PARALLAX
vol 27
Finding Our Way in life is difficult but necessary. As Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And so we go on many journeys trying to learn who we are and what our path should be. In this issue we consider those journeys—Journeys In Time, when we revisit our past to find answers; Journeys In Our World, when we travel to learn more, sometimes just around our own neighborhoods; and Journeys Into the Self, when we try directly to analyze who we are and what makes us tick. We invite you to embark on a voyage through realms of imagination and introspection. We hope these stories bring us together and reveal what it means to be human. Join our literary odyssey as we become the narrators of our lives.
This publication is dedicated in loving memory to Edith Schrank. For more than a decade, she taught English in a distinguished and distinctive fashion. She had the capacity to impart to her students a sense of urgency about reading and an appreciation for the written word.
Editors
Literary
Grace Cohen ‘24
Leo Eigen ‘25
Evie Rosenfeld ‘24
Design
Leo Eigen ‘25
Gianna Goldfarb ’25
Elle Salame ’25 Parallax is
Faculty Advisors
Literary: Dr. Edith Lazaros Honig
Art & Design: Ms. Barbara Abramson
Photography: Ms. Sari Goodfriend
8 Photograph Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
An Object I Hold Onto Juliette Goodstein ‘25
Watercolor Simmy Shatzkes ‘24 12 Photograph Gianna Goldfarb ‘25 13 My Neighborhood Stella Hiltzik ‘25
Drawing Elle Salame ‘25
Painting Talia Gandelman ‘25 15 Birth of Venus Charlotte Kleeger ‘24
16 Photograph Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
17 A “Canterbury Tale” of Asher Rosenfeld ‘26 High School
18 A Canterbury Tale: The Gabrielle Silverberg ‘25 Parent Day Hike
19 Photograph Haim Heiborn Nigri ‘26
20 Photograph Gianna Goldfarb ‘25
21 Dad Storms Into My Room Grace Cohen ‘24
22 Photograph Gianna Goldfarb ‘25
23 A “Canterbury Tale” of Haim Dabah ‘26 High School
24 Photograph Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
25 In Days Gone By Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
25 Sonnet to the Sun Leo Eigen ‘25
26 Resurrection Lizzie Fisher ‘24
26 The Red Convertible Lizzie Fisher ‘24
27 Photograph Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
Journeys Into Our World
28 Photograph Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
30 Infinite Night Gabi Flatto-Katz ‘27
31 Photograph Ben Rubinchik ‘27
32 Painting Bobby Sigoura ‘25
32 A Twilight Song Haim Heilborn Nigri ‘26
34 Photograph Nathan Attias ‘27
34 Wild Geese Lizzie Fisher ‘24
35 The Plunge of the Lizzie Fisher ‘24 Brave
36 Photograph Noa Essner ‘25
37 It’s Raining in Israel Stella Hiltzik ‘25
38 A Walk Around the Thea Katz ‘25 Mountain
39 Collage Noya Berrebi ‘24
40 Photograph Leo Eigen ‘25
41 The Starman and Thea Katz ‘25 the Moonrise
42 Photograph Haim Heilborn Nigri ’26
42 Into the Woods, Lindsay Chubak ‘25
44 Driving to Ski Grace Cohen ‘24 Country
45 Photograph Gianna Goldfarb ‘25
46 Photograph Leo Eigen ‘25
47 A Beacon of Hope… Leo Eigen ‘25 on Mount Beacon
48 Photograph Gianna Goldfarb ‘25
48 My Neighborhood Leo Eigen ‘25 — “Remnants”
49 School Journey Leo Eigen ‘25
Journeys Into The Self
50
52
52
52 Sleeves Jack Friedman ‘26
53 Photograph Gianna Goldfarb ‘25
53 AWAB (announced wrong at birth) Asher Rose ‘24
53 Kintsugi Asher Rose ‘24
54 Drawing Sarah Kalimi ‘25
55 The Times I Started Something Gianna Goldfarb ‘25 New (and never finishe-)
56
57
59
Journeys in Time
Something
I’ve held onto for many years is a bottle of perfume.
It’s not my perfume. It sits on my shelf unused. Although that sounds odd or silly, it’s not, to me at least. Seeing the little purple bottle sitting there just like the one that used to sit on my grandmother’s vanity makes me smile.
It reminds me how she’d let me play with all of her makeup when I was little and stayed at her house. Sometimes she’d let me spray on a little bit of her perfume, “but not too much” she’d say, “because it’s for grown ups.”
I remember feeling so mature sitting in front of her mirror thinking I was just like her. The times I spent with her were some of the happiest memories of my childhood. She was always teaching me a new game or teaching me how to skip or teaching me a new song. One of my favorite things was when she’d take me to the park with a toasted loaf of bread to feed the birds. Even when she was just sitting with me on her lap in front of her vanity, I always had a smile on my face. So now, when I see it sitting on my shelf, it’s not just a bottle of perfume. It’s a lot of little memories that can always bring a smile to my face.
An Object I Hold Onto
Juliette Goodstein
What are the places in my neighborhood?... the places that I see each day…
70th and York
My innocence
My memories are in bubble wrap
They cannot be tainted or distorted
This neighborhood is my utopia
Everything built just for me
The courtyard—a maze for me to learn to ride a bike
The 24-hour corner store—to satisfy my “late night” cravings
The tunnel that connected my building to the hospital—my treasure hunt
The hospital—a big white building built to fix my bleeding head
The playground—my rocket ship that could fly me to the moon
The hallway—my hockey rink
The bunk bed—my double decker bus that could dream me anywhere
The lights on the Chrysler building—the marker it was time for bed.
88th and East End
These blocks molded me
These memories are malleable
The landmarks grounded me
Gracie Mansion, an exquisite park
Vibrant flowers in spring
Multicolored trees in fall
A hump glazed in snow with sledding in winter
And trees to climb in summer
The East River swirls
And the ships go by, the innocence of childhood into adolescence
Experienced by many alongside me.
Manhattan,
My neighborhood,
Every few blocks a universe unto its own
An imprint left at every corner.
My Neighborhood
Stella Hiltzik
Gianna Goldfarb
Birth of Venus
Charlotte Kleeger
What rests beyond those waters?
What lurks behind your blank stare?
Goddess divine
Strands of gold swaying in the gentle breeze
How Zephyr cares for you
Blows you gently to the shore
So you will not have too much trouble
So you will not have to struggle
To withstand the pulsating waters below you
Rushing, heaving
With only that concavity under your feet
Waves infiltrating its ridges
So you can cover yourself
Without worrying who will see
Without wondering what would become of you
If this terrene realm would gleam
Even for an ever-soft moment
You, stunningly surreal
Your form
Your hidden essence
That salty soul that surges behind
A blushing naivete.
Do not fret, dear Venus, dear love in the flesh
You have not yet known the sweetness of red anemones
This Hora brings her flowers to shield you
Enshrouding you in a cloak of mellow springtime.
Love is personified through you
But you, in all your grace
In all your innocence
You are still beyond our reach
We cannot all swim.
When that hollow you stand so shakily upon
Reaches this barren aridity
That blisters your flawless complexion
When the ground grumbles and hardens
Will the deceitful greenery
The blades and needles
Be much too abrasive on your sandy toes
Puncturing your aspirations?
You are of God
Yet can you bestow passion upon
These underdeveloped beings
These lowly mortals
Who, unlike you,
Were not brought up in azure tranquility
Who were not spat out from heaven
Mature in body
Yet young in mind
In spirit?
Can you shower them with knowledge
When you have just sprung from the sea
In spite of our impermanence
We anthropomorphists loom over that faded sky
We push you, child of foam
And in an instant you have transformed
Into the woman
Standing on a shell.
Elle Salame
Talia Gandelman
A of “Canterbury Tale”
High School
Asher Rosenfeld
The day,
quite chilly, saw the sun's bright light, Yet fear of tests consumed her soul with fright.
Her GPA's her map to college gold, In every honors class, she is enrolled.
Amid textbooks and notes her mind transcends, But all she really wants is one good friend.
Next comes the jock, brawn bigger than IQ, So confident in everything he spews
He knows sports stats recalls them on demand, but treats the library as if he's banned.
His basketball can swish right through the net, But locker combinations he'll forget.
Behold the kiss-up, seeking her trophy
Her hand is like a flag, "teacher, pick me!"
I'll never get a word in there edgewise, She talks and talks and talks, no compromise.
Am I the only one to see this farce?
Can any of this droning-on be parsed?
And don't forget the one with all the jokes
His silliness allows him to provoke.
A prankster and trickster and a fool, His full-time job might be repeating school. He breaks the tension, laughter curing stress, In this, no doubt, he is a great success.
In high school, there's a colorful array
Of jocks and nerds and more, each has a say
And as we navigate this daily strife
We’ll guide each other through this game called life.
It was a sunlit day
And we parents went on our way
To the annual Galton parent hike
That we all attend and pretend to like.
In a bus we were gathered
And as I looked around I stammered
When I saw the full group of us
Contemplating who and what to discuss.
My eyes immediately fell upon
The uber wealthy Upper East Side mom.
She met her husband on a girls’ trip to Capri
And after she saw who was his family
She instantly fell in love
And now they live in a penthouse high above.
A powder pink Chanel fanny pack she wore, And her Lululemon workout set I did adore.
Her stylist always picked out wonderfully expensive clothes
And that’s why she looks perfect from her head to her toes.
A Harvard graduate she was
And after that attended the Yale School of Laws.
But after working for a year
She decided to take a break from her career.
And now she does work I quite admire, Pilates and boxing twice a day with her dreamy trainer
Tyler
And she sits on several prestigious charity boards With her and her hubby’s names on quite a few building doors.
But there was no room on the line for me to go greet, So I ventured toward another mom to meet.
By Ms. Professor Mommy I was immediately scared With her scowly countenance and frizzy gray hair.
Philosophy at CUNY is what she taught
And being a tiger mom was her second job. For her only son she had high aspirations, Preparing him to be the leader of his generation.
He was a brilliant boy anyone could see
And she would always gloat, “he got it from Mommy.”
So he took Mandarin, coding, violin and chess too, But being a pro gamer is all he wanted to do.
Her husband was just a humble accountant
And the only trips they took were to the mountains. They had dull intellectual conversations late at night; Then I knew there were better people to talk to in sight.
My attention was drawn to the only dad there; A fanny pack and New Balance sneakers he’d wear. He was tall and lanky, and happy he appeared
But I could not comprehend why he wanted to be here.
In Central Park he enjoyed a nice jog
And he would diligently walk the dog.
As a parent he seemed really great,
But his wife considered him second rate.
Not talking to him seemed best
So I went to the most important guest,
The head of Parents Council was sitting with her crew
Her kids were going here for high school so she was relatively new.
A big Louis Vuitton bag she held onto tight
So I decided her company would be all right.
Inside her bag was a decorated clipboard
So she could keep track of the activities she had in store.
As I came up close
She was busy showing off her Puerto Rico vacation post Her family always looks so perfect online And amid showing off, her phone began to chime.
The text was from her husband
And as I discreetly read, I felt a bit disheartened, “She’s just a colleague, calm down!”
I looked up at her and she was bright red with a frown.
So I walked away from that awkward encounter And sat next to the doctor mom who looked down at those around her.
Many moms don’t work but she saves lives. Who would ever want to be just a lowly housewife?
She was telling a whole shpiel
About someone she was miraculously able to heal
Whose kids went to the school but she could not say who
Only that he lived on Park, was a movie producer and six foot two.
This is the one parent event in which she would partake.
She never had time for these foolish events anyway.
Her nanny was her best friend,
Always taking the kids off her hands.
I decided to just take a seat and went on Instagram to scroll.
The rest of the ride there was really quite dull.
But as we drew closer to our destination, I had a sort of realization.
I am so fortunate to send my children to this school
Where the education is great and most parents are cool.
And just then I received a message from my daughter that read,
“Have a great time! Also, can I get this Gucci set?”
A Canterbury Tale: The Parent Day Hike
Gabrielle Silverberg
Haim Heilborn Nigri
My dad storms into my room with his phone in his hand and a booming voice, screaming at me to wake up from my prized Simchat Torah, no school, sleep. I’m still too groggy and tired to register that he is holding his phone on a strictly no-electronics day (which he once told me and my sister he would only do if there was an emergency). Once I realize that I have just been awakened before noon, I sit up and warn him that if this is a prank I won’t be talking to him for the rest of the day. He stares at me with darts for eyes, and it’s only then that I hear blaring sirens going off in the background. Being a deep sleeper, I always knew there was a possibility of sirens going off while I was completely undisturbed in my sacred sleeping mask, but I always assumed that when a real life crisis erupted and I was in serious danger, I would wake up by instinct. That didn’t happen.
It isn’t until I make it downstairs to my apartment’s bomb shelter and I am there for over an hour that I realize the Jewish people, and therefore I, am being attacked. There have been ambushes, threats, and screeching sounds that warn us here in Israel to abort to safety, but I have always been at school, following a procedure that I know by heart. This is different. I squeeze my sister’s hand. Something about this time feels more serious, more severe, and way more scary. The fear begins to soak into my every pore.
Two tears run down my father’s face, racing each other on opposite cheeks. Soon after, a flood of them pour down, faster and faster, preventing me from determining which tear wins. I have never seen my father cry. My little sister has never seen our father cry. Seeing my rock and protector break down makes everything just feel more spine-tingling.
I don’t fully understand what he’s crying about. I’m scared and my sister’s scared but we’re trying to hold ourselves together: We have the best soldiers and believe in the right God, right? He tells us that all the time. So then, why is he a complete wreck?
It then occurs to me that besides the occasional glance and check-in on his daughters, he has been completely glued to his phone. I peek over to look at his screen and he turns the other way. I catch a glimpse of an article: “THERE ARE HOSTAGES.” I take a deep breath and feel, really feel my heart sink and begin to ache.
Dad Storms Into My Room
Grace Cohen
A “Canterbury Tale” of High School
There was a rabbi, good and noble too
Who ate charcuterie and chowder stew,
A master of fine wine to drink all day,
That frolicker, his sermons led astray.
There was no more a gilded man than he,
No man of more grace, his heart ever free.
A robe of purple held his head up high,
Gaze passed o’er beggar, cries he did deny.
“Now let us learn,” he would call to his class,
“Always try, endeavor to surpass.
Know you are the best; all else is but dirt.”
When school is done, “What,” he asks “is dessert?”
So yes, I tell you, did you ever meet
A rabbi, lover, dancer, a man so sweet?
This was a rabbi, good and true.
Also, there was a day in old Ramaz
When sweet bells rang, let prayer fill the halls.
To sing sweet songs with words to cry out loud,
“Now, silence!” Rabbi calls, his voice is drowned
By students’ chatter, never shall it halt,
But rings the sweet bell; to science shall we walk.
A wrinkle forms between my brow again, I vow one day I’ll try to comprehend.
Then rings sweet bell, math, art, then history.
Comes sacred lunch, good time for hard study,
“Did you read Canterbury Tales?”
Oy vey, for English class is here, but never fear:
A fire drill comes to save the day; hear hear!
But now we have Talmud’s infamous quiz
And open notes, the teacher forbids.
Rings bitter bell, “just five more minutes, please!”
“But no,” he says, “for I am most austere.”
To Hebrew we must go. I’ll persevere, Till rings sweet bell to signal: Homework time!
Not nearly so benign as this lovely rhyme.
Gianna Goldfarb
Haim Dabah
In Days Gone By
Haim Heilborn Nigri
In days gone by I looked to changing winds the gentle breeze and stormy opposite alike the snapping calm of ocean roars and tears tornado currents coming, taking me away.
In years gone by I looked to starry skies and to the ever deep black space above the darkening vastness I would never touch; that calling mystery kept my heart alive.
In ages passing by I stared at waves the sweeping seas that crashed at misty shores their timeless song returning to my feet; perhaps so too will I run back to you. No one can run forever and live so find me deathly waters, take me in.
Sonnet to the Sun
Apologies to Shakespeare
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, No — rather, it will live on for all time, And never, friend, shall you concede to shade. Your sun shall scorch and parch in endless prime. Passion anoints your golden, gleaming crown. No trees will shield your light nor should they try. Seeing thy blaze makes me feel safe-and-sound, But thy summer can also make me cry. Moments arise when it is just too much, And the unceasing heat unleashes pain, As if you hold onto some long-lost grudge, Like you insist on causing death and bane. But these vicissitudes are spaced apart, And, really, friend, you are my beating heart.
Haim Heilborn Nigri
Leo Eigen
His blood was regaining warmth, his heart, resuming its beat. His soul was returned to his body, his body, once again complete.
He was gifted a second chance at life, an opportunity many would die for. He could live better, be better, and do even more than before.
But once he awoke, after that day, all he would do was weep. Having learned of death’s tranquility, he desperately wanted to sleep.
She stared at the red convertible as it sunk into the mud. That same car once lit up the night, as she and her friends journeyed throughout the city. She thought back to those days: heads sticking out the roof, hair blowing in the wind. Oh how she missed her youth. She stood there, eyes fixed on the now unrecognizable convertible, with the impossible desire for it to turn a scarlet red again.
Resurrection Lizzie Fisher
The Red Convertible Lizzie Fisher
Journeys Into Our World
It’s been a down few Days and weeks and months
For me, recently,
And I’ve been thinking a lot and talking
A little and listening to sad music at midnight and Failing to cry to it
I didn’t think that cold air snaking through my Lungs was what I needed but
When I walked through the doors gripping only my three-item Grocery list and the address of the Chinese restaurant
Where I was supposed to pick up dinner, Wearing my favorite green jacket
Ripped in just the right spot so if I put my hand in the hole It passes for a pocket,
The jacket with the hood that squeezes my skull when I put It over headphones
When I walked through the doors I Felt small. The countless Window lights and door men and cashiers
Reminded me how many people were doing the same thing
As me and how few people were doing the Same thing as me, and the weeks of dread and scary texts
Seemed like nothing much compared to a twelve-story building, Let alone a block of them. My brain zoomed out and saw the Full picture, but when it zoomed all the way back in, it saw the same.
A man on a bike
Whipped past and I stared and followed his pedals and his rhythm
Until he turned the corner and I never saw him again, Ever.
Winter darkness brightens our minds and a man told me
The night is tender but
So is the heart and so are they and us, and the breeze and
The winter and the pain and the text and Lack of tears and the man on his bike, and my mom and You and me, and the joy and the dance and the Boy.
And while on my walk tonight, I was thinking about this poem I would write and the Words worked from the cold in my nose and the words worked from The song on my blue Sony headphones into my feet, which Led me to my house where I rushed And forgot the Chinese takeout. I forgot It at the store, with the cashier, on the counter
She wiped down this morning, and I walked back out the door
Past the doorman, through the doors
Into the night.
Infinite Night
Gabi Flatto-Katz
Ben Rubinchik
And the twilight scraped across the land, the silence hushing like a winter breeze, cool before the storm.
The world was bright and faded, like echoes of a distant memory. The leaves were black, the sun was white, and the children played in dim color.
The silence hushed the world until all one could hear was the violins playing the twilight song. The birds seemed to tweet it, the leaves rustled to it, the air danced with it, and the heart pumped the beat. All was falling in a world of shadow, the clouds swirling above, the earth falling below into the dark abyss of the night.
Twilight Song A
The violins cried tears of golden light, a reminder of what the golden afternoon was, and the blue spilled over the land.
The sky darkened and the world fell into the night, out of that forgotten memory. All will meet you soon, sweetheartened song. All will fall for your heart-plucking sound. But before the night, all will fall.
Bobby Sigoura
Haim Heilborn-Nigri
The Plunge of the Brave
Wild Geese
To be wild geese, migrating North, gliding through the azure sky. With a birds eye view, exploring the new, gracefully coasting on high.
The rugged clifftop opposed nature’s gravity, fixing his feet to the rocky ground, and providing him with the cruel comfort of safety. But he was able to apply a force of his own, so he crept forward. Alas, just like life, the cliff had an end. However nature, gravity, is an inescapable force.
And so when he reached the edge and leapt, he was granting gravity its wish: for him to meet Earth’s core.
But he only ever made it six feet under.
Lizzie Fisher
Lizzie Fisher
Nathan Attias
It’s Raining in Israel
Stella Hiltzik
Rain,
a relentless torrent, pounds the earth like a thousand cold needles, and strips away the vibrancy of life. Each drop feels like a melancholic reminder, soaking through any semblance of warmth and drowning the world in a gray, oppressive embrace. The once lively streets now echo with the despondent symphony of raindrops, casting a pall of dreariness over the landscape.
This is one way to view rain—this representation of gloominess, sadness, and loneliness. I used to harbor a strong aversion towards rain. Its presence had the power to cast a dark shadow over my entire day. Regardless of any positive events on the horizon, the day seemed predestined to be miserable. I even found myself tearfully questioning, “Why rain? If precipitation is inevitable, why not let it snow? Rain serves no purpose but to soak and disgust.”
However, a transformative moment eventually occurred. A metaphorical light bulb illuminated my mind, prompting me to shift my perspective. Instead of harboring resentment towards rain, I resolved to embrace it. I acknowledged the inconvenience, frustration, and occasional melancholy it brought, but chose not to let it dictate the tone of my day. Rather than wallowing in discontent, I consciously decided to turn the rain into a source of joy. While strolling in the rain, I would playfully stick out my tongue and sing, “If with all the raindrops came yellow drops and gumdrops, oh what a day it would be.” I opted for a mindset that transformed the rain into a mission for happiness. It became an opportunity to revel in the simple pleasures –tasting the rain, wearing vibrant colors, and relishing a refreshing shower during my walks. It became a reminder of the intrinsic beauty of nature, underscoring how life around me thrived because of the very rain I once despised. Embracing the beauty and relief it brings, especially on humid days, became a profound shift in my perception.
October 7th wasn’t just a rainy day; it felt more like a relentless monsoon at my weekend retreat in upstate New York, seemingly devoid of any positive aspects. While it would be understandable for the families of hostages, grieving parents, and survivors to succumb to despair, scream, and question the divine, the reality has been quite the opposite. They could have chosen to perceive every day post-October 7 as I once viewed rain—with negativity and hopelessness. Instead, many have opted not to dwell on existential questions but to find meaning in the midst of horror.
During my recent trip to Israel, a man addressed us with words that resonated deeply. He shared that when faced with atrocities, people often seek answers by asking, “Why? Lamah?” (in Hebrew). However, he stated that this quest for understanding often leads nowhere because there may be no satisfactory answer. Instead of asking “Lamah,” he proposed asking, “L’mah? For what?” Yes, the pain is overwhelming, and the situation is dire. Yes, rain can cause casualties and devastation. Yet, once we acknowledge these harsh realities, the imperative is to rise above, move forward, strengthen our connection with God, and strive to transform the world for the better.
Drawing parallels to the aftermath of the Holocaust, when the establishment of the State of Israel emerged as a profound outcome, we are reminded that even in the darkest times, unforeseen joy and positive changes can arise. So, in the face of this current adversity, who knows what transformative and positive outcomes may emerge?
Good morning. The sun has risen, but it hasn’t reached its peak yet. So get ready now before it gets really hot because then you’ll get sunburnt. And make sure to wear your good sneakers because with my extremely helpful directions (listed below), you will be going for a walk around the mountain.
Start by walking for about three minutes up the first hill, and make sure to pass the house that has had a box in its front yard with a sign next to it, reading “turtle eggs hatching soon” for the past two years. At this point, you are fairly certain that no turtle eggs are hatching, ever. You have never even seen the alleged turtle eggs, just the sign, and feel that if there are eggs, they are perhaps not turtle eggs and should either be disposed of or seen by an animal specialist for safety reasons (you saw the trailer for “Jurassic Park” once). But your fear of confrontation will override your overall concern for the safety of your neighborhood, so you will keep walking.
Keep going forward for another few minutes. Make sure to stop by the older woman’s house whose front yard is full of cardboard boxes full of the most random, useless junk you have ever laid eyes on, labeled “free.” This house is always giving things away. In fact, this house is never not giving things away. This will pose several questions, naturally, such as: are there new items being given away every day, or has the same stuff been sitting there for years without being taken? How does she have an endless supply of junk? Does anybody actually want this stuff?
You will simply not care enough to look for the answers. You will be sorry for the loss of her mother, but that does not mean you will want her bedpan. Now, this is where the directions get a little bit complicated. In a few feet, you’re going to turn off of the main road and go down the path to the right. The reason for this detour is that if you continue to go forward, you will pass a house that has two extremely large, aggressive dogs who are always in the front yard alone. They are supposedly kept by an “invisible fence,” but they have been known to escape this “fence” and I would highly recommend not passing this house.
There are a few more stops on the way back— the small shul built out of fire scraps, which would explain the fact that the doors look like they belong in a diner; or the dog park, which never seems to have more than one dog in it at a time; the community house, which has not been changed since 1950; the community garden, which is run by a neighbor like a friendly dictatorship.
It is hard to predict how long your journey will take, as it depends on whether you run into a neighbor, whom you will immediately regret saying hello to when you end up in a 20-minute conversation. But eventually, you will reach home again, and while you will be both mentally and physically exhausted, the walk somehow never gets old.
Enjoy.
A Walk Around the Mountain
Thea Katz
The Starman and the Moonrise
I had been standing in the sand for about an hour now, and I was getting antsy. It was freezing cold, pitch black, and I was half expecting to be eaten by a camel or whatever other animals reside in the desert.
It was the winter of 2018, days after my twelfth birthday, and I was somewhere in the desert. My parents had gotten us tickets to a “stargazing tour” that night, where we would stand in the desert while a guy with a telescope told us about the night sky. I had been reluctant at first, considering I was much more of an “indoors type,” but eventually, I gave in.
Upon arrival, the tour guide, an enthusiastic, amateur astronomer, made some lofty promises. “You are going to see constellations,” he said into his megaphone, waving his arms around, the Star Wars theme song playing loudly on his speakers in the background, “you are going to see comets, and, best of all, I promise that none of you will go home tonight without having seen a moonrise. And you can hold me to that.”
The desert was beautiful, I would admit after about half an hour, even without a sign of a rising moon. We were surrounded by a giant expanse of seemingly infinite sand. Without light for miles, the sky was darker than any sky I had ever seen, freckled with bright stars. The longer I stared, the more stars emerged. Being from New York City, I had never seen that much empty ground in my life. It seemed as if all of Manhattan could fit.
Some of the more aggressive tour group members questioned the absence of the rising moon. The tour guide nervously scratched his head, “Any minute now! I promise! Hold onto your horses!” To be honest, I hadn’t had any horses to hold onto in the first place and was starting to wish I had trusted my instinct and stayed home. My immature reluctance had begun to get the best of me, so, bored, (and an avid people-watcher), I started to observe the other people in the tour group. A middle-aged American man wearing a gingham button-down shirt and binoculars around his neck knelt down to the little boy standing next to him, who I presumed was his son. “See, the man with the big telescope is going to tell us about shooting stars!”
“No!” said the tour guide, running over. “They’re not called shooting stars! They’re called comets! And we already saw those! Now we’re waiting for the moonrise!” The American man glared at the
tour guide and turned back to his child. A young man dressed like some kind of zookeeper had brought his own telescope, an extremely elaborate setup, and would barely look away from it, except for the occasional turning of knobs or to make some other kind of adjustment.
I walked a few feet away from the rest of the group and started to draw a picture of a cat with a twig in the sand. I looked at it. Its body was too long. It looked like a hot dog. I rubbed my hand over it so it would fade. Then I started to stare into space, scowling. I knew that I was being stubborn, but once I was on a roll, there was no going back.
I’m not sure how long I was sitting there, but eventually, I heard my mother yell out “Thea! Get over here!” I considered not getting up, just to be dramatic, but I didn’t want to get in trouble later, so I stood up and walked over to my family and looked at where she was pointing. Just at the horizon, a strip of white was peeking up above the sand. It was so bright it was almost blinding. It was silent for a moment as everybody stared in awe as it slowly ascended, revealing the top of a large circle. The silence was suddenly broken by the distorted voice of the tour guide through his megaphone. “There you have it, folks!” he said, sounding extremely pleased, as if he himself had produced the moonrise. “I promised you a moonrise!”
He then launched into a lecture about the scientific technicalities of the moonrise, but I was not listening. I stared up at the sky, transfixed. I watched as the moon revealed itself in its entirety and moved up, into the darkness of the sky and far away from the smooth sand, the man with the binoculars, the man with the telescope, the man with the megaphone, who was somehow still talking, my mom, my dad, my sister, and me. And finally, it reached a standstill in the middle of the sky. From where I was, it looked very big and I felt very small. And then I remembered a video that I watched in science class once that showed all the different planets and moons and how no matter how big one of them was, there was always another one that was bigger. I couldn’t believe that anything could be that big. So I started thinking about how there were planets up there that would make even this gigantic moon feel small. And while that scared me, it was then that I realized that I wasn’t scowling anymore.
Thea Katz
Into the Woods,
Then Out of the Woods, and Home Before Dark
Lindsay Chubak
My house is cloaked in a forest. While that may be a slight exaggeration, it is surrounded on three sides by a huge nature preserve, giving it the same feeling as an old house seemingly lost in the woods.
The first time I dare enter that preserve is an early fall day, which until the moment my brother suggests going for a walk, has been the very definition of a lazy Sunday. The couch had a body-shaped imprint from how long I had been lying in the same position, my book was five chapters away from completion, and since I had an abnormally small amount of homework, I felt almost completely at peace.
That peaceful feeling should have been the first warning sign that something disastrous was about to happen.
And sure enough, it did. Like a tornado, in blew my three siblings, affectionately known as trouble, trouble, and more trouble. And based on the matching devilish grins on their faces, I knew they were coming bearing an outlandish request.
So, when my brother suggests going for a walk, needless to say I am shocked. Normally their requests range anywhere from building a trampoline pillow fort to a four-hour Monopoly game to a tenround tournament of a sport I would rather do just about anything than play. It seems to be far too tame an idea, comparatively.
Then, when he continues with, “Not just a normal walk. I want to go for a walk in the nature preserve,” I know that this is far less of a relaxing idea than I originally anticipated. I should have known.
I immediately protest, despite having been slightly curious for quite a while about what adventures await in the mysterious woods. The couch is comfortable, my book is almost over, and the preserve is, well, muddy, no matter how much it looks straight out of a novel. However, my parents, who until then had been waiting for the proper moment to go into the preserve, immediately agree. I am outvoted, and to the preserve we all head.
I realize that this is not going to be a successful outing for me from the first step, when I accidentally walk into a pile of leaves concealing a pile of dirt, and end up with an entire shoe covered in mud. Nevertheless, I continue on and try to convince myself that this was simply one misstep and the rest of the trip will be fun, relaxing, and full of pretty nature.
What feels like hours but my clock confirms is a mere twenty minutes later, it seems like my wish is going to come true. I could see my house again, though getting there would require another half hour of following a path along the pond that separates me from home. I resign myself to much more walking until the more adventurous of my brothers, the same one who suggested coming in the first place, graces us with another one of his “genius” ideas.
And, for the next fifteen minutes, despite my now blackened shoe, the walk is a pleasant one, full of gorgeous red-leafed trees, clear ponds, and plants unlike any I’ve seen before. Not very far from my house, we find a jaw-dropping, small waterfall under a bridge. While my brothers chase each other around, I stand on the bridge, stare at the water, and for a few minutes find myself at complete peace, taking in the beautiful sight and the satisfying sound of the water rushing down the rocks—that is until the unmistakable sound of a bee snaps me out of my waterfall induced reverie. I flee, aiming to put as much distance between myself and the bee as possible, before suggesting to my family that we continue down the path to get home.
I’m apprehensive as we continue walking, having a heightened awareness of the fact that this preserve is full of nature that may be hiding things that I have not yet considered. Do I have a tick from walking through leaves? Will the bee come after and sting me? Just how dirty is this path I’m walking down? Suddenly, I am struck with the reality of the situation—I have never been, am not, and will never be an outdoorsy person. I’m desperate to get back, take an hour long shower, and return to the couch before the perfect, bodyshaped imprint is gone. I long to be out of the preserve and safe back at home.
“Look, there’s a path of rocks,” he says. “We can walk on those across instead of taking the path all the way around.” Without even waiting for approval, he runs to the rocks, my brother and sister on his tail. My parents seem to have found a new sense of adventure during their short time here and follow their children. I once again find myself outvoted. So, if my only options are to walk across some rocks or trek through an unknown forest on my own, I figure the rocks are the lesser of the two evils. How bad could it be, anyway?
Evidently, it can be extremely bad. The first few rocks are large and flat, and I have no trouble getting from one to the other. These safe rocks carry me halfway across the pond, but I find that in my being cautious while walking on them, the rest of my family has managed to make it all the way to the other side. So, in order to catch up to the rest of them, I begin to hurry, climbing over much rougher rocks at double the speed. This seems to be working just fine, until three rocks from the end, I lose my footing and end up falling feet first into knee deep water. I am now wet, dirty, and stuck in the middle of disgusting, murky water.
My parents give me a hand out, faking sympathy but clearly finding the situation hilarious. I cross my arms and glare at them, before telling them it’s all their fault for agreeing to go for a walk in this insipid nature preserve anyway. All happy memories of the serenity I felt at the waterfall are forgotten, pushed aside by dripping pants, muddy shoes, and tears.
Needless to say, it was quite a while before I ventured into the preserve again.
I have started to squirm in my seat.
It has been an excruciatingly long, four-hour car ride to upstate New York, where my family goes skiing once a year. My foot has fallen asleep and my favorite playlist has begun playing songs that I should have removed years ago. Rather than asking my mom how much longer, I bite my tongue and put my head on my brother’s shoulder, in a sad attempt to close my eyes. He twitches: his way of saying “get off of me” and I’m left with nothing else to do but look out the window.
I stare out at the steep mountains decorated in vanilla frosting, the snow glossy, fresh, and powdery. The sun is gleaming and reflects off the pearly, milky white snow. I start to daydream, envisioning myself at the tip-top of the hill, staring down from what seems like the top of the world, ready to take on the deep slopes and cut through the moguls with speed, technique, and passion. Young skiers, old skiers, little kids, and instructors all surround me, darting onward. They take on the run with incredible ease: gaining momentum to quickly zig-zag between poles and jump over the black, dangerous ice; but they are all invisible to me. From the second I tip my skis downward onto the mountain, I enter my own world.
Grace Cohen
Driving to Ski Country
Gianna Goldfarb
Gianna Goldfarb
A Beacon of Hope...
on Mount Beacon
Leo Eigen
Jane Eyre recounts that, “Spring drew on...and a greenness grew...which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed...at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps...” During this past spring break, I experienced a feeling of rebirth and renewal similar to that of Jane as I hiked up Mount Beacon.
My extended family was gathered together at our house in Poughkeepsie, New York for Passover. Early on in the holiday my uncle and cousin told me that they would be hiking up Mount Beacon, and they offered me the opportunity to join them. At first I was slightly reluctant to take the offer because I was the least experienced hiker of all of them, but after some thought, I decided that I would go.
We woke up early in the morning just as the sun was rising. After quickly packing up some snacks and water, we got in the car and drove around half an hour to the foot of the mountain. Mount Beacon is situated along the Hudson River and it has a peak elevation of around 1,600 feet. When we first arrived at the bottom and my uncle told me this number, I had an internal panic of “What did I get myself into!?” But as soon as we entered the thick woods, I began to feel enveloped by the trees surrounding me—and my fears were alleviated. There was something serene about being in the midst of the forest right as the leaves were beginning to return after the winter. It was clear that the plants were on the verge of returning to their full bloom, but the stillness of the past months could still be felt in the air.
The path up the mountain at first was straight with little incline, but as we advanced further it became steeper and more strenuous. I enjoyed this portion of the hike the most. There was something inexplicably fun about finding a stable foothold, grabbing onto rocks, and hoisting up my tired body, time and time again.
The path continued deeper into the forest and we began to hear the sound of water running. We climbed up a rock formation and saw a waterfall with brooks and streams branching out. As we stopped to admire the beauty of the water flowing down, it offered not only a chance to catch my breath, but also to absorb the atmosphere surrounding me. The water was mesmerizing and I felt as though there would be nothing better in the world than to simply drink the fresh water or dip my toes into the gentle currents. My reverie was interrupted as my uncle began to continue walking.
At one point we came to a summit with a view of a small lake nestled between some other mountains. It was absolutely breathtaking to stand upright on the rocks a thousand feet in the air and play spectator over the body of water below. I imagined swimming in the lake and looking up towards the mountain where I now stood. We enjoyed the spectacular panorama of the valley for a few more minutes before continuing further up the mountain.
All was going well until my uncle decided to check our location to make sure we were on the correct path. Well, we weren’t. It turns out that we’d missed a sign telling us to turn left a while back and we’d continued too far up the side of the mountain. Ordinarily it wouldn’t be especially difficult to turn back and retrace steps, but we were in a tough spot because we’d gone straight up the mountain steeply, so returning down would mean sliding down the side at almost a vertical angle. We decided that we’d need to do that in order to get back on track, so, within a few moments, my uncle and cousin immediately began grabbing onto tree branches and rocks and descending. Seeing that I’d never been in a situation like this before, I nervously grasped onto a tree trunk and lowered myself so my feet would end up on a boulder, carefully avoiding a large pile of leaves. I began to slide down quickly and I came flying into another tree which I quickly got a hold of. I got comfortable with the motions and continued down for a bit until we’d all made it back onto the trail. By far this was the most nerve-wracking experience of the day, and in a way it put me back into my place. I realized that nature was beautiful but dangerous, and that I, being a human, am vulnerable to nature’s will.
Before long we reached the top of Mount Beacon. At the peak there is an old fire tower that can now be climbed as a tourist attraction. I walked up the stairs timidly, and at the top I looked down over the mountain I had just climbed. At that moment I simultaneously felt as though I was the ruler of the world and yet simply a speck in the expanse of the natural empire. I looked down over the thousands of trees, many of which had some green leaves on their otherwise barren branches. Spring had sprung, and for me, so did a sense of hope as I stood proudly on the summit. But as I looked down towards the endless jungle below me, I was also frightened. It was a moment of the sublime.
My Neighborhood — “Remnants”
Leo Eigen
I don’t exactly know what it is. Maybe it’s a water pipe, or some sort of railing from who-knows-when. Or an old bike rack. Whatever it is I am describing, it lives on the corner of York Avenue and 82nd Street. It is red and curved and metal, and its paint is chipping away. While walking home, invariably I used to pass under the bar, rubbing my hand along the bricks of the building on my left. I’d watch as others simply moved by quickly while I slithered under its grasp. One day I was too tall.
At the nearby Carl Schurz Park, the basketball hoops don’t have nets. I can still hear in my head the sound of the ball clanking off the metal rim without the soothing sound of the fabric accompanying it. The court has large cracks. During the winter months, water seeps in and forms small, slender ice rinks. Now pickleball has invaded. People trip on the cracks while trying to reach for the ball with their small racquets.
There is a seemingly endless row of benches on the promenade along the East River. Pigeons congregate around the benches as people sit there to eat lunch. The benches are inscribed with the names of people who lived long ago, the names of those who found solace and beauty in the view of the river. Harper Lee famously lived down the street. When I sit down, the wood crackles slightly and the metal creaks, and I wonder if the same happened to her.
The wear-and-tear of my neighborhood fascinates me. Yorkville has been my home for many years, but what interests me are these remnants of a former time. I wonder what that pipe is. Or, perhaps, what that pipe was I’ve often thought about where all those cracks in the court came from. And what the court was like in its fleeting era of glory. Why do some of the benches seem to be on the verge of collapse? Maybe there will one day be another boy who passes under that railing and grows up to ask the same questions I do. Then he, too, will grow too tall.
The Bus
It’s 7:46 and I stand there at the bus stop waiting for the 7:47—in other words, I am a naïve and childish optimist. You’d think that in a world where computers write essays, coffee shops run themselves, and humans have no need, there would be a reliable bus schedule. But alas. It is now 7:50 and I know I need to stop thinking and get to school. I begin to make the walk from East End Avenue to York. In front of a building one of the doormen stands with a hose and sprays the sidewalk with a jet of water. The threat of getting soaked has always terrified me. I closely avoid Noah’s flood and now walk at a faster pace. My legs are buckling under the weight of my backpack and my speedy gait, but I am determined to make it there. I am now under scaffolding and the path is illuminated by tiny, bright lights on the metal beams hanging by a thread. Then I emerge into the daylight, honking cars and screaming people greeting me back to the real world. And as I cross the avenue, the bus drives by slowly. It is taunting my human legs. Cruel bus, cruel bus.
The Walk
He was very tall and equally loud. Each strand of his hair was meticulously gelled. Clearly he wanted everyone to hear his phone conversation, but on the off-chance he didn’t intend that, it happened nonetheless. Something about a business deal. Finance jargon. The fiscal year. He spoke angrily. I could tell other people weren’t pleased with his deafening voice. The little children looked up at him with fear. He was the monster threatening their peaceful ride to school. I sat directly across from where he stood and tried to feign boredom.
Gianna Goldfarb
School Journey
Leo Eigen
Journeys Into The Self
I survived the frigid autumn air by hiding underneath the fuzzy fibers of my sweater and i lasted through the winter frost covering myself up with layers and layers and layers.
But soon the warm spring aura came and while everyone else danced with nature open to the world i did not know how to dance.
I stayed wrapped tightly under my layers and layers and layers.
Maybe one day when on my journeys i find a more courageous self who isn’t afraid i will take off my itchy sweater and don something softer and more comfortable a t-shirt
covered in stripes and polka dots blue and pink and neon green with shiny stars and sparkly sequins, maybe one day.
But for now i will cower in fear under my sweater my arms hiding under the sleeves.
Sleeves
Jack Friedman
AWAB
(announced wrong at birth)
Asher Rose
I’m metamorphosing
Growing out of my skin
It’s raw and bursting
Open wounds and gin
New names and cut hair
Stretched scars running thin
A renaissance, rebirth
Severed from sin
Anointed in wonderment
To start and begin
A new life of light
A man within
Asher Rose
do you think the gods care? about us, i mean. they molded us from clay, and yet for some reason, cracked me in the kiln. they gave us consciousness, awareness of our flaws, and the language to cover them in gold, filling the cracks and making us whole again.
Elle Salame
Kintsugi
The Times I Started Something New (and never finished-)
Gianna Goldfarb
Deep within my nature,
a chronic propensity preside Of an agonizing essence, in my deoxyribonucleoti
Swift genesis commences, at an alarming spe I continue for at least three weeks, until I neglect the dee
Every other month a new idea will come to min But I don’t give a two-day notice before I’ve again resigne
Most every project I’ve begun leads to this distasteful destinati Regardless of whether it is trivial or for my educatio
Even tasks I normally enjoy fall into this dull monoto Becoming so droll I consider getting a lobotom
Softball teams, Novelist drea Costume sea Painting extrem Jewelry schem Crochet regim
Each an example of an enterprise my enkephalos has releas And I do not think time will ever tell me how to slay this beas
It lives in my mind, the terrible foe, waiting for me to star And once I do, it takes over and makes my motivation depar
I couldn’t even bring myself to finish my poe
Sarah Kalimi
I am five and we are taking the cut through The Creek. I am psyched, so excited to cross it and venture into the forest. I run up ahead, in front of my family, beckoning them to hurry up. I reach the water, and my strategy begins. What rock do I have to step on? Is that one stable? I don’t want to end up in the water. I make my plan and begin my treacherous journey across. All is going well, and then I start to teeter. My life flashes in front of my eyes, I almost fall, my arms are flailing around, and I decide to jump. It’s a last ditch effort, and then! I make it! I quickly jump across the rest of the path and make it safely to the other side. My family hasn’t even gotten to the creek yet, so I decide to go back across, just to prove to that rock that I am THE expert creek crosser. I am its master. Finally, my family gets there and we make our way through to the street on the other side.
I am seven, and I wish I could use the stairs leading out of the creek, but my mom says I can’t because they aren’t public property. I look up and see a big house connected to them. The people in that house must feel magical. I wonder where the steps lead? I mean, the creek is the best place in the world, and the stairs only make it easier to get there! There must be something even better on the other end.
I am eight, and my cousin has rain boots. Not fair! This time, our goal isn’t to cross the creek, but to follow it down and explore it until we can’t go any further. I have to find dry spots and get from rock to rock, but she just runs along through the water. My boots are Shabbos boots, and my mom would kill me if I got them wet. “Wait up,” I yell, “I’m coming!”
I am nine, and I’m coming home from a long and hard day of hanging out with my friends. I am exhausted, trudging along, wondering if I can make it home. Just as my legs are about to give out, I see it! The creek! All hope is not lost. I climb down to it, and carefully make my way across it. On the other side are the stairs, but I can only stare in amazement as I trek up Mount Everest to get to my street.
I am ten, and my friend lives in that house. Finally, I get to climb up those stairs. I take a running start, and then—I hear a creak. I look down, and the stair is wavering. I quickly continue running up the stairs. Man, that was cool.
I am twelve, and I climb up the stairs again. They’re dusty, and frail, and I can see families of spiders crawling across them. It’s ok, these stairs aren’t really convenient anyway.
I am thirteen, and the creek is my prime hang out spot. Want adventure? The creek. Want to talk about that problem that’s been bugging you and won’t leave you alone? The creek. Want to have fun? The creek. Need to cry? The creek it is.
I am fourteen, and I’m nervous. “What if you slip?” I call out to my friend. “Neither of us has a cellphone!” She laughs it off and laughs at me. “We’ll be fine. It’s the creek.” I smile and run after her, but that fear lingers. What do I do if she gets hurt? What if a rock gives way to nothingness? If I screamed, would anybody notice? What if someone came for us and took us away, never to be seen again. Do you know how many girls go missing in the woods? But just then, a family with two little kids passes us, the kids jumping across the stones with excitement, the mother calling out to them warning them to be careful, the father laughing at the way his kids smile. I’m okay. I chase after my friend, and her joy spreads to me, and the worries are forgotten.
I am fourteen, and I turn to take the stairs, but then I realize. My friend doesn’t live there anymore.
I am fourteen, and I don’t live there anymore.
I am fifteen. I stare out the window and see a beautiful New York City skyline. There are sunsets, and strangers, and pretty views. But I can’t see the creek.
I am sixteen, and I’m back in Maryland for a weekend visiting my friends. To get there, I have to cross the creek. I take a second, breathe in the moment, and walk down to the creek. I cross it in two steps.
I am sixteen, and I run up the stairs. There’s no house at the end, no spiders, no bending, but this time I’m the one wavering. At the top, the house is gone, replaced by a high school classroom.
I am eleven, and the creek is frozen over. It’s littered with leaves and other wildlife across its surface. My parents didn’t want to take this path; they say the hill down is too slippery, and the creek is unsafe, but what do they know? This is the creek they’re talking about. Of course we have to cross it.
The Creek
Sophie Obstfeld Elle
Asher Rose
I can hear the music coming from the other room as I feel the warm humidity of the city in the summer. The party is raging and people are dancing. Out on the fire escape I pass my cigarette to my friend, exhaling the smoke. I lean on the railing, tilting my head back with my eyes closed, and take a deep breath. My friend passes the cigarette back, and I open my eyes to take another drag. It burns a bit, but in the good way, in a way that makes you feel alive. The music is almost muffled, a background to the city traffic, the horns and chatter floating up to me. I tap the ash off the end of the cigarette.
“Hey Cam, you ever wanna just…get away?”
She looks out on the city.
”Yeah. I mean, it’d be nice to see the stars for once.”
I nod, making a noise of agreement. She reaches over and takes the cigarette from in between my fingers, bringing it up to her lips, but pausing.
”Y’know…we could just…go.”
”Where?”
”Away. Somewhere. Anywhere.”
We sit in silence for a minute, the idea resting between us.
”I’ve always wanted to go to Nebraska,” I say.
”What’s in Nebraska?”
”Nothing.”
She takes a drag from the cigarette and passes it back to me. I breathe in and exhale.
”And you can see the stars,” I add.
She tilts her head back, sighing.
”The stars.”
She says it like a statement, a finality. I stub out the cigarette and stand up straighter, turning around to lean my back against the railing. Cam turns her head to me.
”Tomorrow,” I say.
”Yeah?”
”Yeah.”
I slide down against the railing, my back to the street. Cam joins me. We just sit, listening to the traffic and the music. The party’s dying down, people are starting to go home. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The smell of smoke is still lingering in the air.
”Hey! Party’s closing down guys! Y’all gotta go!”
I hear people whining but dutifully they start filing out. I open my eyes. I haul myself up by the railing, the metal cold, even in the middle of summer. Cam’s already standing and climbing back through the window. I follow, squeezing through and shutting it behind me. The room smells like alcohol and sweat, practically empty now. We walk across the apartment, stepping over the empty cups and wrappers. We take the elevator down in silence. Through the lobby, onto the street, and a cab later we’re home. I put the key in the lock, my hand resting on the handle.
”We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
”…I think we have to.”
I nod, and finally, turn the doorknob. The door creaks when it opens. We walk in. We take turns showering, scrubbing the smell of cigarettes off our skin. It was humid outside, so the water, as warm as it is, feels nice against my back. I step out, wrapping the towel around me, staring at my face in the mirror. We start packing, taking our clothing, a few sentimental things, and whatever cash we have. We each have a backpack and a carry-on suitcase. I shut the lights and both of us crawl into our beds. It’s dark and I’m staring at the ceiling.
”Cam?”
”Yeah?”
”Do you think the stars know how loved they are?”
”…I don’t know. I hope so.”
Sincerely, Asher
y’know sometimes i sit in my shower, the water off, and just let the feeling of the cold tiles rest against my skin. i think to myself:
”do you think god loves me?”
now, i don’t know who i’m asking, whether it’s me or some outside entity, but either way i don’t get an answer. i think to myself:
“god, do you love me?”
well, now i know who i’m asking, i guess. and yet still, no answer. god, i’ve been taught, doesn’t answer us. we, mere mortals, we couldn’t handle his divine presence, oh no we could never. god, i’ve been taught, doesn’t love me. couldn’t love me. who would’ve thought being born wrong could be a sin when god is the one who sculpted you himself. tears start to form in my eyes.
“god? why did you make me only to throw me to the side? a discarded poem, a half-written tragedy. we are all made in your image, they tell me, but then they tell me that i’m a sinner. i never claimed to be a saint, but i just want to know if they’re right, if it’s a sin to be who i am.”
my palms streak mascara across my cheeks, tears running in rivulets of longing down my face. there is something in me who hopes that god is real, who hopes that he doesn’t care who i am or who i want to be.
“i swear i’m trying. i don’t mean to disappoint you if i have. i’m building a new me, god; i’m taking your discarded tragedy and picking up the pen.” and i write:
“he exploded; a galaxy began within him, constellations forming from stars so bright and burning that even the sun could not outshine them. he started anew; a found desire to live growing in his soul, so different from the dark that had engulfed him for so long. and he lived.”
so i get up off the cold tiles of the shower floor, and i wipe my tears.
“god may have created you,” i say to myself,
“but he will not be your destruction.”
i go and grab the scissors off my desk, returning to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror.
“i am made in your image, god.”
i cut off a chunk of my hair.
“you carved me from bone, added blood to my heart and air to my lungs. they say you think i am a sin. that i am wrong. but if you’re real, i choose to believe that you are loving.” and another.
“if i am destroyed, if i am to be damned, it would be by my own hands, by choosing a life of believing the masses, or believing that i am wrong for existing.” and another.
“i am deciding to believe in you instead. to believe that you love me.”
it’s short now, above my ears, like the other boys in my class. there is hair all over the floor, the scissors dropped in the sink.
“that this is who i am supposed to be.”
finally, i look in the mirror. it’s messy, and it’s not by any conventional means beautiful, but it’s right. i whisper to myself:
“god, do you love me?” and finally,
i believe the answer is yes.
Asher Rose
Lentil Soup
In this moment I feel everything and nothing all at once.
The simplicity of preparing a comforting pot of lentil soup. Even though some tears may inevitably accompany the process as I meticulously chop the onions for my mirepoix, an inexplicable sense of tranquility wraps itself around me like a fuzzy blanket. The rhythm of uniform cuts becomes a meditative motion, a mindful dance with the knife, allowing me to escape the chaos of reality. The spices elegantly prance throughout. Each step done with purpose, from cleaning the lentils to crushing my own tomatoes. A fragrant symphony permeates the kitchen with a transcendent aroma. The blend of earth activates my senses and serves as a prelude to all that lentil soup offers. The alchemy of combining basic ingredients to create a satisfying whole. Standing over the simmering cauldron. The magic of this cannot be dissected by the laws of science or the principles of philosophy. The science behind the colorful bowl fails to capture the feeling I get as I bring the spoon up to my eager lips. The soup transcends the confines of rational thought, reaching deep into the core of my being. For this simple act, I am both the creator and the consumer, controlling while simultaneously being controlled. In this moment, I find a profound sense of connection – to myself, to the earth, and to the universe at large. With each spoonful of steaming soup, I am transported to a realm where time stands still and worries fade away. I am everything and nothing – a mere speck in the vast cosmos, yet infinitely significant in my own right. And as I savor the nourishment of body and soul, I am reminded that sometimes the most profound truths can only be found in the simplicity of a comforting bowl of lentil soup.
Evie Rosenfeld
Elle Salame
I will stop short of calling myself a hoarder, but I will never hide my sentimental self. Change is bitter.
It was during the winter of sixth grade when this occurred. I was a rule follower to the fullest extent of the word, and even though I haven’t exactly shed that trait, back then things were different. If the teacher told me in passing to stop speaking to my friend nearby, I’d feel as though I was being prosecuted for war crimes. So when one Monday morning I came to school and couldn’t find my ID card, it was as if I had, in fact, committed war crimes. I shuffled through my backpack and frantically opened up my binders. I hoped, prayed, that perhaps some supernatural force had moved my ID card into my history folder. Or my Hebrew notebook. Or my English book. But it was to no avail. There was something really sad at that moment: not only would I have to confront my sin, but I’d have to grapple with the loss of my previous ID card. That faithful ID had followed me around since first grade and been with me throughout the trials and tribulations of elementary school. No longer. So after snapping my new picture, having my card printed, and paying the reparations of ten dollars, I made myself a pledge, almost as if I was God giving Noah the rainbow after sending the flood: never would I lose my ID card again.
And so. Now I am in eleventh grade, and that ID card follows me around everywhere I go. Its picture captured a time of shame, despair, but above all, innocence. Every time I look at it, I am hit with nostalgia and a longing to return to that beautiful moment in time when concern was high for my lost shard of plastic.
I am a firm believer that our past is never far away. It is always within reach. And even if people see me grasping into empty space, I and only I recognize that value.
Journey of the ID Card
Leo Eigen
Elle
Crossing the Water
Step by step, I dip deeper into the ocean. I watch the water glide over my feet, washing off the sand between my toes. It’s time to begin my journey. I invite the tide to carry my body; it looks as though I am dancing with the waves. I am no longer in control of my movements, my joints are fluid, my muscles, loose. I am free.
Love Medicine
The doctor prescribed me 50 milligrams of love. Its label warned: dangerous dose; powerful pill. Its bitter coat can slip down your throat without you ever knowing. Side effects may include: heart fluctuations, irrational thinking, and a tingling of the body.
My doctor reassured me it was worth the risk; it would cure me of my loneliness.
Lizzie Fisher
Lizzie Fisher
Gianna Goldfarb
apparent displacement of an observed object due to a change in the position of the observer.
Noa Gad
Parallax n. fr. Gk parallaxis, the
