PARALLAX
2022 #25
b
The Age of
Innocence
PARALLAX
The Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein Upper School of Ramaz Parallax Literary & Art Magazine 2022 Vol. 25 60 East 78th Street New York NY 10075
The Age of Innocence Because we are New Yorkers, Edith Wharton’s novel, The Age of Innocence, resonates with us. Each character’s conflict mirrors our modern day experiences as ever-changing individuals, so we decided to fashion this year’s Parallax around the themes they represent. There is May, who gets more and more worldly wise but never acknowledges her Loss of Innocence. There is Newland, who goes from complacent self-assurance to Changing Perceptions about himself and the world around him. And then there is the star of the novel, New York City, our home, in all its busy, dirty glory.
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 Editors
Arlette Gindi David Gitelman Eve Schizer
Junior Editors
Lauren Goodman Daniela Woldenberg
Art & Design Editor
Anna Braun
Staff
Tova Solomons Daniela Woldenberg
Faculty Advisors Literary
Dr. Edith Honig
Art & Design
Ms. Barbara Abramson Ms. Rachel Rabhan
Photography
Ms. Sari Goodfriend
Parallax is the writing club of Ramaz Upper School, as well as the name of our literary & art magazine. The club meets every Thursday after school. Parallax is a juried publication that comes out in June in time for distribution at our annual Celebration of the Arts. Parallax 2022 was printed by Allied Printing on 80 lb. bond. Copy and layout were prepared by students on an Apple iMac in InDesign. 350 copies were printed. All rights belong to Ramaz Upper School, 60 E. 78th Street, New York NY 10075.
The Age of Innocence Cover – Photo Montage Inside Cover – Photogram Title Page – Painting Introduction – Collage/Drawing Editors’ Page – Photograph Table of Contents – Photogram
Fortune Laboz ‘22 Shira Schwartz ‘22 Shira Schwartz ‘22 Alisa Gleyzer ‘23 & Shula Tarnovsky ‘23 Skye Hadad ‘22 Shira Schwartz ‘22
Loss of Innocence
10 The Yellow of Our Youth 11 Decay 12 The Color of Cotton Candy 13 Mother 14 First Nightmare 15 Teen List 16 Growth or Decay? 19 The love is dead. 20 Covid Scare 22 Lost Connection 23 The Cycle 25 Tiger Cub 26 San Francisco 28 The First Time I Saw Mars 30 A Wave Good-Bye
Arlette Gindi ‘22 Arlette Gindi ‘22 Daniela Woldenberg ‘23 Daniela Woldenberg’23 David Gitelman ‘22 Grace Cohen ‘24 Emily Vayner ‘23 Michael Gersten ‘22 Olalla Levi ‘23 Olalla Levi ‘23 Ron Alweiss ‘22 Solly Taragin ‘23 Solly Taragin ‘23 Thea Katz ‘25 Aravah Chaiken’25
Artwork 8 Photograph 10 Photograph 12 Photograph 13 Collage 14 Photograph 16 Painting 18 Photograph 21 Drawing 22 Photograph 24 Collage 27 Photograph 28 Photograph 30 Drawing
Ari Porter ‘23 Skye Hadad ‘22 Jesse Rubenstein ‘25 Daniela Woldenberg ‘23 Eitan Goldberg ‘22 Fortune Laboz ‘22 Eitan Goldberg ‘22 Sasha Dunst ‘23 Fortune Laboz ‘22 Mikaila Badner ‘23 Anna Braun ‘22 Eitan Goldberg ‘22 Michael Gersten ‘22
Table of Contents
Literature
Literature
Changing Perceptions
34 Masks 35 Hollow Smiles 36 Stream 38 The Color of Romance 39 Eh, Worth It 40 Cat 41 Something About a Song 42 Sun Shower 44 Summer Smoke 45 Pencil 46 Grandmother 48 Through the Glass Pane
Eve Schizer ‘22 Alissa Rose ‘24 Daniela Woldenberg ‘23 Grace Cohen ‘24 Eve Schizer ‘22 David Gitelman ‘22 Joyce Salame ‘23 Lauren Goodman ‘23 Alissa Rose ‘24 Solly Taragin ‘23 Tova Solomons ‘23 Arlette Gindi ‘22
Artwork 32 Drawing 34 Photograph 36 Drawing 38 Photograph 40 Photograph 42 Photograph 44 Photograph 46 Photograph 48 Photograph
Michael Gersten ‘22 Jesse Rubenstein ‘25 Michael Gersten ‘22 Gianna Goldfarb ‘25 Fortune Laboz ‘22 Jesse Rubenstein ‘25 Gianna Goldfarb ‘25 Anna Braun ‘22 Anna Braun ‘22
Literature
New York City
52 Animals 54 Cement Dreams 55 Running For My Life 56 The Life of a Coin 57 Modern Day Princess 59 Space Cadet 60 The Wandering Tenant 62 Darkness 65 A Day In The Life Of Revenge 66 JUMP 68 Rain
Lauren Goodman ‘23 Leo Eigen ‘25 Lauren Goodman ‘23 Arlette Gindi ‘22 Eve Schizer ‘22 Joyce Salame ‘23 Eve Schizer ‘22 Eve Schizer ‘22 Eve Schizer ‘22 David Gitelman ‘22 Eve Schizer ‘22
Artwork 50 Photograph 52 Photo Montage 54 Painting 57 Painting 58 Photograph 61 Photograph 62 Photograph 64 Photo Montage 67 Photograph 68 Photograph
Anna Braun ‘22 Fortune Laboz ‘22 Natanel Aiash ‘22 Shula Tarnovsky ‘23 Sophie Obstfeld ‘25 Gianna Goldfarb ‘25 Eitan Goldberg ‘22 Fortune Laboz ‘22 Ari Porter ‘23 Gianna Goldfarb ‘25
Loss of Innocence
“It would presently be his task to take the bandage from this young woman’s eyes, and bid her look forth on the world.”
Laughter leaks into the air as we lie on the floor playing The Game of Life. The fuzz of the carpet is warm underneath us, and the sun shining through the plant-dressed windows wraps us in a hug so perfect we can’t help but smile. Kids run through the sprinklers as the grandmother next door reminds them to steer clear of her prize-winning flowers, all daffodils, sunflowers, and daisies. The canaries sing from the tops of their trees, and the honey bees fly through the gardens collecting pollen like baseball cards. The world out the window is a golden castle of joy externalizing the haven we’ve created by simply lying on the carpet playing The Game of Life.
The Yellow of Our Youth Arlette Gindi
10
Decay
Arlette Gindi
Your old flowerpot hits the floor with a deafening crash. Dirty guts of a plant long gone scatter across the wooden floor of my apartment like ashes. As the sun filters through the soil, I see your face light up once again. The tightly coiled curls you’d twist through your fingers bounce towards me smiling. Sand spreads over our toes as we walk together along the beach, too entranced by each other to notice the tide slowly inching towards us. How could you leave me here all alone? How could you leave me here glued to the floor of my apartment, clawing at piles of dirt like they’re gold? The air is getting heavier and my skin starts to feel too small for my bones. My knees curl in towards my chest, pulling up with them the dirt from the pot that you left behind.
11
Skye Hadad
The Color of Cotton Candy Daniela Woldenberg
12
Jesse Rubenstein
It’s the color of his favorite shirt And the bubble wrap on the floor when you unpack. It’s the color of the pen he writes you with, The countless notifications on your phone When you forget to respond, And the ice you walk on around him. It’s the color of the cotton candy You shared on your first date And the water in your eyes on your last.
Mother Daniela Woldenberg
I lounge on a bed of overgrown grass Under our yellowing tree. My head lies in my sister’s lap. She twirls strands of my coarse hair around her fingers And as I begin to fall asleep, The melancholy church bells ring. I sit up, feeling a sharp tug at the crown of my scalp. I hear my mother saying goodbye, So I scream, “Mama, don’t go!” When my head lands again in the respite of my sister’s lap, She pats it and tells me to think of better things.
Daniela Woldenberg
13
First Nightmare
David Gitelman
The monkeys were chasing me, down Lexington Street. I ran from them quickly on my two little feet. I turned and saw school– hey, there’s Mamadou! But I don’t think he sees me– oh, what will I do?! And then I awoke; I was clammy and cold. I hopped out of bed; I was just four years old. It was my first nightmare; it came in the night. It left my heart pounding, it left my chest tight. I ran to my mother, told her what I’d seen. She said, “Go back to bed, it was only a dream.”
14
Teen List Grace Cohen
Ice then brew then milk then cream. Off to school in the middle of a dream. Next comes me, Analyzing the text, Realizing I Am wrongfully dressed. Red sock weirdly paired with green. I am so not prepared For this teen scene. There I am in history class, Finding the need to know the past, Almost as annoying as the study of math. Lunch, A break, A breather, A rest. Did she seriously have to announce a test? Does she have to be so cruel? So mean? Oh, how I wish to not be seen. And there it is, The Ring Ring Ring, Concluding my tiring day: The life Of a teen.
Eitan Goldberg
15
Growth or Decay? Emily Vayner
Did you ever notice how Scooters morphed into Subarus; Stuffies were slaughtered by SAT scores— Screams of joy and plastic-gun toys Fell To the sinister silence of school lockdowns? Isn’t it funny that Cooties turned into crushes; “Baby” became “babe;” Bruised knees became hickeys— Broken bones became broken hearts? Why did cookies crumble into calories? Why did Barbies become Bulimia? Why do tutus make me a slut? Who replaced Pigtails with blowouts; Stickers with tattoos— “Ring around the roses” With rings around our noses? When did coffee contaminate chocolate milk? When did alcohol adulterate apple juice? When did blackouts nullify nap time?
16
Remember when We watched clouds Instead of making them— And smarty dust was the only thing We inhaled; Cigarettes were just lollipop sticks, Between our gapped teeth? Why can’t we still Pick weeds without smoking them; Roll daisy garlands—not joints— Drink Cola instead of snorting coke?
Fortune
Laboz
I wish playing pretend stayed a game. I wish I could mold my life like Play-Doh. I wish Time Outs only lasted ten minutes. I wish goodbyes weren’t for forever. Isn’t it funny How it wasn’t funny at all? How they told us to grow up? How all we ever wanted was to grow up? Why did they even call it growth If all along It was just Decay?
17
Eitan Goldberg
18
The love is dead. Michael Gersten
The love is dead. It had a heart attack From being shattered and disappointed again and again. And it was innocent. It just wanted a hug, But did not know the way of the world, Of longing, loss, and compunction; So it grew desperate. Its deluded dreams, Its illustrious, glowing fantasies Prevented it from seeing The lack of connection And one-sided affection. It put up safeguards to keep the pain away. It hardened its walls, but the safeguards betrayed And left it with a wall of rigid passion and lust. As it aimlessly trudged, it fed itself with jagged cigarette smoke, And the love grew very sick; It felt weary and old– Because it was. Now it’s brittle, and tattered, and frayed; Its blood is cold. The wall crumbles from the slightest breeze. And that feeble aching passionless pump Freezes. Those free, then protected, then vulnerable, Radiant filigree pillars Of trust, devotion, and glee, Now a clump Of passionless rubble and sterile vermin; A corroded stump Of torturous memories. The love is dead. And no one is coming to the funeral. No one is coming to the funeral.
19
Covid Scare Olalla Levi
We’d found out when the plane touched ground that she had Covid. It was our expected 16- and 20-year-old decision to immediately call it a bluff. Almost as soon as she opened the email, it was swiped to archive. I worried a little because my tonsils seemed larger than when we’d taken off, but tonsillitis wasn’t a symptom of Covid, and I had tested negative according to the truck by our house. Mother was the only other person in on the scandal. She advised Julia to flip her phone to airplane mode for the rest of the trip and just enjoy the Duomo. We drove to Aunt Kat’s house, lacing back from the airport through Florence, enclosed by European architecture. Its soft walls and colors and its nonchalance filtered out every freeze-frame that came before it. And yet, it was the Italian nights that did me in. Their hot and sticky nature would set in and I’d feel what the ibuprofen had subdued during the day. The top of my mouth would sink under my tonsils’ weight. My body melted liquid with no viscosity in the un-airconditioned back room. The next day, I worried Julia about my ailments so much that she came with me to the backstreets of Florence. Looking like two teens about to shoot up, we unpacked a mini at-home Covid test as mopeds steered by. But minutes later, only one red line showed at C, so we were negative. I spent another 10 days on a triple pack of ibuprofen and Aleve and another ten on two waters to spare myself the useless foreign, untranslatable and unhelpful doctor’s visits that plague cliche vacations. In September when some dicey interaction had left me panic-stricken in a doctor’s office, a blood test was done, and I was relieved then that what I’d had those August weeks causing me to cough up green phlegm at the sight of the birth of Venus was mononucleosis.
20
Sasha Dunst
21
Lost Connection
Olalla Levi
I tucked my feet into the footboard strapped across the worn out velcro. I molded into the fiberglass seat. A call to shuv and all oars fell to the water. Under the bridge down in the basin, half-boat to six’s. Through the swimming pool by the point past the gate zipping down we rafted up, winding up at the five mile an hour sign. I slept six hours last night and maybe five the night before. I snoozed four times this morning. Tallying about twenty minutes wasted on my pillow, so sixty seconds were left for a suffocating hand of trail mix and random grab outfit. I think of the summer Saturday when it was just me and Hannah, when it was August weather and July boats, sculling water, and summer sleep. We had emptied a jar of peanut butter, then paired the protein with four bananas. We had locked our legs in that double and rolled out into the wind. The sun was piercing and the sky was clear, the water was bright and everything was more alive, but it wasn’t just reciprocated, vibrant energy we were here for. The force even more than nature was the water that mirrored us, when it could catch us. I feel now the strain in my upper shoulder down my spine, peeking out of my lower back. Here I am present just for the fog of four am wake-up. Black watered tide and swell. My mind’s filled up with nothing but empty space and agitation for not still being asleep. It’s warm-up and I can barely push half-stroke full pressure. But he yells we’re going to the salt shack, and I choke my cowardice on my green Gatorade bottle, hoping to clear the arteries. It’s funny that way. He and the seven other girls coerce me to join as Casey calls to start. My hands follow forward and my feet force down. The body protests but I’m in it. I’m in a cycle through my whole life, a cycle all together in this cycle, and my blood joins in, and we’re all in, and the whole rhythm’s controlling, but these 18 minutes are different, controlling not the sedative of morning that repressed the AM, but the summer squeeze—like the whole day is force, like this morning I was force. I’m pushing now on the fall morning backdrop to a clearer mind into the day that is today, months after days were a continuous, clear, warm sky, for a rewarding practice, which makes it all the same any day.
Fortune Laboz
22
The Cycle
Ron Alweiss
The clothes imploded throughout my room indicate a natural disaster; however, I feel anything but natural. The lifeless stare behind my sleepless eyes lingers as they position themselves to attempt to comprehend the next illogical statement written on the mesmerizing screen. I find myself regaining consciousness every 3 or 4 minutes after an unintentional power nap, which provides me with more exhaustion than awareness. I feel my brain melting away as the computer screen interrogates me about my future goals and aspirations. I hear a knock at the door, yet it feels so distant as my sister barges in. “Dinner’s ready,” she murmurs. “Ok,” I respond, “I’ll be down in 5.” I finally produce a sentence, not a particularly intelligent one, but a start. After the first, the sentences begin flowing without a thought, mindlessly pushing out all the information my brain can contribute or finesse to address the essay topic I am trying to write. “50 words over,” I proudly think to myself, “I can finally go have dinner.” I waddle down the stairs, reawakened by each step. As I approach the dining room, I observe my siblings arguing over the show to watch and my mom completing her third puzzle this week. “Does everyone want to eat? I’m starving!” “We all ate an hour ago,” my sister responds with a rude inflection in her voice. I turn to the table to realize only the scraps remain from the once-delicious meal. I groan as I finish whatever food wasn’t deemed worthy enough for my sisters and wobble back up the stairs to complete my work. I trudge to my bed where I lie down for a moment, hoping to gain some sort of mystical energy to revitalize me. My iPad eyes me from my nightstand as 10pm flashes on the screen, and I consider watching one video to wake me up inside. I reach for my headphones and indulge myself in a world of video game let’s-plays. My short attention span and yearning for entertainment overcome my ambition as my eyes glue shut for the night, headphones in my ears, and iPad ranting on at 2am. My dad bangs on my door, waking me from my unfulfilling slumber. His disappointed glare expresses that he knows I went to sleep late again. I reluctantly force myself out of bed and to my chair a few inches away. I look at my dying phone and computer, hoping they’ll last better than me through the day. I look at the progress I made the night before to see merely a single question completed, 50 words over the limit, and extremely poorly written. “Ugh, oh well. I’ll do it tonight.”
23
Mikaila Badner
24
Mikaila Badner
Tiger Cub
Solly Taragin
I haven’t hit puberty yet, which pisses me off. While all of the other tigers are getting bigger and faster and stronger and hunting and chasing women, I’m still having my mom hunt for me. You know how embarrassing that is? I just want to be like the rest of them. Fred has already killed four gazelles, Eric went off on his own to see if he can survive a cross country run, and Rico got a girl pregnant! It just pisses me off. They’re embarrassed to hang out with me. “You wanna go play tag, guys?” I ask them. “Grow up, Baku; we’re not little kids anymore.” “Mom, can I go out with friends tonight?” I ask my mother, knowing that I don’t have friends to hang out with. “No, I need my sweet baby boy with me.” It pisses me off. I’m not a baby. When I was little—or when my friends were little like me—we’d play tag in the forest and we’d be cracking up the whole time; we couldn’t get enough of it. Our parents would tell us that they just caught supper, and we’d beg for another hour of ecstasy. One time while we were playing tag, Eric ran off far away and we couldn’t find him for hours. We were panicking and were super scared to confront our parents about the missing tiger. After hours, we found Eric swimming in a river. We were all pissed at him, telling him how much of an idiot he was. “Just shut up and get in the river,” he said. We jumped in and began paddling with our growing paws. It was magical. Fred dared any of us to go under to try to catch a fish. Eric and Rico were too afraid of drowning, but I dove my head under the surface and emerged with a fish in my teeth. “You’re crazy,” they told me. “I don’t know how you do it.” I miss that feeling more than anything–the feeling of making other tigers look at me with pride and maybe even a tinge of jealousy; there’s nothing quite like it. I hate those mammals now. All of them will see once I hit puberty… if I hit puberty.
25
San Francisco Solly Taragin
One day when I was around seven or eight, while my family was in San Francisco, we decided to go to the beach. It wasn’t a very hot day. It was pretty cold actually, and the San Francisco wind is no joke. We went anyway because what the hell? I remember sitting in the backseat of our rental car, in between David and Cecile, and I remember I had a fat smile on my face. Wait… I don’t remember actually smiling, but I remember the feeling of happiness that I had. Sitting in between my siblings just felt very comforting. I also love the beach. When we got there we all held something as we walked into the sand and near the water. I think I was holding one or two towels, a small job for a small boy. David probably tried to hold a lot because he was a teenager, and teenaged boys love to show off the strength that they don’t have. My dad probably held the football or something since he strives to cling to his youth as much as possible. My mom was probably holding like thirteen things but she doesn’t complain. As long as the family’s happy, she’s happy. And then there’s Cecile, who probably held nothing because her arm hurt or something. Damn Cecile. While the rest of the family sat on some towels for a bit, I was up and jumping around and complaining. “Let’s go in the water!” I kept screaming. “Let’s go in the water!” As the youngest child, I ended up getting what I wanted. As if I had raised them with the force, the rest of my family stood up in sync. I ran in front as if I were leading them into battle. The water shocked me as it hit my feet and ankles. I came to an abrupt stop. The cold went up my body like a rapidly spreading virus. “I’m a man,” I thought to myself. I continued walking in. When I got to my knees I heard a scream. I turned around and saw Cecile running away from the water. My mom followed her. Eventually, I got to my waist and I felt super cold. This slow progression was excruciating. I just needed to go for it. “Screw it,” I said out loud, thinking that my three-foot-something body delivering that prepubescent high-pitched voice sounded tough. I closed my eyes and jumped up and then moved my legs as I descended so that I was able to dunk my head under the water. “Oh my god!” I said when I picked my head up. My dad was laughing while watching me and my brother enviously, as he only had his ankles in the water. I swam towards the shore and then back to where I was and repeated the cycle a few times. I just needed to keep moving a lot to try to warm up. Soon I started to lose the freezing feeling coursing throughout my body. Eventually, I felt fine. The water was still cold but it wasn’t a feeling I wanted to escape from. My brother had already gone back to my mom and sister, and my dad was not coming in any deeper. I loved it, though. Every time I ducked my head and came up I felt refreshed and pure. Eventually, my dad told me to not go any deeper as he turned around to join the rest. I stayed for a while longer until I started to get cold again. As I stepped out of the water and stood on the sand, I immediately felt freezing. The wind hit my cold, wet skin and I felt like crying. When my parents saw me, they both picked up towels and started coming toward me quickly. They wrapped both towels around me and rubbed their hands against the towels on my back and shoulders and I felt as warm as ever. They continued like that for a while. I felt warm and safe. Nothing was able to hurt me. Even if a tiger had shown up, it wouldn’t have been able to get through the forcefield surrounding me.
Anna
Braun
27
The First Time
A crisp, starry night—like out of the painting. It was probably around late October or early November—it was that unsettling time of year when the weather is just gaining its chill, but still has the remains of summer heat. The sky was pitch black. A crescent moon showed its tiny sliver of brightness. The dark was sprinkled with stars. The trees bordered the yard; their usual dark green looked black against the void of the sky. I crawled under the house and dragged out an old, rickety Adirondack chair that we had bought for a dollar from our neighbors when they moved away about a year earlier. I put down my things and I sat down in the chair, and I looked up at the sky. And then I waited. For a while. “You’re crazy,” my family had said when I told them what I wanted to do. But I have always been stubborn—what can I say? I read online a few weeks ago that tonight would be some kind of crazy Mars sighting that only happens every thirty years or something. I’m definitely not one of those kids who knows everything about space, but I’ve always liked the night sky. There’s just something mysterious about it—I can’t put my finger on what it is. So I told my family that I really, really wanted to see Mars– and they told me that they highly discouraged it, but they weren’t going to stop me. And no way in hell could I make them come. So, hence my lonely, late-night set-up in my yard, as I sat in the eerie silence and prayed not to be eaten by a bear. First, five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, then twenty, and then I was getting tired, bored, cold, and a little spooked. I considered going back inside, but I knew that if I missed something awesome like this, I would never forgive myself. So I sat, and waited, and waited. I didn’t like the quiet. It was too quiet. It felt like at any second, something or someone would come out of the woods and eat me. I felt like I was inside one of those jumpscare videos one of my friends made me watch once— where everything is quiet and peaceful, and all of a sudden something jumps out of nowhere.
28
I Saw Mars
Thea Katz
All that could be heard were the crickets, and even they seemed to be encouraging me through their soft chirping to go back inside. Where was Mars? It was supposed to be out half an hour ago. I decided to address something I could control, the silence. I scrolled through Apple Music on my phone looking for an appropriate song. I hit play and a few seconds later the familiar piano introduction began and seemed to fill every creepy crevice in the sky, and then David Bowie’s voice rang out with, “It’s a god-awful small affair to the girl with the mousy hair...” And I kept waiting until it got to the chorus. At the most perfect timing ever, as he started to sing “sailors fighting in the dance hall…,” I looked up and there it was. It wasn’t as big or as bright as it looked in that NASA article, but it was definitely Mars. I could tell because it was bigger than the stars, and it had a very subtle orange tint to it, like when my dad would hold a flashlight under his chin to scare us when we were younger. Mars even had an air of confidence to it, like it knew that it was bigger and brighter than everything else I could see in the sky, and it knew that there were kids like me, staying out late at night and waiting to witness its glory. I know that people talk about remembering for the rest of their lives the first time they saw the Grand Canyon or the Northern Lights, but I think that for the rest of my life I will remember the first time I saw Mars.
Eitan Goldberg
29
A Wave Good-Bye Aravah Chaiken
n
l Gerste
Michae
30
Glancing backward I saw my wife waving goodbye, our young toddler staring up at her intently. Then, trying to imitate her mother, our Sophie shook her chubby hand in the air, pumping her fingers into a loose fist. It’s obvious she didn’t quite understand the gesture’s meaning, like the hand choreography from one of her preschool songs. But I couldn’t help it; I lifted my arm and waved back. My little Sophie put her hand down and adjusted her sparkly sunglasses. Somehow the manufacturer had managed to squeeze the newest Disney princess into the tiny portion of the frame. Her pail of seashells rattled around as she waddled toward the entrance of our hotel a couple of blocks away. In her other hand, she clutched the ridiculously useless plastic rake with only three plastic prongs. It made me smile because I love them so much. And maybe it’s wrong to admit this, but there was a bit of a relief to my smile to see them disappearing into the distance–relief just to hear my own thoughts again. The breeze played with the lining on my chair, making it flap against my ankle. The seagulls shrieked as they darted frenetically in different directions, the waves below them agitating in irregular rhythm, frothing and foaming like a rabid beast. There’s something about the ocean that is cacophonous and beautiful at the same time, like a symphony warming up right before a concert. Surveying the shoreline, I crossed my knees in the beach chair, kneading the wet sand with my toes as the waves pulled back. I took in the ocean panorama without much thought as the sand in front of me began to glide and push back into the dissipating froth, and my chair slid forward. I glanced down at my arm: was that a sunburn emerging? I reached for my sunscreen, but I found it a few feet back. I pushed my chair backward, and it slowly progressed, sinking deeper into the sand until I finally managed to catch up to the plastic tube. I winced at the smell as it made a fart sound, and the last dregs sputtered onto my arm. Rubbing and blending the greasy paint into my skin, I watched my arm turn a ghostly white. The only distraction left was my phone, which punctured the natural harmonies with beeps, buzzes, alarms, and the ongoing vibrations in my left sneaker that was convulsing closer and closer toward the water’s edge. Looking toward the horizon, I glimpsed what at first appeared to be a medium-sized wave forming. It was the first time I stopped to notice the structure of the translucent curve, murky from the swirling sand gathered inside of it. Clambering out of my chair to get a closer look, I slipped. Beneath me, the earth began pulling under me, like a relentless treadmill set to top speed. The whole earth was turning sideways. Sliding sand pulled me faster and faster toward the ocean. The crest of the wave began rising slowly toward the ashen sky, inflating like one of those absurdly shaped balloons at the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. The wave teetered, teasing its collapse even as it continued to gather energy. I lay
there, staring up at the glistening underside of the water. It was as if the ocean were alive and the waves, its tentacles, towered above man, spiriting the chosen to a special, watery paradise. Seconds away from surrendering to the pull, I glimpsed a fragment of an image--my wife holding our Sophie just after she was born. No. I refused to go willingly. A blanket of water collected beneath me, lifting me gently and holding me like an inflatable raft in the kiddy pool. In an instant, the current exploded beneath me, slamming me against a rock. I clawed at it, searching for a grip on the boulder for dear life. I felt my $300 designer beach chair slap against me and zoom past me on its way to its ultimate end. A twinge of regret wafted over me, and I entertained the wholly absurd thought that I should have kept the receipt. I breathed deeply, secure that the rock would hold me steady. But as the rock jolted, panic set in—it nearly succumbed to the pull of the sand. The sand and salt slapped against my legs, leaving them raw as the wave slaked its thirst. I managed to haul myself up onto the boulder and glance above me at the sky; it was the murky blue color of the sea. I tried to push through the current of fragments of dead coral toward life. Toward my family. The blue skyscraper of death leered at me, whispering that my reckoning was at hand. “Not today,” I muttered. Forcing my legs forward, I readjusted my grip on the rock and anchored myself, confident this was going to work. I reached out and the fabric of my bag, holding my sunscreen and lucky rubber ducky, a Father’s Day gift, teased my fingertips and then was gone. Fighting against the litter of plastic pails, beach chairs, and umbrellas was becoming increasingly difficult. The boulder and sands began to shift colors, overcome by the reflection of the water. As the sound of water crescendoed to a frightening level, I gripped my rock. Believing. Knowing it would save me. After years of arguing with Rabbi Schwartz, I was struck with a peaceful irony…I was finally convinced there was a god. Maybe God did love the whole world; he just didn’t like me very much. “And God did not see that I was good in his eyes.” And God said, “Let there be tsunamis.” Maybe that’s not a serious enough thought to have just before being vacuumed into Atlantis. But there was also an image. My daughter. Standing by the edge of the beach. Her chubby hand raised in a wave.
31
Changing “In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where
Perceptions the real thing was never said or done or even thought.”
Masks Eve Schizer
There are masks other than those worn at masquerades. There are masks of jet and jade and silk, masks of feathers and flowers, and there are masks made of less tangible things. Such is the mask of our new queen. She hides behind marble skin, lips like petals, eyes of emerald, and silken hair. Her coy smiles and statuesque physique hide her blackened, rotted core. Her festering soul peeks out from behind her jeweled eyes. Her perfectly crafted smiles sometimes twist into smirks. Her skin shimmers and warps in certain lighting, revealing something dark and glistening, something twisted. And I’m the only one who sees it.
34
Hollow Smiles Alissa Rose
I’m tired. Tired of liking the songs you showed me. Tired of not being able to watch the shows we watched together. Tired of every little thing reminding me of you and tearing open a wound, deeper each time. I’m trying to heal, I am, but when you inhabit every minute of my day it’s hard. Really, really hard. I don’t miss you. But I do miss what we had. It was kind, and soft, and naïve. It just wasn’t the right time, and I understand that. But still, I’m tired. I’m tired of reaching into me and pulling out pieces of you.
Jesse Rubenstein
35
Stream
Daniela Woldenberg
The floor is dusty. I feel a single strand of hair Laced between my toes like floss to teeth My mouth still tastes of morning Although it is the afternoon The cushion beneath me is weak Or maybe it’s that I’ve gained a couple of pounds But I don’t want to think about the number On the scale or my soft underbelly I feel myself s i n k i n g It’s not my Sweet-smelling chamomile tea But it’s the hypnotherapy I’m not in a black void But rather I am surrounded By parchment paper-thin white walls In this white box, I hear nothing but white noise With the occasional muffled siren Or acute creak in the wooden floors The sole window in my room Does not feel like an entryway Into the outside world But rather my enemy
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Its black netting Stares me d o w n Boasting about its power as the divide between me And the tree The tree that shakes Like the broccoli Of a picky child I don’t care for the bricks That have browned Or the orange taxi cabs Disguised as yellow Nor do I care For the moody clouds Concealing the white sky Soon enough I forget about the tree And I give the greedy Grid the attention It craves And as I do The world becomes p ixelated And now I’m on my Phone.
Michael Gersten
37
The Color of Romance
Grace Cohen
The color of romance, yet flames of a fire From fierce and heart racing To breathless Bloody Angry and tired Holding on To that scratch on your arm Begging him to stay and show you his charm That one petal left on a rose Making your heart plead in romantic prose Cursing yourself for letting him in Your brain versus your heart Love It can stop and then suddenly restart
Gianna Goldfarb
38
The desire to succeed, I have found, can be quite a powerful motivator. That is not to say that I am not deeply aggravated to find my workshop has been trashed again. However, it does mean that I have to start all over again. This would be more of a deterrent had I not already memorized the blueprints for my time machine. I ignore the dire warnings painted on the walls and begin cleaning up the mess that my future self made. I know that this will work—how would my future self be visiting me if it didn’t?—but I have to finish it. I will be the first person to build a functional time machine. I’ll be able to see the dinosaurs, see what really happened at Sinai, and talk to Alexander Hamilton. I finish cleaning up the mess my future self left and salvage whatever I can from the wreckage. As I begin model 22, I resolve not to leave my workshop until I have completed it. That way my future self won’t be able to interfere without me seeing. Three days later, my hands are shaking from caffeine intake and my hair is a mess. But muscle memory from the 21 previous times I have built this device has guided me. It’s complete. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. I did it. I did it! As I start to key in the date, there’s a flash of light behind me. My future self has arrived. I turn around and face her. “You again! Why can’t you just let me have this?!” “Because you don’t know what you’re doing!” she exclaims. “You’re going to completely mess up history! It’ll launch a series of disasters!” I shrug. “Eh, worth it.” I punch the button on my fully functional time machine and disappear.
Eh, Worth It
Eve Schizer
39
Cat
David Gitelman
Shape of feline, lithe and small Casts her shadow on the wall Padding along on silent paws Misjudge her not, this cat has claws Twitching nose detects a scent Whiskers twitch and she is bent On capture of the errant source Tongue is scratchy, rough and coarse Fur is of the purest white Shimmering when caught by the light Ears revolving to and fro Tell her what she needs to know Gentle-seeming when required Lies in sunbeams when she’s tired Eyes of blue, alive and bright, Like roving lanterns in the night Sometimes she decides to cut The sofa, my mattress, or me, but Despite her flaws, she is my cat I love her dearly, and that is that
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Something About a Song Joyce Salame
Windowsill daydreams and records skipping. Melodies that soothe the fast paced heartbeat. Poetry that writes the race in the mind. What influences the emotional, the abysmal, the too impractical? It brings dawn upon the grand reservoir and the static over the radio. It brings the dancing children to the street and the Starman down from the milky sky. It rocks the crimson train beneath their feet and reveals the mountains in the distance. It takes you to the kingdom of the past, and screams out to the vacant tracks: “O Children!” It breathes peaks of before into the lungs while you stare out into the glowing sun. It strings you up into the fine powder while dripping you from Ashes to Ashes. It shows you hiding in the deep shadows and displays that sick stubbornness within. It reveals the vampires in your friends and asks you if you are Ready to Start.
Fortune Laboz
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Sun Shower
Lauren Goodman
I have always been content with being a sun shower, a soft precipitation pitter-pattering on the sidewalk, the quiet combination of rain and shine that makes the earth beneath me green and alive. I do sometimes envy thunderstorms with their proud, unapologetic booming and their sheer power. Their skill of striking down the tallest of trees with just the force of their will is a skill that I have never possessed. What I envy most, however, is a thunderstorm’s ability to make itself known. The way it shouts at the ground, as its droplets crash onto rooftops and streets and scream “I am here!” when they land. There are times when I wish that I could shout, that I could make my gentle rain a hurricane. But my delicate drops can only ever drizzle, and I cannot find it in my voice to yell. But this does not mean I am weak. Thunderstorms, with their endless power, have a habit of never seeing outside of themselves. They tear entire cities to soaked shreds. They frighten dogs and small children. They block out the sun, cloaking the earth in darkness just so the spotlight is all on them. My clouds hold no vendetta over the earth. They release their rainfall with grace, letting sun rays cut through them like cracks in glass, and enjoying the sight of flowers breathing under their steady sprinkler skies. Some may not see that my shower is there at first, but they know as soon as I’m gone. They come outside and smell the dew on the grass.
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As the world shines brighter and breathes deeper, they take note of my lingering touch on their patch of earth. All I ask is for you to take a walk in the rain, for your boots to splash in my puddles and your hair to carelessly frizz in my mist. I want you to wander for a while, then stop and lift your head. I want you to watch, in sweet silence, as I bring the world to life.
Jesse Rubenstein
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Summer Smoke Alissa Rose
The soft hiss of the candle being extinguished fills the room. Smoke ribbons into the air, twisting, and curling, snaking between the rays of afternoon sunlight drifting through the window. The meandering aroma of lavender and pine lingers in the air, languid and ambrosial.
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Pencil Solly Taragin
In my eyes, life is like a pencil and the world is the paper and death is the eraser. It all depends on the strength that you write with. Yes, a better pencil can help and be an advantage over a lousy pencil, but even a lousy pencil can function well and write clearly if you push hard enough. When you die and the pencil turns around to the eraser side, it erases you off of the page. But how strong of an impact did you have? If your pencil pushed really hard, even a good eraser is never going to completely erase its mark. That imprint will always be there. It will never be the same page. It will never be like the pencil was never there at all. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to leave an imprint on the world (or should I say the paper). I’ve always wanted to be a good, strong pencil. Most people are almost completely erased from the page after they die, except for maybe some family related pencils who miss their pencil relative. I want to be missed beyond my family of pencils. I want other pencils to have to write somewhere else on the page because where I wrote still has too much of a mark to write over. I want to write something on the page that’s hard to erase because of how really cool it is. Nobody should want it to be fully erased. I just want to leave a legacy. I want to never be erased because then, in a sense, it’s almost like I would be immortal. It would almost be like I had never died at all. Did I take the metaphor too far?
Gianna Goldfarb
45
It was sundown. A sky of manifold hues blurred… converged, Obscuring each color in monotone darkness— Nearly swallowing all Her golden brightness. Hesitant stars peeked through daytime’s veil. Among their peers, the lights grew stronger, emboldened. They hung there—proud guides shrouded in twilight. The moon, spurred on by his compatriots, Tiptoed into sight from behind clouds, mist, and fog; He bathed joyously in the Sun’s rays… glowing silver. The Sun seemed a graceful, sinking angel. As She disappeared, She beheld the moon, the stars… In that moment, being forgotten was Her greatest fear. It is nighttime. The heavens are robed in the stars and moon. But the Sun is not lost… Her light not forgotten, For Her warmth is still felt, and She is reborn each day.
Year after year, she returned. Placing a rock—jagged, rainy gray—on the monument. Or, perhaps it was a stone—smooth and eerily off-white like almond milk— That she placed there. Year after year, she looked. The grass turned from stiff to clumpy—arched spines and hunched shoulders— But it would, after a time, remember how to stand upright, confident… Waiting to forget again. Year after year, she kneeled, The etched words more faded each time… still saying “I love you” And even if the words could not speak, the beating hearts would remember them Long after they were gone. Year after year, she mourned. Silent tears soaked the earth—dry dirt, snail shells, and weeds As cracked fingers clawed the ground, reaching for the bones that had abandoned flesh But whose memory would not decay.
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She wanted to be more— More than just a reminiscence for her grandchildren— Than gifting a white stuffed bear while sitting on the stairs; Its curly, manufactured fur received kisses… for its stuffed body, hugs. She wanted to be more— More than an added candle on the High Holidays— Than a sad, tearful poem at Bar and Bat Mitzvahs… Confined to looking down, a spectator, peering through a window she could never open. She wanted to be more— More than a story to inspire—but not give—love— Than a chocolate cupcake once a year on July 9th. Chocolate had always been her favorite; each year it marked her age without her. She wanted to be more— More than the second daughter her father had buried— Than a funeral on her oldest daughter’s birthday… Tears soaked the card that had been written days prior. She wanted to be more— More than only sixty years—only six decades—old— But cancer was thorough, relentless, and it claimed her… Without her believing that she was—and is—so much more.
Grandmother Tova Solomons Anna Braun
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Anna Braun
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Through the Glass Pane Arlette Gindi
The world opens itself for me. I melt past lakes and through lush green trees. Pleasant particles sift softly through my feathers like flour in a sieve.
I flee from my window to escape the pain. I see the orange-colored leaves and the lakes with their almost frozen waters. I see the world that once opened itself for me.
I perch myself atop a dusty white windowsill, red brick surrounding its cracked borders. A pepper gray man bounces children on his lap singing Birds in the Wilderness. A woman coos with every bounce. Dazzling sun spots dance around the room as the family laughs together. The air is sweet where they are, and my feet are glued to the windowsill. Soon stone scolds my feet, screaming at me to remove them. I fly from the ledge, wishing to return from the moment I do. A month goes by and the air begins to feel crisp. The trees are lush with orange-colored leaves. The lakes get cold and green water turns black. I fly to my window as I do most days, but my family isn’t there. Nobody’s laughter prances through a cracked border. Cries erupt from my window. My family is burnt red faces and tear-stained cheeks.
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I spot the blue skies above and heaven’s twinkling eyes. I fly towards them singing my song, singing Birds in the Wilderness.
New York City
“He thanked heaven that he was a New Yorker and about to ally himself with one of his own kind.”
Fortune Laboz
52
Animals Lauren Goodman
I arrive at the party, which appears more like a cave than an Upper East Side apartment. The riskier girls wear various animal ears and not much else. A girl with feline eyes and a boy with canine teeth lock themselves in their own corner of darkness. The boy’s friends gather like wolves in a pack outside their window. They howl at the moon, though they have covered the sight of it with all their cigarette smoke, their fairytale huffing and puffing. We all help ourselves to our choice of poison, like snakes choking down frogs with hot pink skin. I notice my friend stumbling ahead for another drink, another hit, another shot of neon toxicity. Strange men start eyeing her, tracking her movements—a lone antelope in the lion’s den. I hold her back and she hisses, clawing at me to let her go. I manage to keep hold of her until I drop her off at the bathroom, where I watch as her body rejects the technicolor toxins into the watering hole. I feel a change in myself as well. My once bluebird wings stretch out as I develop the eyes of a hawk, wide and watchful. I notice everything—the eager prey, the hunters’ gaze, the passed out bodies on the floor—the carnage at my feet. We are not who we once were. The night is blurred, the air is thick and warm, and we are primal—all fangs and talons and insatiable biology. I escape after the damage is done, flying away from the urban jungle—if only for a little while.
53
Cement Dreams
Leo Eigen
The notice came on a Wednesday morning. Mr. Warren woke up at eight o’clock, per usual, and walked slowly down the creaking wooden stairs. He arrived in the kitchen and took out his chipped, porcelain mug as the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee permeated the air of the sun-filled room. Soon he set out for the mailbox to retrieve the morning paper. The gravel crunched under the weight of his shoes as he strolled outside. He fumbled with magazines and flyers and newspapers, and he returned to his home and laid them out on the dining room table. While he pored through the swaths of words and photos, one item stood out: a bright pink sheet of paper with the title “Important Notice To Residents” in bold lettering. Mr. Warren perched his reading glasses on his nose and began to read the curious document: “Please be advised that the municipal government will be erecting a new highway which infringes upon your property line. You are entitled to significant compensation and financial assistance if you choose to move…” It took Mr. Warren a long time to read the page. He scoffed at the end, tossing it in the garbage and pouring himself another cup of the rich coffee. The newspaper lay untouched. Mr. Warren had been married once, a long time ago. His wife had left him for someone wealthier, with more of a reputation, she insisted. He was left with one daughter who had since moved far away from the city and out into the suburbs. She didn’t talk much to her father, though Mr. Warren knew that she designed houses for wealthy people and that her husband managed other people’s money. Mr. Warren was retired, and he was fondly loved by the few who knew him well. They said he was warm and comforting and supportive of all. Mr. Warren had heard this for years, ever since he had first moved into his house forty-nine years earlier. Exactly two weeks after the notice came, Mr. Warren greeted Wednesday morning with a lengthy phone conversation. A representative from the city government called him to negotiate the sale of his home and the surrounding land. First at half a million dollars. Then at three quarters. One million. Two. Three. Mr. Warren would not budge. His daughter’s anger flared when he called to tell her what had happened. He was senile, stubborn, incompetent, she insisted. The offers started to be relentless: they continued for months. News reporters came to the door, begging to see the foolish old man who refused to sell his decaying, wooden cabin. He could no longer walk to the mailbox without being swarmed by throngs of fans and critics alike. Seven months after it first began, Mr. Warren suddenly died. His daughter had been called in from her home so many hours away, and she arrived soon after. She stepped into the house for the first time in so many years. The aroma of coffee filled her lungs as the paneled flooring bent and cracked under her moving feet. She scoffed. She moved throughout the lower floor, slowly making her way into the dining room. The old table sat awry with newspapers and magazines and letters and journals, crosswords lying undone. The kitchen was as unbearably sunny as it always had been, she reminisced. Books were strewn across the living room, thrown on couches and chairs. She picked one up, a thick edition with yellowing pages. Then she slapped it down with a thud: “Ten million dollars for this!” she exclaimed. “If only this house was cement. But I dream, I dream.”
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Running For My Life
Lauren Goodman
I’m in the subway station, running for my life—in heels, mind you. It looks the same as it did twenty-three minutes ago when I realized I forgot to get my morning coffee. I guess I could’ve waited to get it from the Starbucks by my office, but the barista gave my outfit the weirdest side eye when I had to get coffee from there that one time, and God knows I can’t handle rejection today. So I had to run down four blocks to get to Starbucks—the good Starbucks—and I waited there for however long just to get my hot grande mocha with two shots of espresso before speeding down the street—again, in heels—and finally making it back to the station. I missed the train I was supposed to take, obviously, but I know there’s another train that’ll take me to a stop that’s a ten minute walk away from the office. It would’ve been a two minute walk if I had gotten to my train on time, but y’know—barista, side-eye, ego death. I’m not having that today. So, I’m running in the station, hot grande mocha in hand, and I am really booking it because the bus is supposed to come in exactly one minute, no joke. I already see the train as I speed up, with the doors wide open, the waves of people going in and out. I’m the last one up, and I’m just running down the station like a maniac. It’s close, but I make it on. As I walk in, I raise my coffee in the air like I’m accepting an Olympic gold medal for most energetic running at 7:45 AM. Of course, no one cares. No one even looks up. It’s the subway, so it’s not like I expect them to. But you know what? I care. I care about getting my coffee right. I care about protecting my self esteem from evil baristas who think their green aprons are the pinnacle of fashion. I care about my heels, as inconvenient as they are to run in, because they’re my favorite shoes and they only hurt a little. And I care about myself, even in a train full of people who don’t. Isn’t that what matters? The little things, I mean. The hot mocha, the shoes, the gold winning sunrise sprint—all of it. I know I’ll be late. I know my boss will have something to say to me when I walk in. I know Brenda from accounting will make some backhanded comment at me about it because she’s just like that. But right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, I have my favorite coffee, and when I get off the train I’ll make sure to walk nice and slow, breathing in the brisk morning air and taking in ten stolen minutes of the golden morning sky.
Natanel Aiash
55
Colors flash before me as I tumble to the ground. Red and blue and beige blurs, caught in the chaos of a street fight. The ridged edges of my copper bounce against the sticky, hardwood floors. I dance with the slime, my edges rounding out as the gunk snuggles into my sides. Stilettos stomp in circles around me, trapping me in a game of Red Rover that I can never win. The shaking ground becomes the world’s worst trampoline, making my insides lurch each time I’m peeled away from the residue on the floor. My copper aches to be free as I see the wind carry wispy, white papers to freedom. I long for the unchained Eden that waits outside the doors. In a prayer answered by heaven, an old pair of brown leather boots flicks me up onto my side. The dull ridges of my grime-covered copper roll me across the ground, and I can taste the sour air in the room turning sweet. I’m inches away from the door when a singular, beat-up Nike Air Force 1 steps right into my path, knocking me back onto the flattened side of my stomach. Sticky hardwood welcomes me back to the ground with a sickening smile, and I lie there, paralyzed, until the shoes that once surrounded me make their way towards the exit.
The Life of a Coin Arlette Gindi
56
Modern Day Princess Eve Schizer
Shula Tarnovsky
She glides into the ball an hour late, her name unannounced. Every eye looks from behind its mask at the mysterious woman in a red ball gown and feathered mask. No one knows who she is, but her blood-red gown compliments her dark hair and her pale skin. The prince shuffles toward her as if caught in a trance. No one can look away. She smiles and it’s a cat’s smile, full of malevolent satisfaction. Perhaps a trick of the light, but her eyes seem wholly black for a moment. She dances and dances with the prince, her gown almost glowing. She leaves early, abruptly, leaving a red glass shoe behind her. The prince searches for her. He finds her. He marries her. He dies six months later. She rules alone. 57
Sophie Obstfeld
58
Space Cadet The New York Public Library had become more of a home to me than that small, suffocating dorm room granted to me by the University. The thing I liked about the library, aside from its extravagant chandeliers and the arched windows that allowed the moon to illuminate the room with a pale blue luster, was its silence. My dorm, on the other hand, was also home to Dalton, a stout boy who wore unbecoming suits of tweed and slept most hours of the day, which one would not think to be an issue except for the fact that his snores were deep and nasal and resembled the whines of a lion. And across the hall were a couple of theater majors who sang Broadway songs at obscene hours of the night, just on the verge of dawn, the alto attempting the soprano parts and vice versa. In the library, not only was it common courtesy to keep silent, but everybody was so immersed in what they were reading—the works of Plato or Borges or Orwell or lengthy physics textbooks—that they did not care to speak to anyone else. All was silent except for the scratching of pen on paper and the occasional falling of a book. I would read for hours, letting the minutes fall away as though they never existed at all. I liked the old stuff; something about it was always intriguing. How the thoughts of Homer, Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Dickens aligned with my own, centuries away. The work of contemporaries, on the other hand, never really held any interest. One day while I was reading, the time I could not tell you, a girl sat across from me. She smelled of marula oil and cigarettes, and was flipping through the pages of a newspaper with a manicured hand. My eyes flickered up to the headline: NASA Launches First Space Shuttle. I looked at her. “To space?” I asked. “Sorry?” she said. “We’re going to space?” I clarified. “What do you mean? We’ve been to space.” “We have?” I scavenged my brain and sorted through everything I remembered of everything I’d ever read. I had no recollection of such an event. “Yes, have you forgotten about the moon landing? You know, when men walked on the moon?” With her middle and forefingers she offered a poor imitation of what it would look like if someone were to walk on the moon.
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Joyce Salame
I could feel my jaw, unwillingly, fall loose so that my mouth stood open dumbly. To me the moon had always appeared to be something unreachable— an otherworldly creature beyond comprehension. She was an ever-moving being, unbound by the laws of nature, a deity incomparable to humans, as the poets describe. A goddess. When my head was knocked back to the midnight sky and as I basked in her luminous glory, never for a moment could I have fathomed it might be possible for our sinful hands, let alone our feet, to lay upon her. Have we tainted her purity, tarnished her omnipotence? My sweater suddenly became too thick, and my tie beneath too tight. I pulled my sweater away from my chest by the collar, allowing the air to circulate through. “You all right?” the girl asked, cocking her head slightly as if she felt something like pity. “You’ve gone all red.” “Yeah, fine,” was all I could manage before I hastily left my seat and ran out the door, taking nothing but the pen I had been fidgeting with. The slaps of my shoes against the hardwood floor echoed behind me, further breaking the formerly tranquil silence. The winter air greeted me unwelcomingly the moment I stepped out of the door, his harsh winds biting the exposed skin on my neck and cheeks. I scanned the starless sky for my goddess, but she was nowhere to be seen. I stood on the concrete and waited for her to reveal herself as the passing sirens wailed, and drunken laughter escaped those coming from the Bryant Park holiday markets. As the cold and noise grew unbearable, I turned resignedly back to the library. Yet there she was, smiling down on me, laughing as though to say, “I was behind you the whole time, idiot.” But I was in no mood for humor. As I examined the cracks and dips in her figure and the glow behind her two-dimensional frame, I became aware of her fragile physicality. She was no goddess. She was flawed. Flawed and in no way superior to any human. More of a large rock than a deity. I felt cheated. Cheated by the authors and the poets who glorified her, cheated by my own oblivious eyes, and most of all, cheated by the harlot moon and her painted visage.
The Wandering Tenant Eve Schizer
I go about my daily business as usual. I leave the house early so as not to disturb my host and wander about the city. I like to watch people bustle about, speed-walking like their lives depend on it. No one notices me, though that is not unusual. I’d honestly be surprised if someone did notice me. I’m rather good at going unseen. I flit about, looking for a new home. I think I’ve rather worn out my welcome; I wasn’t at my best last week and I caused more of a ruckus than I typically like to. My host nearly called someone, something I try desperately to avoid. So, a new home is required. The only problem with this is that many of the suitable buildings and apartments already have tenants. Too many of us and things start to get… chaotic. Just when it seems I can find nothing suitable, a perfect home presents itself: a small apartment in an old building, a family of three, working parents and a child of five. Wonderful. I settle in with no fuss. It’s not like I have luggage that needs to be unpacked or anything of the sort. That evening, when I’m fiddling with the thermostat, the little girl approaches. “Hello,” she says, “what’s your name?” I look around, but there is no one else in the room but me and her. I look at her and her eyes lock on mine. I smile at her, my teeth as translucent as the rest of me. “It’s been a very long time since someone asked me that.”
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Gianna Goldfarb
61
This story takes place a few minutes into full darkness (or as full as darkness can be in the City that Never Sleeps). It was a long day at the office (but the extra overtime pay makes up for that), and, as I’m walking home, I decide to stop at Target and pick up a few things. My phone rings just as the automatic doors whoosh open. I pick up and transfer the audio to my headphones. “Hello?” I ask as I walk through the shadowed doorway. “Hi Monica, it’s Alex,” the cheerful voice of my best friend says. “Oh, hi Alex!” I respond as I walk down the cosmetics aisle. “What’s up?” “Can’t I call my best friend without an ulterior motive?” I smile at the mock offense in her tone and say, “Knowing you, no.” Alex laughs. “I’m calling to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner. I know it’s a month away, but I know that you like to put things in your calendar.” “That’s so nice of you! At your and Jim’s place, or with your parents?” I ask, as I search for green apples amidst a sea of blood-red ones. “My place,” Alex informs me. “My parents will probably come too, but you know them.” “Yeah. They’re terrible about planning things,” I
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Dark Eve Schizer
ness
63
Eitan Goldberg
respond, remembering how Alex’s parents were almost late to her wedding. “Understatement,” she snorts. “Hey, are you going to—” her question fizzles out into static. “Alex? Hello?” I look at my phone screen. No bars. “That’s so strange,” I mutter to myself. “I had full bars a minute ago.” Then the lights flicker and die. As I stand in the darkness, I realize that I haven’t seen a single person since I walked into the store. Not even a clerk or employee. “Hello?” I call out. Only silence greets me. Except… there’s a quiet humming sound, like what a refrigerator or freezer unit makes. Except, the power died, and the refrigerators with it. “Who’s there?!” I say, a distinct waver now in my voice. Hissing laughter answers me, seemingly coming from all directions. The screech of rending metal follows, tearing through the silence. My heart thuds relentlessly against my ribcage. Its sound fills my ears, a counterpoint to the horrible laughter. Cold hands close around my neck. I shriek on instinct, trying to pull free. But the hands are too strong. They don’t feel human, like something insubstantial given just enough form to do harm. I begin to feel lightheaded and the strength of my resistance flags. No breath warms the back of my neck as the thing responds, “Something long dead.” And then I know no more.
A Day In The Life Of Revenge Eve Schizer
Fortune Laboz
64
Revenge checks her list of souls to visit that day and sighs. The human propensity for revenge keeps her in business, but it also means a great deal of paperwork. Today’s task is a report on the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. The reports, in theory, are meant to help Pluto decide where a soul should go in the Underworld. In reality, though, they usually end up in Pluto’s recycling bin while he lets Proserpine make the decisions. Revenge sighs, extends her blackplumed wings, and takes flight. Flying through time and space ruffles Revenge’s feathers, but it’s all part of the job. Revenge exists wherever humanity is, whether that’s a medieval castle, the White House, or the colony on Mars in the year 2500. With a flap of her wings, Revenge lands in a tree in Weehawken, New Jersey, 1804. She notes Hamilton’s glasses, Burr’s expression of determination, and the trajectory of both bullets. The bullet that hits the branch of her tree is an annoyance, but it can’t harm her. She fills three pages of her moleskin notebook with notes, then tucks it into her pocket. She surveys the scene once more, nods to herself, then flies back to her office in the Underworld. She sits down in her red leather swivel chair, sets the notebook down on the ebony desk, and opens her silver MacBook (time has no meaning in the Underworld; any technology is fair game). Revenge could use a holographic interface, but she appreciates having keys that click and the ability to delete words; she did enhance the MacBook, though, with 3-D capability—and, of course, a decorative rim of two-carat diamonds. She has two reports to write: one for Burr (the avenger), and one for Hamilton (the victim). The report on Burr will be added to his file and reviewed upon his death. The report on Hamilton is more timely. It will be the last piece of paperwork in his file (aside from Thanatos’ Method of Death report, but MOD’s are just standard procedure).
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After a few hours of typing and consulting her notes, Revenge finishes her report. Now she has to go find Hamilton’s file. It’s a good thing that the Underworld is infinite. Otherwise, they’d have run out of filing space millennia ago. Revenge heads toward the floor dedicated to Hs and starts scanning for Hamilton, Habb, Hae, Haggins, Hall, and on and on. Finally, Hamilton, A., just to the left of Hamilton, P., and Hamilton, R. While she could fly to the courthouse, it’s much more convenient to take the U train. Swiping her ID at the turnstiles—God, issuing Orpheus a guest pass had been such a nightmare—Revenge steps through to the platform. After a few minutes of waiting, an announcement plays over the loudspeakers: “Thank you for your patience. Some escaped souls have jumped onto the tracks and are preventing the trains from leaving the stations. The issue will be resolved shortly.” Revenge sighs. Is it worth it to fly? she ponders. I’m sure the Judges can keep busy deciding the fate of other souls until I get them Hamilton’s file. Might as well wait… Ten minutes later, the train rumbles into the station. Revenge squeezes herself into the packed car, mindful of her wings, and tries not to focus on the smell wafting from the nymph to her right. Styx nymphs stink. After five stops, the loudspeaker crackles: “Next stop is Courthouse Station.” Once the train stops, Revenge shoves her way through the people blocking the door and hurries to the courthouse. She taps her ID on the scanner, opens the door, and briskly walks up to the Judge’s bench, completely ignoring the startled spirit whose fate would be decided in the hearing she just interrupted. “Hamilton’s file,” she tells them, dropping it on the desk. Minos nods at her in thanks, then turns back to the spirit at hand. Dismissed, Revenge heads back to the train station. There’s some chocolate cake waiting for her at home.
JUMP David Gitelman
John Smith stood on the precipice. He gripped his briefcase tightly as he squinted downwards, but he could not see the bottom. The poor man in front of him had just fallen. He had flapped his arms desperately, but in vain, and had dropped further and further until John could no longer see him. Was he okay? A chill ran down John’s spine and he flipped up his white starched collar. It would be fine! He was prepared for this. The man behind him tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me? You’re holding up the line.” John mumbled an apology and stepped out of the way as the man sauntered towards the edge of the cliff. His shoes were polished and his hat was perfectly perched atop his head. His suit was clean and well-fitted. He casually strode up to the gaping void and jumped as though it were the most natural thing in the world. John’s heart leapt as the man began to fly, rhythmically, as though riding upon a gust of wind. John stared until the man had vanished over the edge of the horizon. John steadied himself. He took a deep breath and walked right to the edge of the chasm. He looked down. He still couldn’t see the bottom. It was simply too dark. Too deep. He felt another tap on his shoulder. “Sir, if you’re going to keep letting people cut you in line, perhaps you should just leave.” John adjusted his own hat. He turned back to look at the speaker. He was a young man. His suit was ill-fitted, as though he had borrowed it from his father. The soles were falling off his shoes. His old hat bore visible needlework and patches. And yet, he wore a look of determined zeal. This boy was ready to fly. “Well, sir?” John smiled, saluted the boy, turned back towards the abyss, and jumped.
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Ari Porter
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Rain Eve Schizer
Rain is such a simple word. A singular concept that encompasses something massive, ancient and ever-changing. Each drop falls individually amidst millions of its fellows, colliding and combining with others in the inextricable pull of gravity. They slide off of umbrellas, drip down the rim of the rubber bubble of protection, and plop to the ground, joining a stream running toward the gutter. Rain is an annoyance to the people of the city, with the way it slicks the concrete, blurs the windshields, and slips into the crevasses of clothing. They forget that it is the rain that feeds the crops and nurtures life. They forget that the rain swells rivers and oceans, prompting floods. They forget that the rain falls in hurricanes as well as sunshowers. A single droplet falling into hair can signal the start of a storm.
Gianna Goldfarb
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Parallax n. fr. Gk parallaxis, the apparent displacement of an observed object due to a change in the position of observer.
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The Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein Upper School of Ramaz Parallax Literary & Art Magazine 2022 Vol. 25 60 East 78th Street New York NY 10075
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