry magic too, but it’s someone else’s magic. Maybe it’s the tawny carpets in my grandmother’s house, the jade roses, or the “knit-picker,” a little battery- run device that eats the lint right off your clothing, sitting unopened in a fading box since the eighties. These items aren’t particularly special; I could see them selling in a Goodwill Store somewhere for less than ten dollars or maybe selling for a few hundred on some vintage website. Like I said, they’re magical, not valuable. I’m not sure why. Sometimes things have value because of stories, but I was a child when I met those things and I didn’t care where they had been or if they had a past. I made my own stories and I transformed into the runaway sitting on a bus with a basket filled with my few belongings. Of course, the bus was really just a bed with an embroidered Moroccan pillow and in the basket sat the “knitpicker”, a piece of a blowdryer, and a few playing cards. My pretend resumé included experiences as a schoolteacher, doctor, seamstress, artist, writer, and clerk. I didn’t appreciate the photographs until I was older. Maybe that’s fortunate because photos can lose a bit of their magic without their stories. Then again, I don’t really know that much about the people stained onto a piece of paper at the moment they averted their eyes because of the camera’s flash. I don’t really know much about the girl around my age in one of the older shots, or at least the girl she was before she married my grandfather, grew old, and began buying Werther’s Originals Caramel Candies that she keeps in old jam jars. It’s not nostalgia that draws me to these photos and my grandma’s teenage self. I was unreasonably nervous; I feared that I would not have been friends with her teenage self and that suddenly she was another scary stranger competing in the

Maya Singer, photograph Page 140: Shahar Ben Dor, photograph 138

teenage social network. I was thrown by my own insecurities by the thought of meeting someone from the past. It was as though her confidence could saunter out of the photograph and stare me down in contempt. Grappling with the absurdity of my fears, I sat on the tawny carpet contemplating meeting the past-self of the wonderful woman two rooms over. I stared at the cracks in the ceiling. I found other pictures of the teenage girl and scanned those for little clues. Was she wearing makeup? Was she pretty? Very. Did she fall madly in love? Who were her friends? Why did she cut short her blossoming career as a pianist to marry my grandfather? Why hasn’t she touched a piano since? All I see is a lovely young woman wearing lipstick and a sundress. Was she smiling because someone told her to or just because? If I asked my grandmother about the girl in the photo, I wouldn’t get the right answer. She is not the girl in the photo any more. That girl is locked in the photograph until it is destroyed. She experiences no further loss or gain, happiness or devastation. So now when I look at the ivory-colored dresser in the senior living facility, functioning as the repository for old knick-knacks from the last century, I’ll value those pictures too. Maybe, after a few more years, I will no longer see the girl as a mystery or feel as threatened by her poise. Maybe I will begin to find magic in those people stained onto pieces of fading paper.

Emma Sokolow